Page 65 of A Bookish Story

I turn to my mother, enjoying my new position of authority over her. “Did you find anyone?”

Without answering me, she turns once more to Eddie. “I asked Luci to screen these men for me since I make such poor choices.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Eddie says.

There’s a moment that passes between them thick with unsaid words. Which makes sense, of course, because Eddie is of course thinking of his younger brother. And it must be difficult for him to accept anyone taking his place.

“Geneva.” A man with a nicely trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee approaches my mother. “Dinner next week?”

Mami flutters her eyelashes at him, smiles, and then looks over to me for approval. Softly, I shake my head and then lower it. Dinner has way too many implications.

“How about coffee? I’ll call you,” my mother says and then when he’s gone, turns to both me and Eddie. “He’s very nice. Owns a flower shop in San Jose. Cradle Catholic.”

I work hard not to roll my eyes. They actually answered that question. I can think of a million matters far more important.

Do you believe in true love?

How important is it to be honest?

How many books have you read?

What is your favorite period in history?

Do you think romance writers are hacks?

Those would be my questions.

“Is he divorced? Widowed?” I ask.

“Widowed, like me,” she says, forgetting all about Seb, which I find entirely hopeful even if a little misleading.

“I’m having coffee next week with my date,” Eddie says. “Let’s make sure we don’t go to the same place at the same time.”

“You have a date, Eddie?” my mother asks. “With whom?”

“Sandra Ortiz,” Eddie says. “Very nice woman.”

My mother snorts. “She’s divorced.”

“Um, so are you,” I whisper. I’d like to forget it too, but it doesn’t work that way.

“Anyway, it’s just coffee,” Eddie says with a shrug. “We will see how it goes.”

“Same,” my mother says. “I will also see how it goes.”

“But I remain hopeful,” Eddie says with a smile.

“As do I!” my mother says.

This conversation is prickling my spine because my mother’s words sound tinged with jealousy. This can’t be right. She’s probably involved in some odd kind of one-upmanship with Eddie. A competition. That would make sense as she’s always been the competitive type.

A woman interrupts. “Aren’t you Geneva Santana from Desperate Hearts?”

“Yes, I am.” My mother turns to her with a beaming smile. “You watched the show?”

“I loved it! Why did they kill you off? You’re such a good actress.”

My mother flips her hair. “Why, thank you, but you know how it is in Hollywood with aging women. Someone younger took my place.”