“Might be dinner for one.”
“Is that weird for you, given you used to have a full house, and now there’s just you and Prim?”
“I’ve had years to get used to it. You all snuck off in increments. Except Whit, of course.”
Whit won a prestigious scholarship to a college in Florida when I was quite young.
“But that’s life. And I get to see you all often enough. Well, some of you a little less than others,” she adds a touch pointedly.
I chuckle. I knew she’d get around to it.
“You and Raif should come to dinner. Daisy, too. Save me from a lonely widow’s existence.”
“Ha! You’ve got a better social life than I have.” She uses Whit’s fancy club membership like it’s her own. Badminton, Pilates, and a swim most mornings in their lush pool. Mahjong afternoons and evenings out with the “girls.”
“Yes, but to eat alone…” Though her words sound sad, amusement lurks in the shape of her mouth.
“Which means you get to eat all the cheese and do none of the dishes?”
“Yes! Quince paste, grapes, and those fancy crackers that Whit brings from France. And gin,” she adds with a fervent gleam.
“Mum,” I admonish playfully.
“Gin is good for you.”
“That’s so not true.”
“Of course it is. A lady of my age needs all theginshe can get. Colla-gin, estro-gin…”
“Hilarious,” I deadpan.
“Call me about dinner?”
“I’ll see when Raif is free. Enjoy your evening of mother’s ruin.”
“Oh, I was ruined a long time ago.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me. I know you’ve got a hundred kids.”
“Just seven wonderful ones,” she says, touching my cheek. “No need to ask Raif on my behalf. He gave me his number. I’ll ask him myself.”
“Outmaneuvered by the golden oldies,” I mutter without thinking.
“I’m sure your husband would justloveto hear you lump him in with me, your decrepit mother.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I just meant he’s a proper grown-up. “And you’re not old, so stop fishing for compliments.”
“I get them where I can,” she says, sliding her arms around me and pulling me in for a Penhaligon’s Chasing Constance-perfumed hug.
“I’ll get you all paint-y,” I protest, not that she lets go.
“I’ll take my chances, my little hedgehog.”
I frown and smile at the same time. It’s been years since she called me that.
“When an older woman starts seeing a younger man,” she begins carefully, righting the sagging neck of my old T-shirt, “she’s called a cougar.”
“Mum,” I say with a moan. “This is a line, right here,” I add, karate-chopping my hand through the air. “I do not want to hear you’ve been shagging full stop, let alone someone young enough to be my brother.”
