Author photo © Kevin Allen. Kevin Allen Photography

Mary L. Tabor—author, mother, grandmother—graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the University of Maryland with a BA in English (’66), from Oberlin College with an MAT in English and Education (’67), from Ohio State University with an MFA in Creative Writing (’99). She went back to college for that last degree the year she turned 50 after a 16-year career in corporate America, a senior executive, director of public affairs writing for the oil industry’s trade association, landing her in both Who’s Who in America and Who’s Who of American Women. Mary published her first book of fiction The Woman Who Never Cooked at age 60.

THANKS TO THE GENEROSITY OF

Published by St. Martin’s Press (03/29/11)

ISBN 978-0-312-36442-7

Published by St. Martin’s Press (03/29/11)

ISBN 978-0-312-36442-7

Published by St. Martin’s Press (03/29/11)

ISBN 978-0-312-36442-7

About The Perfect Family

Maggie heard Jamie come into the laundry room, where she was trying to make headway with the family’s clothes. Turning, she saw him drop to sit on the step and got a look at his face. “You all right, honey?”

“Yeah.” Jamie gave her a fake smile. “I gotta talk to you.”

Her pulse rate sped up. Good news never followed that statement. She set the shirt on the washing machine and leaned against it. “Shoot.”

“I have a date Friday night.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I think so.” His gaze locked with hers. “I hope you do, too.”

“Of course I do. Can we meet her?”

“It’s not a her, Mom. It’s a him.”

“A him?” She stared at her son blankly. The sound of the refrigerator across the room, the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed unnaturally loud. When realization hit, her mother’s heart tightened in her chest. “You have a date with a boy.”

A long pause. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

Please God let me handle this right. After a moment of speechlessness, she said, “O-of course it is.”

Jamie’s fingers tightened on their dog Buck’s collar. Suddenly, her son seemed smaller, more fragile in his jeans and sweatshirt.

Maggie crossed to him, knelt down and took both of his hands in hers. His were freezing cold. “Honey, you know there’s nothing you could ever tell me, ever do or feel that would make me love you less.”

A frown. “Yeah, I know that.”

Well, she’d done this right. At least he knew her love was unconditional. But oh my God…the ramifications of his admission were far reaching.

“I just…I don’t want this to make you sad. Especially now that you’re so happy about Aunt Caroline.” He glanced down at the linoleum, then back to her again. “Are you upset?”

“That you’re gay?”

“Yeah.”

You have no idea. “No, honey. I love you for who you are.”

“Do you feel bad?”

How honest could she be? With Jamie and herself?

“Only that you didn’t tell me sooner.” Not quite the whole truth, but part of it. The easier part. Again, she thought of all they’d shared. Yet, dear Lord, he hadn’t told her something so vital to who he was. The notion made her stomach cramp.

“There wasn’t any need to tell you. I never wanted to date before. Now I do, which is why I said something today.”

“I guess I can accept that.” Later, she knew, his withholding would haunt her. Pushing away the selfish thought, she cleared her throat. “Does anybody else know?”

His expression was wry. “The guy I’m going on a date with.”

“Who is it?”

“Luke Crane.”

Her jaw dropped open. “Luke Crane? Your brother’s teammate?”

“Ma,” he said, sounding like the adult in the situation. “One out of every ten people is gay.”

She’d knew the stats, had brushed up on them for a section of Psyche 102 she taught.

“Even jocks.”

“I know. I never suspected it about him, though.”

“Did you, about me?”

Maggie had had some concerns. Once or twice she’d brought them up to Mike. The discussion always upset him, so she kept her worry to herself. One night, though, over a bottle of Merlot, she’d confessed her fears about her son to her best friend Gretta. She’d sensed all along Jamie was different, but in the end she decided the best course of action was to let Jamie tell her when he was ready. “I had some suspicions, Jame.”

“Why? Because there were no girls in the picture?”

“Uh-huh.”

And because he’d been interested in theater, and then started hanging out with a group from the plays. Paul and Nick were gay, she knew from Jamie himself. Also, Jamie had no desire to participate in sports beyond a brief stint at diving. Stereotypical thinking, which embarrassed her, but it had been there nonetheless.

