Five years later, and I’m still working on that. But I’ve realized how much I like physical affection. And I notice it. I appreciate the ability some people have. People like Xander, who are always saying “Bring it in” and summoning hugs. Xander who is coming here later! How ever did Lorelei engineer that one?
I’d put ten-buck odds on Xander getting Rafe to hug him by the end of this week.
Rafe is not withholding. This surprises me a little. Maybe because he’s so famous. I just expected that he’d be more standoffish. But Rafe is a physical person. The sort of person who is always putting a hand on your shoulder or patting you on the back. He doesn’t skimp on affection with his daughter, and though I haven’t seen him in many social situations, I’m guessing he’s not the sort who likes to keep the people in his orbit at arm’s length. Including me.
That little knee squeeze may have left me buzzing, but I really can’t read too much into it. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just how he is.
If Naomi suspects anything is up, she’s not saying it. When she gets back, she is wearing a pair of clogs. She hunts for some shears in the kitchen drawers, finally locating a pair in the junk drawer. “Ready?” she asks.
I’m starting to think Lorelei must be crazy. Naomi is intimidating, but she’s not exactly a monster. Whatever happened when Rafe and Lorelei were kids is clearly ancient history now. Cautiously, I make small talk while we choose the best blooms to cut off the bushes.
Naomi seems delighted when I ask her about running her restaurants, emigrating to Canada, and what it was like to raise such a large family while building her own business. Not to mention, I add, managing her son’s acting career.
“Oh, no. I really didn’t have anything to do with Rafe’s acting,” she says, shaking her head vehemently. “You met Rafe’s father, Lorelei. He could never say no to that boy. I wanted Rafe to pursue something more academic, but my husband, may his memory be a blessing, insisted that Rafe follow his heart. He said we have enough surgeons and lawyers in the family and that God had other plans for that one. But that was my Avi. He was a very spiritual man.”
“You must miss him so much,” I say, recalling the conversations I’ve had with Rafe.“He was so young.”
“I miss him every single day.” Naomi twists the wide, platinum band on her ring finger. “But life is for the living, no? Avi always loved peonies. They didn’t grow well in Tel Aviv. Come, let’s not take too long getting them into water or they won’t open properly.”
“Ugh! The ants!” I drop the flower I’m holding and brush four angry ants off my forearm. The one thing that’s always made me crazy about peonies. My mom used to tell me that the ants were our friends.
“They tickle the flowers and trick them into opening.”My mom would love these peonies.
“Not a problem,” Naomi says, grabbing a bucket off a nearby potting bench and filling it with cool water from the spigot on the side of the house. “Just give them a quick swirl.”
“And they’ll still open?” I ask.
“Of course. Faster if you use a little warm water in the vase,” Naomi nods confidently.
When we get back to the house, Rafe and Orly are fast asleep. Orly is sprawled across Rafe’s chest. Princess is snuggled happily beside them, belly up, paws in the air.
“I wish I had a photo of this,” Naomi whispers to me. “My phone is up in my room. Do you have yours handy?”
Uh-oh. I freeze. I could lie, but the phone is on display in plain sight. Right in the palm of my hand. And I can’t say it’s dead because I just checked it.
“Are you sure Rafe wouldn’t mind?”
Naomi makes a face. “Who cares? I’m his mother.”
“I just don’t want to, you know, violate his privacy?” I say.
“Give the phone here!” Before I can stop her, she reaches for the phone, snatching it, dancing away, and pulling up the camera. She zooms in and snaps happily away before smiling triumphantly at me. “There. You didn’t take any photos. I did. Let me just send them to myself, and you can delete them.”
My heart is in my throat. I can’t wrestle Rafe’s mom to the ground for my phone, but what if the real Lorelei finally texts me back now? Or anyone else, really.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,I chant to myself as she types in her number, doing my best not to show the level of my discomfort. Thankfully, she is fast. With a whoosh, the photos she’s sent to herself are off.
She gestures for me to help her bring in the rest of the cut flowers from the patio.
“You’re pretty tech savvy for—” I start to say as she hands me the phone.
“For someone my age?” she raises her brows.
“No,” I backtrack. Of course, that’s what I’d been about to say, but not exactly what I meant. She isn’t old. She’s younger than my mom would have been.
“For a woman?” She looks even more dubious.
“For a non-native English speaker,” I grasp.
