“Youdo?” Mom and I say in unison.
“Totally. They’re quirky and fun. This one is so dang cute.” She holds up the horse, which looks like a cross between a Precious Moments figurine and a My Little Pony. “I could see myself designing my next jewelry line around him.”
Okay, well now, she’s laying it on thick. There’s no way she’s “inspired” by these tacky little vases.
Satisfied that I’ve “won” this round, I place the vases back into their box and go to bring them back upstairs when Mom reaches out and touches my arm.
“When you come back down, sugar, I want to talk to you about something. Just us.”
MOM SUGGESTS SHE ANDI go for a walk along the lake, so we can talk in private. I’m convinced the little talk between me and Mom is going to be a lecture about how I have to be nicer to Cara, and I’m braced to defend myself.
So I’m surprised when she surreptitiously shoves a basket in my hands and starts marching out toward the lake’s edge. Instead of stopping once we’re far enough from the house, Mom just keeps on walking. Determinedly.
I put my phone in my butt pocket so I can carry the basket, then jog a bit to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“Just a little ways up,” she pants, and I realize we’re heading deeper into the wooded area around the side of the lake.
“Mom, careful—that’s where it gets muddy, right before the strawberry patch.”
“I know, sugar. That’s where we’re going.”
“Ah. Hence this basket.”
“Exactly! I thought we’d see how many wild ones we can find. We’ll obviously have to supplement with store-bought, but there’s just something special about the wild little babies, don’t you think?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say. I used to love coming out here and picking them—just enough to snack on before I made it back to the house.
I had this little fantasy that if I ever decided to run away from home, I’d be able to camp out right here and subsist on strawberries. Of course, back then I felt like I was miles from home instead of less than a hundred yards. And my childhood fantasy overlooked key facts like that the strawberries were only seasonal for a brief window in early-to-mid summer, and also that I was absolutely not the type of child whowouldever run away. I’m way too much of a people pleaser for that, and would have worried too much about other people worrying. And finally, I was also not the type of child who would survive in the outdoors overnight. I don’t even like camping unless it’s in a cabin with plumbing.
I remember Emma telling me about the time she and her now-fiancé, Finn, slept out under the stars. She said it was incredibly romantic, but the whole time she gushed about it, all I could think about was the potential for bugs and wild animals.
Nope, no way.
My mom and I make it to the strawberry patch and bend down to start picking a few, but it’s not as easy as when I was a kid. They grow right along the ground, and you basically either have to squat really low or give up and kneel down in the mud. Plus, my mom is no spring chicken anymore, and I can tell all the bending isn’t great for her back.
“Look for the ones that have just the tiniest bit of white at the top—the too-ripe ones might have worms.”
“Ew.” I wrestle a few from their leaves and plop them into my basket. “This is a nice little trip down memory lane, Mom, but how many of these bad boys are we picking?”
“I just want as many as possible, as I’ll need a whole bunch for the cake.”
“Wait, please tell me you’re not baking a cake for dessert tonight? On top of everything else you’re doing this week?”
She laughs. “No, sugar, these are for Cara and Cooper’sweddingcake. I’m making them a big strawberry shortcake, since it’s Cara’s favorite, you know. And I thought it’d be extra special to have some of ourfresh-grownstrawberries in the mix.”
Cara’s favorite.Of course. Those damn strawberry necklaces—inspired by her profound love of strawberry shortcake. I sigh and suppress an eye roll.
“That’s really thoughtful of you,” I tell her. Because it is, even if I resent it a little.
“Well, you know, I realize this whole thing is very rushed, but I still want to make it as perfect as we can. It’s important to try to do that, don’t you think?”
I look at her, surprised she’s finally admitting to how insanely rushed this whole thing is, but I can’t read her expression, as she’s busy focusing on digging out a particularly buried strawberry.
“Mom, why are you this obsessed with the wedding? I mean, I know you love a family event and an opportunity to host, but this feels… I don’t know. Hasty? Crazy, even?”
I brace myself for another explanation just like my dad’s. That we do crazy things for love, yada yada.