Maggie moved to sit next to her son on the step. Buck compensated by lying at their feet. “Does Brian know? About you or Luke?”

“No.”

“Did you tell any of your friends? Julianne?”

“No, definitely not her. She’s so right wing Christian, Mom, I can’t talk to her anymore. Especially about something like this.”

“I’m sorry.” Maggie knew she shouldn’t ask, but like prodding a toothache with your tongue, or taking off a Band-Aid to check a wound, she couldn’t leave this alone. “Did you talk to an adult, honey?”

“Um, yeah. Ms. Carson.”

A sudden prick of tears, which she mercilessly battled back. He’d told another grown woman and not his mother. “H-has she helped you?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“That’s good.”

“Luke and I aren’t gonna hide being together, Mom. We’re not gonna broadcast our dating either, but kids will find out.”

She groped around her mind for the mother role, one she usually fell into so easily. “How close are you two, Jamie?”

“We’ve been hanging out since the Valentine’s Dance. We got to be friends, then it turned into more.”

“Are you happy?”

He nodded. “My first boyfriend.” His expression turned sappy and Maggie’s heart ached and rejoiced at the same time. Then anger took over–that he’d been deprived of this normal adolescent feeling for so long. “It’s fun, Mom.”

“Good for you, honey.”

They talked about the times Jamie had seen Luke and his giddy feeling was even more evident, making it easier not to think about all he hadn’t shared with her.

After a half-hour, she glanced at the clock. Mike would be home soon. So she was forced to bring up the mechanics of dealing with what Jamie told her. “How do you plan to handle this at home? With the family?”

“Brian’s gotta know before anybody at school finds out. I’ll tell him. You tell Dad.”

Which they both knew would be the hardest part of all this.

Mike’s love for his son was deep. But how on God’s earth was he ever going to reconcile Jamie’s homosexuality with the Catholic religion? He was so single-minded about the church. The thought of how his attitude would influence this huge benchmark in their lives terrified Maggie. She squeezed Jamie’s arm and left her hand there, more for herself than him. “Dad will want to talk to you about all this.”

“I know.”

“What about the rest of the family?”

Since he was a baby, Jamie always got this certain expression on his face when he was troubled. Maggie could read it like a neon sign. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to announce to anyone I’m gay, Mom.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I’m a son, a brother, a friend and an actor, not just a gay man.”

“I understand that.”

“And you didn’t feel the need to announce to anybody that Brian’s straight, did you?”

How wise he was for sixteen. Of course, he’d had time to think this out. And she was still reeling about the effect his disclosure would have on Mike. On all their lives.

“All right. I can abide by that wish, until it’s time for people to know.”

Like Brian’s graduation party, a few months away, if Jamie decided to bring Luke as his date. There were several possibly homophobic people in their lives.

A half-grin from her son. “We’ll tell people on a need-to-know basis.” Standing, he reached out a hand to her. She took it and prayed he didn’t feel hers trembling. When she got to her feet, she hugged him. He held on longer than usual. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too.”

“Come on, Bucky,” he said to the dog, and they both disappeared down the hallway. She heard his feet pound on the steps, the bathroom door close and Buck bark at being left outside.

Dazed, Maggie picked up Mike’s shirt and stared down at it unseeingly. Her heart thudded in her chest as the ramifications of Jamie being gay flooded her. She picked up the stain spray to apply more to cuff, but dropped the can to the floor. Gripping the shirt to her chest, she swallowed hard.

“Stop it Maggie,” she said aloud. This wasn’t a tragedy. If Jamie had a terminal illness, or hit somebody while driving and killed them, or was into drugs that would be a tragedy. His sexual orientation was a simple fact of life.

Forcing herself to move, she put the white clothes in the washer, but random images bombarded her: Brian teasing Jamie about not having a girlfriend…Jamie’s dislike of proms… discussions about having kids, and Jamie saying he wanted some. She thought about Brigadoon. Her son was a boy who’d never experienced longing for the opposite sex but he always played the romantic, heterosexual lead in the plays he loved so much. What had that been like for him?

