If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1) - Jamie Beck Page 0,1

be exaggerating. Given Lyle’s current obsession with diet and exercise, Sugar Momma’s heavy aroma of vanilla and butter alone should make him run in the opposite direction.

“Mm, that man works hard. He always looks sharp in his jacket and tie. A man with goals, am I right?” Hannah chuckled, a rich, resonant sound that warmed the soul, like her latte. “He keeps offering to find me a cheaper space in town, but I like this location.”

“Don’t you dare move, Hannah. This shop is perfect for you.” I hoped she couldn’t see how baffled I was to be learning these things about my own husband.

“That’s what I tell him.”

“I’m sorry he’s pestering you. He’s hyperfocused on his new business.” I’d lost count of the skipped dinners and early-morning meetings. Financial freedom might be nice, but I didn’t need a big bank account to be happy. I did need him.

“Well, you know men. They want to provide.”

I’d always suspected his relentless drive to prove himself sprang from his mom’s abandonment. No one would call Lyle easy to live with, but my heart ached whenever I thought of the cruelty he suffered in childhood. If healing that wound required me to tiptoe around his feelings or defer to his whims now and then, I would do so happily. He’d taken the leap of trust that I would not leave him like his mother had, so he deserved my devotion.

“He’s excited about getting an inside line on some condo development in South Florida. Apparently it’s a ‘booming’ market. I hope we don’t have to move there, though. I grew up here in Potomac Point, and my mom’s recently widowed and . . . Oh, I don’t know. I have torn loyalties, I suppose.” I suspected Hannah had lost interest in my rambling, so I stopped.

“Well, good luck to you.” She wiped up the whipped cream spatter on the counter.

“Thank you.” A bell jingled behind me, and I turned to greet two other women who’d entered the shop. “Hello, Barb. How are you?”

Barb lived on my block. Divorced after five years of marriage, she and her ex-husband, Lenny, shared one preschooler, Collin. She’d kept the house, while Lenny had moved closer to Baltimore and saw his son only every other weekend.

“Hey, Amanda.” Barb smiled. “This is my friend Sandy Bello. Sandy, this is Amanda Foster, my neighbor and Collin’s nursery school teacher.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shook Sandy’s hand, but my thoughts ran to little Collin and the extra attention I’d been giving him while he adjusted to his new family dynamic. He was not my first or only student facing that confusing upheaval. Some kids handled it better than others.

While Collin still struggled, Barb’s mood had improved since her divorce. In fact, at the moment, she and Sandy shone with the contentment that comes from true friendship. I recognized that look from the faces of a lot of the young moms who made playdates for their kids and spa dates for themselves.

In my experience, the young moms tended to view us teachers as “other.” Granted, I did know embarrassing truths about many of them. Kids overshare in the cutest ways. But soon I’d be invited into that circle of women, or at least I hoped so. I could use the support as I waded into motherhood, because my two best friends from high school both relocated to other states after college and we’d fallen out of touch. As something of an introvert, I enjoyed cordial relationships with my coworkers, but we never shared intimacies. My sister was still single and childless—unless you counted her cute little dog, Mo—so she couldn’t commiserate with the ups and downs of marriage and pregnancy. Besides, Erin had never had much patience for the things that worried me.

Barb placed a palm to her cheek. “I don’t know how you handle all those toddlers at once. I’d go crazy.”

“Well, it’s only three mornings each week, so I get plenty of time to recharge.” I smiled, accustomed to these types of comments, though they always surprised me. Kids’ brutal honesty beat any comic’s jokes, and who could ever get enough sticky-fingered hugs?

When Barb didn’t invite me to join them, I said, “Don’t let me keep you. Order up. I can vouch for the cookies.” I waved the remains of mine and then took a seat at the smallest café table—my favorite despite its wobbly leg. Shellacked postcards from exotic destinations like Tanzania, Brazil, and Alaska decorated its buttercup-yellow tabletop. I’d yet