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My mother frowns. “A ride? Who’s Hamish?”
“Hamish is my lover,” Margaret says in that confident, nonplussed way that older people use the word lover. “And he rides motorcycles.” She steps inside and closes the door behind her.
To my surprise, my mother’s eyes spark with interest. “A motorcycle? I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
“You’ll love it.” Dorothy bustles past me and hooks her arm through my mother’s to start tugging her to the door, then pauses. “You’ll need closed-toed shoes. Actually, you’ll need to change out of that dress and into jeans. You can borrow my jacket and helmet.”
“You ride motorcycles as well?”
Dorothy straightens up. “I’m learning. Doing the test for my license next week.”
My eyes bug. “Really?”
Dorothy turns on me with an arched brow. “Are you so surprised that an old woman like me could try something that’s supposed to be reserved for younger men?”
I throw my palms up at the challenge in her tone. “Of course not. I think it’s great.”
Dorothy settles back and gives me an impish grin. “I’m planning a custom paint job for my new bike. Hamish, Mac, and Lee will help me pick one out, and their man at the body shop, Remy Something-or-Other, said he knows someone who can paint it the way I want.”
“Dorothy’s very proud that she’ll have the only motorcycle in Heart’s Cove with a leopard-print body,” her sister cuts in, mirth dancing in her eyes.
I exchange a glance with my mother, and when I see the question in her gaze, I shrug. “It’s up to you, Ma. You want to go for a ride with Hamish?”
There’s a moment of silence, then a smile breaks over my mother’s face that makes her look ten years younger than she is. “I’ll go get changed. Nora, if I’m not back in time, can you take the cake out of the oven when the timer goes off?”
“Sure, Ma. No problem.”
When the door closes on the bedroom, Margaret gives me a nod. “I like her.”
It shouldn’t please me as much as it does that these women like my mother. Maybe I inherited a protective streak from my mother.
Re-emerging in jeans and sensible shoes, my mother and I follow the twins down the stairs to the ground floor. On my way past, I glance at the door across the hall from mine, but I haven’t heard Lily come back from her date. Earlier, I was just hauling a few broken-down boxes to the recycling bin in the basement when her sisters and friends came spilling out of the door and told me all about her upcoming evening with Rudy. I hadn’t even realized we’d be neighbors, but the thought pleases me. I’ll have to pry details of her date out of her tomorrow morning. Maybe I can bribe her with fresh carrot cake.
The ladies and I spill out onto the sidewalk to see half a dozen motorcycles parked up against the curb. The men are huddled near my building, two of them leaning against the brick with one leg pulled up. A toothless man holds a cigarette and laughs at something one of the older men said.
I recognize Mac, Trina’s partner. He’s wearing a leather jacket, black jeans, and motorcycle boots, and he looks very, very sexy. When Trina told me he was a second-grade teacher, I thought she was pulling my leg. And when she told me he also did pottery and was almost famous because he was so good at it, I was sure she was making fun of me somehow. Then I found out it was all true and I just felt jealous of her—in the best possible way.
Beside him is the second of the younger men, and he looks similar enough to Mac that he could be related. A brother, maybe. Despite myself, I notice that he’s tall, muscular, and he has very nice eyes that happen to be roaming over me from my feet up to my face.
I think I saw him at the community garden, but he certainly wasn’t looking at me like that. Like I’m a special treat that he can’t wait to devour.
I arch my brows at the pack of badass biker dudes waiting for the little old ladies from the hotel. “You all came here to see my mother?” Something warm slides through my chest at the thought that these women would come here with the sole intention of inviting my mother along for a motorcycle ride.
“I’m a slave to my woman’s wishes,” a salt-and-pepper (mostly salt) haired man says, making moon eyes at Margaret. That must be Hamish.
“You. Mac.” Dorothy thrusts her finger at Trina’s partner. “Give Prisha a helmet. She’s riding with you. Nora, are you coming along? We’re going to get ice cream.”
For some reason, the thought of these six burly men riding with a contingent of elderly ladies at their backs going to get ice cream, of all things, makes me laugh. I start shaking my head—but before I can say anything, Dorothy’s phone rings.
She makes a little “Oo!” sound and shuffles through her crossbody bag for her phone. Squinting at the screen, she turns it toward me. “I haven’t got my glasses, dear. What does that say?”
“It says ‘Lily,’” I read.
“Well, what could Lily possibly want?” Dorothy swipes her finger across the screen, and Lily’s face appears. “Aren’t you supposed to be rubbing elbows with rich, snotty people?” Dorothy asks instead of greeting Lily like a normal person.
Lily is laughing. “Dor, you’ve got to see this.”
The camera flips to show total carnage. There’s broken glass all over the ground that workers are hurriedly sweeping up, and in the middle of the mess is Agnes, Dorothy’s sworn enemy. The small woman has her index finger in a younger man’s face, and she’s stringing together swear words and insults in a way that makes my eyebrows climb higher and higher with every word.
