Carrie Alexander - Slow Ride

“They did not! They banned me from seeing him again. I had to sneak out the window until I turned eighteen.”

“Okay, but you get my point. Look at Max now.” A balding orthodontist whose kids colored in his tattoos with Magic Markers, he and Didi had been married for almost twenty years. Their eldest son would be entering college this coming fall.

Didi glowered. “I hate when you make a rational argument against me.”

“See how I’ve matured,” Tucker teased, though he hoped she’d recognize the truth in his words. While it was true that he’d coasted through life up to now, he wasn’t averse to a change in speed—or even direction. He’d always figured that one day he’d come across a woman worth stopping for, and then he’d know what all the hoopla over love was about.

Their mother cranked open the kitchen window and yelled for them to get their butts inside before dinner got cold. Just like old times, when they’d all lived at home and been the scourge of the neighborhood.

“You could have simply told me to leave you alone,” Didi said as they walked to the back door.

Tuck gave the top of her head an affectionate kiss. “Has that ever worked?”

“No better than a headlock,” she said sassily, sliding out from under his arm when he tried to tighten his grip. She hurtled herself inside, banging the screen door shut on Tucker’s nose.

THE SCENT of smoked jasmine lingered in the air at Emma Constable’s house hours after the brunch was over. Surrounded by a pile of pillows and cushions in the bay-window seat, Rory was so at ease she hadn’t moved for more than an hour. She’d even drifted off for a while after the talking had ended and Lauren and Mikki had gone home. Now Emma had come in from the garden and was gliding back and forth in the kitchen, rattling ice trays and running water, humming “Light My Fire” to herself.

Rory gave a long stretch and yawn. Herbal tea, fresh bread, incense—those were the smells of her mother’s house. And often her own.

Like mother, like daughter? The similarities were both comforting and aggravating. If only she’d been able to consciously choose which traits she’d inherit.

“Sangria, hon?” Emma asked, drifting in from the kitchen with a tall glass filled with ice cubes and a pale pink liquid. She’d changed from the sparkly caftan she’d worn earlier into a T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her feet were bare, the nails painted bright red. “I can make sandwiches—bean sprouts and hummus.”

“No thanks.” Rory straightened the pillows, using one to smother a second yawn. “I should probably be going. What time is it?”

“Five-ish.”

“Whew. I had a longer nap than I thought.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Are you feeling all right? Take some of my ginseng. It’ll put zip in your step.”

“I’m fine. Been catching up on sleep from the other night at Clementine’s. I was up early the past two mornings—”

“You work too hard.”

“It wasn’t work.” Just restlessness. Rory found it tough to break the habit of waking before dawn to bake her daily bread, as she’d done for years while getting her first stores launched. Now that she had store managers and most of the baking was done in an industrial kitchen outside of the city, she left the early morning hours to others. Yet the early-to-bed habit remained.

Yawning at 9:00 p.m. tended to cut into her appeal as a swinging single.

“Then what, hon? You were reticent at brunch.” Emma set her drink on a side table.

“What do you mean? We talked for hours.”

“Hashing out Lauren’s flash-dating intrigues and Mikki’s Nolan Baylor complication.” With a soulful moan—Emma did everything with soul—she sank into an artisan-made rocking chair, flung one leg over the arm, wiggled her butt into the cushion, then pushed off with the ball of her foot. “You said nothing about yourself. If Lauren hadn’t mentioned that you’d won the grand prize…”

Rory shrugged.

Her mother’s brow furrowed as she took up a bundle of hand-carded wool. The click of knitting needles made a counterpoint to the rhythmic creak of the old rocking chair. Rory felt along the floor for the shoes she’d kicked off, but she was in no rush to leave. The familiar smells and sounds of her mother’s house were soothing to the battered soul. She, Mikki and Lauren certainly didn’t return for the bitter tea.

“The house is so quiet,” Rory said.

“Arun is working.” Emma’s remaining boarder, a foster child who’d come of age, was looking for an apartment of his own. “And Ernie spends most of his time in his room, meditating.” Ernesto Modesta, a compatriot from Emma’s commune days, had arrived at her door the past month, asking for a bed. He was supposed to move on anyday now. No one was holding their breath. “But you’re avoiding the subject, m’dear.”

“Only because I have nothing to tell.”

Emma smiled. “Do you think I’ve lost my touch?” She tapped one of the needles to her nearly unlined forehead. “I may need bifocals now, but my third eye sees as well as ever, Aurora. The less you say, the more I’m sure there’s something big going on in your head. Why don’t you talk it out? You always kept your worries too much to yourself.”

“Some of us don’t feel the need to announce our every body twinge and passing thought to the general public.”

Emma was unperturbed. “Bottling up your emotions isn’t healthy. When was the last time you had a colonic?”

Gawd! Rory flung herself back against the pillows. She gazed up at the sitting room’s antique tin ceiling, original to the house, and counted to ten. “I am fine, Mom. Both physically and emotionally. Quit looking for trouble.”

Her mother shrugged. Creak, creak. Click, clack.

Blessed peace. Rory was almost lulled.

Emma speared a loop of yarn. “No decision yet on the baby question?”

Oh, damn. That. Baby-making had not been on Rory’s mind the past few days, except in a recreational capacity. “I only said I was considering having a baby. You know, mulling it over. I’m not anywhere close to a decision.”

“My friends Deena and Azure went to a sperm bank.”

Rory made a face. “Jerry Garcia being no longer available.”

“Jerry was always a generous man,” Emma said fondly before returning to Rory’s dilemma. “All I’m saying is, keep your options open.”

“I’m not so hard up that I can’t find a donor on my own.” Though Rory had her doubts. Her baby daydreams had gone as far as wondering who would be the father, but hadn’t gotten much beyond that even though there were several good male friends she could ask. Too large a part of her still wanted to go the traditional marriage route.

Which was odd, given her upbringing. Her father, one of Emma’s many lovers, had drifted into Rory’s life at infrequent intervals, acting more like a friendly, but distant, uncle than a dad. Larger-than-life Emma had filled in for the lack with supreme confidence. She’d been everything—father, mother, disciplinarian, instigator, best friend.

Rory worried a ragged cuticle. On second thought, perhaps her inclination to experience the one type of family life Emma couldn’t provide was not so odd. She had immense respect for her mother, but not everyone could live up to her example.

“A grandchild would be nice.” Emma rocked, placid and obdurate. Every child who arrived at Garrison Street soon learned that for all of Emma’s go-with-the-flow philosophies, she was also the original immovable object. “You don’t need to approach this like a business decision, sweetie. A baby is Mother Nature at her finest. Plant a seed, it will sprout. The practical details will work out.”

Rory squirmed. She’d change the subject, but the only other one that sprang to mind was sex. Her sisters were comfortable discussing the details of their sex lives with Emma. Rory less so. “I can’t believe you’re trying to talk me into having a baby on my own. Whatever happened to family values?”