You get the idea.
After Vince and his bimbo du jour downed four bottles of Borolo and rammed our boat into a piling (she survived: her most obvious attributes turned out to be excellent flotation devices), I decided to swear off Italian men forever, which was essentially saying I was swearing off men forever. All men. Forever.
And, hey, why not? I’m forty-two. I’m over it. I’ve already done it all—the lust thing, the boyfriend thing, the husband thing, the mother thing. Okay, technically it’s the stepmother thing, but still, I’m over it. Big-time. My step-kids are rotten.
I know, I know. I’m not supposed to say that. They’re just kids and they’ve been through a lot—first their mom runs off with some guy who was demonstrating juicers at the fair and is never seen or heard from again; then their dad dies in a boating accident with his mistress. I get it. But before you go judging me, remember that I’m the one who has stuck by them, fed them, clothed them, and contributed to their college funds, even though they’re rotten kids and I was only married to their father for two years.
To be fair, Zoe isn’t completely rotten. She’s whiny for sure. And mouthy. And a real drama queen. But so was I at thirteen, so maybe this is payback. She does seem to be entering a slutty phase that has me worried, but I still couldn’t call her completely rotten.
But Alex is. Definitely.
For example, his schoolwork. I’ve been Alex’s stepmother for three years. Since then, I’ve shown up for every parent/teacher conference—something Vince never bothered to attend—which translates to separate, private meetings with thirty teachers (I’m not even including the times I’ve been called to the principal’s office because he’s done some knucklehead thing or other). In all those meetings, I can’t remember a single teacher saying anything about Alex except that he wasn’t “living up to his potential” and then looking at me like it was my fault and I was supposed to fix it.
Look, I would if I could. Alex is smart, I realize that, and he’s totally wasting his talent. But what do they want from me? I came into mothering late in the game and with zero training. If kids were like recipes and came with detailed instructions, I’d know what to do. As it is . . .
Grace says I shouldn’t let Alex and Zoe push my buttons. I try, I really do. But can I help it if they know exactly where all my buttons are? Alex especially.
He’s like my brother, Stevie—the Brilliant and Favored One. Stevie was smart, too, like Alex, and way more competitive. Why he felt the need to compete with me, I’ll never understand. It’s not like he wasn’t already getting all of my parents’ attention. Even so, he put me down whenever he got a chance. And my parents never stood up for me, ever. When I was little, Stevie could torment me until I sobbed and the most my mother would say was, “Now, Stevie . . .”
One day, when I was nine, Stevie called me a name and waited for me to cry. I didn’t. Instead, in the sweetest voice possible, I asked if he’d noticed how that new automatic toilet cleaner Mom bought turned the water blue and how, after somebody used the bowl, the water was the exact same yellow-green as his eyes?
He went off howling, searching for my mother, who made me do dishes for a week. But it was worth it. I had discovered Stevie’s weakness and my weapon.
My brother was smart but not quick. I’m just the opposite—quick but not smart. Sarcasm worked for me and I got better at it as time went on. And now? It’s gotten to be a habit, especially if I’m feeling defensive. When it comes to dealing with Alex, I’m always playing defense.
Okay, I’m getting off track here—sorry, I do that sometimes—the point is, when Vince died, I decided I was over it—over Italians, over men, over motherhood, over all of it.
But lately . . . I don’t know. My grandmother ate herring in sour cream and kielbasa every day of her life and lived to be ninety-seven. Do I really want to be alone for the next fifty-five years?
I’ve had a run of incredibly bad luck, no doubt about it. But what if I was pickier? What if I refused to settle for anything less than the perfect man? Somebody with no secrets, no flaws. I’m not saying that such a man exists, but if he did, I’d be crazy to pass him up, right?
At first glance, Luke seemed to have perfect potential. Like I said, he is polite, capable, smart, handsome, and a good listener. And really passionate about his work. I could tell by the way he explained about the different decorative options for pedestal supports, options that were probably beyond my budget. All I really needed and could afford is a carpenter who could knock together a few nice tables and some benches, but Luke is obviously a real craftsman.
“Where did you learn all this?” I asked.
“I picked up my basic carpentry skills from my grandpa. He had a woodworking shop in his basement. When I was a kid, I spent all my time hanging out with him. And I put myself through college and law school doing construction for a big tract home-building company in the summers.
“After a few years, I figured out I hated being a lawyer, so I chucked it. After a couple of detours, I finally sold everything and went to France. I was there for three years, studying under a master furniture maker. I came back to the States two months ago to start my
