“Sure, baby.”
“What do you think Madison’s beau does? She gave us a hint: he works with his hands.”
“Gee. I dunno. Massage therapist? Mechanic?”
I squelch a laugh, shaking my head. These two are something else.
“No, Mikey. I’m thinking… an artist. You know, the kind that makes those large sculptures out of marble.” She mimes the shape of an invisible figure in front of her, sure she’s guessed correctly. “Like the statue of David.”
I shake my head again.
“Ahh,” she sighs. “I give up. Tell us what your George does, Maddy. And for the record, I’m hoping you can be his Amaljust like I am to my man.” She wiggles her bejeweled hand from across the table again, taunting me with her stroke of good fortune.
I’m quiet for a beat, my mind still swirling with travel arrangements, my mom’s engagement, and Jenny’s recent phone call. The thought of being happy with George like my mother is happy with Mike reminds me of something Ralph Jamison once suggested:
You could always marry George.
“So tell us already. I’m dying to know. What does this guy do with his hands?” Mike asks.
I look at my half-eaten plate and try to remember George’s hands. The way his thumb stroked my cheek. His quiet warmth when we hugged. His fingers combing through the sides of my hair as he held my face and kissed me over and over again.
My body physically aches to touch him. To be with him. At that moment, I understand Jenny’s phone call. I understand what I need to do. Everything makes perfect sense. I finally know why I’ve been so discontent.
I’m in the wrong place.
“Flowers,” I say simply, dumbstruck by my revelation.
Mike snort-laughs. “Flowers? What kind of man works with flowers? Is he some kind of a fruit cake or something?”
“Mike!” my mom admonishes.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.
I realize I won’t finish dinner with my mom and Mike. I won’t make the show, and I’m definitely not sleeping in a Chicago hotel room for another agonizing night. Ralph’s words finally make sense, finding their way into my stubborn heart.
In a delighted daze, I grin and mutter, “I have to go.” I stand and throw my napkin on the table.
“What? Why? Mike didn’t mean to call George a fruitcake,” my mother laments.
“Yeah, I said I was sorry.”
Energized, I have only one thing on my mind. Come hell or high water, I must return to Jamison Farm as quickly as possible.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Mike. Apology accepted.” I look at my disappointed mother, who is standing in front of me. I grab her hands and kiss the ring on her left finger, my smile full throttle.
“Y’all stay and finish your dinner. Get dessert. Get some more mocktails, whatever you want. It’s all on me.”
“I don’t understand, honey.”
I let go of her and grab my purse. Pulling a wad of cash from my wallet, I leave it on the white tablecloth.
“What about the show? What about the backstage tour?”
“I promise I’ll see it another time. Maybe the weekend of your upcoming wedding? Me and Bev will come together. How great will that be? It’s all good, Mom. I just need to take care of something very important, something I should’ve done sooner. It can’t wait any longer.”
I run toward the exit of the restaurant, laughing all the way and throwing them a final wave goodbye.
“It was nice meeting you, Mike. I love you, Mom! Congratulations to you both!”
