Shelley.”
“She might be able to get him in bed,” Shelley said, “but she won’t be able to hold onto him. Just like Lance. He had to leave the island entirely to get away from her.”
The room went silent, still, dead—like all the air had been sucked out of it. And then sound and feeling and pain raced into the void. Jessi lifted a hand to her throat, trying to ease the band of sorrow and regret choking her.
Anger helped, because it didn’t just sting; it pissed her off to have Shelley Meeker, of all people, throw that in her face. “Does it still burn that Lance wouldn’t go out with you, even after you threw yourself at him?” she said to Shelley.
“At least Shelley didn’t get herself pregnant to try to hold onto a man who didn’t want her.”
And now humiliation crashed over Jessi as well. She turned, as did everyone else, to see Joyce Proctor, Lance’s mother, standing just inside the doorway.
“Jesus, Joyce, give it a rest,” Sandy said.
“I’ll give it a rest,” she bit off, “the day my son can come back to his own hometown without feeling he’ll be trapped into a situation not of his making.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure he had a part in the making ,” Maisie Cutshaw tossed out on a hoot of laughter.
The rest of the women joined in. Jessi wanted to sink into the chair. She would have slunk out of the place if Sandy hadn’t tweaked her wet, half-cut hair again.
And sure, it was her battle—Jessi knew that—but how did she fight Benji’s grandmother? He had little enough family as it was, and Joyce was good to him, even if she had no use for the mother of her grandson.
“Nobody forced that boy to leave,” Sandy said.
“Sandy,” Jessi began, desperate to keep the peace, even if it meant swallowing Joyce’s abuse. Again.
“Hush.” Sandy steamrolled over her. “She’s been blaming you this whole time when it’s her just as much her son—”
“My son is the kind of man—”
“Man? It seems to me the difference between a man and a boy is how he reacts to the difficult and unexpected. He turned tail and ran, and that surely doesn’t make him a man.”
“So he should have stayed here,” Joyce shot back, “and married a girl who’d trap him with a baby he—”
“Didn’t want, and abandoned?” Sandy shook her head. “He should have stayed, for Benji’s sake, if nothing else.”
Joyce stuck out her chin. “Men can’t get pregnant. It’s the girl’s responsibility—”
Sandy snorted, and the rest of the room was hardly kinder. Maisie Cutshaw shouted “Bullshit!” over other comments like, “This is the twenty-first century, not the dark ages” and “Hell, let’s revive the chastity belt.”
“Jessi was just a girl,” Sandy said when the furor died down. “Barely sixteen when she was knocked up by a kid with nothing more than a moment’s pleasure on his mind. You might want to turn a blind eye so you can make it easier to swallow your own son’s cowardice, Joyce, but Jessi stayed here and had Benji and held her head high when folks on this island whispered and called her names.” Sandy sent Shelley Meeker a look so coldly furious Shelley hunched her shoulders and looked away.
“Jessi has raised your grandson with no help, not a dime from anyone,” she continued, stepping over to Joyce and punctuating her words with the rat-tailed comb she still held. “Least of all you and your worthless offspring. Maybe you ought to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start appreciating the blessings you have, like the most amazing grandson God ever gave an undeserving witch like you.”
“I love Benjamin,” Joyce huffed, sounding a little taken aback. “He knows that.”
“Of course he does.” Sandy returned to the chair, turning Jessi’s head back to the mirror with just a bit too much force, and snipping sharply with her scissors. Jessi felt the tug on her hair and closed her eyes.
“Benjamin is a very intelligent child,” Joyce
“She might be able to get him in bed,” Shelley said, “but she won’t be able to hold onto him. Just like Lance. He had to leave the island entirely to get away from her.”
The room went silent, still, dead—like all the air had been sucked out of it. And then sound and feeling and pain raced into the void. Jessi lifted a hand to her throat, trying to ease the band of sorrow and regret choking her.
Anger helped, because it didn’t just sting; it pissed her off to have Shelley Meeker, of all people, throw that in her face. “Does it still burn that Lance wouldn’t go out with you, even after you threw yourself at him?” she said to Shelley.
“At least Shelley didn’t get herself pregnant to try to hold onto a man who didn’t want her.”
And now humiliation crashed over Jessi as well. She turned, as did everyone else, to see Joyce Proctor, Lance’s mother, standing just inside the doorway.
“Jesus, Joyce, give it a rest,” Sandy said.
“I’ll give it a rest,” she bit off, “the day my son can come back to his own hometown without feeling he’ll be trapped into a situation not of his making.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure he had a part in the making ,” Maisie Cutshaw tossed out on a hoot of laughter.
The rest of the women joined in. Jessi wanted to sink into the chair. She would have slunk out of the place if Sandy hadn’t tweaked her wet, half-cut hair again.
And sure, it was her battle—Jessi knew that—but how did she fight Benji’s grandmother? He had little enough family as it was, and Joyce was good to him, even if she had no use for the mother of her grandson.
“Nobody forced that boy to leave,” Sandy said.
“Sandy,” Jessi began, desperate to keep the peace, even if it meant swallowing Joyce’s abuse. Again.
“Hush.” Sandy steamrolled over her. “She’s been blaming you this whole time when it’s her just as much her son—”
“My son is the kind of man—”
“Man? It seems to me the difference between a man and a boy is how he reacts to the difficult and unexpected. He turned tail and ran, and that surely doesn’t make him a man.”
“So he should have stayed here,” Joyce shot back, “and married a girl who’d trap him with a baby he—”
“Didn’t want, and abandoned?” Sandy shook her head. “He should have stayed, for Benji’s sake, if nothing else.”
Joyce stuck out her chin. “Men can’t get pregnant. It’s the girl’s responsibility—”
Sandy snorted, and the rest of the room was hardly kinder. Maisie Cutshaw shouted “Bullshit!” over other comments like, “This is the twenty-first century, not the dark ages” and “Hell, let’s revive the chastity belt.”
“Jessi was just a girl,” Sandy said when the furor died down. “Barely sixteen when she was knocked up by a kid with nothing more than a moment’s pleasure on his mind. You might want to turn a blind eye so you can make it easier to swallow your own son’s cowardice, Joyce, but Jessi stayed here and had Benji and held her head high when folks on this island whispered and called her names.” Sandy sent Shelley Meeker a look so coldly furious Shelley hunched her shoulders and looked away.
“Jessi has raised your grandson with no help, not a dime from anyone,” she continued, stepping over to Joyce and punctuating her words with the rat-tailed comb she still held. “Least of all you and your worthless offspring. Maybe you ought to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start appreciating the blessings you have, like the most amazing grandson God ever gave an undeserving witch like you.”
“I love Benjamin,” Joyce huffed, sounding a little taken aback. “He knows that.”
“Of course he does.” Sandy returned to the chair, turning Jessi’s head back to the mirror with just a bit too much force, and snipping sharply with her scissors. Jessi felt the tug on her hair and closed her eyes.
“Benjamin is a very intelligent child,” Joyce
Similar Books
