Odd Mom Out

by Jane Porter

  “So can we get my costume tonight?” Eva repeats.

  Frowning, I look at her and run my hand over her head. “Baby, I’m so behind. I’m going to have to work tonight.”

  “Again?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “But why? Why are you working so much at night?”

  I think back on the week, on the parent meeting at school and the case of the blues with not getting the Freedom Bike Group. “I’m working as hard as I can.”

  “But all you do is work.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She clamps her jaw. She’s furious with me. “Fine,” she says smartly. “Whatever.” And she marches into the house.

  The next morning, I’m back at my desk the moment I wake. It’s Saturday, and hopefully Eva will sleep in so I can get a jump on the work still piled high on my desk. But Eva doesn’t sleep in. She’s at my desk in less than a half hour, a gloom-and-doom expression on her face.

  “There’s no milk,” she says tersely. “And no bread. No frozen waffles, French toast, or microwave bacon left. There’s nothing to eat, Mom.”

  “How about eggs?”

  “They’re old.”

  I lean away from my computer, sigh, rub at my neck and then my nape. “Can you eat cereal dry?”

  “No!” she explodes. “No, I can’t. And I’d go to the store myself if I could drive, but I can’t. I’m nine. I’m your kid. I’m a child.”

  Oh. Right. Right. I know that.

  I push hair behind my ears, struggle to smile. “You want me to go to the store?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  I nod. I expected that. I knew it was coming. “Do you want to come? Keep me company?”

  She’s still angry with me, angry that I’m working too much and not spending enough time with her. Angry that she’s an only child living with a single mother. “No,” she answers bluntly.

  I should have expected that, too. I reach for my sweater, tug it on. “I’ll be back soon.”

  I race around the aisles of QFC, trying not to feel guilty that we have no groceries and that I’ve left Eva home. Eva, being nine, has already taken a junior baby-sitting class at Overlake, where they taught her basic CPR and infant and child care tips, but I’m never quite comfortable with her home alone, even if she is.

  I shop quickly, grabbing bagels and bread, frozen waffles and French toast, fruit, milk, yogurt, eggs, butter, cereal, coffee, and just for good measure, I go back for a box of doughnuts.

  It’s while I’m deliberating on the kind of doughnut—-miniature chocolate-covered or miniature powdered sugar—that I sense someone behind me. Turning, I see Luke examining loaves of bread.

  He sees me about the same time I see him, and he straightens, broad shoulders just getting wider, bigger.

  His head’s taller than the top shelf, and he dwarfs the bakery section, making the aisle even narrower.

  He’s wearing a navy cotton shirt, long sleeved and clean, and faded jeans that just barely outline the hard quads and hamstrings beneath.

  How can this man be a CEO with millions (billions?) in the bank? It’s impossible.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice less than steady.

  His expression is somewhat quizzical, definitely reserved. “You’re bad at returning phone calls.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I, uh, wanted to call. I meant to call—” I break off, shake my head. “It’s been a bad week.”

  “You could have called and talked to me about it.”

  There’s a definite rebuke in his voice, and I flush. I really, really like him, yet I’m also mad at him.

  I’m mad that I didn’t know he was Luke Flynn of BioMed.

  I’m mad that he’s not just a medieval foot soldier, but the powerful lord.

  I’m mad because I don’t want him to be more successful, more wealthy, more anything than me. It makes things harder, more complicated. I liked it when I thought the power was equal, that we were equals. Now I’m scared again. Scared and vulnerable, the two emotions I never want to feel.

  “I didn’t know you were the founder of BioMed,” I blurt out, my face still blazing hot.

  “Tiana told you,” he guessed, his expression even more shuttered than before.

  I nod.

  “She interviewed me for a piece last February,” he adds.

  I nod again, emotion running hot and cold inside me. I’m scared. Scared to care so much, scared to want so much, scared to think he’s got it all together while I’m still just trying to figure life out.

  “And that’s why you didn’t call,” he continues.

  I manage the briefest of nods.

  For a moment, we stand utterly silent in the middle of the bakery section, in front of the freshly baked breads and glass case of doughnuts, Danishes, and breakfast rolls, and I’m sad, really sad, because I know I’ve hurt Luke, and I didn’t mean to hurt him. It’s just that I’m so confused.

  I need to say something, apologize. My hands flex around the cart’s handle as I struggle to find the right words. But Luke doesn’t seem to have the time or patience.

  “I’ve got to get going,” he says with a cordial nod. “You have a good weekend.”

  My tentative smile freezes. I feel that terrifying cold swoosh of disappointment. I don’t want him to just leave, not like this, not without him understanding.

  “Luke,” I say, and he stops, turns to look at me.

  “Do you ever have one of those weeks where everything goes wrong?” I say to him. “Where you lose a huge account and your daughter’s furious with you and your mom gets lost because she keeps forgetting who she is and where she lives?”

  Luke just keeps looking at me.

  I’m feeling so scared and nervous, but I hate being afraid, so I take a deep breath and press on. “I really did want to call you. I thought every day about calling you, but my life is so messy, and I’m still trying to carve out a niche for myself in business, and you’re . . . you’re . . . you.”

