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After my brother’s girlfriend Shiloh was attacked because Olive let another raccoon into our family business, Woody Finch Brewery, I grounded her, then desperately steered her to another obsession. Lately, it’s been Pixar and Monsters Inc., specifically Mike Wazowksi, the one-eyed short green monster.
Mike had made her mostly forget about raccoons, thank goodness.
“Can you give me a hint?” I ask.
“No, Mom. Even a hint is telling the secret.”
“Okay.” I hold out my hand, and Olive takes it. It warms my heart that Olive still wants to hold my hand, even though she comes up to my chest now. She pushes the hair from her face, and I get a flash of her father. She got my brown hair, the same freckles dusting her nose, but her flatter cheeks, thin nose and eyes came from him. His face has faded over the years, but I’m reminded every time I look at her.
“Are you going to be nice to Burke?” I ask. We reach the car and get in. Olive is quiet as she buckles herself in behind the passenger seat. She doesn’t answer me.
Burke is my boyfriend.
Well, kinda.
We’ve been dating for two months, ever since he came into the brewery with some friends and asked me out, hands in his pockets like a shy schoolboy. Burke is nice enough. He owns his own restaurant in town, Bistro 530, and he’s objectively handsome with wavy brown hair and soft brown eyes. He’s been nothing but a gentleman, and I enjoy spending time with him.
Meanwhile, my nine-year-old daughter treats him like she’s an overbearing father with a room full of shotguns.
“Nice? To Burke?” I ask again.
I catch her folding her arms in the rearview mirror.
“He calls me kiddo.”
“I call you kiddo.”
“You’re my mom.”
“What do you prefer him to call you?”
“Martini. Or my name.” I was not this much of a smartass as a kid. Why does she insist on that nickname? I should’ve seen it coming, after I named her Olive as a little Easter egg for myself. That backfired.
“I’ll tell him you prefer Olive,” I say.
“Why don’t you like Martini, Mom? Uncle Cam gave me that nickname.”
I study her in the rearview mirror. Her arms are still folded as she watches out the window.
“Because…” I say. Your father used to call me that.
Thankfully, she lets it go as we make the short drive to Woody Finch Brewery for my birthday brunch.
We pull into the rear parking lot of the brewery, where my family and employees park. Cam and Annie are already here, as well as my parents. Burke’s sleek BMW is parked there too.
Burke is an amazing cook, but his breakfast food is my favorite. When he asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I simply asked for eggs Benedict and his biscuits. He one-upped my request and offered to cater a birthday brunch for my entire family.
Guilt gnaws at me. It’s too much to ask of him. Still, he insisted and coordinated with my brother, Cameron, and his wife, Annie. I was told only to show up.
“Please be nice to Burke,” I repeat.
My daughter stares out the window, and after I park the car, I turn around.
“Olive, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you.” There’s a hint of sass in her voice. I’m scared for the teenage years if she’s like this at nine. When she looks my way, her blue eyes are arresting. “Is he going to be my dad?”
My stomach drops and my mouth goes dry. Turning around, I say, “You don’t need to worry about that now.”
