Casanova Cowboy (A Morgan Mallory Story) Read online

  Mom and I were best friends. When I was young, we didn’t get along very well due to my struggle for teen independence. We had spent a lot of time shouting at each other about various things, mostly trivial. It took us moving to Southern California, leaving everything we knew, to learn to really like each other.

  She had felt as displaced as my brother Pat and me when Dad accepted a job in San Diego. He dragged us, kicking and screaming from San Jose to San Diego the year I turned sixteen. When our whole social circle was ripped out from under us, we became each other’s support system.

  The journey from strictly mother/daughter to friends started slowly. First with discussions about the kids at school, how hard it was to be the new girl, how much I missed my friends back home. I was a teenager trying to deal with unwelcome changes and feelings. She reciprocated with her feelings about having no one she could talk to.

  “So what’s Max doing tonight?” Mom asked as she went about pulling stuff from the fridge. “You must be getting along.”

  I knew she figured that because I hadn’t been home. Hadn’t railed my frustrations at her lately.

  “Sort of, but tonight its boys’ night out, leave the girlfriends at home, whatever,” I said sarcastically. “Just Max and Dave hanging out in the bars. Liz and I know that it’s about checking out other girls. It’s not like they’re going for poker night or something, and we think it’s weird they don’t offer to take us with them.”

  I was frustrated with how Max and I would go along pretty good for a while and then for whatever reason we’d get off track.

  “Yes that’s a little weird, especially if they really are going to ‘check out’ other girls as you say.”

  Liz and I had caught them before, showed up at the same bar unexpected to find them partying with other girls. Of course they always said it was innocent. The fact that they didn’t want us along didn’t make it feel so innocent.

  “I don’t want to talk about them,” I said. “Let’s talk about you, did you ever look into joining that bridge group you told me about?”

  “No. I can’t seem to get motivated,” she said.

  “Mom,” I scolded, “you promised.”

  “I know.”

  I could tell by her continuing to do what she was doing she wasn’t really interested in pursuing this conversation. I pushed anyway. I worried about all her alone time, with Dad gone a lot, and Pat and I often off.

  “You were so social in San Jose: all your friends, the parties, and your charities. It’s like when we moved here you just stopped. It’s been five years. The only friend you have is a neighbor,” I said.

  “Don’t reprimand me,” she said, her body stiffening.

  She didn’t much like it when I reminded her of San Jose, the things she’d lost with the move.

  “I’m not,” I said sadly. “I just wish you were more involved. You loved all that stuff.”

  When we’d first arrived in Escondido, we both missed our old life so much that out of necessity we leaned on each other. As time went on, our conversations became more open. I talked to her about past relationships, sex, drinking, partying, and even drugs. If she was shocked by what I told her, she never said so. She tried to respond like a friend versus a mother, which I knew was not always easy. Her own mother raised her with a lot of Catholic guilt, and she was bound and determined not to do that to me. In addition, her mother hadn’t talked to her about life: things like periods, boys, sex, and nothing about her feelings. She’d learned everything on her own.

  San Jose was much more progressive than Escondido. Most of the girls I knew in San Jose were having sex by fifteen, many much earlier. Drinking and drugs were abundant, and partying was the norm. It was not only a teenage thing, but also a sign of the times; you saw it on the news quite often. The loosening up of morals started in the sixties with the hippies, progressed quite easily into the seventies, and was sliding into the eighties. What started as a rebellion against society, now seemed to be socially acceptable. I didn’t hold much back from my mother anymore.

  “So what’s new with you?” she asked.

  “Same. School, work, and more work. I’m tired. And don’t tell me I look tired,” I warned.

  She smiled trying to hide it.

  “I can imagine. You’re a busy girl. Going to school full-time and working part-time seems like too much. I don’t know how, between all that and Max, you even have time to do your homework,” she said.

  “I don’t know, Mom, I just do it,” I said annoyed.

  It wasn’t easy, but Max was already working full-time as an electrician, and I felt that I needed to work at least some. Max had plans to form his own company, was already working on it in fact.

  “So no bridge club, anything else new?” I asked.

  “Same ol’. Cooking, cleaning, you know,” she said.

  Mom was a housewife. She hated that title and once put Person on an application under “Occupation”, which I found very clever. She had a sharp wit and could be very funny. Since the move, she was unable, or unwilling, to replace her circle of friends and instead filled her time with things around the house and the yard.

  “How is Max anyway?”

  She was digging, wasn’t going to let the Max conversation go. I didn’t much like that conversation these days as I was still struggling with my thoughts and feelings.

  “Fine,” I answered superficially “Max.”

  She looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. I could tell my answer distressed her.

  “Why do you look at me like that? He’s Max. You know. He likes things his way. If they don’t go his way, he manipulates or pouts, like most men,” I said truthfully.

  She sighed and turned away before she suddenly turned back, smiling, her face lit up, and I didn’t understand the sudden change of mood.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Melanie is getting married. I just got the invitation, I’m so excited,” she said as she quickly washed her hands and dried them on a kitchen towel.