  “Me,” he repeats, stepping back toward me.

  “Yes.”

  His forehead furrows, and he looks at me long and hard, the blue gaze narrowed. “You know what I liked about you, Marta? You were sexy and smart and funny, and you didn’t care about who I was or what I had. You liked me for me.”

  “And I still do,” I whisper.

  “No, you don’t. Not if you can’t call me when you’re having a bad week because you’re afraid I won’t care because I’m Luke Flynn, founder of BioMed.”

  My face burns. My insides feel icy. A huge lump is filling my throat, pressing down into my chest. He’s mad at me. He doesn’t understand. This whole dating thing is so new and it’s scary, but I’m trying, I’m really trying. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have even considered a date, much less opening my life for a relationship, but I want to change my life, I want to change me, though it doesn’t happen instantly. I don’t change that fast.

  “It was a really bad week,” I repeat, mortified that my eyes are burning and tears aren’t far off. I haven’t cried in front of a man since I was a teenager. Please, God, don’t let me cry now. “My mom has Alzheimer’s, which is why we moved back here, and Eva hates me right now because we don’t have milk and she doesn’t have a Halloween costume yet. My staff wants to mutiny over this lost account, and they blame me because I did leave a presentation early, but Eva was sick and I’m a mom first and will always be a mom first now—”

  I break off as Luke closes the distance and wraps his arms around me.

  My chest heaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears are so close.

  I feel lost.

  Really lost.

  Luke’s hand rubs my back. “Everyone has bad weeks.”

  I’m ashamed I’m near tears, yet his arms feel so good and he feels so warm and so strong, and for the first time in days I don’t feel as if I’m going to snap in two.

  “I’m sorry,”
I say against his chest. “I’m sorry for not calling. I really did want to call you. I wanted to hear your voice. It would have been so nice.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “It’s not okay. Forgive me.”

  “I have.” And he releases me.

  I step back and look up into his face. “Really?”

  He smiles, and he has such a gorgeous smile. His teeth are straight and white, and they make his blue green eyes deeper. “Really.”

  I smile back, and as I smile I feel a burst of fizz inside me, as though I were a can of carbonated soda, and my sadness lifts and dissipates like our morning coastal fog.

  “So you’d go out with me again?” I venture.

  “Any time, any place.”

  Hard to believe a moment ago I was near tears, as suddenly I’m happy, that giddy, light, dizzy kind of happy where everything feels good and looks good. I don’t even know why except that I’m standing here with Luke and he’s said he’d go out with me and he’s not mad at me anymore.

  “Do you have plans for tonight?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to do something tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I’m blushing, and my cheeks burn hot. “I’ll call you about where and when.” I catch sight of his expression. “I will. I promise.”

  His eyes crease. “I believe you.”

  “I just need to find a sitter,” I say. His eyes meet mine and hold. “But I will call you, and we will go out, and I won’t forget.”

  “I said I believe you.”

  “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

  His smile grows. “Because I’m glad to see you, and glad I’ll see you later tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I arrive home with groceries to find Eva waiting at the door, holding the school’s parent directory. “Guess what?” she says, twirling around me as I head to the kitchen with the first of the grocery bags. “Guess who called and invited me to a sleepover?”

  “Jemma?”

  “No. Jemma hates me. Jill. Jill Hunter. She said you met her parents in my class at Back-to-School Night.”

  I think back, trying to recall the meeting, and then realize the Hunters must have been the parents who told me who Steve Ballmer was. If I remember, I found Lori Hunter’s honesty refreshing. “That sounds great. What do we have to do?” I ask, putting the bags on the counter before heading back to the car for the rest of the groceries.

  “Just call Mrs. Hunter back and confirm that it’s okay for me to go.”

  I grab the last bags from the floorboard of the truck. “You dial the number,” I tell her, “and I’ll talk.”

  Eva closes the truck door behind me and runs ahead to open the door to the house. “Ready?”

  “Yep.” I get the rest of the groceries to the kitchen just before I’ve got to take the phone from Eva.

  Lori Hunter is as friendly on the phone as she was at Back-to-School Night. “We’d love to have Eva stay the night. Jill’s been wanting to have Eva over for the longest time, but we’ve been short-handed at the restaurant and it’s been hard to get a free weekend night before now.”

  “You have a restaurant?”

  “Three.” She laughs. “But let’s not talk about that. I’ve made my escape for the weekend, and I don’t want to think about work until Monday.”

  I understand completely. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

  “I was thinking we could come pick Eva up on our way to a matinee movie and then dinner, if that’s okay with you.”

  Eva’s jumping from foot to foot, and I smile. “That sounds great.”

  “Is four too early?”

  Eva’s hands are folded in a prayer pose, and I have to fight to keep from laughing. “No. Not at all. Eva’s very excited. Thank you for including her.”

  “We’ll see you at four, then.”

  “Great.”

  As I hang up, thinking that the Hunters just solved my child care issue for tonight’s date with Luke, Eva throws her arms around me. “I’m going to a sleepover!” she cries.

