2
My phone rang the moment I pulled into the driveway. I glanced at the screen and cringed. As I expected, it was my mother. The grapevine in Farley moved faster than the speed of sound.
My mama, Colette McClane, was soft-spoken and sweet, a true Southern lady. But she carried a steel spine beneath that gentle exterior. And she could rip you to shreds without raising her voice or even using cruel words. Instead, she would tell you how disappointed she was in your choices. And that there were always consequences to your actions. Sometimes, she even cried. It was torture. She balanced that power with a dry sense of humor and the ability to not take herself too seriously. Which meant she was an awesome mom. Most of the time. Lately, however, she'd gotten it in her head that I needed to find a man. A good man. Someone intelligent, at least moderately successful, and preferably not living with his mother.
I was beginning to think that was a tall order since all the men I met seemed to be lacking in one way or another. Then again, I hadn't met someone new in nearly two years. Which meant my mother was also convinced I was a workaholic and despaired her chances to have grandchildren to spoil before she was "too old to enjoy them."
Forget the fact that I had an older brother who could also provide those grandchildren. I was pretty sure Mom had given up all hope after his last stunt. She'd been complaining to him about how all her friends had grandbabies and she didn't so the next time he came home, he brought a woman named Clea. She was adorable and sweet but dumber than a box of rocks. He only brought her the once but when Mom started in on him again the next time he came over to Sunday lunch, he told her that Clea would be the mother of his children. Mom never brought it up with him again.
Hence the reason I was the only one who got the guilt trip about not having kids yet.
With a sigh, I picked up my phone. It was better to answer now than let her marinate in whatever she had to say.
"Hey, Mama," I answered as I shut off my car and climbed out.
"Hi, Cameron. How are you doing today?"
"Good. Great. Just running home to get Sierra settled before the shop opens."
"Oh, Sierra's here. That's wonderful. I hope you'll bring her by the house for lunch after church on Sunday."
Lunch on Sunday was a family tradition. My brother got out of it most of the time because he was rarely in town, but I was expected to show my face each and every Sunday or deal with Mom's verbal expressions of disappointment. And even at the age of twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight, I didn't want to face my mother's lectures when she was disappointed.
It didn't matter that I no longer went to church with them on a weekly basis since Sunday was usually a workday for me. It didn't matter that I was a grown woman who might have plans of her own. I was expected to arrive promptly at a quarter to one and stay until two-thirty, which gave me a half-hour to get to the store and open up. Sunday afternoons were a busy time for me. Texas stayed warm or even tortuously hot at least eight, sometimes nine, months out of the year, and my ice cream shop had quickly become the place to see and be seen by churchgoers, teenagers, and singles alike on Sunday afternoons.
"Of course, Mom. You know Sierra always loves to come to Sunday lunch with me."
Sierra appeared beside me, her eyes wide. While she loved my parents, she didn't love that my mama also tended to mother her the way she did her own children. In the McClane house, if you were close to one of Colette's children, you became one of her own. This meant she wanted to know what you were doing with your life and what your goals were. And if you didn't have any, she wanted to know why. My mother wasn't necessarily strict. She was...involved, intensely so. Sierra's mom and dad had a much more relaxed parenting style. In fact, they seemed to forget they were parents at all. My friend had never been grounded in high school, even when she pulled crazy stunts. Probably because her parents were never at home.
As a result, Sierra didn't know how to handle all the maternal nurturing and questioning she received when she visited.
She must have caught the tail end of my conversation because she started shaking her head vehemently, her vibrant red hair flying in all directions.
You owe me, I mouthed.
She scowled at me and crossed her arms over her chest. The act was mostly for show and one that she perpetuated every time we visited my parents, but I knew she secretly loved it.
"Oh, and dear?" my mother said.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Would Sierra be the reason that Natalie Phelps called me a few minutes ago and asked me when you came out as a lesbian? For some reason, she was under the impression that you and your girlfriend were having a disagreement outside Crave this afternoon."
I rolled my eyes heavenward and suppressed a sigh. One of the drawbacks of living in a smallish Southern town was that you would see at least one person you knew anytime you left the house. And if you did anything they considered untoward, your parents/husband/sister/cousin would get a phone call asking if something was wrong.
It also didn't help that Natalie Phelps had read in some tabloid that one in ten women were lesbian and she was convinced at least one woman of her acquaintance was in the closet. Natalie was also older than dirt, deaf as a doorknob, and thought the term "politically correct" meant you voted in every election. She didn't understand that you couldn't believe everything you read in magazines and you definitely didn't ask people personal questions about their sexual orientation, age, or weight.
"Mom," I said.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment then I heard my mother snort. She was laughing at me. Great.
"What did you tell her?" I asked.
"Well now, honey, you know that I just want you to be happy and that I will support you no matter who you love. I told Natty the same thing."
"Mom!"
My mother cracked up, her laughter ringing through the line. "I told her that as far as I knew, you're very happy being a heterosexual spinster."
