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“Don’t cry, Mom. Save that for the wedding, at least.”
She took my face and kissed my cheeks. “I love him, too. And even though you don’t want my promises, I promise you, like I’ll promise him when I walk down the aisle… this one is forever.Amour éternel.” She smiled at me, a dazzling, happy smile, and I believed her.
I watched her as she spun in front of the mirror, looking at her dress again.
“It’s beautiful, Mom. You should take it off and get some rest.”
“You should, too,” she said, eying me.
“Just try to relax,” I told her, ignoring that probing look. She was probably wondering whyIlooked so damn tired. “And if you want, tonight would be a good time to write Jacob a note.”
“A note?”
“Yeah. Like a love note. Some brides like to do that. Something to give him, privately. The morning of the wedding, or whenever you like. A gift from you to him.”
“I thought you hated weddings,” she said wryly. “How did you become such an expert?”
“Well, I’ve been to enough of them,” I muttered.
Mom just smiled softly. And I hoped she wasn’t feeling too sorry for me.
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I said dryly, heading for the door. “One day, I’ll meet my Jacob, okay?”
“Oh, darling,” she said. “I hope so.”
I left her alone to relax and write her note.
I headed down to the hotel lobby, then outside for a walk in the village, alone. Just breathing in the fresh evening air.
Summer in the Canadian mountains.
Maybe the last one I’d ever have.
I walked by the salon where I’d had that big fight with Mom and ran out in slippers, only to get caught in a rain storm, and it actually made me smile.So ridiculous.
Why did we always hurt the ones we loved the most?
I loved Mom, hard. If I’d learned anything in my time down in California, getting to know my dad—the little he’d actually let me know him—I’d learned that.
I never even fought with Dad. Because there was no point.
The reason I fought with Mom wasbecauseI loved her. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t bother.
There would be nothing to fightfor.
I wandered toward Black Bear Grille and stopped. I looked at the building with its stone face, the heavy glass doors, the wood and black iron of the sign over the door.
Then before I could talk myself out of it, I walked in.
“Hello. Welcome to Black Bear Grille. Have you dined with us before?” The hostess, another beautiful Aussie, greeted me.
“Uh, no, actually. Not really. Just a drink.”
“Would you like a seat at the bar?”
“Could I have a table?”
“Of course. Right this way.”
