We push through the door with an ancient, paint-chipped sign that would readEmployees Onlyif all the letters were still there, but which now reads, “E p l ees On .”
As soon as we’re in the back, Ma starts talking a million miles a second. “Did you see Bob out there? Franco, you’ve got to get rid of him.” My mother’s gesturing wildly, her nails like tiny daggers already dripping with Bob Horton’s blood.
“Come on, Ma. What’s the problem with Bob? He’s harmless.” As I peer around the room, the rest of Mom’s crew rushes toward me, and then I get it.
The gang is all here after all.
They’re all just hiding from Bob.
Carol, Jack’s mom, who’s currently living with him and making him sandwiches and coffee, starts first. She’s wearing a low-cut fuchsia top that reveals an expanse of cleavage the likes of which I never want to see on anyone’s mom.
She touches my forearm before she starts to speak. “Franco, the man’s odd. You know he’s odd, and his nephew’s odd. The lot of those Hortons are strange. Always have been.” As if she remembers that I have history with his niece, she pats my arm. “Not that sweet Celeste, though. Good thing she married and ditched the Horton last name.”
I’m just about to roll my eyes and set the ladies straight, when Sassy, who’s never been called by her given name of Shirley, slaps a hand against my arm. “Listen to your mother, Frankie.”
Sassy waits tables at the only Italian restaurant in town, owned by none other than my cocky, asshole younger brother Benny.
She’s like a second mother to us kids, which is why she feels comfortable laying hands on me, especially in front of my own mother.
Hell, all the women in my mom’s lady gang are like mothers to me. Although to be fair, Ma is more mother than any one man needs.
“Thank you, Sassy,” my mother says, sounding exasperated. “You know what a pain in the ass that man is. Plus, he’s…” Ma taps the tips of her long nails together while she thinks of just the right insult.
“He’s gotsociopathvibes,” a voice calls from just behind Sassy.
“Bev’s right.” Sassy moves aside and nudges forward the quietest—which by no definition of the word means quiet—friend of my mother’s. Sassy nods vigorously. “You tell him, Bev.”
“Ladies, please.” I hold up a hand and hold back an impatient sigh before Bev can launch into a spiel about her assessment of Bob’s mental state. “You all have known Bob Horton for freakin’ ever, and he’s…” I have to bite back the words. “All right, he’s a little off, but so what? Has he done anything? I just saw him out front, and he seemed harmless enough.”
A little grumpy, but if he had the first idea that his anti-fan club was hiding out in the bookstore’s café kitchen, I’d have been a grumpy asshole too.
“This isn’t about us, Franco.” Ma clutches the trio of gold charms that hangs around her neck—an Italian horn, a simple cross, and an engraved heart, a gift from my father for their 25th wedding anniversary. She glares at me and steps away from her three best friends. “This is about Chloe. We can’t let that lecherous creep take the girl for the little she’s got. She’s been through so much already.”
“Chloe?” I draw in a long, calming breath and check the time on my phone. “Ma, who the hell is Chloe and what’s Bob done to her?”
“Well, nothing yet, but that’s why you’re here.” My mother, on her three-inch heels, marches through the kitchen toward the commercial refrigerator at the back of the room. “Chloe, come meet my son.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
There’s another one of them.
Chloe must be the relative who has come up here to take over Latterature since Ann, the previous owner, passed.
Now it’s starting to make sense.
My mom’s gang just added a plus-one, and I’m being called in to rescue the old lady from what, I have no clue. But I am hoping we’re getting close to the point.
“Ma, what could Bob possibly be—” But the words die in my throat.
I squint and blink, expecting my vision to clear at any moment and for a clone of Ann—short, round, and heavily age-spotted—to appear before my eyes.
But that doesn’t happen.
What does happen is Sassy, Bev, Carol, and Ma form this mom-circle around me.
I can feel the weight of their meddling looks as Ma coaxes a woman who looks younger than me using a voice better suited to soothing stray puppies and lost kittens at the rescue where she volunteers with Bev.
“Chloe,” Ma says, drawing out her name as though it’s something precious, “this is my son Franco Bianchi. Franco, this is Chloe Harkin.”
