He opens his car door. “Duly noted.”
I step from the car and study the house in the light of a rapidly setting sun. It’s cozy, made of stucco, with a wall of Bougainvillea growing on trellises. In the center of the yard stands a lemon tree, its trunk painted white.
I gesture at the tree as Klein rounds the front of his car and steps up beside me on the sidewalk. “Did you use the lemons from that tree to make lemonade when you were a kid?”
“I cut them in half and sprinkled sugar on the inside, then squeezed it right into my mouth.” He smiles at the memory.
“Savage.”
“Pretty much. There are three orange trees growing in the backyard.” He glances at my neck when he says this, and I raise a hand, palming it self-consciously. There goes that odd feeling of uncoiling in my stomach, and this time, in my chest.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do this.”
Klein uses a key to open the front door, shouting, “Mom, we’re here,” as we enter the foyer.
“Kitchen,” she hollers.
Klein leads me through the small house, past a living room with a typical couch and coffee table set up, and a fireplace with an outdated façade. The smell of garlic and onion grows stronger as we go, and then we reach the kitchen. The cabinets are painted the prettiest shade of cerulean blue, with ivory handles. Klein’s mother, standing at the stove, gives something in a large pot a final stir, then turns around.
Her smile is ready, and the first word I think of when I see her is ‘warm.’ It’s followed closely by the word ‘happy,’ as she looks at her son, then at me.
“Paisley, like the pattern,” she says brightly, coming forward. Her hair is darker than Klein’s, closer to auburn.
I laugh. “Exactly.”
I extend a hand, startling when she wraps me in a hug. My limbs melt and I relax into it. I love my mother deeply, but her affection has never been this demonstrative.
Klein’s mom pulls back, her eyes twinkling. “I’m Rosemary.”
“Klein has your eyes,” I say, staring into the deep green, shot through with amber.
She winks at her son. “He sure does. But I refuse to take any responsibility for his grumpiness.”
“Hah,” I laugh.
Rosemary gestures to a four-person table on the opposite side of the room. “Sit,” she says. “Klein, pour your fake girlfriend a glass of wine.”
Her frankness takes me off guard, but the teasing grin on her face tells me she’s being sassy. With a grateful nod I accept the glass of red wine Klein sets in front of me. “Rosemary, I take it you’re ok with the plan we’ve hatched?”
“I was taken aback when I first heard about it, but then Klein’s sister told me about your sister’s choice of groom, and after that”—Rosemary shrugs—“I’d say it’s a fair deal.” She stirs whatever is in the pot on the stovetop one more time, then pours herself a glass of wine and joins me at the table. “Plus, Klein’s never been to the East Coast, or an island for that matter. Should make for an interesting story.”
“I think he’ll love it there.” I glance at Klein, gauging his reaction to our conversation. He has taken a beer from the fridge, and he settles himself in the third chair at the table, twisting off the top and taking a long pull.
“What’s not to love about alligators and golf carts?” he asks, swallowing.
I smirk. “You’ve done your research.”
“Plenty more research to do.” He points his bottle at me. “Pertaining to you.”
I sip my wine. “Tonight’s research is about you,” I remind him.
Rosemary claps her hands excitedly. “How in-depth isthis research supposed to go? Do I get to break out the embarrassing baby photos?”
“No,” Klein says.
“Yes,” I counter.
