Seven #2
She had the audacity to look surprised. Her blue eyes—the same shade as mine—went wide. “That’s no way to greet someone. Have you forgotten your manners?”
I sighed. “I have to get to work, Mom. What brings you to the island?”
“Where are you working?”
I swallowed, loathe to divulge where I worked, but knowing that it wouldn’t take her any kind of serious sleuthing to figure it out. “I work down at the pub. I’m a bartender.”
The downward curl of her lips in blatant disdain was just coal for the growing ire fire in my belly. “A bartender, Logan? Really?”
“Yup,” I said, enunciating the p. “So unless Dad has died or Stuart needs a kidney or something, you’ll have to excuse this little unexpected reunion because I don’t want to be late.”
I snagged Clint’s gaze as I spun around and headed for the door.
I apologized with my eyes for leaving him alone with her, but honestly, there wasn’t much damage she could do to him.
To me, on the other hand, she could do irreparable damage and in a very short time. I needed to get away from her—and fast.
Without looking back, I slid into my Blundstones, grabbed my hoodie off the hook and booked it out of the house, running down to the pub like I was being chased—because I kind of was. Chased by a life I was desperate to get away from.
I burst into the pub to relieve Chloe of her shift and take over for the evening. Renée arrived seconds after I did, and the not-so-secret smile we shared wasn’t even a thick enough balm to soothe the burn of my mother’s unannounced visit.
Both women must have noticed something in me. A pinch between my brows maybe? Or the permafrown I seemed to have, I don’t know. But they cornered me behind the bar.
“What happened?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah,” Renée added. “What’s with the lines between your yellow caterpillars?” She was referring to my brows.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, but when I opened them, in walked Shirley Conroy, a disapproving glint in her eyes as she removed the hood of her overpriced raincoat from her coiffed blonde bob. Like always, she scanned the room, passing judgement immediately.
Chloe and Renée pivoted to see where I was looking, then faced me again.
“Who’s that?” Chloe asked.
“It’s his mother,” Renée breathed. “Can’t you see the resemblance?” She glanced back at my mother, then at me, worry on her face. “Are you okay? What’s she doing here?”
“No,” I said. “And I have no idea.”
“Logan,” my mother said, coming to the bar to stand in front of us on the patron side of the bar. “I really need to speak with you.” Her gaze flitted to Renée, and her lips turned down into a disapproving frown again.
“I’m busy,” I replied, pushing past Renée and Chloe to grab the drink order that just popped up from Jill, one of the evening servers.
“Logan,” Chloe said softly, tucking a strand of her dark red hair behind her ear, “I can man the bar a little longer if you need to go chat with your mom.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t speak softly enough, and my mother heard. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Logan, please.”
I withheld my glare at Chloe, since she was only trying to help, and with a deep sigh I felt all the way down to my toes.
I stepped out from behind the bar. It was more work than I expected, keeping my shoulders back and my head high as I approached my mother.
She had this way about her that instantly sent me back to being a child, cowering.
I refused to let Renée see that side of me.
My mother turned to Renée. “I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
Renée blinked at her. “Th-the house white or …”
My mother made a face. “Of course not. I’ll have a Sauvignon Blanc—chilled.” She looked at me like Renée were the dumb one and should have read my mother’s mind.
Ever the professional, though, Renée plastered on a big, friendly smile. “Right away, Mrs. Conroy.”
My mother didn’t wait for me, and she headed to the empty two-top table near the far window. The way her eyes roamed the room, judging everything from the upholstery of the booths to the wood floors. I could read her mind, and every negative thought rattling around in there.
We reached the table, and she waited for me to pull her chair out for her—because, of course she did.
“Thank you,” she said, removing her jacket and purse and handing them to me before taking her seat and smoothing the back of her tailored black slacks down her hamstrings. I hung her coat and purse on the hood on the wall before taking my seat.
“What brings you to the island, Mother?” I asked just as Renée approached with the Sauvignon Blanc. She offered me an encouraging smile, which morphed into more of a grimace.
“Here you are,” she said, setting down the empty glass in front of my mother, followed by the small six-ounce carafe with the wine. Renée poured half the carafe into the glass and waited for my mother to take a sip and approve.
We both held our breath as Shirley picked up the glass, took a big sniff, swirled the liquid around, and finally took a test sip. “It will do,” she said flatly. “Not exactly chilled enough, like I asked. But …” Then she flicked her hand at Renée like she were no more than a fly and needed to shoo.
Renée glanced at me, her eyes bugging out a little. I mouthed, “Sorry.” Then she got out of dodge as fast as she could.
“You like that girl,” my mother said, her eyes glued to Renée’s back as my new girlfriend retreated to the other side of the pub.
“What brings you to the island, Mother?” I asked for the third, or maybe the fourth, time.
“You need to come home,” she said, her eyes drifting out the window to the green-gray rolling waves and the seabirds riding the gusts like pro windsurfers.
“I am home.”