“I haven’t lived here since high school!” said Doug.

“That’s true enough,” said his mom, a quick smile flashing across her face as she sat on a club chair. “But just in case…I keep your old room clean and ready.

Eve’s too.”

Doug’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came forth. He looked stunned.

Jen poked at him. “At a loss for words, playwright?”

“I never know what to expect,” he muttered. Finally, he stopped staring at his mom. “You can finally turn the room into that craft room you always wanted. Or a library. Or a home office. Mom…I’m okay. I’m fine. So, redecorate to your heart’s content.”

Helen glanced at Doug’s father.

“You earning a living?” asked the man, finally sitting down near his wife. “Tell me you’re earning a decent paycheck like your friends here do, and your mother will redecorate. Their folks are always bragging. I know more about their kids than about my own son.”

Doug’s folks are nothing like mine were. Where’s the warmth? The atmosphere issuch a downer!

His dad still commanded attention. “Georgie’s working for the gas company, like his dad and me. Making a steady paycheck. And Tommy Belson joined the air force, and that wasn’t an easy thing. He’s climbing the ranks. And who was that little guy, the one who skied like the wind? Well, he’s part of the Mt. Snow operation—assistant director or something big. All good boys.”

“You’re talking about Peter Davis,” said Doug. “The best skier on the mountain.

Glad to hear he’s doing something he loves.”

“And making a living,” said Eddie. He glanced at Jen, then back at Doug.

“Parents think about these things. Your mother worries about you.” He turned to Helen. “And don’t deny it.”

The woman bit her lip. “Anyone care for some iced tea? Lemonade? I’ve got both in the fridge.” She stood and faced the kitchen.

“We don’t want to detain you,” said Jen, starting to rise. “Doug said you’ve got a dinner date with friends.”

Helen glanced at her watch. “We can postpone for ten minutes. I want to visit with my son.”

Point for Helen.

Jen sat back down.

“Evie told us you’d bunked in with her,” said Doug’s father.

“For a few days, until I found my own place.”

Ed turned to Jen. “My daughter’s an intern at Mass General. Dr. Eve Collins.

Won’t have to think twice about her.”

Jen nodded. “I suppose not.”

“She’s happy, Dad. Working hard but loving it.”

The man’s grin lit his face.

“Which is what everyone strives for,” added Jen. “Why work forty hours or more a week at something you hate? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You sound like another dreamer,” said Ed, looking from Jen to Doug. “What a pair, thinking money grows on trees.”

She sensed Doug about to rise and tugged him back. Jen leaned toward his father. “Have you ever seen Doug’s plays?”

He looked blank for a moment. “Oh, in school. I think we drove across one time.” He looked at his wife. “Right?”

“The play made me cry.”

“And that’s when I said, no more,” said Ed. “Who wants to see a play that makes my wife cry?”

Jen stood and stared at Doug’s father. “I know the answer to that one,” she said.

“Thousands of people do. Every week, several thousand people buy tickets to see The Broken Circle on Broadway. How can you not know that?”

“They know,” said Doug joining her. “I sent them tickets for opening night last year, but they didn’t come.”

“Your mother had a cold and a-a fever,” Eddie protested. “Besides, it’s expensive to stay at a hotel in New York and too far to drive back at night…

“I did see the play,” interrupted Helen quietly.

Her husband swiveled toward her, and she continued. “I took the early bus to Port Authority, went to a matinee, and took the bus back home.” She strolled over to place a hand on Doug’s arm. “I cried even harder, but I loved it.”

Silence descended until Doug said, “You’re the heroine in this drama, Mom, that’s for sure.” Then he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

Jen glanced at Doug’s father. The man looked flummoxed. “I think it’s time we made an exit,” she said to Doug before addressing Helen. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Collins. I’m also glad you like the theater.”

“Oh, are you a writer like Doug?” asked Helen.

Jen chuckled. “Sorry. In fact, you might say that writing is my least favorite thing.”

“Really? How curious.”

Doug’s dad left his chair and stepped closer. “So, what do you do for a living?

Maybe something practical?”

Jen winked at Doug, then faced his dad. “You could say I help people. I really help them a lot, teaching them how to budget. Oh, and I also sing.”

Eddie moved aside. “Figures. Between the two of them, Helen, they probably earn zilch. Nothing. nothing steady. She sounds like a social worker.”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Collins,” Jen protested. “Life is complicated, and people are looking for all kinds of advice these days. I happen to be good with numbers.” She told no lies, but when she imagined how little support the man had given Doug throughout the years, she chose not to enlighten him further.

He nodded and reached into his back pocket. “Do you need any money, son?”

Chapter 8