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“I’ll talk it through with your father.”

“We could make Rice Krispy squares.” She said it like offering marshmallow-based treats would close the deal.

Maple never really mentioned wanting her dad and I to be together. I suspected most kids would prefer to have both their mom and dad under one roof. But sometimes that wasn’t possible or healthy for anyone. It made my heart ache that Maple didn’t have any memories of a time when Ozzie and I were happy and in love. We’d split up when she was so young. Parents were our introduction to relationships, insight on how a man should treat a woman. I wished I could model healthy behavior for her.

Don’t get me wrong, when Maple was around, Oz and I were on our best behavior. We never sniped at one another, and I never said anything but kind words about her father. He was her hero, and I would never do anything to taint her image of him. My problems with Oz were mine and mine alone. All I could do is love and support her and hope she thrived.

“So instead of soda, how about root beer floats?”

“Root beer is a form of soda.”

“Is it?” She made a show of acting surprised at this breaking news.

12

Ozzie

My mother spotted me entering the restaurant and waved like she was helping to land a plane. The Sunny Side Café, Hume’s local diner, was the site of our monthly mother-and-son brunches. A few years ago, my mother complained she was forgetting what my face looked like because the only time she saw me was when I dropped Maple off. To fix that, I’d suggested a standing appointment for mimosas and gossip.

“There you are.” She smiled.

“Hello, Mother.” I pulled a small bouquet from behind my back.

“Flowers?” Now she was beaming.

“No one deserves them more than you.”

Bringing them to her nose, she breathed deep. “Already ordered us drinks. How have you been?”

“Good.” I slid into the booth across from her.

My mother wasted no time jumping into the news and gossip she’d been holding on to in anticipation of our brunch. I was always down for town tidbits as long as they didn’t involve me. There was something about Lauren Palmer that made people want to open up. They thought secrets were safe with her, but in truth, once gossip was shared, she’d be itching to spread it. “Did you hear a movie production may be coming to town?”

“To Hume?”

“Yes. I don’t know what the movie’s about, but there was a scout in town a few weeks ago taking pictures of downtown and surveying different points of interest.”

Rearranging the condiment bottles in order of height, I said, “Hume doesn’t have any points of interest.”

“You know Mayor Birch is trying to make Hume a tourist destination.”

I choked on my mimosa. “You did not just call Cyrus ‘Mayor Birch.’”

“Well, he is the mayor.”

“Yeah, but chiefly he’s Cy, the kid you tried to teach how to pop and lock.”

“It’s so unfortunate. That boy has zero rhythm.”

“Not all Black people can dance, Momma.”

“Anyway, Hume may be going Hollywood.”

“God, I hope not.”

“I think it’ll be fun. Maybe someone famous will come to town.”

Hume was not a destination location. But Cyrus seriously believed he could increase tourism and revenue by putting Hume on the map with his plans for a bed-and-breakfast—and, apparently, a backdrop for crappy movies.