Love is a Battlefield (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #1) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,1
gave me life has a chance to knock. She claims that once she’s been announced, I should watch her walk down the hall from the elevator. She likes to make an entrance.
My mom is not wearing her trouser-styled Ralph Lauren jeans. She’s in her gardening jeans, full-on with the holes in the knees and the grass stains that illustrate how she got those holes.
“You can’t go to Gramercy Tavern looking like that,” I shout down the corridor.
“I’m happy to see you, too,” she says in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
As soon as she’s within arm’s reach she hands me a large bag from Happy Happy Wok Wok. “You brought Chinese? What’s wrong?” Not only does my mom not dress casually in the Big Apple, she only eats Chinese food when there’s a crisis. It’s the only time she can justify putting MSG into her body.
She pushes me through the doorway. “Let’s dish up and I’ll fill you in.”
My mind is running a million miles an hour. “Is Dad leaving you for a younger woman?” I demand.
“What? No. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
I fling my hands out, spokesmodeling her current ensemble.
Pulling two plates out of the kitchen cabinet, she announces, “Are we still going to the Caribbean on Friday?” Why wouldn’t we be? As my stress level climbs, she informs me, “I heard it’s a bad hurricane season. I’d hate to get stuck on some tropical island so far away from home.”
“Mom, I’ve been flying back and forth for the past year and you haven’t once been concerned about hurricanes.” It’s much more her style to suggest that there are worse things than being stranded in paradise.
She sighs like she’s trying to fill a hot air balloon in one breath. “Honey, do I ask for a lot of favors?”
Uh, oh, something is up. “No,” I answer hesitantly before adding, “which I totally appreciate.” Hint, hint, don’t ask for any now.
She fills a plate with my favorite shrimp. “It’s because I love and respect you too much to infringe on your life for anything less than a dire emergency.” Crap. She’s laying it on thick so I can’t say no to whatever bomb she’s about to drop.
“Thank you, Mom. I can’t tell you how nice that is to—”
She doesn’t let me finish. “I talked to Aunt Ruby this afternoon. She’s having an exceedingly difficult time right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, suddenly losing interest in the kung pao shrimp on my plate. What could her hard time possibly have to do with me? Even though she and Mom make it a point to get together every year, I’ve barely seen her in the last fifteen.
“Ever since Tom died last year, she’s been running the Willamette Valley Lodge single-handedly and she’s in a real bind right now.”
“Thank goodness she has children then.”
“Yes, well, her kids don’t specialize in the kind of help she needs.”
No sense hinting around that they should be the ones coming to her aid, not me. “Are you by any chance suggesting Aunt Ruby is having a life or death decorating emergency? Because Mom, regardless of what those shows on HGTV try to tell you, there’s no such thing.”
Seriously, people survived laminate countertops for generations before they were told that marble and granite were the only civilized options. Not to mention the seventies. That whole decade is what I imagine an acid flashback looking like.
“Ruby’s been trying to decide if she should keep the lodge or if she should sell it. The stress has been taking its toll on her physically.”
“If it’s affecting her health, she should sell it and live off the proceeds,” I say bluntly.
“Addison Marie, that business has been in the Cavanaugh family for three generations. You don’t bail on longevity like that.”
“Why not? If it’s getting to be too much for her and her lazy ass sons won’t help, then there’s nothing wrong with her walking away.” Brogan and James Cavanaugh are not my favorite people on the planet. I haven’t seen them since we were teenagers, but the memories from shared family vacations during our formative years have scarred me for life.
“James is busy running his farm and, as you know, Brogan has his hands full being a successful author. I hardly think they’re slacking. More like preoccupied with their own pursuits.”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t dare ask my mom where I fit into her friend’s trouble for fear she’ll tell me.