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us probably would have mentioned had the circumstances been different,” he began, trying to find the words that wouldn’t put his brother on the defensive. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want our family to be one of those kept apart by hard feelings.”
    Shane cast a sideways glance at him. “Is that an apology?”
    “Yes, it is. I’m sorry about what happened the last time I was home. I know your relationship with Dad was different than mine was.”
    “Maybe we should just leave it at that,” Shane said, then motioned with his thumb toward the back seat. “Little pitchers have big ears, if you know what I mean.”
    Dylan glanced at Mickey and then back to Shane. “Point taken.”
    “Dylan, we can’t change the past.”
    “No, but we don’t have to repeat it, either.”
    “I agree.”
    There was a short silence, which Dylan broke by saying, “You know, it really was good to see you standing there at the airport. It made me think of whenwe were kids and all the fun we had. I’d like to think there can be more good times for us.”
    “I know it would make Mom happy.”
    “There’s Grandma’s house!” Mickey’s tiny voice squealed with delight, as Shane pulled up in front of the big blue Victorian house Dylan had called home for eighteen years.
    His mother may have remodeled the inside, but not much of the exterior had changed. It looked as familiar to Dylan as the day he’d left. The only thing missing was the small sign with the words Frank Donovan, C.P.A., written across it in bold letters. It had been on the newel post for as long as he could remember, a small lamp lighting it in the darkness. Now the only light came from the recessed fixture above the door where the number fourteen was painted on a tin frieze.
    As soon as Dylan stepped inside the house, he saw the results of his mother’s remodeling project. Gone were the accounting offices where his father had spent his days working. One room had been converted to a library, the other a dining room. Dylan hung his jacket on a coat tree, aware of two things: the aroma of freshly baked bread and the sound of Middle Eastern music.
    Mickey noticed the latter, too, saying, “Hurry up, Daddy. The music’s on.” He tugged at the snaps on his jacket while his father untied his boots.
    “Are those bells I’m hearing?” Dylan asked as he wandered down the hallway. He found his answer when he stepped around the corner. Gathered in the middle of his mother’s living room, waving their arms and swishing their hips were at least a half dozenwomen dressed in what could only be described as harem apparel.
    “Remember, you’re drawing a circle with your hips, keeping your movement fluid.” A melodious voice directed the women. “Shift your weight from side to side, then back and forth.”
    “Move, Uncle Dylan,” Mickey pleaded, pushing on his legs to get him to step out of the doorway. “I want to belly dance.”
    Activity ceased as six pair of eyes turned toward Dylan.
    “Oh my gosh, you’re home. I didn’t hear you come in!” one of the dancers exclaimed as she rushed toward him.
    He stared in surprise at the woman wearing red harem pants and a matching blouse with poufy sleeves—or maybe he should have called it a half blouse since it didn’t cover very much midriff. She looked nothing like the woman he remembered. No brown hair peppered with gray, no glasses, no apron covering her matronly skirt and blouse. Nothing about her was familiar except her voice, and it told him in no uncertain terms what he found difficult to believe. This was his mother.

CHAPTER TWO
    Dear Leonie: The nicest guy just moved into the boardinghouse where I live. I’d like to let him know I’m interested, but there’s one small problem. He’s my landlady’s son and I’m not sure she’d appreciate me making a move on him. What should I do?
    Signed: Don’t want to be out on the street
     
    Leonie says: How nice is your apartment? Are you