stepmother.
Not that Hugh had ever suggested wedlock. I couldn’t blame him—his first marriage had been a nightmare, which is why I hadn’t brought up the subject, either. Fear of scaring him off. Problem was, Rule One in the Nice Italian Girl Manual, drilled into me by my mom and aunts, is “No sex until after you dance the Tarantella at your wedding reception.” Oh, I was willing to give up my “NIG” status for Hugh—like I said, we Montellas don’t have simple love affairs. We mate for life. Emotionally, I’d already taken all the vows.
Well, maybe not obedience.
But the main reason I’d been stalling Hugh off was Beth Ann. First of all, she was always around. Second, if Hugh and I did decide to get away for, say, a romantic weekend, she’d hate me all the more for it. Third, I was a role model. I didn’t want Beth Ann coming home pregnant or with AIDS or cervical cancer or even a bad self-image because I’d sent the wrong message.
I couldn’t stall much longer, though. Hugh had asked me two months ago what I wanted to do on New Year’s Eve. I’d always ushered in the New Year with aunts, uncles, and cousins—playing Michigan rummy until our midnight feast of porchetta and tomato pie—so I was naïve about how far in advance reservations had to be made. The upshot was that Hugh booked us at a swanky hotel in downtown Richmond for their New Year’s special, which included dinner, dancing, and a room with a king bed. I was looking forward to that night with an anticipation I hadn’t felt since I was ten, when I knew I was getting a five-speed bike for Christmas.
If only I could quiet the voice of my mother in my head (“You’re breaking my heart, Patricia Marie!”) or keep at bay the image of Beth Ann’s face—the betrayal on it when her father finally got around to telling her our plans for next week.
I glanced over at my passenger. Her face was slanted toward the window, and her long, fox-red hair hung down along her cheek so I couldn’t see her expression at all. I couldn’t picture myself as her stepmother. Or anyone’s mother—not yet, anyway, no matter how loud my biological clock was ticking—which was why I’d gone on the Pill two weeks ago (I would have gone on it sooner, but couldn’t get a GYN appointment until December).
Thing was, when she wasn’t sulking, Beth Ann was a great kid. Less self-centered than most teens. Big heart. Equally big brain that was fascinated by every green thing on the planet. I liked her a lot, and couldn’t help feeling that she and I would get along better if Hugh wouldn’t push us into mother-daughter situations like this little outing. That scared me, too. As affectionate as Hugh could be—extremely affectionate, in fact—some insecure part of my psyche wondered if he merely wanted me around to give himself a break from parenthood. Especially now that Beth Ann was old enough to ask questions about sex.
Though, come to think of it, even a question about sex would be welcome right now if it would end her silent treatment.
For the umpteenth time, I tried conversation. “Hey, no school until next year.”
I got a half grunt, the kind that implied that my comment wasn’t worth so much as a condescending roll of her eyes.
Second try: “I liked your band concert last week.”
“The drums screwed us up.”
“I thought it sounded fine.”
“How would you know?”
Was she criticizing my lack of musical knowledge? Or had she caught me nodding off during their last number? Not that it was boring—I’d never before heard “Jingle Bell Rock” played quite that slow, with a German oompah beat. I hadn’t been sleeping well, though, a combination of holiday stress and leg cramps—rheumatism, I thought, inherited from my mom, or maybe tendinitis from standing so much while I cooked batches of pizzelles to give as gifts. Anyway, for the last week, every night around eight, no matter where I was, my eyelids got heavy.
A change of subject
Not that Hugh had ever suggested wedlock. I couldn’t blame him—his first marriage had been a nightmare, which is why I hadn’t brought up the subject, either. Fear of scaring him off. Problem was, Rule One in the Nice Italian Girl Manual, drilled into me by my mom and aunts, is “No sex until after you dance the Tarantella at your wedding reception.” Oh, I was willing to give up my “NIG” status for Hugh—like I said, we Montellas don’t have simple love affairs. We mate for life. Emotionally, I’d already taken all the vows.
Well, maybe not obedience.
But the main reason I’d been stalling Hugh off was Beth Ann. First of all, she was always around. Second, if Hugh and I did decide to get away for, say, a romantic weekend, she’d hate me all the more for it. Third, I was a role model. I didn’t want Beth Ann coming home pregnant or with AIDS or cervical cancer or even a bad self-image because I’d sent the wrong message.
I couldn’t stall much longer, though. Hugh had asked me two months ago what I wanted to do on New Year’s Eve. I’d always ushered in the New Year with aunts, uncles, and cousins—playing Michigan rummy until our midnight feast of porchetta and tomato pie—so I was naïve about how far in advance reservations had to be made. The upshot was that Hugh booked us at a swanky hotel in downtown Richmond for their New Year’s special, which included dinner, dancing, and a room with a king bed. I was looking forward to that night with an anticipation I hadn’t felt since I was ten, when I knew I was getting a five-speed bike for Christmas.
If only I could quiet the voice of my mother in my head (“You’re breaking my heart, Patricia Marie!”) or keep at bay the image of Beth Ann’s face—the betrayal on it when her father finally got around to telling her our plans for next week.
I glanced over at my passenger. Her face was slanted toward the window, and her long, fox-red hair hung down along her cheek so I couldn’t see her expression at all. I couldn’t picture myself as her stepmother. Or anyone’s mother—not yet, anyway, no matter how loud my biological clock was ticking—which was why I’d gone on the Pill two weeks ago (I would have gone on it sooner, but couldn’t get a GYN appointment until December).
Thing was, when she wasn’t sulking, Beth Ann was a great kid. Less self-centered than most teens. Big heart. Equally big brain that was fascinated by every green thing on the planet. I liked her a lot, and couldn’t help feeling that she and I would get along better if Hugh wouldn’t push us into mother-daughter situations like this little outing. That scared me, too. As affectionate as Hugh could be—extremely affectionate, in fact—some insecure part of my psyche wondered if he merely wanted me around to give himself a break from parenthood. Especially now that Beth Ann was old enough to ask questions about sex.
Though, come to think of it, even a question about sex would be welcome right now if it would end her silent treatment.
For the umpteenth time, I tried conversation. “Hey, no school until next year.”
I got a half grunt, the kind that implied that my comment wasn’t worth so much as a condescending roll of her eyes.
Second try: “I liked your band concert last week.”
“The drums screwed us up.”
“I thought it sounded fine.”
“How would you know?”
Was she criticizing my lack of musical knowledge? Or had she caught me nodding off during their last number? Not that it was boring—I’d never before heard “Jingle Bell Rock” played quite that slow, with a German oompah beat. I hadn’t been sleeping well, though, a combination of holiday stress and leg cramps—rheumatism, I thought, inherited from my mom, or maybe tendinitis from standing so much while I cooked batches of pizzelles to give as gifts. Anyway, for the last week, every night around eight, no matter where I was, my eyelids got heavy.
A change of subject
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