Page 2 of Wild Curves
“Maggie!” She screeches so loud that I pull the phone away from my ear. “I couldn’t get hold of you.”
“I’m working, Mom. Didn’t you get my text?”
“You know I find it hard to read those things. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to talk.”
Old-fashioned is definitely the word I’d use to describe my mother. And if this call is anything like the daily calls I get, I brace myself for what I’m in for.
“You work too hard, sweetheart. Make sure you leave time for yourself to have some fun.”
I lick a bit of chocolate off my hand and try not to roll my eyes.
“Working is fun for me. I’ve invented a new dessert.”
I try to sound upbeat, but as usual Mom pays zero interest to my professional life.
“You’ll never meet anyone if you’re working all the time, MeMe.”
She uses my pet name from childhood and the stern but kindly tone that my mother has perfected.
It’s incomprehensible to my mother that I would put my career ahead of meeting a suitable husband. This is usually where I tell her I don’t want to meet anyone, and she gasps like she’s having a heart attack. But I can’t do it today.
We’ve had this same conversation for the last two years, since I went to culinary school and told her I wanted to be a pastry chef.
“And your uterus isn’t getting any younger, sweetheart. Fertility starts to decline after thirty, you know.”
The last is said in a whisper as if someone might hear her down the phone lines.
“Mom, that’s not really true…”
“It is,” she protests. “I read it in a magazine. These women putting their careers first…”
She launches into a tirade spoken in hushed but disapproving tones about ‘these women’ when what she really means is me.
“Mom…” I try to cut in to remind her that I’m only twenty-three, but as always, I’m no match for my mother once she gets on a roll.
It’s been a week of early double shifts, and the tiredness behind my eyes shifts to a full blown headache as I listen to my mom drone on. I press my fingers to my forehead and close my eyes, knowing from experience that it’s best to let her run on until she’s finished.
I love my mother, but it’s the same lecture every week. Her first reaction when I told her I wanted to be a chef was how difficult the odd hours would be for raising a family.
I hadn’t thought about that aspect of working life before. I just wanted to choose a career doing something I loved. Mom brings it up so often that I guess it’s true.
As Mom drones on about the declining health of my ovaries, I watch Arlo through the window. He’s chatting easily with Travis and Kendra, and a pang of longing jolts my insides. I shake it off. Mom’s made it abundantly clear to me that if I want to be a pastry chef I’ll never have a family. That’s why I don’t date. Even if the ridiculously handsome and charming bartender had an interest in small, tubby shy girls, there wouldn’t be any point in dating him.
My head aches, and I want to get off this call with Mom and find out what they really thought of my dessert and if Travis will put it on the menu. If only there was a way to get Mom off my back once and for all.
“I want a promise from you that you’ll go out and make an effort to meet someone.”
My mom doesn’t get it at all. There’s a reason I took a job in the middle of a mountain. Here, I can focus on my career with no distractions. There’s a bar in Wild that I’ve been to with Kendra once when she dragged me out. But hanging out with strangers is not my thing.
“Put on a short skirt, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid of those thighs you inherited from me. Some men love chunky girls. Look at your dad!”
She cackles like we’ve shared a secret, and my belly churns as I try not to think about my dad checking out my mom’s thighs. Never mind the reference to my short stumpy legs. I’m immune to Mom’s thoughtless comments by now.
When I’m not experimenting with new dessert recipes or thinking about new dessert recipes, I’m watching cooking shows and, on my days off, visiting every restaurant and cafe in the area to see what they’ve got on the menu. I may be shy, but I’m focused and determined. And I will not promise my mom that I’ll go to a bar to look for men.
“I’m not going out to a bar, Mom.”
“Oh honey…”
