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After a beat, Bo went back to his work.
Gia sighed and turned to snarl at the door. She supposed she was going to have to face her mother.
~oOo~
At the front door of the house, Gia paused, momentarily stymied by that bizarre tug of war: to knock or to go in like she belonged there. Bo had seemed shocked by her new urge to knock, so she opened the door and stepped into the house, shoving that weird feeling out of her way.
The house looked exactly as it always did: tidy but lived in. Dad had built most of the furniture, little of which had changed during the whole of Gia’s life. Décor had changed several times—area rugs, paint and wallpaper, curtains and textiles like accent pillows and throws, had all been refreshed every few years, usually when Mom found a piece she liked and redid everything around it to suit. The family photo gallery had expanded with the years, and some pieces of art had been changed out or added to. But overall the house looked, and smelled, as it always had. As it always should.
Light noises directed Gia to her mother. She went through the living room and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen.
This room, and the bathrooms, had undergone the most noticeable changes over the years, having been fully gutted and updated. Gia remembered their old-fashioned look from when she was small. To a certain degree, they still had that look, but now it was a design choice rather than actual history.
Mom stood at the counter, dressed in an outfit so typical Gia thought of it as her ‘uniform’: snug jeans (always midrise and boot cut), faded but not tattered. Black leather belt with a silver buckle. A plain white t-shirt, V-neck, cut exactly right so everyone could see that her body was as great as ever but not so snug she looked like she was advertising the fact. Her hair was bound in a simple ponytail, which lay halfway down her back.
Her feet were bare now, her toes tipped with dark polish (either black or a red so dark it might as well be), but when she went outside she’d be in boots. Mom wore sneakers only for running or yard work; she felt the same way about shorts.
For jewelry, Mom wore the exact same pieces every single day: a silver stud and a small diamond stud in the second and third piercings of her left ear, and silver hoops in the main piercings of both lobes. Her platinum engagement and wedding rings where they belonged on her left hand, and one heavy silver band on the middle finger of her right. A platinum chain with a diamond solitaire lay at the base of her throat: a gift from Dad.
Gia glanced down at her own outfit: faded jeans, plain t-shirt (hers was black, at least), black boots, silver jewelry, hair in a ponytail.
Sigh.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise; she was completely aware that she dressed a lot like her mother most of the time. Every time it occurred to her she shuddered inwardly, but whenever she tried to break that mold, it felt like cosplaying a stranger. She and her mother had similar tastes, and there was apparently nothing to be done about it.
If you were to believe most of the people in Signal Bend, she and her mother were similar in most ways: looks, taste, temperament. But if that were really true, they’d get along better, right?
Wearing her reading glasses, Mom squinted at the tablet propped in its stand on the counter, then opened the cabinet before her and pulled down a glass measuring cup . She was collecting ingredients for dinner, which, by the ingredients on the counter thus far, looked like it was going to be chili.
That explained why she was getting started so early in the day. If she was using a recipe, it was a new variation; Mom usually cooked either from memory or by whim.
“Mom.”
At Gia’s quiet hailing, Mom turned quickly enough to make her long ponytail catch some air. “Hi. You’re actually in the house.”
It took all Gia’s willpower to hold back an eyeroll, but she managed. “You summoned me, remember?” She nodded toward the counter. “Do you need help?”
“I’d love some help, yes. Will you get the brisket out of the fridge? Wash your hands first.”
“I know to wash my hands, Mom.” Gia went to the sink and did so.
Her mother’s reply was a heavy sigh.
“Did you call me over to help with dinner?” Gia asked as she dried her hands on the towel hooked through a drawer handle.
“I called you over to talk, cara. It’s pretty obvious we need to.”
“Why?”
Mom stopped examining yellow onions and glared at her. “Don’t do that, G. You know why, and I hate that evasive shit.”
So. This talk was starting off great.
Gia opened the fridge rather than reply. On the middle shelf was a really nice, large brisket marinating in a deep glass dish. The rich scents of the marinade rose up and practically singed her nose hairs. Apparently this was going to be a ten-alarm chili.
She picked up the dish and brought it to the counter. “Can Dad eat chili this strong?” Among the many issues he still had from being shot when she was a toddler, his digestion could be a little dodgy. He loved spicy food, but it hated him.
“I’m making two batches, that’s why there’s so much meat. I’ll tone it down for Dad and Bo. You and I’ll get the good stuff. If you’re having dinner with us, that is.” She pushed a wire basket of tomatoes over. “You chop the toms, I’ll do the onions.”
