Page 39 of Book and Ladder
“Your …”
“Mom. But you can call her Denise.”
I’m rooted. Like a bald cypress. I couldn’t lift my feet if a team of arborists came to relocate me.
He brought his mom?
I forgot the most critical element of any blind date: the S.O.S.
It’s been so long since I’ve been out with a man, I forgot to set up an escape hatch with one or more of my friends.
“You okay over there?” Franklin asks.
I blink.
How is this my life?
“Um. Yes. I’m good.”
“I cleared out a spot in the back seat for you. Mom gets easily carsick, so I didn’t want to chance it. Could you imagine if she lost her cookies before we even got to dinner?”
“No … Well, actually, yes. That would be horrible.”
Franklin holds the rear passenger door open like a footman in a Disney cartoon. And somehow, I manage to put one foot in front of the other to make my way to the car.
“Daisy!” Denise says before my rear even hits the leather interior. “I’m so glad to meet you. Becca has told me so many wonderful things about you. And a bookshop. You own your own business. What an accomplishment!”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Her praise is sweet, and in any other context, I’d be flattered.
But she’s on my date—with her son.
“I thought we’d go to Fork and Fiddle,” Franklin says, a chipper note in his voice.
“I haven’t been there in a while,” I say.
“It’s one of our favorites,” Denise chimes in. “Whenever Franklin’s in town, we go there.”
I make a noise that I think is going to sound like, “Mm hmm,” but I’m also thinking,wow. So it comes out more like “Meow.”
Denise turns around and looks at me with a quizzical expression.
You and me both, Denise. You and me both.
“Mom, eyes on the road. Don’t want you getting queasy,” Franklin says.
“Thank you, dear.” Denise turns again. “He’s so thoughtful.”
I nod. Just to be sure I don’t wind up purring or accidentally making any other feline-esque sounds.
We pull into the parking lot at Fork and Fiddle. Franklin opens his mom’s door, extends her his hand, and by the time she’s out, I’ve already opened the back door and am shutting the car door behind myself.
At the hostess stand, Franklin says his name for the reservation.
I glance around the restaurant. It’s a Friday night. In a town like Waterford, we don’t have a ton of options, so the popular places draw a crowd.
The hostess tells us to follow her. Franklin’s mom walks ahead of us. Franklin lightly places his hand on the small of my back as we navigate between a server and a table for two.