Her heart ached for her child—what he’d gone through alone, and what he would still go through, even in this day and age. In bigger cities, gay kids were more accepted, but Sherwood was different. And she knew the shattering statistics on gay teen suicide—three times higher than others in the age group.

After she closed the machine’s lid, she went to leave the laundry room, but instead, slid to the floor and wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to squelch her negative thoughts—like the wish to go back to how her life was an hour ago. Like the wish that…no, she wouldn’t even think about that. It took her a while but she won the battle and chose instead to figure out how she could help her son. And her husband.

#

With Buck at his heels, Jamie took the stairs two at a time. He catapulted into the bathroom, slammed the door and lowered the toilet seat. Dropping down onto it, he buried his face in his hands.

Breathe in, breathe out. Again. And again.

When his stomach settled and he didn’t feel like he was going to hurl, he stood and crossed to the sink in front of the mirror. He looked the same. Too skinny. Great hair, now that it was longer, normal nose. Eyes that, some cheerleader had told him, could get him into any girl’s pants. Showed how much she knew. But as he stared at his reflection, he sensed he wasn’t the same and never would be after what just happened in the laundry room.

He’d told her! Finally, after years of self-doubt that made him sick to his stomach, and when that passed, months of feeling like he was going to bust open from the inside if he didn’t let go of his secret, he found the courage to tell her. Luke’s last text message said, If you do, I will. They’d made a pact to approach both their mothers today.

But, oh God, he’d upset her, this woman who’d been the most important person in his life. He could see it in her face, always filled with gentle love and an acceptance most kids couldn’t fathom.

Typical of her, she’d tried to be brave. She said the right things. Yet he knew her almost as well as she knew him and what he’d revealed would cause her worry and pain. He’d pretended he was good, too, that he hadn’t had sleepless nights over who he was, hadn’t gone through stages of self-loathing and recriminations. He was, after all, an actor. And he had come out on the other side, had accepted who he was. Rejoiced in it, even. Finding Luke just brought it all together.

Still, this step was done. Finally, finally done.

After throwing some water on his face, Jamie opened the door and made his way to his own room. Flopping on the bed, with Buck leaping to the foot of it, he checked his text messages. None. He was dying to know how it went with Luke, who was scared shitless of his parents. But like Jamie, being gay had gotten too big to keep inside any more. It took too much energy to keep the door closed on a closet full of secrets. How would Luke’s Mom and Dad handle it? Would they explode, say awful things that could never be taken back? Luke feared the latter, and having gotten to know the Cranes in the last few weeks, Jamie expected the worst.

Linking his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, he thought about his mom again. She hadn’t said any of those awful things and she never would. She’d deal with his being gay and any problems that caused inside her and make his coming out easier for him. Yet Jamie wasn’t out of the woods. Brian would freak, and Jamie would have to smooth over not telling his brother sooner. But it was his Dad’s potential reaction that woke Jamie up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Because of the church he belonged to and the religion he embraced, his own father could reject him. His Dad might say those things he could never take back.

And Jamie didn’t know what he’d do if that happened.

Probably sensing tension in him, Buck barked and moved in to nuzzle him. Jamie petted the dog for a while, then grabbed his phone and sent a text saying, So, how’d it go telling your parents?

After a while there was a chime. I couldn’t do it, Jamie. Maybe we should both wait.

Jamie’s hand curled around the cell. “Now you tell me.”

Disappointment shot through him, harsh and acute. When he got past it, he messaged Luke that it was okay, he should wait until he was ready. But it wasn’t okay, really. The plan was to share the joy of coming out to their parents. He wanted to share everything with Luke.

“Shit!” he said aloud. Bolting up, he knew he had to get out what he was feeling, so he went to the desk, to his journal, which was the only place he’d been honest for months. Once again, he poured his heart out on the pages.

Alone

I am alone in this.

I didn’t think I would be.

He promised he would tell.

It was too much for him.

Fear mixes with joy.

