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Chapter 1
Mom: Another Word for Trouble
Sweat trickled down Erin Moore's back. Air-conditioning her four-bay auto repair garage in Marcus, Montana was too expensive and unnecessary most of the year, but she regretted the lack in July and August. Especially when battling stubborn bolts under a car. "Blast it all, what behemoth tightened this thing?" She latched both hands on the oil-slick wrench again, jerking with her entire body.
"I don't know, dear. A man, maybe?" a woman scoffed.
Erin jolted but miraculously didn't hit her head on the car's undercarriage. She hadn't heard the door. She bent her knees to take a peek. "Funny, Mom."
Sharlene Murphy wore one of her many perfectly tailored designer skirt suits. Emerald green with a high-necked white silk blouse, the luxurious, jewel-toned material complemented Mom's dark auburn smooth chignon and showcased her beautiful porcelain features. Her carefully applied makeup disguised the tiny signs of age she couldn't prevent, despite a meticulous and expensive maintenance schedule.
In distinct contrast, Erin's mass of bright-red curls, pulled back into a messy bun, was coated with dirt, and she never bothered with makeup at work. What was the point? The cars wouldn't be impressed. Nor would her too-few customers, mostly older women who trusted her, either despite or because of her mother. She clamped her lips together and wiped her hands on her stained, baggy, heavy-duty gray coveralls. Far from designer wear—and she loved it.
"Yes, yes, I am. You know what else I am, dear?" Her dulcet, superior tones didn't lessen the never-ending, well-worn criticism.
"Yes, Mom." It wasn't a question—Erin knew exactly what she’d say, but answered anyway, unwilling to receive the rudeness lecture. Good thing the car on the lift hid Erin's expression.
"Clean. I'm clean and I'm wearing beautiful clothes. Oh, and jewelry. And nail polish. As a matter of fact, I look absolutely stunning today." Her voice was maliciously cheerful, echoing slightly in the too-empty eight-car garage.
"Yes, you look lovely and professional. Don't you think you should leave before some bit of grease or gunk comes flying off when I finally break this bolt?" Erin held her breath, hoping her hint might work for once.
"Dear, I'm thirty feet away from you; I think I'm safe. Although I don't enjoy having to yell at you." Her toe, encased in conservative designer heels, tapped impatiently on the clean but oil-stained concrete. Her arms were certainly crossed, fingers tapping too.
"I don't know about that. Turn around and look at the wall behind you. That dent? That came from a car part." True, but only because she chucked it at the wall. Expensive material swished with a sharp intake of breath. Huh. Mom actually did something Erin asked her to do. She should mark the day on her calendar and celebrate it every year. She held back a snicker.
"Fine, Erin, I'm going to work. You can wallow in grease and guilt all you want. But you're coming out with us on Saturday night. This is not a request." Mom's voice was back to commanding and exasperated, her normal tone with her only child.
Erin shrugged. "Fine. I'll see you Saturday." She'd get a decent meal anyway—Mother dined only at the best restaurants.
"Good. Dress nicely. We'll have dinner and then attend the show."
"Show? What show?" At least a performance would save Erin from constant criticism. Snide remarks about her shortcomings would accompany dinner. She bit her lip. Retorting would backfire.
"The Marcus Playhouse is putting on Boeing, Boeing. It has very good reviews." The toe tapped louder and faster.
"Okay. What's it about?" She was stupid to ask, extending the painful conversation.
"It's a comedy. I'm sure it will be delightful. Or as delightful as this tiny town can be."
Mother didn't sound sure at all, but Erin didn't bother to push the point. "Sure,. I'll see you Saturday evening at six-thirty?"
"Six-fifteen."
"Okay, Mom. Have a good day at work." Erin waved.
"Of course, dear. You too, although I doubt that's really possible."
Heels clipped sharply across concrete, then the heavy shop door clicked open and sighed close. Erin slumped, resting her head on her forearm, giving up on the bolt to indulge in her own sigh of relief. The bolt abruptly released, the crosshatched grip of the wrench rasping across her palm, and she went down, banging one knee on the concrete, hard. "Ow." That was gonna bruise.
The bolt had waited for Mother to leave, scared stiff like everyone else in town. Erin chuckled. She wasn't being fair. President of the most successful local bank in town, Mom was admired and sometimes absolutely adored. Marcus City Bank was safe, respected, and thriving because everyone in town knew they were extremely fiscally conservative.
An equal number of people hated Mom. Her conservative approach to banking meant a lot of foreclosures. Many believed a bank should give them more chances to catch up on their loans, but Erin wasn't so sure. Foreclosures cost money—money Mother would rather have in the Bank's accounts. Mom secured the Bank's investments, no matter what the impact was on the people involved.
One of many reasons Erin joined the Air Force after high school and started her business after Michael's death. She could never work for her mother. Despite the heat, ice shivered down her spine.
Rats. Mother said "us," which meant she'd already invited a man or two to accompany them. Forcing Erin to socialize with "eligible bachelors" was an excellent use of her time. Marcus City Bank sponsored a lot of local charities, so Mom probably got the play tickets for free. Her biggest customers got dinner and a show, plus "here's a chance at my lovely daughter," was seen in public with said daughter, enhancing her “family-friendly” image, and got Erin to do what she wanted, a personal triumph.
She only needed a feathered purple hat to fulfill the pimp stereotype. Erin chuckled. Mother would be horrified at the comparison. And the hat.
