“I’m making dinner.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason to cook for my grandchildren?”
“Not as long as I get to eat, too. What are you making?”
“Pot roast,” she said, emptying a bag of carrots and digging in my cabinets for a cutting board. My mouth watered. My mother’s pot roast was, arguably, better than sex. The smell of it, cooking low and slow in the oven, was the nearest I’d come to a tantric experience.
Vero sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on a cookie. Zach perched on her lap, his face dusted with crumbs, his hands reaching greedily for a plate piled high with snickerdoodles. I gave each of my children a kiss and took a cookie for myself.
“Have a seat,” my mother said, cracking open a bottle of red wine. Only a third of a cup went into her recipe. The rest she poured into two glasses, setting one in front of me and one in front of Vero.
“I could get used to this,” Vero said, holding Zach’s wiggly bottom in place with one hand while she washed down her cookie with the other. I sank back into my chair, my body going warm and languid as the wine softened the edges of my very rough day.
Oil sizzled on the stove, the kitchen filling with the savory smells of garlic and onion powder as Mom seared the roast. She fell into a steady rhythm of peeling and chopping. After a few minutes, she confiscated the plate of cookies from the table, wiping the children’s hands and sending them off to play.
“So,” she said, layering the meat and vegetables into the roasting pan. “How was your date with Nicholas?”
And there it was.
Of course she had a reason for coming over unannounced and making me dinner. Nicholas, she called him. No one else called him that. It sounded like a pet name, as if she’d already adopted him into the family.
“It wasn’t a date, Ma.”
“Yes, it was,” Vero said around her cookie. “Come on, Finlay. Tell us all about it. I’m dying to know if you sampled his biscuits.”
Wine sprayed out my nose. I risked a glance at my mother as I reached for a napkin, but she was engrossed in her task, her head engulfed in a cloud of red wine steam as she poured a long thread of it into the pan.
“Vero says he took you out to dinner. I hope you wore a dress.” My mother’s expression was doubtful.
“Vero needs to learn to keep her big mouth shut.” She dodged as I crumpled my napkin and threw it at her.
“Finlay borrowed one of mine,” Vero informed her. “She looked like a million bucks. Or at least a hundred grand.” My mother glanced up with a puzzled expression. If Vero kept this up, I was going to cut her off.
My mother pointed the business end of her wooden spatula at me. “You shouldn’t have to borrow nice clothes. You should have called. I would have taken you shopping. See, this is why you should set aside some money. These advances you’re making on your books are all very uncertain. What if no one buys them? What if your publisher decides they don’t want you to write them anymore?”
“Gee, thanks, Ma. I’ve never stared at my ceiling all night, wondering about any of that.”
“I’m just saying, now that you have Vero to help you, you’d have time to apply for a government job.”
Vero smirked. “Personally, I’ve always felt there was better money in contract work.”
If I’d had a knife, I would have thrown it at her.
“The whole idea of it just seems very unstable,” my mother said, setting the roast in the oven. “How will you ever retire? You’ll be writing books until you’re eighty.”
“I’ll be fine. I have a very responsible accountant. Vero’s handling all my investments. She won’t let me die old and broke.”
Vero’s smile turned down behind her wineglass. As I opened my mouth to ask her what was wrong, the house phone rang. Vero reached for it and passed it over. Steven’s number flashed on the caller ID. I waited for the last possible ring before forcing myself to answer him. “Hey, Steven.” I sensed my mother’s ears perking as she dried and put away the dishes, her slow, quiet movements the only clue she was listening.
“Where’ve you been?” Steven asked. “I’ve been trying your cell all day.”
“I lost it yesterday.”
“You could have called last night to let me know.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
“None of your business.” I jumped as my mother slammed a cabinet.
“What was it?” he goaded. “A hot date? I thought your boyfriend was out of town.”