Joy colludes with hope.

Hope brings about expectation.

Was he wrong to have told all?

His real self speaks:

No, no, no.

It’s right. No matter what.

Right to be the person you are.

Isn’t it?

   Corporate attorney Pamela Samuels Young has always abided by the philosophy that you create the change you want to see. Fed up with never seeing women or people of color depicted as savvy, hot shot attorneys in the legal thrillers she read, Pamela decided to create her own characters. Despite the demands of a busy legal career, Pamela accomplished her ambitious goal by rising at four in the morning to write before work, dedicating her weekends to writing and even spending her vacation time glued to her laptop for ten or more hours a day.

PROLOGUE

Veronika Myers tried to convince them, but no one would listen. Her suspicions, they said, were simply a byproduct of her grief.

Each time she broached the subject with her brother, Jason, he walked out of the room. Darlene, her best friend, suggested a girls’ night out with some heavy drinking. Aunt Flo urged her to spend more time in prayer.

Veronika knew she was wasting her time with this woman, too, but couldn’t help herself.

“My mother was murdered,” Veronika told the funeral home attendant. “But nobody believes it.”

The plump redhead with too much eye shadow glanced down at the papers on her desk, then looked up. “It says here that your mother died in the hospital. From brain cancer.”

“That’s not true,” Veronika snapped, her response a little too sharp and a tad too loud.

Yes, her mother had brain cancer, but she wasn’t on her deathbed. Not yet. They had just spent a long afternoon together, laughing and talking and watching All My Children. Veronika could not, and would not accept that the most important person in her life had suddenly died. She knew what everyone else refused to believe. Her mother had been murdered.

“Did they conduct an autopsy?” the woman asked.

Veronika sighed and looked away. There had been no autopsy because everyone dismissed her as a grief-stricken lunatic. When she reported the murder to the police, a disinterested cop dutifully took her statement, but she could tell that nothing would come of it. Without any solid evidence, she was wasting everyone’s time, including her own.

“No,” Veronika said. “There wasn’t an autopsy.”

The funeral home attendant smiled sympathetically.

Veronika let out a long, exasperated breath, overwhelmed by the futility of what she was trying to prove. “Never mind,” she said. “What else do you need me to sign?”

* * *

Later that night, Veronika lay in bed, drained from another marathon crying session. She rummaged through the nightstand, retrieved a bottle of sleeping pills and popped two into her mouth. She tried to swallow them dry, but her throat was too sore from all the crying.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Don’t worry, Mama,” Veronika sniffed. “I won’t let them get away with it.”

Just as she reached the end of the hallway, a heavy gloved hand clamped down hard across her mouth as her arms were pinned behind her back. Panic instantly hurled her into action. Veronika tried to scream, but the big hand reduced her shriek to a mere muffle. She frantically kicked and wrestled and twisted her body, but her attacker’s grip would not yield.

When she felt her body being lifted off the ground and carried back down the hallway, she realized there were two of them and her terror level intensified. But so did her survival instinct. She continued to wildly swing her legs backward and forward, up and down, right and left, eventually striking what felt like a leg, then a stomach.

As they crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a loud, painful moan that told her she had likely connected with the groin of one of her assailants.

“Cut it out!” said a husky, male voice. “Grab her legs!” he ordered his partner. “Hurry up!”

The men dumped her face down onto the bed, her arms still restrained behind her back. The big hand slipped from her mouth and Veronika’s first cry escaped, but was quickly muted when a much heavier hand gripped the back of her neck and pressed her face into the comforter.

Fearing her attackers were going to rape, then kill her, Veronika defiantly arched her back and tried to roll her body into a tight ball. At only 130 pounds, she was no physical match for her assailants. They easily overpowered her, forcing her back into a prone position. As one man sat on her upper legs, strapping her left arm to her side, the other man bent her right arm at the elbow and guided her hand up toward her forehead.

During the deepest period of her grief, Veronika had longed to join her mother. But now that she was face-to-face with the possibility of death, she fought valiantly for life.

