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“Fine, I’m afraid. Marcel is going to fight me.” And I don’t add that it’s too late. That I fell in love with a man I have no business doing anything with. One who doesn’t want children or the kind of life I lead.
“Let him fight you, you’re not some powerless whelp. You’ve got me, Remi, Tyson – and who cares about scandal? Now that your grandfather’s dead, at least we know he can’t kill us.” She smiles mischievously.
I guffaw. “So, you’re glad that Kal’s story is going to be published?” Remi’s girlfriend is a journalist, too. She’s writing the story about my father and his return. I encouraged Remi to let her, when he was reluctant.
She’s quiet and contemplative for a few seconds. Then she laughs. “I’m too old to be living with teenage angst. I’m over it and him. And myself. I’m clearly a misguided person when it comes to love. Remi had it right. Don’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll end up as happy as he and that useless girl he married are.”
“Mother, stop it,” I admonish.
She looks sheepish. “Sorry, bad habits die hard. Kal is lovely, I guess. That daughter of hers is a vast improvement on the stock she came from.”
“Mom…” I shake my head.
She shrugs, but her eyes lose focus and turn sad, as she stares absently out of the window.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, my discomfort maxed out, after almost two minutes of silence.
She looks startled, like she forgot I was there. “That people are going to call that man bold, brave, and romantic. And I’ll be the mother who lied to her children to protect my reputation and business.” She draws in a huge breath and lets it out slowly. “Being a woman can feel like a burden. But it’s not a burden. It’s a gift. It’s on our backs that every single man in existence has stood to reach adulthood. The burden comes when they expect us to be happy being stools.” She shakes her head and stares off into the distance.
My mother is exactly twenty years older than me, and I’ve never thought she looked her age. But the last week has taken a toll on her.
We were all dealt a huge blow, but she’s borne the emotional weight for years, and now, she’s having to live it all in public, all over again.
She claps her hands and her voice turns brisk again. “Thank goodness I’ve got everyone we need at my fingertips. And nearly all of them owe me a favor. Cause we have things to take care of.”
I sigh. “Remind me again.”
She stands and wipes her hands together in relish. “Emancipation, atonement, vengeance, and rebirth.”
“Mother, you have a flair for the dramatic.”
She nods, as if accepting it as a compliment. “You are a Wilde. But you’re also half me. I know that hasn’t always pleased you,” she draws a finger along my temple and presses it to my lips to silence my protest, “but it has always pleased me. You see, I was born a war
rior, an enchantress, a leader, a goddess.”
I smile at her use of the same word Stone uses as a term of endearment.
“And a flair for the romantic,” I tease her. My heart flutters with the novelty of this new ease between us.
She tilts her chin up unapologetically. “New rule - romanticize yourself. You are the stuff of fairytales, my Reggae Queen, and it’s time you started living like it.”
Of Omelettes And Eggs
Regan
Last week, I baked some scones for our annual Spring Fling, and one of the owners of our neighborhood coffee shop, Sweet and Lo’s, had one taste and asked if she could order some to see how they sold. So, I got up early to make this batch. And nearly had a heart attack, when my daughter came bounding down the stairs, a few minutes after me, even when she hates them, and said she wanted to help. Eva has been withdrawn, and the smile on her face as she draped her apron on was like a shot of sunshine.
We listened to music, talked about school, and laughed nonstop. I put her change in mood down to the fact that she’s almost eleven, and she sees everything through the lens of her tween angst.
Two hours later, the first two batches are cooling, the rest are in the oven, and I pick a piece off one that didn’t hold together well.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you?” Eva gasps, when I lift a scone to my lips.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, before I shove the mouthwatering confection into my mouth.
“You never eat bread. That’s why,” she says.
“It’s a new day. And this isn’t bread. It’s a scone.” I speak around the mouthful of food, and my daughter eyes me with something like an alarm.
