“Ofcourse,I’lldo it.”Pollysighs, her voice softer. “Sitdown,Mom.Ican see you holding on to the counter.Pleasesit down.”
Gloriadid look like it was an effort for her to get around when she ushered me into the kitchen earlier.
“Heseemed nice, though,” saysGloriain a hushed and disappointed tone.
Mothersalways love me.Notwomen’s mothers—Isure as hell never get as far as meeting them.Imean friends’ moms, the ones who always gave me an extra helping at dinner and told their sons they should study as hard as me.
Pollymakes ahmphnoise. “I’mnot sure.Maybe.”
Wow, high praise indeed from someone who seems to loathe my existence.Istrain to hear asGlorialowers her voice. “Andhe’s very handsome.Nicechest.”
Silence.
Polly’sprobably pulling a face.
Imake deliberately heavy footsteps on the stairs.
“Anyway,”Pollysays louder, like her mother hasn’t just been discussing my naked torso. “Thisis rinsed.I’lltoss it in the dryer.”
AsIwalk through the kitchen doorway she steps back, my wet shirt in her hands, and looks me up and down.Shesucks in her lips for a second to stop herself from laughing. “Veryfetching.”
Ipull the bathrobe around me as tight asIcan. “Yes, thank you.Imust find out where to source the fabric and let my tailor know.”
“Comein, sit down.”Gloriabeckons me from the kitchen table. “It’lltake your shirt about twenty-five minutes to dry.”
“Hopefullytwenty ifIswitch it up to high,”Pollycalls from the other side of the wall, as if getting rid of me five minutes sooner means a lot to her.
Isize up the chairs at the table and wonder howI’mgoing to sit down without a bathrobe fallout incident.
“Pollywill make you some tea.AndIhave your trousers drying by the heater.”Gloriapoints to my pants hanging over the back of a chair. “IfI’dtried to rinse the mud out of that wool fabric, it would have made it worse.Bestto dry them out, thenIcan brush it off.Andyou can send them to a dry cleaner when you get home.”
Iclutch the robe to my stomach, pull out a chair, and wonder ifI’mbrave enough to give it a go. “It’skind of you to help me out.Andwas that your soap in the shower?Pollytold me you make some.It’samazing.Wasit cinnamon?”
Gloriasmiles and her cheeks pinken as she dismisses the compliment with a wave of her hand. “Youhave a good nose.IgotPollyto put a fresh bar there for you specially.Thoughtit would be more masculine than the lavender one we’re using.”
Igingerly bend my knees, push the bathrobe between my legs, and carefully lower myself into the chair, thankfully without incident.
Pollyreappears, the sound of the dryer rumbling behind her.
Ituck my legs under the table.
“Right,” she says, as if on a mission. “Ifyou’re stuck here for a while,I’llmake tea to kill the time.”Itlooks like it’s an effort for her to keep her eyes on my face and not let them stray to the debacle taking place from my neck down. “Preferences?”
“Whateveryou have most of,”Itell her.
Gloriatugs at the sleeve of the bathrobe. “Sorryabout this.IfonlyI’dkept some ofMarty’sthings, you’d have been much more comfortable.”
“WasMartyyour husband?Pollymentioned he passed away.”
Gloriaplays with the edge of a placemat on the table.
Iglance up to findPolly’sface has turned hard.
“Yes,Martywas my dad,” she snips. “Picka tea.”
Idon’t know the first thing about tea, don’t even like tea.Ihave coffee at work, made byCharlotte.
“Polly.”Gloriafrowns. “Ididn’t raise you to have manners like that.”Shepats my arm. “Irecommend the ginger, tangerine, and pink peppercorn.Pollymakes it.”
