Chapter Eight

Sort-of-stew smelled fantastic when Libby walked in from work. Stump greeted her at the door.

“Hey pal.” She gave him a scratch. “Tell you what, I’ll slip a few bites in your food, but you have to eat outside. I’m low on stink tolerance tonight.”

Dog fed and properly ventilated, Libby scooped out her serving and sat down at the computer to check email.

Four new messages. Jesus Loves You: Delete. Coffee Hut coupon: Print. Stacy Warner—Kiddie Kardio update: Copy Sender Email Address to free erectile dysfunction sample. The last was from YogaGranny123.

Hello dear, it’s your mother. Was there a doubt? The doctor’s name is Vandana Rashan on Capitol Avenue in Hartford. I will expect you at three on Thursday. Call me if you have the time between now and then.

Libby did an online search for Dr.Rashan; her bio was impressive. One of the top neurologists in New England, Dr. Rashan specialized in the treatment of degenerative cognitive diseases. She had published several articles in the New England Journal of Medicine on hereditary links in Alzheimer and dementia patients.

Does Mom’s doctor suspect Alzheimer’s? Seems like a big leap from memory bumps to life-altering disease. Maybe he’s just covering his bases; the neurology consult could be precautionary. She printed a copy for Sean and shut down the computer.

In the kitchen, she washed her bowl along with the haphazard dishes scattered from Bob and Charlie’s dash for soccer practice. A thump drew her attention out the window. Stump swatted an empty food dish around the yard with his front paws.

“He’s such a happy dog.” Libby said. “Not bright, but happy.”

Past Stump was the cottage. Libby and Bob had ideas for the little structure, but time and money always squelched the plans. Filled with dusty furniture, sports equipment, and several boxes of Christmas decorations, the cottage had potential, but no immediate purpose. Shannon lobbied to convert the space into a Sweet Sixteen mega-gift. Bob was not biting. She had three years to appeal his “hell no” verdict.

As Libby put the last dish in the dishwasher, Sean and Shannon entered.

“Hey Mom,” Shannon plopped her backpack down and headed for the computer. “What’s for dinner?”

“Stew,” Libby answered. “Would you like rice, or no rice?”

“Is it that new rice or the regular stuff?” Shannon’s nose wrinkled. In an attempt to spice up the O’Rourke’s lackluster diet, one Sunday dinner Libby had introduced wild rice in place of the standard white. The sticky wholegrain lump went over like a burp in church.

“Regular rice,” Libby replied.

“Ok, I’d like rice, please.” She turned to Sean. “Tell Mom about José!”

José Ruiz was the senior foreman on Sean’s crew. A married father of four, José worked hard and rarely spoke more than “hello” and “goodbye.” He was Sean’s kind of guy.

“I hope he comes back to work tomorrow,” Sean said on a sigh.

“What happened?” Libby asked.

“You remember the Lerner project; big farmhouse on the ridge?” Sean asked.

Libby nodded.

“Well the owner’s wife is um, lonely and taken a liking to José. She walks around in skin-tight, skimpy dresses when he’s on the job site. Trust me Lib; skimpy isn’t an appetizing look on Mrs. Lerner.”

“This is going to be good, I can tell.” Libby smirked and sat down at the kitchen table. “Continue.”

“So the crew finished up,” Sean explained, “and Mrs. Lerner asks José to stay behind to look at the grout in the master bath—some B.S. about not being happy with the shade. Poor guy follows her up, sticks his head in the bathroom, and it seems okay to him. When he turns around—Bam!—she’s bare ass naked and on him like peanut butter on jelly.”

“Holy crap, what did José do?”

“He had no clue what to do! He ran out of there like a bat out of hell and slammed into my office ten minutes later. He’s was so frazzled he kept switching from English to Spanish, and I only got every other word. I picked out ‘quitting’, ‘grout’, and ‘naked.’” He sat with Libby at the table. “I think I talked him down, but I’ll find out for sure tomorrow.”

“Your life is full of excitement,” Libby teased. “I’m sure José will be back. Though to be on the safe side I’d put Irene in his place on the Lerner project.”

A true force of nature, Irene was one of Sean’s best employees and her crew loved her. Built like a platinum lumberjack, Irene ran a top-notch job site; taking guff from no one. People meeting her for the first time often misjudged her tough exterior for a hard soul, but in reality, Irene’s heart was pure cotton candy.

“Irene can handle crazy Mrs. Lerner, that’s for sure,” Sean agreed. “I’ve got to run—playing basketball tonight with a bunch of the guys down at the gym.”

Shannon walked past and started up the stairs. “Do you need help again tomorrow, Uncle Sean?” she asked.

“I’m set.” He answered. “Thanks for pitching in today.”

“José’s story made it worth it.” Shannon disappeared up the stairs leaving Libby with Sean.

“Do you want to take some stew home?” Libby asked.

“Thanks, no.” Sean smiled. “I’m still recovering from your lasagna.”

“There was nothing wrong with that lasagna!”

He put an arm around her shoulder. “Dear, sweet baby sister...I know you try, but lasagna shouldn’t be crunchy. Yours tasted like tomato-covered wood shavings.”

“Here”—she hit him in the stomach with the printouts from Dr.Rashan’s webpage—“take these with you.”

“What’s this?”

“Some info on the doctor I’m taking Mom to on Thursday. Just some background for you to read through.”

Sean scanned the bio photo and raised an eyebrow. “Hot.”

“Married.”

“Figures.”

He stuffed the papers in his back pocket and left. Bob and Charlie burst through the door from soccer practice minutes later.

“Hey Mom, guess what!” Charlie yelled on his way to the pantry for a snack. “Coach Tony said I can play goalie on Saturday!”

“Great!” Libby said. “Dom will want to see that. Go let him know before it gets too late.”

Snack in hand, he ran to share the momentous news with Dom. As the door slammed, Bob wrapped his arms around Libby and said “hello” properly.

Leaning into him, she asked, “Did you gather any insight into our dark, disturbed artist during your father-son bonding time?”

“Damned if I know,” Bob pulled back. “He seems happy, no signs of killing us in our sleep that I can see.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah I know. Maybe it’s just a phase. The social worker probably overreacted.” He went to the fridge for his mint chocolate chip nightcap. Some men drank to escape pressure-cooker careers, but Bob’s addiction put dairy farmers’ kids through college.

“You’re right,” Libby said. “I’ll call Miss Simon tomorrow and ask her to send the pictures home and we can take a look. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Good plan.” He put the carton back in the freezer. “Did I miss anything today?”

“Not much. Groceries, dry cleaner...” Libby smiled. “A little indecent exposure.”

Bob frowned. “Will I have a new client tomorrow morning?”

“Let’s put it this way: if the name Lerner comes across your desk, run.”