Not About Love

Chapter Thirteen

My cell buzzed as I was leaving the bank, the vibrations running up through the strap of my briefcase into my hand. Fishing it out of the pocket I'd tucked it into, I checked the caller ID.

Mother.

I frowned as the phone continued to ring, knowing I had precious seconds before it was sent to voicemail. She'd called the day after the anniversary of Mal's death, and again while I was home, recuperating from pneumonia. Both times I'd ignored the calls, and both times she'd declined to leave a message.

I didn't particularly want to speak to her. Our relationship was a difficult one to explain. Hell, even I had trouble understanding it. We'd never truly bonded in any sort of parent-child fashion, my mother growing ever more distant between the death of my father and the death of my grandfather. By the time I left for college, we'd become two people who happened to inhabit the same living space. We saw each other once a year, on Christmas, when I drove out to Glendale, where she'd moved after I'd graduated from high school.

Still, of the few times a year we'd call and attempt to make conversation, she never failed to call around the anniversary of Mal's death. The conversations were always incredibly awkward, and left me with a false hope, that she cared enough to reach out to me during a painful time.

The feeling faded as soon as the call disconnected.

Having made up my mind, my thumb hovered over the 'Accept' button as the phone stopped vibrating in my hand. I'd call her back this time. I owed her that much. Clipping down the sidewalk, I pushed aside the disappointment that was doing its level best to crush me as I headed for my car.

I'd been turned down. Again. This was the second application process I'd gone through. I'd started with the bank I did my business banking with. The loan officer kept me there for so long I began to sweat, a slick line of it rolling down my back. It couldn't be good news. Or was it? Was it bad news came quickly and good news took time? Having bought my house outright, I'd avoided the whole mortgage issue.

It had been bad news. The officer seemed genuinely disappointed when he'd informed me, and he'd been kind enough to refer me to the bank I'd just left, telling me their terms were sometimes more flexible and I might get the approval I needed.

I wasn't sure what he'd meant by "flexible", but after the housing bust, I was on the alert for anything sounding remotely hinky. A growing sense of desperation had me walking through the doors, briefcase in hand. I figured if I was approved, I'd worry about their mortgage practices later.

I shouldn't have worried, because they turned me down as well.

Unlocking the car, I set my briefcase on the passenger seat and started the car, lowering the windows before I shut the door. The stuffy, overly warm car began to cool off as the heat rolled out. I tugged at the sleeves of my suit jacket, draping it carefully over the seat back before I picked up my phone and dialed my mother.

She picked up on the second ring. Must have been waiting for my call. "Lisle. Nice of you to call me back this time."

And there went the hope, a little earlier than usual. Rarely did our conversations devolve into my mother having "look at me, look at me, me me me!" tantrums, but it sounded like this would be one of them. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was ill for a few weeks and I just got out of a meeting. I was going to call you later tonight." I would have. Probably. If I'd thought about it.

"Ill? Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Her concern would have been touching if it hadn't been for the petulant tone invading her voice.