“Oat milk!” she says to me, aghast, clutching a gray hand towel to her heart.
“It’s really good. And better for the environment,” I say, my mind wandering to Leo’s menu and wondering how we could incorporate a greener footprint into the proposal.
“George has an electric bike.” This is my mother’s comeback to any hint that she could change her boomer ways.
“Speaking of bikes, I fell into a nettle bush the other day,” I say.
“Well. That’s never fun.”
“I was thinking about what you used to say. Time and bravery,” I say.
“Oh!” she says, raising her hand to her chest. “I loved your little brave face, Olive. Your lips all screwed up and a big line between your brows.” She tuts and then sighs at the sweet memory. “It’s a terrible thing to say, but the upside to any of your daily bonks and beestings was always that I got to see that little determined face. Determined to be brave.”
“Sadist,” I tease, and Mum chuckles, smoothing a facecloth before rolling it and placing it in a little basket.
“I’ve been thinking about Nicky’s, Mum.”
There is a small, barely perceptible gasp.
“Yes?” she says, stiffly.
“The chef, Leo, he’s given me a proposal for what he would have done with the place, and... it’s kind of upended me a little.” I stand up and pace back and forth in the room.
“I see,” she says, sighing.
“What do you think?” I ask, chewing on the side of my thumbnail,sending prayers to the heavens that I’m not upsetting her.
“What. Do. I. Think,” she says, repeating the words slowly to herself.
“Yes,” I say.
There is another long pause.
“Are you seriously considering it?” she says.
“Notseriously,” I lie.
The silence on Mum’s end of the phone tells me she’s thinking about her next words very carefully. I watch her as she nods slowly to herself.
“It’s not completely crazy,” she says. “You’d be good at it.Myproblems with Nicky’s largely came from your father. You know the story, Olive. It was his way or the highway.”
“But if it was differently set up...,” I begin.
“If you remove the small matter of the chef being such a blinkered creative tour de force? Or Pol Pots and Pans, as I used to call him.” She pauses to consider her next words. “Then running a restaurant is rewarding.Veryhard work, mind,” she adds with serious warning.
I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom, and I lower my voice.
“I know, I know,” I whisper quickly.
“This is a big decision, Olive. You need to talk to creditors, to the bank, to the estate attorney. You need good suppliers. Preferably not friends like your father had. Someone who understands how to set up a menu,” she says.
“Like I said. I’m not seriously considering it.”
Another pregnant pause. Mum can usually tell when I’m lying, but I hope like hell she can’t right now.
“Anyway, it’s too big of a project for me,” I say, trying to laugh.
“I hopethatisn’t what’s stopping you.”
