LITMIR.BIZ

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      If she’s hoping for a reaction, I don’t have one for her. Despite having only a half glass of Lambrusco, I’m feeling mellow tonight.

      “Ohh, mutiny,” I tease her.

      She glares at me, a look that threatens that I’ve seen nothing yet. Like everyone else, I could blame Rob for her recent change in behavior, but I think hormones might have as much or more to do with it. My mom warned me that this is the age at which my sisters started clashing with her. I, of course, was the perfect child.

      “She’s home!” Claire screeches, and there’s pounding as Robbie runs up the steps from the walk-out basement, which is divided into our family room, Rob’s den and the guest suite where my son terrorized Pam. I don’t have to guess where he was; Robbie’s always on the computer in the den and too preoccupied to come when you call him. So why is tonight different?

      Uneasiness tightens the knot in my chest, the one that has made it a little hard to breathe since Rob died. I ask again, “What’s going on?”

      Robbie pushes his glasses up his nose, his big, dark eyes magnified by the thick lenses. At fifteen, he’s about the same height as Claire and probably weighs less, even though she’s a stick. Unlike his giant of a father, Robbie looks the part of the computer geek, complete with asthma inhaler. Even though he has physical limitations, he’s never felt inferior, thanks to all the time and attention Rob gave him. They’d shared so many interests, probably too many considering the pranks Robbie played on his aunt.

      And Claire, she’d been the proverbial Daddy’s little girl, his spoiled princess. He’d forever been buying her stuffed animals and candy. I guess I’d been his princess, too, because he’d done the same for me. Of course, he’d eaten more of the candy than I had.

      Despite Robbie’s and Claire’s mulish expressions, my heart softens for my fatherless children, and I start putting the dishes into the sink myself, triumphant all over again for what I did to Smiley’s display. Those damn cupcakes deserve far worse for what they stole from us. I wonder where the factory is…?

      “Mom!” Rob shouts, drawing my full attention with his urgency. He usually speaks very softly, only raising his voice if Claire’s irritating him.

      “What?”

      “Did you really do it?” he asks, his words quivering with emotion.

      Oh, crap. They heard already. Those probably aren’t Pam’s things packed in boxes and garbage bags; the kids probably packed mine, ready to commit me to the loony bin. How can I explain that the attack was a good thing?

      “Who told you?” I ask.

      Even though I’m stalling for time, I am also curious about who’d been in the crowd that had gathered for my performance.

      Claire and Robbie share a quick glance.

      “You told us…this morning…when you dropped us at school.” She says each part separately, as if reading a list of my offenses to a judge. Rob and I always said she’ll be a lawyer someday.

      Since I hadn’t planned my victory over cupcake evil in Smiley’s, I realize with a quick flash of relief that they’re talking about something else. Should I tell them about Smiley’s before someone else does?

      I answer myself with a shrug. They lived with their father for fifteen and eleven years respectively; they’re used to outlandish behavior. Their friends had envied them their “fun” dad. I’m not so sure a crazy mom is envy-inspiring, though.

      “So what are we talking about here?” I ask.

      “The business.” Robbie’s speaking through gritted teeth, his braces scraping together due to his overbite.

      I wince over what the orthodontist will say at our next appointment.

      “Did you really sell it?”

      Okay, they still aren’t happy with my decision. “I told you why—”

      “Told!” Robbie interrupts, his face flushing with bright red blotches. Maybe his acne is flaring up again. “You tell us what you’re doing. You don’t ask what we want!”

      That’s kind of how it works since I’m the parent and they’re the children, but I don’t say this. I’ll let them vent. Tonight.

      “It’s not fair,” Claire chimes in like a backup singer. This is a chorus she’s sung often.

      “You got rid of Dad’s car—”

      “Just a loan,” I remind them.

      When, or should I say if, Robbie gets his license, the car will be back in the garage, waiting for him. A five-year-old Volkswagen is a little easier to hang on to than a business.

      “And his clothes!”

      No matter how much he grows, Robbie would never fit into those. Not that Rob had been obese. He’d been a bear of a man, six feet five with broad shoulders, big all over. I thought we’d all agreed that giving his clothes to the Salvation Army was a good thing, something Rob would have liked, giving help to the recent hurricane victims. Rob was the kind of guy who’d willingly give someone the shirt off his back. In the case of the loud Hawaiian shirts he’d favored, though, no one would probably want those.

      “You’re getting rid of everything,” Claire says, her words followed by a little hiccupping sob.

      Robbie straightens up, just a hair taller than his little sister. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him stand as tall as he is now. “We figure you’re probably selling the house next, so we started packing our stuff.”

      So that’s what all the boxes and bags are for.

      “C’mon, I’m not selling the house.”

      Not that I hadn’t considered it. Living in my dream house without the man who had shared that dream had been a nightmare for a while. Guilt flashes through me, and I think they catch it.

      Robbie’s face reddens more, and Claire’s expression gets sulkier. “You want to get rid of every trace of Dad,” he says accusingly.

      “It’s not fair.” Claire sings her familiar chorus. “You’ve taken everything of Dad’s away from us!”

      It’s not the first time I’ve heard this; they said it all, not as angrily, though, when I first told them of my intention to sell the business. But this is the first time I hear what they haven’t said—that they blame me for taking their father away.

      Like I blame Kitty Cupcakes.

      And before that the officer who’d brought me the news of Rob’s death.

      Rob died in a car accident, having crashed his winter-beater, four-wheel drive vehicle into a tree. At first it had looked as if road conditions, icy even in March thanks to Michigan’s mercurial weather, might have caused the crash.

      I’d sworn at the officer for not making the roads safe to drive, although now I’m pretty sure he hadn’t been responsible for that. I think I might have slugged him. In fact, I can’t remember exactly what I did.

      I’m glad the kids hadn’t been home that night. I’d sent them over to Emma’s just a little bit before, to return the kitten they’d taken from her barn and sneaked into the house. I’m grateful they didn’t see me like that as I was more out of control than at any other time in my life—what happened in Smiley’s doesn’t even come close.

      After the coroner ruled Rob’s death had been caused by a heart attack, I didn’t apologize to Deputy Westmoreland. I should, but I don’t know what to say.

      I don’t know what to say to my kids now. I know how much of a release it is to have someone or something else to attack when you’re hurting inside, but they can’t really blame me for their father’s death…unless they think I should have stopped him from eating those cupcakes. Maybe they don’t realize how much I tried, and I should try to convince them

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