“She’s self-absorbed.”
“How are her muffins?” asked the chef.
“They’re fine.”
“As good as Mom’s?”
“No.” Hex sauntered over, so I scratched his scruff lightly enough to make him purr. I didn’t want to think of Mom again. But then I thought of Liam’s phone. “Does she call you?”
“Mom? She did when I first left. I was in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, so she could actually hear the noise of it. I told her I’d be traveling up the East Coast. I said it was a research trip. I said I had to broaden my perspective on food.”
“Sounds lofty.”
“It’s true,” he defended himself. “Culinary artists can’t live in a vacuum.”
“I believe you, Liam.”
“Please do,” he said, momentarily appeased. “Anyway, I told her I needed to see different restaurants before I found a place to live—not technically a lie, just the omission of a couple of details.”
“Like Edward.”
“You didn’t want me leading her here, did you?”
“She’ll worry until she knows you have a job.”
“You’d think. But the calls have slowed down. We haven’t talked since before I got to Devon.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Not particularly,” he said and yawned. “Margaret McGowan Reid can take care of herself just fine.”
I might have argued that my mother valued family, having always professed to wantingfivechildren before age and miscarriage got in the way. I might have argued that she had grown her career to take the place of the children she had lost, that she had lost my father and now Liam. And me before that.
But she knew where I lived, I reasoned, letting my open palm absorb the vibration of Hex’s purr as a palliative to upset. My return address was clearly displayed on the cards I had sent. More than once, I had considered adding my new cell number, very small and unobtrusive, maybe on the back of the card along with the artist’s information—the cards I sent were originals, usually done by someone I knew—so that if she was interested she could call. But I always decided against it. I hadn’t wanted to wait for a call that might not come.
Not wanting to fall further into the quicksand of all that, I said, “Okay, then, if it isn’t Mom calling, and I assume it wasn’t Lizzie, because I saw that dumb smile on your face—”
“Dumbsmile?”
“Bored to death but not knowing how to get rid of her. You wouldn’t give her your number.”
“Hell no.”
“Who then?”
He was suddenly sheepish. “I did give it to Erica Kahn. Do you know her?”
I tried to place her, coming up only with a sweet thing who had been in Devon for no more than a year or two. “Personal trainer at the sports center?”
“Yes.Amazingbody.”
“And a nice person, I hear.” My eyes touched his phone. “So why didn’t you answer?”
“Because that wasn’t her. It was someone I used to know.”
His guilty look said more. “Used to date?”
“It totally ended when I left,” he swore, defensive again, “and it was mutual. I don’t know why she keeps calling.”
