I stuck the fork in to mix it up and a spray of flour dusted everything around me. “I’m sorry,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face. “I’m just a little nervous.”
Fern chuckled and sat in a chair, crossing her arms in front of her. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.” She watched me blend the flour in. “Now pick that up and sit it in the middle of the flour I have on the table.” After I did that, she said, “Add some flour to the top of it and then roll it out.”
I did as I was told.
“Max said that you moved in with him.” It was more of a statement than a question. Fern was quiet for a moment, the look in her eyes telling me she was thinking of something else. She started to get up. “You make him happy. That makes me happy.”
I blushed, looking away. “He makes me happy, Mrs. Quinn.”
“It’s Fern, Kari.” She stood up. “Roll that up, jelly-roll style. Then slice it into 1/8” strips or so.”
She walked towards the stove. “When do you think y’all will get married?”
I paused, my hands in mid-roll. “Um, I’m not sure, Mrs.—I mean, Fern,” I stuttered. “We aren’t engaged or anything.” Suddenly, I realized what she probably thought of me. Mrs. Quinn was a traditional southern woman.
I must look like a hussy!
“I know that probably looks bad,” I gushed, “but—”
“Oh, Kari,” she laughed, stirring a pot on the stove. “I might be old but I understand how things work nowadays. I might not be happy about the order of things,” she said, casting a quick glance at me over her shoulder, “but there could be worse things happening to my children than living with someone they’re crazy about. This family has experienced some of those things and it puts things in perspective for ya.”
She laughed. “Marriage is a crazy thing and it’s scary as all get out. When I married John, I didn’t know what I was in for. I thought it would be peachy keen, but it wasn’t. It’s a lot of work and a lot of compromisin.’ That’s a fact with my hand up.”
I smiled, watching her work her way through her kitchen.
“There are a lot of men that look real nice on the outside. They’re a dime a dozen. But,” she said, turning to look at me, “finding one that’s just as nice on the inside is the real trick. And I might be partial and all, but Max is probably better on the inside than he is on the outside. I say that knowin’ just how handsome he is.”
I couldn’t help but return her smile. “I know. Max is the best man I’ve ever met.”
“He better be or I’ll kick his behind,” she said, narrowing her eyes for effect. She shook her head and turned back to the stove. “Look at me tryin’ to sell my son to you. I’ve turned into the old woman mettlin’ in my son’s business.”
“What are ya mettlin’ in?”
I turned to see Max walking in the room, John right behind him, chairs in hand.
John Quinn was gorgeous for an older man. He had an olive complexion like Max and dark, shiny hair. His eyes were a whiskey color, his face lined in the way a man’s face would be from years of work, laughs, and maybe a cigar or two. His voice was deep, his southern twang the most pronounced out of all the Quinn’s. He was easygoing and kind and we got along from the start.
“Where do you want these?” John asked, holding the chairs out to his side.
“Over there,” Fern pointed towards the fireplace with a wooden spoon.
I unrolled the strips like I’d seen Fern do before. Max came up behind me and kissed the top of my head. “I like seein’ you in the kitchen making noodles,” he whispered in my ear. “It turns me on.”
I swatted at his leg, leaving a floured handprint on his jeans.
“Maxwell Jacob, where’s my kiss?” Fern asked, pointing at her cheek. Max let go of me and walked to his mother. He kissed her on the cheek and she pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you, son. You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling back and smiling at his mother. “Things are good.”
“Good. Get yourself a glass of tea and sit over there with your lady while we finish up.”
Max opened the refrigerator and poured two glasses of tea. He placed one beside me, in a puddle of flour, and sat at an empty seat. Laughter echoed off the walls of the house, followed by the sound of the front door shutting.
“Sounds like trouble,” John muttered, sitting at the table and winking at me. I tried to smile, but it was probably more of a grimace.
I broke a few more eggs in the bowl and began to beat them. As I recognized the voices, I whisked harder.
“Hey, Ma!” Brielle bounced in the kitchen.
“Hi, Mama Fern!”
I didn’t even look up. I halfway expected Samantha to show up; she attended the Quinn family dinners regularly. But there was a part of me that hoped she wouldn’t. I didn’t really know why, but I just wanted some space from her. Now that Max was working with her, I just felt territorial in a way.
I tossed a handful of flour in the bowl and stirred.
“Hi, Maxie,” Brielle said cheerfully, her long black hair curled into beautiful waves.