More words hung between us, needing to be said, but she didn’t offer them, so I ignored them, too. The weekend lay before us, maybe one of the last ones we’d have together. If Mom insisted on splurging, I should let her—no, I would let her, so we’d both have the memory to cherish. I poured water while she finished setting the table, and we sat down to the home-cooked meal I loved so much.
We filled our plates, and the first bite sent me straight to my happy place. “It’s always so good.” I moaned. “I don’t know how you do that.”
She chuckled. “Years of experience. And patience. You can’t overcook the chicken during the searing and the simmering.”
I rolled my eyes because that’s often what I did, and we both knew it. She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness mixed in. “I tripled the batch, so there are a few containers in the freezer.”
I managed to swallow the bite in my mouth, but I couldn’t take another. Those words, the reminder, roiled my stomach. Setting my fork down, I offered her a smile and asked about her day. She, too, pretended everything was fine as she filled me in on her trip to the grocery store and her talk with Mrs. Chao, our next-door neighbor, who’d been old when my parents brought me to the house twenty years ago.
“I’ve got the dishes,” I said when Mom made a move to rise, reaching for my plate. I shooed her. “No, no, I insist. You made this delightful meal.” We both ignored the fact that more than half of mine was still on the plate. “So I’ll clean up. Why don’t you pick out a movie?”
Mom agreed and headed to the living room. Once I heard the TV click on, I bowed my head and breathed, trying to gather my shredded composure. If I let grief grip me now, these last memories would be tainted, and I’d have to contend with that guilt. Blowing out a breath, I refocused on my desire for positive interaction.
I’d finished putting away the leftovers when the doorbell rang. I rinsed the suds from the pan in my hand and laid it on the drying rack before grabbing a dishtowel and heading toward the living room, where Mom had just closed the front door.
She turned to me, mild shock in her gaze. “You just received a gift card for the fancy spa we’re going to tomorrow—the one with the wine bar. Apparently, we both have a full day of treatments booked. How did you manage that while you were in the kitchen?”
I shook my head, mystified. “I didn’t.”
“Zaila.” Mom used her no-nonsense tone.
“I didn’t…” I trailed off as I noted the elegant scrawl on the envelope. “Gunnar.”
“What? Who?”
Mom’s confusion was understandable. I tugged the card from her hand and read the note he’d written. How he’d had time to write a note and book full-service spa treatments in the last couple of hours was beyond me, leaving me as mystified as my mother.
I hope you and your mom can enjoy some relaxation together. Consider it my apology for being an ass. You deserve the very best in life.
-G
Mom raised on her tiptoes so she could read over my shoulder. I felt her puff of breath as she exhaled a soft oohh.
Lowering my arm, I tried to ignore the warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest, but I couldn’t. Gunnar apologizing, Gunnar taking the time to do something so kind for me… I’d fantasized about such things, though I’d never expected them to happen.
“And who is Gunnar?” Mom asked, coming around to face me. Her eyebrows were up, her lips curled in the faintest smile, one I mirrored because… How could I not? Gunnar Evaldson had just given me the best gift, and he’d included my mother.
“Gunnar’s the Wildcatters’ owner.”
Mom’s eyebrows shot up so high and with such speed that I giggled, imagining them flying off her face altogether.
“I’m going to need more than that,” she said. “And you know what? I think I need wine and popcorn—the chocolate kind—for this conversation.”
I opened a bottle of Mom’s favorite chardonnay as she poured popcorn into a bowl, all while I told her about meeting Gunnar at the hockey fundraiser just before I’d started my internship and our subsequent interactions. We went back to the couch as I explained how Gunnar had been my partner for the scavenger hunt at the retreat and his good humor throughout the day.
“Nothing fazed him, Mom—not the kid covering him with frosting or the rainstorm. It’s not that he doesn’t care or thinks he knows all the answers… It’s more that he just doesn’t let the problem overwhelm him. He knows he’ll resolve the issue. He’s dogged like that—not giving up.”
Mom’s eyes never left my face, not as she ate the treat or sipped her wine. When I finally stopped talking, she smiled at me, her big, bright one I’d always loved most. “You like him.”
“I do. He’s a great leader?—”
“You like him, Zaila. You want something romantic with him, and based on his present, he wants that, too.”
I scowled down into my wine glass. “Sometimes I think so, but then he pulls away. He keeps bringing up our age difference.”
“Does it bother you?” Mom asked. She set aside her wine so that she could pull a pillow into her lap and hug it.
I shook my head. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and the age discrepancy doesn’t bother me.”
