"Do you still want to work on the attic today?" I ask, leaning against the doorway and watching her check the pockets of her jeans for any loose change or tissues. When she finds neither, because she always empties her pockets before she dumps her clothing in the bathroom hamper, she shakes the denim vigorously and tosses it in the washer.
"Only until four or five. I have dinner reservations tonight, and I'm leaving at six." I wait for her usual invitation—her you should come with me, Lucinda Jane, so you won't be lonely—but that doesn't happen. I cup my elbow and tap my fingertip against the center of my lips. Mom blanches. "Why are you looking at me like that?”
"Do you have a date, Mother?" I ask, and for the first time today, I feel an authentic grin work across my features.
"I'm fifty-five," she says. As if to demonstrate her age, she feigns stiffness as she bends over to grab another pair of jeans from the laundry room floor. "I'm too old for dates."
"Yes, well, let me rephrase that: Is your dinner plans with a man?" She cuts her eyes at my question, which automatically gives me my answer.
"It's not what you think," she scolds, flushing, and I hope it’s exactly what I think.
Growing up, it was never a secret that my father was the only man my mother had ever been with—after all, she had drilled it into my skull when she gave me the keep-your-legs-closed talk. My parents had met when my father was based at Camp Castle, and my mother was working in Seoul to send money home to her family. Dad always said it was love at first sight. Even with her reserved demeanor and his larger-than-life personality, they had built a lasting marriage and had given me a happy childhood. They'd wanted more children and when that hadn’t happened for them, they had doted on the one daughter they had. I had grown up admiring their relationship, wanting the same for myself and ending up with the first person that told me he was in love with me.
Running my fingers through my wet hair, I clear my throat and Mom looks up at me. Her lips worry together. "For what it's worth, I think it's good you're doing ... not what I think ... with a gentleman friend." She's always saying she doesn't want me to be alone, but I don't think she's ever stopped to consider herself. After Dad died four years ago, she claimed she would never be with another man because she didn't want to dishonor his memory. He wouldn't see it that way, though, and he'd want her to move on.
He loved her too much not to want her to be happy.
She offers me a tentative smile as she gently lowers the washer lid. Dipping her head slightly, she murmurs, "Thank you for your blessing."
Although we don't bring up her plans again over the next five hours while we go through boxes in the attic, filling large black contractor bags with clothes and old blankets to give to charity, we have plenty to talk about. She tells me about how irritated her friend Cynthia was last night after she won twice at Texas Hold 'Em—a game my father taught her shortly after they got married—and she asks me how work is going.
We've been so busy cleaning that I, fortunately, haven't given Jace much thought since that moment of utter weakness when I considered opening my nightstand drawer. My smile slips and Mom's brows drag together.
“Everything okay?” She neatly folds a white sweater and stacks it on top of several others. "You having trouble at work?"
I shake my head, but she doesn't look convinced. Easing down on the pink beanbag chair that I used to lounge on to read by my bedroom window, I give her what I hope is a convincing smile. "We've been very busy this week," I say, which is the truth. Valentine's Day is right around the corner. While I've been collaborating with Andi on our website and with various resources to secure new promotional opportunities, the guys have been hard at work fulfilling kinky orders for the international day of love.
"You should have said something," she admonishes with a tight frown. She folds another sweater, and I'm surprised it doesn't tumble over the rest of the stack when she places it at the very top. "I wouldn't have asked you to help me if I knew you were tired—"
"My brain is tired," I quickly rush to assure her. This is yet another truth. My brain is exhausted from all the stressing and debating over one Jace Exley, and it's becoming bothersome. I need to put him out of my head and get back to strictly professional thinking.
Even if that hasn’t happened once since I walked into his office the day of my interview.
"My hands and body"—I wiggle my fingers as I climb to my feet and approach a box labeled Lucy's Toys—"are definitely awake."
"Hmm, if you say so." She returns her focus to her sweaters. We work in silence for a few minutes, with me occasionally pulling the string of an old toy or hitting a power button to ensure something is still in working condition and Mom humming "Cheek to Cheek." I'm in the middle of dropping an armful of Barbie dolls into a contractor bag when she clears her throat.
I glance up to see her lightly pinching the skin at her neck. "What's wrong?"
"You get paid next week?"
It's something I've been anticipating since the moment Jace offered me the job and before I knew precisely what I would be pitching, and my nod is a bit more enthusiastic than I intend. "Why? Do you need me to give you something toward—”
She rubs her throat more vigorously, lifting her other hand to stop me. "No, no, nothing like that. I just remember you said you wanted to look for a place of your own."
"Yes, that’s right."
"I was just thinking that maybe it would be best if you just stayed here longer. To save up your money." I raise my eyebrows, so she shifts her gaze to a pair of pink and white Converse tied together at the laces and sitting at the top of a box of shoes. Judging from their size, they must have belonged to her because I had inherited my father’s large feet. "You're not bothering me."
When I moved in with my mother two months ago, my only goal was to get the hell out and into my own place as quickly as humanly possible. But hearing her asking me to stay lessens my resolve.
"Are you sure this is just about saving me money?” I say, trying to keep my tone light and teasing despite the lump that’s formed in my windpipe. “I’m beginning to think you love having me around, even if I do lose my phone and keys every five minutes and I make a lot of noise when I flush the toilet in the middle of the night.”
Her head is bent and her black bob partially shields her face, but I still make out the ghost of a smile quirking her lips. She lifts her slim shoulders slightly and softly confirms, "I like your noise better than Tony and Gaga's."
Thirteen
Lucy