Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder Read Free Page A

parents have ever been big on privacy.
    Their property was high in the back and sloped downward toward the street, as did all the lots on Hemingway Place. My parents could not see up into my yard because of the stockade fence. Still, I always used caution when my nerves were shot and I’d give in to temptation and sneak a cigarette. The gate we’d installed for a shortcut between the two yards could swing wide open without warning, so I lived in fear of being caught mid-puff by a crazed, sixty-three-year-old chronic bronchitis sufferer.
    I opened the cabinet under the sink. “I’ll get the air freshener.”
    “Take a shower and change your clothes.”
    “I can’t keep still long enough to shower,” I told her.
    “You need a drink,” Bevin said.
    “I need several, but I haven’t eaten anything yet.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry! You’re always hungry.”
    “I’ll ignore the snide remark. I don’t want to eat because I’m nauseated enough already.”
    Bevin poured two cups of coffee and reached in the cabinet over the refrigerator for the brandy. “This will help.”
    I covered my cup with my hand. “I keep that for my cramps. Besides, it’s not even noon yet.”
    “Oh, please! It’s noon somewhere.” She pushed my hand away and poured a generous splash in my cup.
    The booze helped. Fortified, I ran upstairs, stripped off my clothes, showered, and dressed in fresh jogging sweats. By the time I got back to the kitchen, my mother was at the table sipping tea.
    My mother’s hair, at least for the time being, was a light shade of ash brown with just a hint of gold. Formerly, it had looked sort of pink, the result of an off-brand hair coloring. She had been dying her own hair for years and changed the color so often my father nicknamed her Rainbow Head. The ash brown, hairdresser fix-it job suited her. So did the newly cropped hairdo.
    “Colleen, you poor thing!” my mother said. She patted the seat on the chair beside her. “Come sit down.” I thought she wanted to comfort me. I should have known better. “It serves you right for running alone so early in the morning. How many times have I told you those woods aren’t safe?”
    “Please! Mom!” I rubbed my temples and regretted for the hundredth time not moving to Alaska when I first got married.
    Bevin poured me a fresh cup of coffee and omitted the brandy. I sipped at it and eyed the blue-and-white Entenmann’s box my mother had brought over. My stomach growled, but I still felt queasy—even a small slice of cake was out of the question.
    “You know, Colleen, I half expected Neil to be here when I came over. You did call him, didn’t you?”
    “I left a message. I was hoping the kids could stay at his place tonight.”
    “Too busy in his brand-new life to return your phone calls, huh?” my mother said. “Well, that’s Neil. A true Sicilian, through and through.”
    “He’s only half Sicilian, Ma,” I said, as if she didn’t know.
    “Right. The bad half.”
    My mother, Stella Trani Fleming, was born in Naples, and Neapolitans viewed men with even a drop of Sicilian blood suspiciously. My dad, Patrick Fleming, came from solid, down-to-earth Irish stock—as far from Sicilian as you could get.
    I glanced at Bevin, hoping for a little sympathy. She lowered her head and lifted her coffee mug to her lips. Given the way she felt about Neil, I expected no compassion.
    My mother saw fit to continue. “Suppose something happens with the kids, Colleen? You can’t leave a message for something like that. How are you supposed to contact him?”
    “Cell phone.”
    “Did you try it?” she asked.
    “He must have turned it off,” I said through clenched teeth.
    My mother and Bevin made eye contact. They had been doing this for the past few months. Every time Neil was late getting home or a no-show for a special occasion, they gave each other their secret code look that said she’s such an idiot .
    They were right, of course. I was