  She threw the terry towel on the counter and walked around towards me to the desk. I watched as she rummaged through a stack of papers searching for it.

  “Here,” she said pulling it out, and then handing it to me.

  I took the white and gold invitation and read it.

  “You’re going, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Come hell or high water,” she said firmly.

  “Well, I would hope, she’s only the daughter of one of your best friends,” I said happily.

  Although I knew she was excited about the wedding, the real excitement came from the thought of going back for a visit with her friends in San Jose. A party or wedding with all of them was just a bonus. Her obvious excitement made me feel sad for her.

  “Mom, it’s a wedding, a visit. You’re not moving back,” I reminded her.

  Her shoulders slumped visibly.

  “I know. Let me be excited for a minute,” she said dejectedly. “I can look into a bridge group when I get back.”

  We both knew she was placating me, in a snarky way. In our years in Escondido I’d been forced to start to live again, unlike her. I didn’t have a choice when we’d arrived, I had to go to school, so I had learned to make new friends and move on. She, on the other hand, could stay in the house and not venture out, and sadly it was what she’d chosen to do.

  “You’re going to go too, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Mom, I can’t afford it. I need to save every cent I make to get Max’s Blazer fixed.”

  Mom now hated the Blazer, hated that everything I made went into fixing it. She didn’t say it straight out, but she thought Max should have taken some responsibility for not having insurance on it. If he had they would have totaled the truck.

  “Dad and I will pay for your ticket. We planned on taking you and Pat. The whole gang should be there,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

  I thought about the gang—seven families with twenty or more of us kids, all in the same g
eneral age group. Certainly enough of us to be able to find trouble on all those summer trips we took to Santa Cruz, the winters skiing in Tahoe and Mammoth, and numerous get-togethers. Suddenly I could smell the cotton candy on the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, hear the rides, us screaming on the roller coaster. I pictured Mathew and Bobby walking towards me, Mathew’s blond hair gleaming in the sun. Mom stared at me blankly.

  “Oh, flashbacks, sorry,” I said the images vanishing. “If you’re paying, I’m sure I can go.”

  “Mathew should be there,” she said out of the blue, with a smile.

  “No doubt with some girl on his arm,” I said sarcastically.

  “You don’t know that,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said, dismissing her suggestion that I still cared.

  Mathew. He and I were still friends; we had met when we were twelve—his family was part of the gang. His mother was Mom’s best friend. I’d loved him from the day I met him. Unfortunately for me, he hadn’t returned the feeling, although I think he thoroughly enjoyed playing with my emotions. I could remember the frustration I’d felt from his teasing. He claimed to not want me, but the sexual tension between the two of us was undeniable. Mathew had confused me for a long time, a really long time.

  “I like the answer, but I don’t believe it,” she teased.

  “Oh, Mom, it’s been years,” I said, brushing her off.

  “Oh, Mom, it’s been years,” she mimicked me. “Look who’s telling tales now. I know I was too busy back then with my own agenda, but you’ve told me how much you loved him. I could feel how much you loved him. You’ve told me about the summers you two were lovers. The back-and-forth you endured, the crazy hold he had on your heart, so don’t oh Mom me.”

  For years after we moved, I had traveled back to San Jose every summer to visit my friends. Mathew always became a part of my visits in one way or another. I considered it a convoluted form of dating; we always ended up together. We didn’t talk about his love life—or my nonexistent one—when we saw each other during those summer romances. Mathew loved the ladies, however, so it wasn’t always easy, even when he was trying to pay attention to me. He had charisma, and my heart, and he was always able to pull me back to him with little effort. Again I thought about what love really looked like.

  “Are you staying at the O’Conner’s?” I asked.

  “We’re all staying there,” Mom said gladly.

  I pictured her and Ann, Mathew’s mom, outside by the pool with their cocktails and cigarettes. Mom in her element, I was sorry for her it would be so brief.

  “I would prefer to stay with Gayle, if that’s all right. I miss her and the O’Conner’s house has too many memories I would prefer to avoid,” I said, my thoughts jumping back in time.

  She laughed and stopped and then laughed again.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You make me laugh. It won’t bother you to see a girl on his arm, you claim, but you don’t want to be reminded of memories from a house. A bit contradictory, I would say,” she said with a question in her eyes.

  I wondered if seeing him with a girl would bother me as it used to. I’d watched him go through so many over the years. Distance ultimately had made a relationship between us impossible, yet in a warped way, distance is also what kept our relationship going for so many years. A relationship that consisted of short summer visits, the reason it seemed to work. In small doses, I could handle him. I pictured Mathew’s face, remembered the feel of his kiss, and smiled. That kiss.

  “I see he can still make you smile,” she teased.

  “Okay, enough, Mom,” I said lightly. “Mathew has been out of my life for a long time.”

  She grinned at me and I knew what she was thinking. Thinking once I saw him again I might feel differently.

  “Will you invite Max?” she asked.

  “No,” I answered decisively. “He wouldn’t come anyway. He hates stuff that involves a bunch of people he doesn’t know. You know how hard it is to get him to come here for dinner.”

  “True,” she said, rolling her head to the side.