  “And a movie and dinner.”

  “I’m so happy. Jill’s really nice, and her mom is great. Mrs. Hunter coaches Jill’s soccer team and makes up the recipes and everything for the restaurant. You’ll like her.”

  “As much as Taylor Young?”

  Eva hugs me tighter. “Better.”

  I call Luke an hour later. “Eva’s been invited to a sleepover, so I’m free tonight. Are you still up for going out?”

  His laugh is husky. “Yeah, I’m still up.”

  I flush all over again. “So should I pick you up since I’m in charge of this date?”

  “I’ll pick you up, and actually, I’m in charge of this date. You were in charge last Friday. Tonight’s my turn.”

  “But—”

  “Four-thirty. See you then.” And just like that, he hangs up.

  Luke arrives at four twenty-five on a gorgeous, classic 1960s chopper. I practically run out of the house to get a proper look at it. “You have a bike,” I say accusingly, “and it’s a Freedom.” I crouch next to the engine to take a look.

  He’s smiling as he tugs off his helmet. “You’re a Harley girl, though.”

  I shake my head. If only he knew the real story. Standing up, I circle his bike again. The chrome gleams, and there’s miles of it. The spokes shine. The gas tank is burnt orange surrounded by a diffused yellow line that goes black. The handlebars, ape hangers, are huge, spread so far out that it’s definitely a bike only a big man could ride.

  “Wow,” I keep repeating. “I think I’m in love with your bike.”

  He grins at me and drags a hand through his hair, riffling it on end. “So a ride sounds good?”

  I glance from him back to the bike. It’s a two-seater, unlike my bike, which has one of those small solo seats. “We’ll go to dinner on your bike?”

  “If you’re not scared.”

  I stand tall and whip my hair back over my shoulder. “Those are fighting words, baby.”

  His smile flashes, and he doesn’t look the least bit remorseful. “Damn if I don’t say all the wrong things.”

  “That’s to be expected. You’re a man.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s called tough love.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Yeah.” Impulsively, I lean forward and stroke the bike’s leather seat and then kiss him. “But maybe I’ll be nice tonight. Seeing as you brought my favorite bike.”

  He catches me in his arms for another kiss, and this one is longer, slower, and it makes my insides melt.

  “You really like Freedom Bikes?” he asks a long time later.

  My lower lips quivers. “Love Freedom Bikes,” I breathe, very aware of his big—hard—body against mine. Tonight, I think, let’s take this all the way tonight.

  Luke pushes hair back from my eyes, and I see something in his eyes that nearly undoes me. It’s not exactly sympathy, but it’s definitely a strong emotion. “So why the Harley?”

  The lump in my throat is back, the one that makes it hard to talk or swallow. I really wanted the Freedom account, wanted it more than I’ve wanted anything in a long, long time. But I can’t tell him, can’t talk about it. “It’s cheaper—” I try to laugh it off, sliding from his arms. “I’ll go get my helmet.”

  “And your coat.”

  Seated on the bike, we take the 520 bridge to Seattle and then exit on Mercer and travel past the Space Needle, down toward the water. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky turns red behind the ragged line of the Olympic range beyond Puget Sound.

  We travel along the waterfront, passing the Edgewater Hotel, the trolley line, the fishing and cruise ship piers, and then the aquarium.

  Luke takes a right, turning into Pier 52/Coleman Dock, which is the entrance for the ferry to Bainbridge Island. Motorcycles board before cars, and we’re allowed to bypass the long line of cars to go to the front
to join the other bikes.

  After parking the bike, Luke takes my hand and we walk into the ferry terminal to buy a pass for the five-thirty ferry to Bainbridge.

  “You’ve got this all planned out,” I say as we buy cups of coffee to sip while we wait for the half hour to pass.

  “I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you mean.”

  The way he smiles down into my eyes, I think he does know what he’s doing, and that’s both exciting and nerve-racking.

  On the half-hour ride across to Bainbridge, the sky turns shades of red and orange and purple, and we stand at the front of the ferry, the wind buffeting us, and laugh with the cold.

  “Everybody else is inside,” I cry out, trying to hold my wild hair in one hand while wiping my cold, stinging nose with the other.

  “They’re bigger chickens than you are.”

  Luke stands behind me, his body not quite touching mine, but I feel his warmth and it is wonderfully distracting.

  Being with Luke like this feels right. We just click, and I can’t even explain how or why, but it seems as if I’ve known him forever. I feel free, young, happy, and while I hadn’t thought I was unhappy before, I can see now I’ve been lonely.

  “This is fun,” I say, the wind catching my words and spiraling them away.

  “It is,” he agrees. “Bainbridge is one of my favorite places.”

  “You do this often?”

  “It’s easy to get to, especially when you walk on, or take your bike on, the ferry.”

  Despite growing up in Seattle, I’ve been to Bainbridge only one other time, and that was so long ago that I’d forgotten the shape of the island and the way the shingle and clapboard houses cling to the inlets and coves. It’s very New England, very New Hampshire, and I lean on the rail to get a better look.