“I fell asleep. If I’d heard you come in, I would have said something.” She pushed her hair off her face and blinked owlishly. “What time is it?”
I collapsed into the nearest armchair and tried to recover my normal heart rate. My imagination had conjured up a pair of ruthless eyes behind a ski mask. Now that I was positive he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, I had an overwhelming desire to tell my mom everything, from the way he’d jumped on the Neon to his role as Vee’s attacker. He was stalking me, and he was violent. We’d get new locks on the doors. And it seemed logical that the police would get involved. I’d feel much safer at night with an officer parked on the curb.
“I was going to wait to bring this up,” my mom said, interrupting my thought process, “but I’m not sure the perfect moment is ever going to present itself.”
I frowned. “What’s going on?”
She gave a long, troubled sigh. “I’m thinking about putting the farmhouse up for sale.”
“What? Why?”
“We’ve been struggling for a year, and I’m not pulling in as much as I’d hoped. I’ve considered taking a second job, but honestly, I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day.” She laughed without any trace of humor. “Dorothea’s wages are modest, but it’s extra money we don’t have. The only other thing I can think of is moving into a smaller house. Or an apartment.”
“But this is our house.” All my memories were here. The memory of my dad was here. I couldn’t believe she didn’t feel the same way. I would do whatever it took to stay.
“I’ll give it three more months,” she said. “But I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
Right then I knew I couldn’t tell my mom about the guy in the ski mask. She’d quit work tomorrow.
She’d get a local job, and there’d be absolutely no choice but to sell the farmhouse.
“Let’s talk about something brighter,” Mom said, pushing her mouth into a smile. “How was dinner?”
“Fine,” I said morosely.
“And Vee? How’s she recovering?”
“She can go back to school tomorrow.”
Mom smiled wryly. “It’s a good thing she broke her left arm. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to take notes in class, and I can only imagine how disappointing that would have been for her.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.” I stood and pointed over my shoulder into the kitchen. “Want some?”
“That actually sounds perfect. I’ll start the fire.”
After a quick trip to the kitchen to round up mugs, sugar, and the cocoa canister, I came back to find that Mom had a kettle of water on the woodburning stove. I perched myself on the arm of the sofa and handed her a mug.
“How did you know you were in love with Dad?” I asked, striving to sound casual. There was always the chance that discussing Dad would bring on a tearfest, something I hoped to avoid.
Mom settled into the sofa and propped her feet up on the coffee table. “I didn’t. Not until we’d been married about a year.”
It wasn’t the answered I’d expected. “Then … why did you marry him?”
“Because I thought I was in love. And when you think you’re in love, you’re willing to stick it out and make it work until it is love.”
“Were you scared?”
“To marry him?” She laughed. “That was the exciting part. Shopping for a gown, reserving the chapel, wearing my diamond solitaire.”
I pictured Patch’s mischievous smile. “Were you ever scared of Dad?”
“Whenever the New England Patriots lost.”
Whenever the Patriots lost, my dad went to the garage and revved up his chainsaw. Two autumns ago he hauled the chainsaw to the woods behind our property, felled ten trees, and diced them into firewood.
We still have more than half the pile to burn through.
Mom patted the sofa beside her, and I curled up against her, resting my head on her shoulder. “I miss him,” I said.
“Me too.”
“I’m afraid I’ll forget what he looked like. Not in pictures, but hanging around on a Saturday morning in sweats, making scrambled eggs.”
Mom laced her fingers through mine. “You’ve always been so much like him, right from the start.”
“Really?” I sat up. “In what way?”
“He was a good student, very clever. He wasn’t flashy or outspoken, but people respected him.”
“Was Dad ever … mysterious?”
Mom seemed to turn this over in her mind. “Mysterious people have a lot of secrets. Your father was very open.”
“Was he ever rebellious?”
She gave a short, startled laugh. “Did you see him that way? Harrison Grey, the world’s most ethical accountant … rebellious?” She gave a theatrical gasp. “Heaven forbid! He did wear his hair long for a while. It was wavy and blond—like a surfer’s. Of course, his hornrimmed glasses killed the look. So
… do I dare ask what got us on this subject?”
I had no idea how to explain my conflicting feelings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to explain Patch, period. My mom was probably expecting a description that included his parents’ names, his GPA, the varsity sports he played, and which colleges he planned on applying to. I didn’t want to alarm her by saying I was willing to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap sheet. “There’s this guy,” I said, unable to hold back a smile at the thought of Patch. “We’ve been hanging out lately. Mostly school stuff.”