Slightly Irregular by Rhonda Pollero Read Free Book Online

one of two teak lounge chairs at the water’s edge. The creepy sensation of Harold’s eyes on me quickened my step. Nothing like having an ex-con staring at your butt.
    The June sun was bright and beat down on me relentlessly, forcing me to take frequent dips in the warm ocean to escape the heat. While I didn’t relish the idea of walking past Harold on my way back up to the house, it wasn’t long before I wasdesperate for a bottle of water. Luckily for me, when I stood, I realized he was no longer pouring concrete.
    The poles were now braced with two-by-fours, and Sam was busy unpacking and assembling the furniture. My lanai was a mess of paper, plastic, and other stuff that I had to step over to get to the sliding door.
    “Want some water?” I asked.
    “Just got some.”
    “Make yourself at home,” I teased. “What happened to Harold?”
    “He went out for lunch.”
    I peered inside the house. “Lunch at three thirty?”
    “The cement has to harden before I can drape the fabric.”
    “I thought it was quick set.”
    “It is, but I want to give it an extra half hour or so.”
    I swallowed a groan as I went in and grabbed my drink. I was still stuffed from brunch.
    Sam stepped inside and said, “I’m going back to the store to replace the fan. Rattan will be more appropriate, and I want to get some potted plants as well.”
    This time I groaned aloud. “Plants?”
    “Native plants. Minimum care and feeding.”
    “Maximum replacement.”
    He shook his head. “I’ll pick up one of those automatic watering bulbs. You’ll do fine.”
    “I doubt that,” I mumbled.
    “I heard that.”
    The house was quiet, at least for the moment, so reluctantly I decided to retrieve my book so I could continue my studyingin air-conditioned comfort. No sooner had I grabbed the study guide than I heard car tires on the crushed-shell driveway. Not enough time for Sam to get to the store, shop, and return, so it had to be Harold. So much for peace and quiet. I tied my sarong up around my neck and was on the way to my bedroom when the chime from the doorbell startled me.
    Peering through the narrow window on the side of the door, my heart stopped. A polished Bentley was parked on the grass. I felt the muscles in my shoulder knot as I retraced my steps and reached for the knob. Of course she had to pick today. My mind swirled as I indexed the things I would have done had I known she’d actually show up. Oh well, nothing I could do now.
    Plastering a pleasant smile on my face, I opened the door wide. Standing regally on my front porch was Cassidy Presley Tanner Browning Rossi. My mother.
    “Hi, Mom,” I greeted, adding the customary country club air kiss on either side of her face. Well, not her face. She was wearing a scarf tied forward and giant dark glasses, so the only thing I could see was the tip of her nose and her newly—and overly—plumped lips.
    “Finley,” she returned, her mouth moving a lot like guppy lips. Not that guppies have lips, but the analogy was working for me.
    “Welcome to my home,” I said enthusiastically. My arm swung in a wide arc. “Please, come in.”
    As usual, my mother thumbed her nose at the hot afternoon weather by wearing a tailored green suit with a pale mint silk blouse beneath. I often wondered if she was the last woman in Palm Beach County to still wear panty hose. Slowly, she removedher scarf and glasses. Faded bruises around her hairline told me she’d had yet another thread lift, along with some collagen and Botox. Her vanity was unwarranted, given the fact that she didn’t even look her true age. Then again, very few people knew her true age. She’d lied about it so often, and for so long, it was possible that even she didn’t know she was about to hit fifty. Lisa’s wedding created a problem; she couldn’t shave a decade off her age with her daughters around. Quite the conundrum. She had been twenty-two when I was born and twenty-five when Lisa came along, so she’d