“I love you, too, Mom Elf.” I took a long sip of coffee, then added more cream.
“But since we’re chatting, how is Logan, honey?”
I felt the clench in my gut. “Logan’s doing well. It seems like his business is very successful.”
“It is. He’s involved in many projects in town.” Her eyes grew contemplative. “He’s a good man. Perhaps that’s why I gave you a little push.”
“I know he’s a good man. And I understand exactly why you gave me the push.”
“Sometimes there are Christmas miracles.”
“Not here.”
“Why not? You gotta believe, kid.”
“I believe. I believe that I’m going to take care of my favorite mother, and then I’m going back to Oregon.”
“I believe there will be a Christmas miracle, and you’ll stay in Kalulell.”
“I can’t, and you know it.”
“Still hurts you, doesn’t it?”
“We’ve gone on with our lives.”
“I like to think of your lives as two journeys. And I’m hoping your journeys will jive and jig and groove together soon.” She shimmied her shoulders.
“Mom, I don’t think so.” My voice was weak, sort of hopeless.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I swear that woman can read any emotion I have, even if I try to cover it. “Anytime you want to talk this out, tell your ol’ mother the truth about what happened…”
“Thanks, Mom.” I didn’t deny that I hadn’t told her the truth. I had known what my mother would have done if I had told her the truth: She would have interfered. She would have tried to save me. Save Logan. Save us. I know her. She would have come up swinging like an avenging, sword-wielding love goddess, flames burning bright.
But Logan would still have been in an impossible situation, despite the love goddess. Our relationship would have been impossible, too. Logan’s loss would have been so incredibly painful, he would never have gotten over it. I couldn’t tell her the truth.
Instead, all those years ago, I told her that with Logan leaving for the East Coast, I didn’t think we had a future, but she didn’t buy it, although for most couples, a long-distance separation like that does end relationships, so it was at least somewhat viable. My mother does what she thinks is best, but this time her best would have made everything worse.
We sat, not saying anything as the cats did their thing. Sir Scott purred up at me. Mrs. Books spun in a circle until she found the best position on my lap, then settled in and snored.
As Mom and I discussed my to-do list, the Christmas tree lights blinked on and off. I’d made cinnamon toast, which tasted delicious, and a vanilla candle burned on the kitchen countertop. So peaceful. Completely opposite from the bar.
“Tell me you’ve been showing some of the more difficult customers your brass balls,” my mother said, petting Petunia. “Tell me that you’ve swung your womanhood around like a warrior. Tell me that you’ve delivered drinks with panache and flair, maybe a little dance.”
I laughed because my mother will often fill up a huge tray with drinks and then dance and shimmy her way over to a customers’ table until the whole bar is watching her. She spins and twirls, her hips swaying to specific songs that are blasted over the speakers. Everyone knows the words to the songs, and her outfit glitters or shines, fringe flying.
By the time she gets to the cheering table, the whole bar is singing along and calling out, “Lady Whiskey! Lady Whiskey!” All the drinks go to the right people, which is amazing, as we line tables up that can hold twenty people. Yes, her memory is that perfect. She doesn’t spill a drop of any drink, and she’s famous for her rhythmic skills while holding a tray. She’s also famous for her singing skills (booming, boisterous), dancing skills (on beat, enthusiastic), and the way she welcomes everyone as if royalty just walked in.
I told her about the excitement at the bar, where I was in terms of organizing the T and A show, and our usual customers and their antics and foibles.
“I know you danced on the bar for Susan’s seventieth. Two nieces and one nephew told me. They said you were daring and cool. You have rhythm, Bellini. I see it when you reach deep inside your musical self and yank it out.”
“I like to leave my rhythm where it belongs.” Sir Scott, scared by a string of tinsel on the tree, jumped backward, and I laughed. Tinsel can be scary!
“You know you can shake it, baby! I’ve seen it! Shake it and be proud of it!” She put her fists in the air and shook them. “For me, Lady Whiskey’s is wrapped up in who I am,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and reflective. “What I am. What I created. It’s a business I built from the ground up for myself, so I would have financial security, and so would you. We have a home and land because of the bar. You graduated from college.”
I felt a mountain of guilt on my shoulders. I didn’t want to run the bar permanently, full time. I loved writing my Roxy Belle books, but the bar was so important to my mom. Should I stay and run the bar? Make my mom retire? She looked so much better now that she wasn’t working six days a week, even after her operation. Should I stop writing my books? The thought made me feel an overwhelming dark gloom, but there was no way I could write and illustrate my books and run the bar. It wasn’t even working now. But my mother had given me so much. She was my best friend, too. Did I owe it to her to take over? I didn’t know what to do.
There was another issue, too, and an important one. “Lady Whiskey’s provides livelihoods for so many people, too.”