That changed, however, the second Veronika felt something cold and hard connect with her right temple. She stiffened as one of the men grabbed her fingers and wrapped them around the butt of a gun. At that precise instant, Veronika knew with certainty that her suspicions were indeed fact. Her mother had been murdered and now the same killers had come to silence her before she could expose the truth. And just like her mother’s death, her own murder would go undetected, dismissed as the suicide of a grieving daughter. A conclusion no one would question.

As the man placed his hand on top of hers and prepared to pull the trigger, a miraculous, power-infused sensation snuffed out what was left of Veronika’s fear, causing her body to go limp. The heavy pounding of her heart slowed and she felt light enough to float away.

Completely relaxed now, Veronika closed her eyes, said a short prayer, and waited for a glorious reunion with her mother.

   Corporate attorney Pamela Samuels Young has always abided by the philosophy that you create the change you want to see. Fed up with never seeing women or people of color depicted as savvy, hot shot attorneys in the legal thrillers she read, Pamela decided to create her own characters. Despite the demands of a busy legal career, Pamela accomplished her ambitious goal by rising at four in the morning to write before work, dedicating her weekends to writing and even spending her vacation time glued to her laptop for ten or more hours a day.

PROLOGUE

Veronika Myers tried to convince them, but no one would listen. Her suspicions, they said, were simply a byproduct of her grief.

Each time she broached the subject with her brother, Jason, he walked out of the room. Darlene, her best friend, suggested a girls’ night out with some heavy drinking. Aunt Flo urged her to spend more time in prayer.

Veronika knew she was wasting her time with this woman, too, but couldn’t help herself.

“My mother was murdered,” Veronika told the funeral home attendant. “But nobody believes it.”

The plump redhead with too much eye shadow glanced down at the papers on her desk, then looked up. “It says here that your mother died in the hospital. From brain cancer.”

“That’s not true,” Veronika snapped, her response a little too sharp and a tad too loud.

Yes, her mother had brain cancer, but she wasn’t on her deathbed. Not yet. They had just spent a long afternoon together, laughing and talking and watching All My Children. Veronika could not, and would not accept that the most important person in her life had suddenly died. She knew what everyone else refused to believe. Her mother had been murdered.

“Did they conduct an autopsy?” the woman asked.

Veronika sighed and looked away. There had been no autopsy because everyone dismissed her as a grief-stricken lunatic. When she reported the murder to the police, a disinterested cop dutifully took her statement, but she could tell that nothing would come of it. Without any solid evidence, she was wasting everyone’s time, including her own.

“No,” Veronika said. “There wasn’t an autopsy.”

The funeral home attendant smiled sympathetically.

Veronika let out a long, exasperated breath, overwhelmed by the futility of what she was trying to prove. “Never mind,” she said. “What else do you need me to sign?”

* * *

Later that night, Veronika lay in bed, drained from another marathon crying session. She rummaged through the nightstand, retrieved a bottle of sleeping pills and popped two into her mouth. She tried to swallow them dry, but her throat was too sore from all the crying.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Don’t worry, Mama,” Veronika sniffed. “I won’t let them get away with it.”

Just as she reached the end of the hallway, a heavy gloved hand clamped down hard across her mouth as her arms were pinned behind her back. Panic instantly hurled her into action. Veronika tried to scream, but the big hand reduced her shriek to a mere muffle. She frantically kicked and wrestled and twisted her body, but her attacker’s grip would not yield.

When she felt her body being lifted off the ground and carried back down the hallway, she realized there were two of them and her terror level intensified. But so did her survival instinct. She continued to wildly swing her legs backward and forward, up and down, right and left, eventually striking what felt like a leg, then a stomach.

As they crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a loud, painful moan that told her she had likely connected with the groin of one of her assailants.

“Cut it out!” said a husky, male voice. “Grab her legs!” he ordered his partner. “Hurry up!”

The men dumped her face down onto the bed, her arms still restrained behind her back. The big hand slipped from her mouth and Veronika’s first cry escaped, but was quickly muted when a much heavier hand gripped the back of her neck and pressed her face into the comforter.