  She thought it was rude that Max rarely graced my family with his presence. Especially since I asked…and on holidays, forget it.

  “What’s the date again?” I asked, reaching for the invitation. “I’ll need to get my cocktail shifts covered at the Chart House.”

  When she finished prepping for dinner, she poured us a glass of wine, and we moved out to the back yard. It was a beautiful sunny day, the sky blue and clear, temperature perfect, the smell of juniper was in the air. It made me think of another backyard, but the smell was jasmine, and Mathew had been there. One of the good summers. We sat at the table by the pool and talked about old times with the gang. Memories that both of us had from so many different occasions. Mom and I laughed about certain events; I could hear the joy in her voice as we talked. I was looking forward to seeing them all, and I had to admit, especially Mathew. I heard the gate open and close behind us and turned to see who it was.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said.

  “Hey, babe, how are you?” he asked, walking out to us and leaning down to kiss me.

  “Good. Mom and I just sat down. Get a drink and join us.”

  He loosened the tie from around his neck and took it off. His hair seemed grayer, and I wondered if I had done that to him. Absently I reached towards my scar feeling remorseful.

  “I think I’ll get something comfortable on first,” he said, squinting his eyes as he looked across the yard.

  “How was your day?” he asked Mom absently, patting her on the shoulder.

  She put her hand on his briefly in acknowledgement, then he turned and disappeared into the house without waiting for her response. He wasn’t overly affectionate towards her, sort of like Max, like I was just there.

  “Another glass?” Mom asked, getting up with her empty glass in hand.

  I handed mine to her. I could tell she was a tad annoyed by his apparent lack of interest in her day.

  “Guess I’m here for the night,” I said.

  I didn’t want to drive if I was drinking, and I knew Mom and I would have more than one. The accident had cured me there. The three of us sat out back until the sun started to go down and the air got cool, then we moved inside. Pat came home when we were almost finished with dinner and sat down with us. It was like the old days in San Jose when we actually sat down together every night. For some reason, we hadn’t done it much after we moved. These days we usually ate in front of the TV or outside, and many times, one or more of us were missing.

  I tried to call Max and got his answering machine, “this is Max, leave a message”. I waited for the beep and left a message that I was “staying at Mom’s tonight”. He would expect me to be waiting at his house. As I walked down the hall toward the bathroom, I thought about how I liked that he was coming home to no one. Take that Mr. Out With the Boys; sleep alone. I was standing in front of the mirror, trying to see the back of my head with a hand mirror when Mom came in. I’d shifted it several different ways, but wasn’t having much luck. I was terrible at using a hand mirror.

  “Here,” she said, taking the mirror and angling it properly.

  The wound was still red and angry looking, but my hair had started to grow back in.

  “Not too bad, huh? I still have about six weeks before the wedding,” I said.

  “Morgan, you have so much hair you can hide it,” she said, shifting some of my hair.

  I watched as she made the space disappear. I was grateful that my hair was thick and curly, making it easier to hide the spot around my scar. I glanced at Mom in the mirror. She was such a pretty lady. Her dark hair framed her face and curled underneath her chin. Her eyes were large with nicely shaped eyebrows and long eyelashes. I looked from her to me in the mirror and looked at how different we were: I towered over her at five ten; I had blond hair, she had straight, thick black hair; her eyes were green, mine were blue, but our skin was exactly the same
. The Indian in her had come out in me over the Irish from Dad. We both have nice olive complexions.

  “I only have fifteen hundred dollars to go to get Max paid back,” I said

  “That’s so great,” she said. “I bet you will be so relieved when that is out of the way.”

  “You don’t even know,” I sighed.

  She liked Max okay, but Dad didn’t very much. He thought he was too controlling. This didn’t surprise me. Dad hadn’t liked the majority of my boyfriends. I chalked it up to no one was good enough for his little girl, or that I really knew how to pick the wrong ones.

  “Are you excited about going back to San Jose?” she asked.

  “I really am, Mom. I’m ready for a break,” I answered.

  “From Max?”

  “Max, work, school, everything,” I said.

  I yawned. Several glasses of wine, on top of a busy day, were adding up. I pushed my hair back from my face.

  “I’m ready for bed.”

  She leaned over and kissed me. She had a way of always making the world seem right. There was a calm she could transfer just by being close.

  “I miss you,” she said, running her hand down my hair, giving it a tug at the end. “I miss having you home every night, seeing your pretty face come through the door. You need to miss me more often. Sleep tight.”

  I climbed into my waterbed. I didn’t really like it any more after Max’s normal mattress; it moved too much. I had thought I was tired, but I couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Mathew kept popping into my head, small snippets from the past, our past. I hadn’t seen him in years, hadn’t even talked to him. The last summer we’d been together was before I started dating Max.

  Although we had been lovers over many years, we’d never defined our relationship as anything other than friends. Distance and being too young had ultimately sealed our fate. I could see us at the beach, his tan skin, blond hair blowing with the breeze, holding hands and laughing, the sand squishing between our toes as we walked. I tried to remember what his touch felt like, a touch that once made me crazy with desire. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamt about him.