“I’ll give him ten points for that one.”
“Oh, and he speaks French. There, that’s something I know about him.”
“I dated a French guy once, you know,” she said, her eyes twinkling over her cup of coffee. “He was marvelous at cunnilingus.”
“Yes, Mr. Bouchard. He was our mechanic and he was French-Canadian, not French.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s not. Also ew, I didn’t need to know that.”
“Listen, you have not orgasmed from oral stimulation until you’ve been brought to that state by a man whispering French poetry against your clitoris.”
“Oh my God.” I nearly choked on my cruller.
“Of course, I don’t speak French, so he could have been reciting from the back half of the Volvo’s owner’s manual for all I know. God, I miss that car.”
“Once again, ew.”
“Well, sweetheart,” she said, sighing as she set her coffee cup on the kitchen table, “you do as you will, as you must, and I’ll be here to support you, regardless.”
“Thanks. Will you run interference with Charlie?”
“I will gently remind her that she needs to attend to her own household before she starts trying to manage yours.”
“Great, thanks. Everyone just needs to take a deep breath and stay completely out of my business.”
“Now that I can’t promise, because we are a family. We share in triumphs and tragedies, we support each other, unconditionally,” she said and I could see tears glistening at the edges of her eyes.
“Mom,” I began, eager to steer the conversation into safer territory.
“The people who love you have every right to worry and look out for you,” she said, raising a hand to stop me from talking. “We do, because we are the ones who have to help put the pieces back together if everything falls apart again.”
“Mom, that’s in the past,” I said and reached across the table to hold her hand.
“Not so far in the past.” She shook her head.
“For me it is. I’ve moved on. Really,” I said softly. “You and Charlie did help me, tremendously. I would have been completely lost without you guys. But ultimately I healed myself, Mom.” She squeezed my hand and I smiled at her. “For better and for worse, it’s my life and I’m responsible for it. Please stop worrying.”
“Never gonna happen, baby girl.” She sniffed and patted my hand. Then smiled back, a thin veneer that did little to dissipate the tension. “Just be sure to get him to speak French to your kitty. You will not regret it.”
“Good Lord, woman.” I rolled my eyes and laughing, reached for another pastry. This was going to be a long couple of days.
“Seriously,” she said, rising from the table to refill her coffee mug. “I think it has to do with how they pronounce the words, the way they move their tongues. And the accent, there’s something melodious, a vibration perhaps. Really, it’s marvelous.”
“Oh my God, Mom.” I stood, and took my pastry and coffee mug to the kitchen door. “I’m off to the showers. I gotta wash my mother’s dirty mouth out of my ears.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” She smiled and lifted her mug. “I put a new massaging shower head in the guest bath; enjoy it.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” I shouted as I escaped down the hall.
“Language!”
* * *
Fuck.
I hadn’t heard from the Professor in days. Not a call, not a text—nothing. He was MIA and I wasn’t sure what to think of it. Of course, I could have reached out to him. But I didn’t. Since my mother and my sister were convinced I was falling too hard, too fast for the wrong guy, the last thing I was going to do was prove it by acting like a teenager. So I didn’t call him and I didn’t text.
I couldn’t say it was the very worst Thanksgiving I’d ever had, but it definitely hit the top five. The food was good, Mom and I made a killer spread complete with oyster stuffing, corn pudding, and a heritage breed turkey large enough to feed a calendar full of firemen. We’d even made three kinds of pie for dessert: pumpkin, apple and bourbon pecan.