“Of course you can, sweet girl.” I run a hand through her damp, tangled curls.
“Yes,” Anna Carol says. It comes out in a soft hiss, and she clenches her tiny fists in either ecstasy or victory. Maybe both.
“Can I have a hug as a payment?”
“Yes.” She nods once matter-of-factly, as if that is a fair trade. Then she steps down from the counter and flings herself at me. I give her a tight squeeze before she pulls free and runs to my room to get the tiara.
“Sugar, what happened to you?” Mom has finished washing the cookie bowl and is now wiping it down with a dry cloth. The comment—and the rapid cleaning—aremuchmore in line with her personality than licking batter. “Go change fast. I need to talk to you about something.” I start to answer, but she continues before I can. “Cooper and his girlfriend are almost here.”
“His girlfriend?” I pause. I didn’t know any extra guests were joining us. The Fourth celebrations are usually family only.
“Cooper didn’t tell you yet? Yes, they’re actually quite serious, you know. She’ll be staying in the other twin bed in your room.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound petulant. “Is she… staying the whole week?” Sharing a room with a stranger was not on my list of things to look forward to when coming home.
“I assume so,” Mom says. “And sorry, but it’s the only option. The kids are sleeping in the sewing room,” she continues, “and I certainly wasn’t going to have her share with Cooper.”
“Okay,” I relent. While other parents might find it normal to allow their adult son to room with his adult girlfriend, mine are strictly old-fashioned. Separate rooms until marriage is a Bennet house rule.
“Oh, I’ve got to find a vase for these.” She looks over at the flowers I placed on the counter. There’s a manic-ness to her that’s more noticeable than usual.
“I’ll find a vase, Mom,” I say, but she keeps buzzing around the kitchen, refilling the paper-towel roll, lifting the salt and pepper shakers to wipe the counter beneath them. “Mom,” I repeat.
She pauses her frenetic cleaning and presses a cool hand to my cheek. “Oh, Nikki, I’m sorry. I’m so happy you’re home. I just want everything to be perfect when Cooper gets here.” She finally notices the jar of honey on the counter beside a bowl filled with cherrytomatoes. I’d been right. There were already two other bowls brimming with tomatoes on the kitchen island. “Oh, my favorite. You shouldn’t have.” She gets a misty look in her eyes. “You know, I’ve always regretted that we never had bees.”
Okay.I hadn’t expected bees to elicit this level of emotion from my mom. It’s also, frankly, very out of character. She normally keeps her emotions tightly wrapped up, and I’ve learned to do the same. To see her leaking around the edges like this is unnerving.
I grab a vase from the cabinet behind me. “There’s still time, Mom. To live out all your apiary fantasies. And Cooper didn’t change his sheets his entire freshman year. I don’t think his expectations are hard to meet.”
“Yes, but he’s bringing c—” She stumbles over the word. “Company.”
“Right. You mentioned that.”
Mom takes a moment to fluff up the flowers, and by the time she turns back around, her normal poise is in place. “And these are lovely. You have a gift for arranging.” The delight I always feel at pleasing my mom courses through me.
Then she looks back up at my outfit—and its massive oil stain. Before she can comment on it again, I say, “I’ll go change. Then I can come help you with the rest of cleanup.”
Though looking around, it’s not clear to me what needs to be cleaned. The counters are spotless, the copper pots that hang behind the stove are gleaming. I peer through the doorway across the foyer to the family room and can see that it looks especially tidy too. The books arranged on the coffee table are at their required ninety-degree angles, and the faded Laura Ashley armchairs are angled toward the fireplace just so.
My mom is quintessentially Southern. She never leaves home without her hair done, her nails painted, and her lipstick on. She hasfinally, at age sixty-five, begun to loosen her stance on pantyhose at church. My whole life, all I aspired to be was her Mini-Me.
When I was eleven, she started signing me up for pageants. She drove me to every single one, spent time for weeks ahead prepping my performances, and choreographing my routines, and tailoring my costumes. Linney, who’s seven years older than me, had zero desire. She was more interested in running soccer drills in the backyard with Pete. So it was just me and Mom spending our weekends together—long car rides to neighboring counties, hours spent in dressing rooms. She was always my biggest cheerleader—and also my toughest critic.
As if on cue, she glances up from the vase of flowers and says, “You’re going to fix your hair too, right?”
Back outside, I pop open the trunk of the Jeep to grab my bags. I’m rolling them through the kitchen as I hear Cooper’s beat-up old Bronco pull into the driveway.
I’m standing in the foyer, about to duck into the powder room to change my top, when I’m grabbed from behind, right at the ticklish part of my waist.
“Cooper!” I shriek, wriggling out of his grasp.
When I turn around, he’s standing with arms wide for a hug, but then makes a big show of pulling back away from me. “Did the Creature from the Black Lagoon throw up on you?”
“Ha ha.”
The door creaks open, then slams with a familiar thwack. Cooper and I turn to see Pete and Linney making their way inside, and for a second, it’s like old times. Like we’ve just made teams for badminton or capture the flag. Me and Cooper on one side, Pete and Linney on the other. Sometimes it was boys against girls, but more often than not, it was the two of us against the twins. The fact thatthey were seven years older than me and ten years older than Cooper never seemed to factor in.
We head into the family room, my clothing change forgotten. Linney and Pete claim the floral armchairs while Cooper and I flop down on the L-shaped couch, sinking into the soft, worn cushions.
