Helen R. - What Should Have Been

Her saccharine smile turned into a grimace as she finally took notice of his appearance. “Good grief, Mead. I hope you haven’t left a trail of mud on the carpet. Never mind, I’ll have Philo look into that as soon as we finish. Now, I want you to go upstairs and shower. You can make up for giving me a fright by accompanying me at dinner tonight. Check the closet for your dress uniform. It might still be a bit loose on you, but it’s been cleaned and you’ll see I have all the medals on it.”

Mead almost admired her. From day one after arriving here he’d noticed Pamela’s steely determination. Her problem was that she directed it toward all the wrong things. Carefully disengaging himself, he replied, “No.”

“No? Tonight is important to me.”

“I thought this event was all about your buddy Walsh?”

Pamela’s aging porcelain features hardened a second before she pressed her hands together and shifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Ah, Philo. Check the living room carpet for dirt, will you? And have the car ready at six.”

“Very well, madam.”

As the butler withdrew, Pamela refocused on Mead. “Darling…the fact of the matter is that I hate having to leave you yet again. I’ve had commitments so many times since your return, and we could use this as an opportunity to catch up. Besides, it’s not good for you to be alone so much.”

She was only now concluding that? “Last time I checked,” Mead replied, “my birth certificate says I turn thirty-five in November. The head doctors wouldn’t have authorized my release if I weren’t relatively safe to be left on my own. For that matter, don’t you think it’s time to tell your watchdog that around-the-clock monitoring isn’t necessary?”

“Philo has only made sure you didn’t have an episode and had everything you need.”

“The doctors told you I haven’t since they changed my medication, and I’ve been off of all of it except aspirin for several days.”

“That’s wonderful. Then we can use tonight to celebrate.” Pamela attempted a pout and coaxed, “I’d love to show you off to my friends.”

He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. “Did I ever enjoy performing for crowds?”

Stiffening, Pamela brushed past him and headed for the study. “I’m going to make myself a drink. Would you care for something?”

Mead’s first impulse was to decline and seek refuge in his room, but on second thought he followed. He had more questions and, like it or not, she probably knew many if not all of the answers. “Beer sounds okay.”

The tap of her high heels grew louder on the Italian tile. At the ornate antique huntboard that served as a bar, she filled two crystal glasses with ice from an open crystal bowl, then added a healthy splash of bourbon. “If I succeed at anything regarding your return,” she said, handing him a glass, “it’ll be to cure you of your pedestrian tastes.”

Had his hunch that he’d always preferred beer to the expensive stuff been correct? Mead inspected the amber liquid. Contact with the person he’d been…

Pamela eyed him over her glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s bourbon not tea leaves. Drink…and then tell me where you were to get in that condition.”

He did sip…and with a frown put the glass back onto the huntboard. “Walking. Down by that creek behind this place. Who is Devan Anderson?” he added.

His mother stopped her glass inches from her lips. Her eyes narrowed, but not as though she was trying to remember.

“Who did you say?”

Mead recognized that he had made a mistake, and worried how bad. “The mother of the child who ran off. Surely Officer Brighton told you the little girl’s name? Mrs. Anderson came into the park, too. She knew me.”

Pamela took a second sip. “Everyone knows us.”

There was no missing her pride, but that didn’t help him one iota. His memory remained as void as his soul was troubled. Thinking became especially difficult in this museum of a house with its cathedral ceilings, furniture no one of size dared sit on without concern for their safety, and limited memorabilia to offer hints of any immediate family past. There wasn’t so much as a photograph around, and the paintings were all of people in white wigs or breastplates.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Mead knew his reluctance to address her as “Mother” irked Pamela, but in his opinion people earned titles as much as they did endearments. “Who is she?”

“Just a local.” Pamela’s sequined jacket glistened as she gestured with dismissal. “Dreamscapes Floral and Landscape Design. I use them on occasion. When their quotes are competitive.”

“They? Is this a family business?”

“A partnership.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I suspect there were financial reasons to compel her to do it. Her husband Jay died over a year ago, and, no, I barely knew him except to figure out he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Anyway, by partnership, I mean Devan and that awful Lavender Smart. Lovechild of the sixties,” she intoned with a look of distaste. “Devan must have a self-destructive streak in her as bad as yours.”

Mead filed away the information—and Pamela’s reaction—but decided not to push his luck by asking more. It was his inner reactions that intrigued him anyway. He didn’t understand his strong curiosity…or was that attraction?

“I think I’ll go lie down,” he murmured, all but lost in his thoughts.

Pamela immediately transitioned into concerned mother. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”

“No. I just want to—” He’d almost said “think.” His mother would have pounced on that like she did new tidbits of gossip. “I must have overdone it walking.”

“Are you sure? You do look drawn, now that you mention it. And I so wanted your company tonight.” Pamela smiled bravely. “All right, darling, I’ll manage on my own. You go rest. I’ll give everyone your regrets.”

Wondering who would care since he wasn’t meant to attend in the first place, Mead climbed the stairs two at a time.

“G ood night, dear. Be sure to bring Blakeley to our house for Halloween.” Connie Anderson hugged Devan, planting an air kiss near her ear. “I’m making caramel apples.”

Devan hoped her chuckle sounded sincere. “It’s what she’s been talking about since she recognized the date on the calendar. You keep spoiling her and I’ll send you her dentist bills. Call you tomorrow. ’Night, Dad!”

With a wave to her pipe-smoking father-in-law standing in the background, Devan followed her daughter to the SUV and checked to make sure she got buckled in. Then she climbed behind the wheel, fastened her own belt and pulled away from her in-laws’ home.

Although they’d just seen Connie yesterday, Devan did her best to have dinner with her and Jerrold at least once a week to keep the relationship between them and Jay’s child alive and close. They were sweet—if rather staid—people and it had been reassuring to be surrounded by their kindness and concern in the first months after Jay’s death. She felt more blessed than she deserved to be. So why didn’t the pressure in her chest ease until she was a block away from their house?

“Mom?”

“Blakeley?” They enjoyed that little tease to get each other’s attention.

Grinning, Blakeley continued, “You think it would be okay to tell Nana that I like candied apples more than the caramel ones? D’you think she knows how to make them?”

“Ah, darlin’, your daddy loved everything caramel. That’s why she keeps up the tradition.”

“What’s tradition?”

For a moment Devan had the impulse to burst into song, namely the one from Fiddler on the Roof. She’d seen it at the Dallas Summer Musicals when she was a teenager. “Things people from one culture and era do that’s unique to them. Like having turkey at Thanksgiving. Like having roast beast in Dr. Seuss’s Whosville.”