BO FOLLOWED his nose. He wasn’t surprised to find Claudie in the kitchen—his mother had ordered him to go home and “have a nice bite to eat with Claudie,” but he hadn’t expected her to look quite so domestic.
       “Hi, there,” he said softly. She wheeled about, nearly spilling her wine. “Whatever you’re cooking smells good. Did you make enough for two?"
       She nodded, her eyes big. He didn’t blame her for being cautious after the way he treated her that afternoon.
       “Is your dad better?”
       “Stable, but Irene said this afternoon’s crisis might be a precursor to other little episodes before his body eventually shuts down.”
       Her face showed profound sadness, and he knew it wasn’t for a man she’d never met. She’s here for me. And all I do is push her away. Am I as stupid and callous as my father? Am I?
       He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. He’d face those questions when he got back to Sac—one identity crisis at a time.
       “What’s cookin’?”
       Stirring the pot on the gas range with the intensity of a witch from MacBeth, Claudie said, “Clam chowder. From a can, but I doctored it up.”
       Bo walked to the counter and pulled out a stool.
       Claudie filled a bowl at the stove and carried it to him. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth in concentration. The childlike mannerism hit him below the belt. Why was he acting like such an idiot? This was Claudie—the woman he loved.
       Once the bowl was safely in place, she looked at him and smiled. “Matt told me Thanksgiving is the busiest air travel holiday of all, so I’m thinking of leaving tomorrow if possible.”
       “When’s Thanksgiving?”
       “Thursday.”
       “No way.”
       She nodded toward the calendar.
       He ran a hand through his hair; it felt dry and coarse like a clown’s wig. The soup smelled inviting, but his mouth tasted as though he’d been on a three-day binge. He wanted a drink.
       Claudie filled her bowl and joined him at the counter. “Sara wants me there for Thanksgiving and we’ve got the dim sum fund-raiser the following week.”
       Sacramento seemed a million miles away. Another dimension.
       “What exactly is dim sum again?” Bo asked, idly stirring his soup.
       Claudie made a face. “I’m not sure. Maya said the name means ‘little treasures.’ I guess it’s like won tons and egg rolls but more involved.”
       He swallowed a spoonful of soup. The heat loosened the knot in his chest. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
       “It’s keeping them out of trouble. And Babe’s soliciting—Rochell’s term—things for a charity auction. The girls got a big hoot out of that.”
       They ate in silence until Claudie asked, “Are you going back to the hospital tonight?”
       Bo shook his head. “Nope. Trisha’s going to be there.”
       He didn’t want to think about the woman or her place in his father’s life. Bo didn’t understand how his mother could tolerate the woman’s presence. Bo sure as hell couldn’t swallow it.
       He looked at Claudie. “How come your hair’s wet?”
       “I soaked in the tub.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “A luxury I won’t have once I get home.”
       She whispered the word. Love and home—stumbling stones in the road of life.
       “The soup tastes great,” he said striving for sincerity.
       Her weak smile seemed as disingenuous as he felt.
       He pushed back his stool and stood up. “I think I’ll take a shower and go to bed. The storm’s getting worse, but Mom said she’d call if anything changes.”
       Claudie rose and began to gather up their dishes. Bo’s gut churned. “Matt told me he talked to Ren today.” He couldn’t keep from following her with his gaze. “Sara wants Matt to go to Atlanta.”
       “Why?”
       “They still haven’t heard from Eve.” Bo shrugged. He hadn’t been listening too closely to what Matt said. “Sara’s convinced the South is a black hole. Life goes in but never comes out.”
       She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I know. I think it has something to do with her time in the military, but Keneesha lives in Georgia and she’s doing great. You’d think Sara could show a little forgiveness.”
       Forgiveness. That was the main tenet of what his mother was preaching tonight before he left. If I can forgive him, son, I would think you could show a little compassion. But Bo didn’t forgive his father. Not for cheating on his mother. Not for valuing work over family. Not for being a pathetic excuse for a father.
       Bo spun on one heel and stalked out of the room. He marched through the living room to the corner bar that he knew would be stocked with every kind of booze available—a good New York bar. He filled the ice bucket from a tray in the mini refrigerator, then dropped two cubes in a crystal highball glass. As he surveyed the gold mine of choices before him, he caught a glimpse of Claudie in the doorway.
       “What are you doing?”
       “It’s been a lousy day and I feel like a drink.” He grabbed a red-label scotch.
       “Life sucks, right?” She stopped a few steps away. “You hate your father, and he might die before you can tell him off. Is that it?”
       “Close enough,” he snarled, wrenching the cap off the bottle. “But let’s not forget that the bastard’s soon-to-be ex-wife is solicitously wailing by his bedside along with his current girlfriend who just happens to be ten years my junior.” He dumped amber liquid into the glass.
       He picked up the glass and drew it to his lips. The smell almost choked him, and he had to pull back to catch his breath. A sudden movement made him look toward the couch. Claudie’s sweatpants flew through the air to land on the floor beside him.
       He turned his head sharply. Her oversize plaid flannel shirt stopped at mid-thigh, only bare leg continued. Her toes curled in the plush carpet. She started unbuttoning her shirt.
       “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
       She shrugged. The shirt gaped, displaying the tops of her breasts. “This is what we do, right?”
       Confused, furious, he watched another button succumb to her nimble fingers. “What are you talking about?”
       “Vices,” she said—her voice flat. “Yours is booze. Mine is sex. When things get tough, we fall back into the old patterns.” Bo cringed at the resignation in her tone. “I’d kinda figured that might happen, which is why I didn’t think you should get involved with someone like me.”
       “Claudie, this has nothing to do—”
       She didn’t let him finish. “Bo, think about it. If this is enough to push you over the edge—after twenty years of sobriety, how long will I last?” Her mocking laugh hit him like a punch in the gut.
       She freed the final button.
       Bo swore. The glass slipped from his fingers, landing haphazardly in the sink. Whiskey splashed everywhere—the smell a toxic flashback to the floor of a college bar where he once spent the night facedown in his own vomit. Wiping his hand on his pants he started toward her just as she shrugged out of the chamois-soft shirt. It pooled at her feet.
       “Oh, God, Claudie,” Bo whispered, taking in her naked form. Beautiful. Breathtaking. And Bo couldn’t have been more furious. “Put that back on.”
       “No.”
       He reached for the shirt, but she jumped back and sent it flying off the tip of her toe. “Don’t worry,” she said flippantly, hands on her hips. “I won’t charge you.”
       Bo’s stomach heaved. “Claudie, stop it. You’re scaring me. You’re not a prostitute anymore.”
       She turned to face him. Her hands dropped to her sides. “And you’re not a drunk.”

All Rights Reserved © Debra Salonen