Fearing her attackers were going to rape, then kill her, Veronika defiantly arched her back and tried to roll her body into a tight ball. At only 130 pounds, she was no physical match for her assailants. They easily overpowered her, forcing her back into a prone position. As one man sat on her upper legs, strapping her left arm to her side, the other man bent her right arm at the elbow and guided her hand up toward her forehead.

During the deepest period of her grief, Veronika had longed to join her mother. But now that she was face-to-face with the possibility of death, she fought valiantly for life.

That changed, however, the second Veronika felt something cold and hard connect with her right temple. She stiffened as one of the men grabbed her fingers and wrapped them around the butt of a gun. At that precise instant, Veronika knew with certainty that her suspicions were indeed fact. Her mother had been murdered and now the same killers had come to silence her before she could expose the truth. And just like her mother’s death, her own murder would go undetected, dismissed as the suicide of a grieving daughter. A conclusion no one would question.

As the man placed his hand on top of hers and prepared to pull the trigger, a miraculous, power-infused sensation snuffed out what was left of Veronika’s fear, causing her body to go limp. The heavy pounding of her heart slowed and she felt light enough to float away.

Completely relaxed now, Veronika closed her eyes, said a short prayer, and waited for a glorious reunion with her mother.

About Sharon Donovan

Reaching Carlos DeVeccio’s bedroom, she got a little thrill as old memories surfaced. Just a few more seconds and she’d fall into the arms of her lover. She smiled to herself. She had returned to Vegas for a reason. She was flat broke. But after tonight, Michael would be her ticket back into the lap of luxury. Then she’d be mistress of the manor once more. And more to the point, she’d have access to his billion dollar bank roll. With a devious smile, she shoved her way through the heavy mahogany door. Crossing the threshold, she entered the house of horrors. Carlos DeVeccio had been a real nut, one straight out of the books. But with her fetish for face masks, she loved his collection and had often come into his wing just to admire them. What a thrill it had been to have sex in the coffin, howling along with the werewolf. Some might think it a bit kinky, but they didn’t know what they were missing. Calling out to her lover, her pulse quickened a beat. “Michael, are you here yet, darling?”

That’s when she heard it, manic laughter coming from the final circle of hell. A slither of fear trickled down her spine, releasing a wild gush of adrenaline. Carlos?

She thought about the death of Lacy Diamond. Two Ninja assassinations were no coincidence. Sensing danger, she felt for her sword. It was gone. Panic soared through her. Where the hell was it? The laughter got louder and louder, moving in closer and closer. It seemed to be bouncing off the walls. She couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. Just then, the bell in the tower gonged, thundering off the walls like cannon balls. Instinctively, she covered her ears with her hands. Where the hell was Michael? Evil eyes from the face masks followed her every move. She had to escape before it was too late. She couldn’t think over the loud gonging of the bell. Every few seconds, the werewolf howled at the moon. She screamed, although she knew no one would hear her. Disoriented by the darkness, she floundered about, searching for the door. Her arms swam in mid air, like a person drowning, searching for an anchor. She had to find a way out of this mausoleum of the living dead.

Perspiration drenched her skin. The chilling laughter got louder, ringing in her ears, louder and louder, closer and closer. The gonging of the bell broke through the last filament of her sanity. The werewolf opened his mouth and howled at the moon. Where was Michael? He was a master swordsman. His fencing skills were extraordinary. He could wield a Ninja star through the air with his eyes closed and hit the mark. Where the hell was he?

Blood thundered in her ears, but not loud enough to block out the manic laughter. It was close but she couldn’t see a thing. She wished she had her sword. She went to run but it was too late. She heard a distinct click. The killer had just depressed the button on her Zorro sword, unleashing a thirty-seven inch blade. His psychotic laughter reached an ear-splitting crescendo just as the bell in the bell tower gonged out its last chime. From the dark shadows, Valentino pounced, her Zorro sword gleaming in the moonlight.

“Surprise!” he thrust the sword straight through her heart. “I promised to make you scream. Darling Candace, let me hear you scream.”