“Well, the two of you have had a rough couple of months.” My mom shook her head. “Things are complicated between you now, aren’t they?”
“Just a little.” I held up my hand, spacing my index finger and my thumb less than an inch apart. “I didn’t think the transition from friendship to a romantic relationship would be that difficult, but I wasn’t figuring in everything realistically, I guess.”
“You mean, like the press going crazy?” Mom rolled her eyes. “Running the story thatgrieving football hottie Noah Spencer is seeking solace in the embrace of his late wife’s doc?”
“That one didn’t bother me as much asNoah’s rebound gal knocked up! Read about the surprise baby that’s helping heal his grieving heart.” That one still galled me. I screwed my eyes shut and gave my head a little shake as if to dislodge the memory of the first time I saw it float across my phone screen. “I mean, in the twenty-first century, haven’t we moved beyond the idea that if a woman is throwing up in the bathroom, she must automatically be pregnant?”
“It’s a tired trope, for sure.” My mother pretended to gag. “But I guess we’re conditioned by years of soap operas using that as a not-so-subtle way to hint about pregnancy in a character.”
“I hope you never do that in your books.” I quirked an eyebrow at her. “If you have, never do it again.”
“Never have, never will. Pinky promise.” She narrowed her eyes. “Of course, if you ever read my books, you’d already know that.”
“I choose not to be psychologically scarred that way, thanks.” I gave a mock shudder. This was an ongoing joke in our family: neither my dad nor I ever read my mother’s popular, best-selling books. I was always afraid that I was going to find something of myself in her characters—or to discover something about my mother that I wasn’t ready to understand yet. “Anyway, beyond the triteness of saying I’m pregnant just because I was puking, there’s the fact that we hadn’t even been together long enough for that to have happened. And how could I have been knocked up? We haven’t even had sex yet!”
“Uh, keep your voice down, please.” My mom cast a wry glance over her shoulder. “I think your dad and your grandmother are both inside, but you know how sound carries. And while you’re aware that I’m okay with hearing about your sex life or lack thereof, both of them prefer to believe you are still a virgin and will remain so eternally.”
“Even as Nana pesters me about making her a great-grandmother.” I rolled my eyes.
“Well, she’s expecting an immaculate conception, I guess.” Mom laughed. “Anyway, when it comes to the media, sweetie, your mistake is in expecting the reporters to be logical. You know, I have friends who are journalists. And while most of them are serious and focus on writing accurate stories, they’ll also admit that they know others who live by certain assumptions. One is that if you’re even the least bit famous, you’re fair game. Another is if you’re dating, you’re mating.”
It was my turn to gag. “Ewww. That’s disgusting. Especially when you take into account that half the people they write about haven’t even met in real life—or if they have, they’re not more than acquaintances.”
My mother shrugged. “You don’t have to like it, but you’re not going to change it. The only thing you control is how you react to their stories.”
“You mean, the way I fled Florida like my ass was on fire?” I heaved a long exhale. “And hid out here in the mountains for two weeks?”
“I wouldn’t say you ran away, Emma. This was a vacation you’d had planned for a few months. And you haven’t been hiding out here. You’ve been enjoying time with your family, of whom you haven’t seen much of in the past two years, thanks to your demanding job.”
“You know, you have a way with words. You should be a writer or something,” I teased and then sobered. “You’re not wrong. I did plan to come up here, anyway. The timing of my trip just happened to be perfect for getting away from a very uncomfortable situation.”
“Call it motherly intuition, but I have a hunch that the uncomfortable situation isn’t only caused by the media. I get the sense that it’s not all paradise and hearts with you and Noah, either.”
I hunched down further in my chair. My parents had both been wonderful during my vacation here, neither of them prodding me about what was going on with Noah. I knew they were curious, but they respected my privacy, understanding that when I was ready, I’d talk.
“No,” I admitted at last. “About a month before I left, on the night of that disastrous dinner, I told Noah that we needed to slow down. I didn’t break up with him, exactly, but I let him know that I couldn’t handle all the pressure, plus the press attention. And I think I realized . . .” My voice trailed off. What had I realized, exactly? That the guy who I’d been spending almost all of my non-working hours with for over a year might not have been a good fit for a boyfriend? I loved Noah. I knew I did. And I didn’t have any doubt that he loved me, too. So what was the problem?
“What kind of pressure are you feeling, Em?” Mom’s tone was light, but underneath, I detected worry. I was never going to outgrow my mother’s love and concern for me.
“I can’t really explain it. The night of the throwing up—you know, the night when apparently, I announced the impending birth of my love child with Noah—he was talking about the future—a lot. Some of the ideas he had might have made me panic just a little.”
“Okay.” My mother nodded. “Care to elaborate?”
I pressed my lips together. “I think it shook me up that I thought Noah knew me. I believed that of all the people in the world, he understood my goals and my dreams. And how much I love my work, too. I’ve never made any secret of the fact that my job at St. Agnes is important, and he knows—I’m sure he does—how happy I am in the cabin now. But he started tossing around suggestions like me moving to Tampa almost full-time and cutting back my hours at the hospital and making my cabin our, uh,country home.” It was freaking me out all over again just talking about the conversation. “And Mom, he actually suggested I might want to work at Angela’s foundation. Like . . . a volunteer, I guess. Or maybe not, maybe something else, but can you imagine that?”
“Well . . .” Mom was trying to think of the best way to be diplomatic. “I mean, I’m sure it’s a very worthwhile cause. Remind me what her foundation is set up to do?”
“Oh, they’re going to try to advocate for young women who might be disadvantaged in the pursuit of their dreams, particularly if they want to do something in journalism or the arts, I guess. It’s fine. No, it’s wonderful. I’m thrilled that Noah is honoring Angela’s memory like this. But it’s notmything.” I heard my own words and frowned. “God, Mom, am I selfish bitch? I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I? Maybe it’s the only child phenomenon kicking in. I want everything my way, and I don’t want to share—even if that’s just sharing myself with the man I could potentially love.”
“No, honey, I don’t think you’re selfish or spoiled, either. I think you’re smart enough to know yourself. The mistake would lie in pretending that you’d be happy going along with Noah’s plans, when deep down, you know you’d be miserable.” When I began to protest, she lifted one hand. “Maybe not right away. Maybe you could enjoy that lifestyle for a month or two. But ultimately, as you wisely pointed out, you already have your heart set on your own goals.”
I buried my face in both hands. “I don’t know, Mom. I really thought a relationship with Noah was the right move for me. We’ve had such a great time together as friends. And on paper, we work so well, you know? We have so much in common—what we enjoy doing, what we like, what we know is right or wrong—there’s no logical, legitimate reason why we shouldn’t live happily ever after.”
My mother didn’t answer right away. The twilight was falling all around us, and crickets were tuning up for their evening concert. The tiki lamps that burned oils to keep away the mosquitos crackled and blazed.
“Did you know that when I met your dad, I was dating Uncle Cal?”
My mouth dropped open. “No. I didnotknow that. Are you serious? You and UncleCal?” Calvin Allan was not my blood uncle; he was a friend of my parents who’d been part of my life as long as I could remember. He’d always been a little bit of an absent-minded professor type, and in fact, he was now the English department chair at William and Mary. I’d always assumed he was my dad’s friend more than my mother’s, so this was a shock.
