Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,63

time to think. Well, I wasn’t about to give it to--

“Did you ever stop to think you’re doing a fair amount of hurting Mom yourself?” he asked.

His words took me by surprise and this time, I blinked. “I’m hurting Mom?” I patted my chest. “I’m helping Mom.”

“How?” One corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk and I fought the urge to smack it down. “Are you helping her by getting divorced, losing your job, or going through some short-haired, boot-wearing transformation?” He gestured at my head and then my feet.

“At least I’m there for her.” I straightened, my voice climbing at least three octaves.

“Are you?” He had the audacity to laugh. “Because the last time I was at her house, you were nowhere in sight.”

“Oh, and when was that?” I asked. “When you were finally helping her sort Dad’s jackets?”

“Stop it.”

This time, Mark and I both blinked.

“Both of you.” My mother’s voice was sharper and angrier than I’d ever heard it.

Mark and I turned to face her. Instant shame washed through me at the sight of her flushed cheeks, bright with anger. She might sound big, but at that particular moment, she looked small. Very, very small.

And standing in my brother’s back yard arguing on my niece’s first birthday wasn’t helping anything.

I should have apologized. I know this. But I didn’t. Instead I jerked my thumb at Mark as if we were back at home during the years before he’d moved out.

“It’s his fault. If he’d just face the fact Dad’s gone, we could all move forward.”

I never expected the tears that sprang into my mother’s eyes.

“Nice going,” Mark muttered.

My heart rapped against my ribs, guilt reaching deep inside me and squeezing. “Mom, I’m sorry--”

She held up one hand and turned, headed back into the kitchen. Jenny appeared in the doorway and intercepted her, placing one hand flat against Mom’s back as she steered her out of sight.

“Nice going,” Mark repeated.

“Oh, shut up.” I shook my head, angry with my brother and furious with myself. I crossed the yard as quickly as I could, stepped into the kitchen, unhooked Poindexter’s helmet and headed for the front door.

I never stopped to say goodbye or to apologize or to bang my head against the wall.

I felt pretty certain any one of those actions would have been acceptable at that particular moment.

Instead, I headed for home, feeling like an ass.

I needed to drop off Poindexter before I went into work, but when I reached my neighborhood, cars lined the street and strains of Hot, Hot, Hot blared from the open windows of Number Thirty-Six’s house.

I stood, transfixed, as six older women danced their way around Number Thirty-Six’s house, their grass skirts swaying, Hawaiian shirts all but glowing in the afternoon sun. The day was seasonably chilly for late winter, but to look at the smiles on the women’s faces, you’d think they’d been transported straight to the Big Island.

Uninhibited joy lit their expressions, and I wondered when in my life I’d learned to hold back.

“How’s your friend?”

Number Thirty-Six’s voice sounded close, and I jumped a foot. Who was this guy? Batman?

“Better,” I answered, “Thanks again for taking care of Poindexter.”

I turned to face him, my gaze held momentarily by how good he looked with a peach hyacinth behind one ear. Not many men could pull off the look, but Number Thirty-Six? Well, I’d come to realize the man could pull off just about any look out there.

“Your party?” I asked.

“My mom’s.” His grin spread wide, and I tried to remember a time I hadn’t seen Number Thirty-Six happy. “I’m just the host.”

I looked back at the party and sighed. “You’re a good son.”

“She’s a great mom.”

“Her birthday?”

Beside me, he nodded. “Her eightieth.”

My heart fell to my toes. How Daddy would have loved a party like this for his eightieth, if only he’d lived a little longer.

Number Thirty-Six touched my elbow lightly and a jolt of awareness shot through me. “There’s a piña colada over there with your name on it.”

I moved toward my house, breaking our contact, pulling away from the party and Number Thirty-Six, when a very large part of me wanted nothing more than to don a grass skirt and dance the night away. But the local hockey league had a late afternoon game and I’d offered to man the snack bar.

Thank goodness. Otherwise, I might be forced to sit home and think about how awful I’d acted at Mark’s house.

“I have to work.” I forced a bright tone into