Epilogue
Dean
My mother is a force of nature.
When Eliza Kate blows onshore, you have two choices—get on board with whatever she has planned, or get the hell out of her way.
When she blew in two months ago to help me through the most hellish time of my life, I was relieved. Now, I do my best to get out of the kitchen before she spots me by the freezer, hunting for ice cream when I’m supposed to be out “doing grown-up shit.”
“Dean Witherspoon Kate, what are you still doing in this house?” she demands, flicking on the overhead light.
I wince, cringing in the sudden glare. “Deciding that ice cream and watching The Naked Gun make me feel more like a grown-up than going out?”
“Nope! Out. Now.” She points to the door, snapping her fingers twice before pointing again. “This instant.”
I motion to my grungy brown sweater and sweatpants. “I’m not even dressed!”
“You’re a man, it’ll take you two minutes. Jeans. Black sweater. Run a little gel through your hair, and you’re out the door by eleven. You’ll pull up right when the fun is getting started.”
“How do you know when the fun gets started? When’s the last time you went to a party, Ms. Workaholic?” I ask, dancing away as she comes at me with the magazine in her hand, swatting in the general direction of my ass. “Okay! Fine, I’ll go. I’ll go.”
“Don’t just go. Go, and have a good time,” she says. “I’m old. I’ve had my share of parties, thank you very much. I was snorting cocaine off your dad’s bald head when you were just a twinkle in his balls.”
“Mom!” I shoot a pointed glance toward the stairs, where the kids are asleep. “What if the girls heard you saying that kind of thing?”
She rolls her tired blue eyes. “Oh, please. Those sweet babies have no idea what cocaine is. And when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them what it is and why it’s a bad idea.
Almost as bad as marrying a man twenty years your senior, who drops dead of a heart attack while cheating on you with a girl even younger than you are. ”
I close my eyes, muttering beneath my breath, “I liked it better when you were still hiding this shit.”
“Well, it’s not my fault you turned thirty-five,” she says, parking a hand between my shoulders and pushing me toward my room.
“Thirty-five is old enough to handle an adult conversation. And being a single dad, and learning to live again. Frederica would want you to be happy again, baby.” She pauses in front of my door, patting my back with a firm one-two.
“She wanted that before she was dead. I bet she wants it even more now that she knows how time flies.”
I sigh, but don’t argue or ask her to take the bluntness down a notch.
My mother doesn’t do pretty lies or even pretty truths. She lays the facts out as she sees them, stripped down and naked in the harsh light of the Eliza sun.
I’m sure she’d be gentler with me if my ex and I hadn’t been out of love for years before Frederica died in that plane crash. Or if she hadn’t died on the way to her honeymoon with another man.
As things stand…
Well, I’m lucky my mother’s been as tolerant with my moping and wallowing as she’s been thus far. But I can’t help it. I wasn’t in love with Frederica anymore, no, but she was someone I loved for a long time. More importantly, she was the person my girls loved most in the entire world.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to love Ava and Bella enough to make up for that kind of loss.
The thought keeps me up at night, worrying, stewing, researching new therapists because I’m pretty sure the one they’re working with now isn’t helping them process anything but how much they like playing with the dolls and trains in her office.
Last night I was up until nearly one in the morning looking at nanny agencies. I have a part-time service lined up for the next month, but I’m going to need help long-term. There’s no way an NHL career and being a full-time single dad work without help, and Mom has to go back home soon.
She’s already been here for almost eight weeks. If she stays remote much longer, her clients are going to mutiny. Mom’s the best divorce lawyer in our hometown, and she has half a dozen court dates coming up in February alone.
I’m dreading her leaving nearly as much as I’m dreading this party.
Though, bright side—once she’s gone, there won’t be anyone around to shove me out the front door with shouted orders to “cut loose a little, for Christ’s sake.”
“Little wins,” I mutter as I start up the car.
Sometimes you have to be grateful for little wins, especially when that’s all the universe seems to be giving you.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into one of the posher neighborhoods in old New Orleans, where the party at Nix’s does indeed seem to be just getting started.
The music from the backyard is loud, but the laughter is louder, which seems strange—this is a party for a musician, after all—but when I circle around to the front of the house, it’s clear why the dance music is being played at a respectable level.
They’ve got live music on the front porch, too.
I’m no expert, but it sounds like a couple of guitars and a bass, freestyling something bluesy, while a guy with a pair of wooden spoons taps a beat on the porch railing.
It’s cool. Way cooler than the usual NHL soiree, filled with pro athletes posturing for puck bunnies and various other hangers-on.
I’m into it, and feeling happier about being out of the house, even before I start up the porch steps and get my first look at the “band”—a young guy with dreads on guitar, an older guy in a flannel coat on another guitar, and a ridiculously beautiful girl with brown curls and a mouth even a jock like me could write poetry about playing the hell out of the bass.
Holy shit.
It’s her.
Flamingo Pajamas, aka Clover, but in my head when I think of her—and I do think of her, way more often than I should—she’s always Flamingo Pajamas. She was so fucking cute in those bright pink PJs, with her crooked tiara, and casts with the doodles covering every inch of the plaster.
