“Just wonder how you have time to see my son at all.”
Okay, maybe she was being a touch PMS-ey, but Robin did not like the way Mrs. Manning kept saying my son. Like she owned him, had a say in him or something. “We make the time,” Robin said simply. “I really enjoy his company.”
“Oh, I’m sure he enjoys yours, too,” Mrs. Manning said with a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a snort. “But Cole needs him right now.”
What did that mean? Robin picked up the used coffee cups, marched to the sink, put them on top of an already huge pile of dirty dishes. “If you will show me where the silverware is, I’ll put it out.”
Old lady Manning pointed to a drawer. Robin yanked it open, started counting forks.
“Now, I’m not trying to make you mad,” she continued.
“Please, Mrs. Manning, you aren’t making me mad.”
Still, the old bag chuckled, paused in her ministrations over the stove to light a smoke. “You can call me Norma,” she said, as if that was some huge favor. “All I’m trying to say is, I look at a pretty, rich girl like you, and I wonder why you’d be running around with my son when you could be with just about any man out there. I wonder if you aren’t out just having a little fun at his expense. If you are, he don’t need that right now.”
Of all the unmitigated, uncalled-for chutzpah! “Having fun?” Robin echoed, a little more sharply than she intended, and wondered what Jake would say if he knew his mom was essentially telling her to get lost. “I don’t know what you see when you look at me, Norma,” she said pointedly, “but I really like Jake. And he seems to like me. We are seeing each other when we can, and I guess we’re both content to just see where it goes.”
Norma Manning chuckled. “Good. Glad to hear you at least like him.”
Astounded, Robin gaped at the woman’s back. She was hardly accustomed to justifying her dating habits. Okay, maybe to her father, but never to the mother of her dates. Funny thing was, while Robin was fuming, Norma seemed amused, and even got a little talkative. As if she had never accused Robin of using Jake, she asked her to baste the ham (without anything obvious that Robin could see) and check the beans (which she assumed meant stir). Norma mashed the potatoes and began to tell Robin what Jake was like as a boy—apparently one who slept with his bat and never went anywhere without his cleats or his baseball jersey. Though the stories were humorous, they were also poignant to Robin. It had to have been more devastating than she could know when Jake tore his Achilles tendon and ended a dream that had begun when he was a boy.
But he did sound like an adorable little boy, almost as adorable as the man. By the time the food was on the table, Robin was actually laughing with his mom.
Vickie’s husband, Derek, had arrived by the time Norma called everyone in for dinner, and they all crowded in the small kitchen until it looked as if it might actually burst at the seams. They squeezed in around the table, sitting in a hodgepodge of chairs. Jake dutifully said grace when his mother asked, his deep voice resonating in the room. With the amen, everyone attacked the food, startling Robin by grabbing bowls and passing them in every direction, talking on top of one another as they asked for various dishes, laughing at the things one another said and enjoying the home-cooked meal. Norma played hostess, groused at every request, but nonetheless jumped up and down to fetch whatever was needed.
The loud, raucous free-for-all was not like anything Robin had ever experienced. Even the food was a complete departure from the carefully balanced, light meals her mom instructed the cook to make on the rare occasions they were all together, and she wished for a glass of wine instead of iced tea . . . but nevertheless, it was fun.
There wasn’t a stiff air of formality around the table, nor did anyone seem to mind the lack of proper manners. The emphasis seemed to be on the companionship instead of rules; no one seemed out to impress the other. At her family gatherings, they often engaged in subtle contest over the price of a bottle of wine (actually there was no alcohol here, which some people—well, Robin, anyway—found disconcerting). As someone shoved a basket of rolls into her hand, Robin couldn’t help but think of the last meal she had had with her family, the one served with bone china, crystal glasses, and real silverware while her father berated her and her sisters about their inadequacies. This gathering was missing the finery, but it had something much more valuable—a real sense of belonging and closeness.
It felt wonderful.