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Claudia: I feel like you might’ve told me to move tonight’s showing to tomorrow, but I can’t remember. Anyway, there’s still a showing tonight.
Oh no. This is bad. This is really bad. Furiously, I type with my one free thumb.
Me: Claudia, what the hell??? I sent you three emails about this. You need to MOVE that showing. Tell them I have an emergency or something, but I CAN’T make it there tonight.
For the first time in her life, Claudia texts back promptly, but it’s not with anything that’s going to lower my blood pressure. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
Claudia: Just chatted with the old guy. Told him you were having an uncontrollable bout of diarrhea and were indisposed.
The “old guy” she’s talking about is Mr. Conrad Blakely, owner of one of the biggest grocery store chains in the damn city. He’s also a man who now thinks his Realtor is at home with the shits.
The anger I feel is all-consuming, bubbling up from my toes and hitting every damn nerve in my body until it finds an escape from my mouth.
“You have to be fucking kidding me!” I shout, but unfortunately for me, the words fly from my lips at the same time the fancy wooden door swings open and Wendy Winslow’s face comes into view.
Oh my God! Tell me those aren’t the first words I just said to Remy’s mother after nearly three decades!
Instantly, my insides fizzle as if I’m going to spontaneously combust.
“Maria?” she questions, as though she doesn’t even recognize me as an earthly being. And I can’t blame her. I might as well be a tomato for as red as I feel all the way to my core.
“Oh, Mrs. Winslow,” I say, clearing my throat several times to talk around the humongous lump inside it. “I’m so, so sorry. Please excuse my language.” I cringe. “Those words were not at all intended for you. I-I… Well, I hadn’t even knocked. I didn’t know anyone knew I was out here and—”
“Winnie has one of those Ring cameras,” she explains, nudging her shoulder toward the glaring thing. Damn. How on earth did I not notice that thing? What kind of Realtor am I?
“Again, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Oh, Maria, please,” Wendy clucks, stepping forward without delay and taking my face into her hands in a way only a mother can do without making you feel uncomfortable. “Stop apologizing. I have four boys who would make what you just said look like a children’s program.”
I laugh a little at that, despite the heaviness of my lasting embarrassment.
Wendy looks at me, smiling warmly, just like she did when I was young—just like my own mom used to—and a pang of longing for the unconditional love of her parenting hits me hard.
Man, I miss her sometimes. Her guidance and understanding and just flat-out love.
“Look at you, lovely girl,” she whispers, making my nose sting and my lips curl up into my mouth. “My goodness,” she states reverently, studying my face. “You grew up beautifully.”
A blush creeps its way from my chest to my neck, and I find myself gently rubbing at Izzy’s back to give myself something to do. “Thank you. It’s really great to see you.”
“Can I?” Her smile overwhelms her put-together face as she reaches for Izzy, asking for permission with her eyes, and I carefully lift my baby out of her carrier and hand her over while observing.
Izzy is comfortable with Wendy from the get-go, and I can’t help but wonder if she can sense some piece of Remy in his mom. Because for as little as she knows of him, there’s an almost unspeakable comfort there when she’s in his arms.
Truth be told, I can’t blame her. I know the feeling all too well. Remington Winslow’s embrace is comforting.
“Wow,” Wendy whispers as she looks at Izzy in awe. “She sure is precious.”
Once Izzy is settled in her arms, Wendy backs out of the space of the door and ushers me in with the soft voice of a woman talking to a baby. “Come in, come in, both of you,” she muses, focusing mostly on the baby in her arms. “Everyone is ready and waiting to see you!”
“I’m so sorry that I’m running a little late, by the way,” I apologize as I quickly set my baby carrier and diaper bag down by where everyone’s bags and purses appear to be.
“Nonsense, sweetie. Dinner isn’t formal around here.” She scoffs a little, laughing. “Nothing is formal with Jude and Ty around. They may be a lot older than the last time you saw them, but I can guarantee they haven’t changed a bit.”
Jude and Ty were always the most rambunctious of the four Winslow boys.
I follow her down the spacious front hall, studying the photos on the wall of Winnie, her nearly identical twin of a daughter, and a handsome man I assume is her husband, and several with Remy in them too. He smiles the biggest in the ones with his mom and Winnie and Lexi, and a tickle of warmth fills my chest.
