I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, all right. Fine.” She leaned in. “I’m getting older, Zelda. I feel like…” She shifted uncomfortably before continuing. “I feel like we’re not as close as we should be. And—maybe if we spent sometimetogether, I don’t know…”
“So you just—” I made my hand into an airplane and flew it through the space between us.
“Yes,” she said, her voice turning firmer. More familiar. “Yes, I did. Your Aunt Belinda said she had a wonderful time up here with you and Lily, and so I thought to myself, ‘Why not, Effie? Before you’re too old for such foolishness?’”
“You’ve never been foolish.”
“Maybe I should have been.”
I looked at her and our gazes struck like two stock pots colliding, hard enough to ring your ears and vibrate your bones. My wild, secret hope—that she would sensibly decide to hop on a plane and go home—vanished.
I had always known we were both stubborn.
I had never known we were both prone to bold, reckless moves. It goes to show that people you’ve known all your life can still surprise you. “I’m glad you came,” I said, finally. “In fact,” I continued, swallowing my misgivings, “you can stay with Poppy and me. You can have my room. I’ll take the couch.”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. She looked down and fiddled with her napkin. “I couldn’t possibly put you on the couch.”
“I insist.”
She raised her gaze to mine. “Really?”
“Really.”
She perked up. “Thank you, honey.” Genuine gratitude, but also a faint hint of triumph. “I’ll just—enjoy the changing of the season,” she said, gesturing to the air as if leaves were turning inside the restaurant. “I won’t be any trouble, I promise.”
Trouble. I’d dealt with a never-ending run of it since coming to New York. What was a little visit from my mom?
No trouble. No trouble at all.
2
Momstoodonthesidewalk outside Poppy’s and stared up at the stone townhouse. “Oh, my. This iselegant.” She leaned in conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “Does your friend come from money?”
“Mom!” I should have remembered that my mother observed signs of social status like some people watch birds. Not with judgment, but with encyclopedic fascination.
“What? There’s no shame in it.”
“She’s from England.”
My mother’s hand flew to her chest with happy shock, probably from one too many episodes of Masterpiece Theater. “Is she a peer?”
“Pleasedon’t ask her that.”
Mom lifted her chin. “Do I look like a barbarian?”
“Yes. A tiny Southern librarian-barbarian. Come on, Jester’s waiting for us.”
My ridiculous miniature poodle had popped up in the window, head cocked and ears perked, alert to my arrival—and the arrival of someone new, whose face probably needed to be kissed. When I opened the door, he rushed us, going up on two legs and bouncing excitedly, tongue flying this way and that.
“Jester! Jester, sit,” I said, as he attempted to jump even higher. “Hold on, Mom.” I pulled a treat out and waved it at him. “Sit, you idiot.”
Jester sat, quivering, eyes shining, tail wagging even when it could only scoot back and forth on the floor.
“Good boy.” I tossed him the treat and scooped him up in a practiced motion, hoping he’d calm the heck down. “Say hello to Mom.”
Jester craned his neck toward my mom, licking his own nose in an attempt to give her doggy kisses.