The casts are gone now, though, and she’s clearly back in action. Watching her play, you’d never believe that arm was out of commission not long ago.
I’m glad she’s doing better.
It’s good to see her healthy and smiling and wearing that sexy white sweater with the deep V in the front.
Woah, down boy, a voice in my head warns. She’s probably got a boyfriend. Even if she doesn’t, you’re in no place to even think about dating. You can barely manage to shower daily and keep the pantry stocked with food the girls will eat. You are not ready for any more adulting.
The inner voice is right.
So right, that I’m about to head inside, away from the porch and quite possibly the hottest bass player the world has ever known, when a shout rises above the party noise, “She’s having the baby! Out of the way, people, we have to get this woman to the hospital!”
Elly, Grammercy’s wife, bursts through the front door a beat later. I barely have time to jump to the side before she’s past me, shooing people out of the way, blazing a path for Blue, who’s right behind her, his arm around his very pregnant girlfriend.
“Good luck!” I call out, joining the crowd of well-wishers. “And congratulations!”
“Do you need me to go home and get your bag, Bea?” a voice calls from behind me.
It’s her, I know it without even turning around. Flamingo Pajama’s husky voice is nearly as sexy as her bass playing.
“No, we brought it with us, just in case!” Beatrice calls back, “But thank you! Love you!”
“Love you, too.” I turn to see Clover setting her bass aside as she rises from the couch. She lifts an arm to wave, only for her leg to buckle beneath her.
I’m still several feet away, but I don’t hesitate. I dive toward her, the way I do when the girls are about to faceplant at the playground. I don’t always get to them in time, but I’d say I have at least a fifty percent success rate.
Tonight, it looks like the coin flip is on my side.
I swoop in at the last second, wrapping an arm around Clover’s waist, pulling her against me before she can tumble into the table between the couches. Her breath rushes out as her palms come to my chest, and I steady us both with a hand on her hip.
The hand on her hip is necessary, it really is.
It becomes less necessary after she gets her legs underneath her, but I’m too distracted by the smile spreading across her face to move it.
“Next Door Neighbor Guy,” she says, her eyes dancing. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Saving bassists in distress, I guess,” I say, returning her grin. “I heard you playing when I was walking up. You’ve got skills, Flamingo Pajamas.”
Her smile widens. “Thanks. And thanks for the save. Again.”
“Anytime,” I murmur, my voice huskier than it should be.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to release her and take a step back.
“You okay, Clover?” the guy with dreads asks, shooting me a sideways glance.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Zee,” she says, fetching a cane leaning against the couch cushions before moving past me. “Tell your brother thanks for letting me borrow his bass. This was fun.”
“No worries,” he says. “See you at the club next Friday?”
“Maybe. Depends on my new job. I’m not clear on my hours yet, but I’ll let you know.” She nods for me to follow her. “Come on.”
I blink, but don’t hesitate to trail her down the steps. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” she says, “but we can’t stay here. Five dollars, Charlotte is shutting the party down as we speak.”
Before I can reply, Charlotte sticks her head out the front door, calling, “Sorry, guys, gonna have to call it an early night. I have to wrap things up here and get to the hospital.”
Clover grins at me over her shoulder as she starts across the grass. “Told ya. Now you owe me five bucks.”
I arch a brow, even more charmed than I was the first time we met. “I don’t remember taking that bet.”
She shrugs. “Not sure that matters. What matters is, where can you buy me a drink for five dollars that isn’t too far from here?
I promised Beatrice I wouldn’t join the crowd at the hospital, but there’s no way I’m sleeping until I know that giant baby is out of her safely.
” At the edge of the sidewalk, she adds, “She’s my roommate.
But like, more like a sister than a roommate, you know?
And Blue is basically my big brother, so… where to?”
She looks up at me expectantly.
Thankfully, my weary brain finally wakes the fuck up and grabs the flirting baton she’s extending my way.
“McLeary’s Pub,” I say. “Obviously. Open until two, ice cold drafts, the best stale buttered popcorn in the city, and right around the corner.”
Clover makes a happy sound, I also like far more than I should. “I do love me some stale popcorn. Let’s do it.”
I nod over my shoulder. “I’ll drive. My truck’s at the end of the block.”
“That’s good,” she says, smiling as she falls in beside me. “Because I still haven’t saved up enough for another car and rode here with Bea’s mom.”
“Then, you’ll have to let me drive you home after, too. That way you won’t have to worry about finding a cab after midnight.”
“Sounds good,” she says. “I’m Clover, by the way. In case you forgot, Dean.”
“I didn’t, Clover,” I say, holding her gaze a beat too long. “Not for a second.”
And that’s how it starts, a night that I’ll look back on again and again in the weeks to come and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.
All the clues were there, all the signs.
I really should have known better.
But even if I had…
Well, I’m not sure it would have made a difference.
Some things—like beautiful women with trouble in their eyes—are impossible to resist.
Even when you know they’re completely off-limits.