“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, bless your heart, Parker Ford. You don’t know me at all.”
His smile faded into a more contemplative expression. “No, I don’t.”
I could feel an unspokenbut I would like to, and it warmed me from the inside out. I wanted to know more about this easygoing widower,especially now that I’d had a glimpse of some depth beneath those still waters.
“Vivian, do you think ...?”
I waited for the rest of his question, but he shook it off. Instead, he brushed back a tendril of hair that had escaped from my ponytail, his knuckles grazing my cheek.
“Well, I really had better go.” I jumped up, ignoring the soreness of my legs.
He lightly clasped my hand to keep me from going. I looked down to where our hands met even as electricity ran up my arm. He let my hand go with a mumbled, “Sorry about that.”
Was he blushing? Had instinct caused him to grab my hand because he didn’t want me to go? Even while my husband couldn’t get rid of me soon enough?
Once again confusion mixed with attraction. Was I attracted to Parker the man or the idea of being wanted? On a scale of peccadillo to unforgivable, where did I rank if I wanted to sit in this bower with him forever and tell him all the country sayings I’d picked up from my grandmother?
“Don’t be sorry.” My lips had apparently decided we were in peccadillo territory, but when Parker looked up, his eyes held grim resolution.
“Mind if I walk you back?”
“Not at all.” Walking would give me a chance to think about his blush. Had he been embarrassed about grabbing me, or had he felt the same tingles? Was this divorce driving me out of my mind, or was it perimenopause? Perhaps the answer to the last question was a simple yes.
We made small talk all the way down Oregon Trail and relaxed back into our neighborly relations of before.
When I saw the driveway, I had reason to be excited: Dylan’s trusty Altima was parked behind Mom’s Lexus.
After saying goodbye to Parker, I picked up my pace and walked into the house to my mother saying, “Grandson of mine, it’s high time you learned how to wash your own clothes.”
I watched, stunned, as she led him to the laundry room and explained the mysteries of separating lights from darks and warned of the folly of ever buying “hand wash only.”
“Oh, hey, Mom,” he said as they returned from the laundry room.
“Hey, Buddy Bear,” I said, opening my arms.
He not only hugged me but also picked me up and spun me around.
“Put me down before you hurt your back!”
“Mom, you’re notthatheavy.”
“I’m heavy enough, and your back will thank you when you’re forty.”
He put me down but booped my nose on his way out the door. “Gotta get my bag if I’m gonna wash these clothes.”
Mom stood in the dining room with her arms crossed, entirely too satisfied with herself.
“You think I should’ve already taught him how to do laundry, don’t you.”
“Sure,” she said. “But I know why you didn’t.”
Something about her tone of voice irritated me. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
“Because you like to feel needed,” she said.
A jolt of realization hit me: she was right. But so what if I did my son’s laundry? It felt good to be needed. And maybe I would’ve liked it if she’d done my laundry every once in a while. Realistically, I knew she’d been working to put a roof over our heads and that laundry was the least I could do, but—
