The Garden Path by Kitty Burns Florey Page A

his sister’s place last summer. He’s been—”
    There his voice choked and stopped, but Rosie had no trouble filling in: Hollis had been seeing her, corresponding with her, wooing her, bedding her, all this time. Rosie closed her eyes. It was unbelievable. “The little bastard,” she said. “Leading a stinking double life. Oh, Peter. ” She opened her eyes. Incredibly, he was grinning at her through his tears with a touch of his old humor.
    â€œMa,” he said. “You’re terrific. Pissed off at Hollis because he’s straight.”
    â€œI’d kill the little bastard if I could,” she said. “I’d tear his heart out with my bare hands.”
    They laughed together, probably a touch too loud and long, and after dinner and a bottle of wine she did hug him while he wept, briefly. Then they sat by the fire and talked about Hollis, and Rosie was again proud of Peter; he didn’t vilify Hollis, didn’t bring up his tendency to drink too much and make an ass of himself, or his dreadful Italian accent. She would have cackled over these things, gladly—her hatred for Hollis was pure and bright and shining—but Peter wanted to talk about the good times. He’d passed through the bitchy stage on his own. He confessed that he’d gathered up all of Hollis’s funny cartoons, ripped them to bits, and burned them. And that he’d stuffed Hollis’s favorite sweater, left behind in a pile for the cleaners, into the trash. And that he spent two days drunk, tossing his glass after every couple of drinks into the fireplace so that he had a pile of shards to clean up when he recovered. But the anger seemed to have passed, leaving behind a resigned, sad tenderness that wrung Rosie’s heart. He wished he had the cartoons back.
    â€œTell me the truth, Ma,” he said as he was leaving. “You wish it had been me, don’t you, going off into the sunset with a woman to have babies?”
    Rosie tucked his red scarf around his neck and shook her head firmly. “No, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t care who you love, Peter, as long as you’re happy. I really mean that. No jokes. I want you to be happy.”
    â€œThanks,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.
    She shrugged. “I’m your mother.”
    He hesitated, looking at her there in the front hall. “Then let me ask you this,” he said, paused again, then went on. “You’re Susannah’s mother, too.”
    Rosie stiffened immediately, and dropped his hand that she’d been holding. “So?”
    â€œWell, I think she’s been unhappy, too. I think she’d like to have your—”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œYour support.”
    â€œMy support.”
    â€œJust a word, to say you welcome her back East, that bygones will be bygones.”
    â€œBygones never will be bygones, Peter.” She felt her heart begin to thump again, her pulse pound. The anger she’d had to suppress all evening, against Hollis, for Peter’s sake, brimmed over toward Susannah. “She left her mother of her own free will, and she was brought up by her father to be a despicable human being. I haven’t got a reason in the world to give her my damned support .”
    â€œYou’re her mother.”
    â€œI’m not her mother! I’ve disowned her, and I want nothing to do with her, whether she’s in California or on my doorstep. I don’t even want to talk about her, much less give her my support. ”
    He looked at her unhappily. “She’s been calling me.”
    â€œShe’s been calling you.”
    â€œShe called me a couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œCollect, I assume.”
    â€œWell, yes, but then she called me again direct. She talked for a long time, about—well, the family, about you, about Dad.”
    â€œShe did.”
    â€œShe really seems to be sincere. I mean, about wanting