Page 91 of Late Bloomer
“I thought you were living in Charlotte?”
“Good Lord, what’s with the third degree, Pepper? Ain’t ya happy to see me?”
“Not particularly, no,” I say, my pulse hammering in my ears. My mom’s scowl lingers for a bit longer this time.
“Well, I’m happy to see you, honey. So happy. I was up here for a little visit, see, and the second I saw your face in that newspaper, I knew it was fate. Time to reconnect with my girl.”
My eyes flick around us, checking the corners like I’m about to be ambushed. Trish tuts.
“You always were so hard to please,” she says, voice hushed and solemn. “Here I am, hoping for some grand reunion with my precious daughter, and you’re looking at me like I killed someone. It hurts a person’s feelings, looks like that. Give me a chance here, Pepper. Please.”
I know it’s foolish, I know it’s reckless, but my heart squeezes because, shit, wouldn’t it be nice if that’s what she really wants?
“I-I… I’m sorry,” I say, voice hoarse. “I’m just surprised. You know how it takes me a minute to adjust.”
My mom laughs like I’m the funniest person in the world. I flinch at the noise. “Boy, do I,” she says looking at Opal. She does a double take. “Well, I’ll be damned, you’re that sweet thing I sold the farm to! How are ya, honey?”
Opal slants a dubious glance at my mom, lips puckered and arms crossed over her chest. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Ain’t ya lovin’ the Thistle and Bloom?” she asks, unfazed by Opal’s discomfort.
Opal’s eyes flick to me, then back to my mom. “It’s amazing.”
Trish claps her hands in glee. “See! I knew you’d love it. Such a wonderful place. Pepper, I need you to update me oneverything. I know, how about we get some lunch? This fancy-pants place certainly isn’t short on restaurants, I’m sure.” She looks around like she’s trying to scope out a seat. “Then we can sit and have a nice meal and you tell me all about you and the farm and what’s been happening. My treat.”
My traitorous heart lurches. Wouldn’t that be nice. Wouldn’t it feel so damn good for my mom, the person who’s supposed to love me unconditionally, to finally want to spend time with me. Know me.
I’ve convinced myself my heart is hard as stone toward the woman, but even a hint at her affection has it crumbling to dust. I can have all the bravado in the world, but the second she gives me an ounce of attention, I’m a little kid again, eager and bouncing for her approval.
I’m a fool, but I want it. I want to sit with my mom, haveher take me to lunch and listen to stories of my life. I’d tell her about the farm, how it’s changed, how it’s stayed the same. I’d tell her about Lou and my friends and maybe, if I’m feeling brave, even tell her about some of my feelings for Opal. I open my mouth, about to agree, when I feel a sharp squeeze on my hand.
I glance at Opal, her eyes wide in warning, and I shore up some of my defenses.
“Now’s not the best time, Mom,” I say, clearing my throat. “We have a lot of setup to do with the competition.”
Her lips purse in a pout. “That’s a true shame. You can’t even spare me an hour? What about half, and we get a coffee?”
I shake my head, pinpricks of unease lifting the hairs at the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t.”
Her face falls, and it looks so sincere, the next words rush out of me before I can think better. “But maybe after the competition tomorrow? Or Sunday?”
There’s a beat, and something in Trish’s face shutters, like she’s scrounging for what emotion to show. She settles on impotence. She opens her mouth, but I cut her off, a question ballooning in my mind.
“Where are you staying?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “Is it somewhere close?”
Trish’s lips part, her lipstick cracking. “Well, that’s kind of the thing, sugar. I find myself between accommodations at the moment.”
My spine straightens like a joint locking into place, all the pieces clicking together. “You want money,” I say, voice low andemotionless as I blink at my mom. She has the decency to look affronted, hand shooting to her chest.
“Oh, God no! What kind of mother do you think I am? It’s nothing like that.”
“You want money,” I repeat.
Trish lets out a fake laugh, her beautiful smile strained and tight. “I’ve missed my one-track-minded little robot. No, you see, I’m doing better than I’ve ever been. I have this new beau, Randy, he’s actually right over there.”
We glance to where she points, seeing a weasely-looking man, tall and thin with sallow skin and a neck tattoo, sulking in the corner, sunken eyes alert as he watches guests roam about the lobby. Trish is truly the world’s worst cliché.
“And he’s so good to me, sugar, you wouldn’t believe it. Building us a beautiful house, ya see. It’s going to be huge. A mountain château. And I’m making sure he’s adding a whole wing for you, Pep. Because that’s what this is really about. I miss you, honey. I wanna make up for lost time. Have a nice house for you to come stay with me.”
