Page 25 of This is a Kissing Book

With a sweet smile, she says, “You’ve turned into a fine young man. Your mother would be so proud.”

That twists the little acorn of grief inside that I fear will never go away. “Did you know her?”

The woman’s grin shifts into one of apology on my behalf. “I’m Nancy Dowds. Your mother and I met in junior college. She was still Mary Sullivan back then. We were both broke, so we’d share lunch. Kept us trim.” She pats her ample belly and smiles. “Times have changed.”

This woman’s identity still isn’t ringing a bell, but my mother made best friends every time she went to the grocery store, so it’s no surprise that she’d know long-term Meridian employees. However, we’re not advertising that I’m the chief executive officer’s son, so I hope she doesn’t call it out.

The door to the office is cracked open and more than likely, Juliana is already at her desk. I sniff the air and detect her telltale cherry blossom and almond scent. Then again, it somehow fills the office even when she’s not here.

Nancy goes on to tell me about the time Mom brought everyone little chocolate acorn treats. She bounces as if she can still taste them.

I’d help make the little peanut butter cookie balls, shape them like an acorn, dip them in chocolate, then add another chocolate “cap,” and roll them in chopped peanuts, topped with a little pretzel stick stem.

“Acorns were her thing,” I mumble.

Nancy shakes her head with regret. “It goes without saying, but I’m sorry for your loss. You were so young. She was, too. It’s a shame.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That means a lot.” And I mean it sincerely. I gobble up whatever stories about my mother I can, like cookie crumbs.

She gazes upward slightly and adds, “And your father was never the same.”

She’s got that right, but it’s time for this conversation to be over.

Instead, she launches into another tale about how, when I’d visit the office with my mom, I’d wear a little suit to match my dad. “I bet he’s proud to have you here, preparing to take over the Meridian empire.”

And that’s the nail in the coffin.

Ending the conversation as gracefully as I can, I say, “I’m not too sure about that. But thanks for remembering my mother. I hope you have a good day and a great weekend.”

Placing a pudgy hand on my arm, she gives it a tap and then totters down the hall.

Taking a lungful of air, I smooth my tie and enter the office, complete with a coffee for my assistant because I’m … trying not to be a total jerk and make up for what she thought was an insult last week. It’s just not in me to be so mean. At least, off the ice.

12

LINC

As I enter the office, instead of welcoming me with a “good morning,”—not that I ever greet Juliana that way—Juliana says, “So it was true. You’re Andresen’s son.”

I hold out the paper coffee cup.

Her lips drop with a frown. “This isn’t Medieval times. I’m not your cupbearer. Nowhere in my job description does it say I have to test your coffee to make sure it’s not poisoned. Believe it or not, there are people in this world who love me and don’t want me dead.”

I blink a few times, mouth agape. The comment was delivered so dryly, I can’t tell if she’s joking. “It’s coffee for you.”

Her head bobs slightly. “Oh. Well, thank you.”

She reluctantly takes it and curls her fingers in such a way that they don’t come into contact with mine. Peering up at me, she asks, “Did you tamper with it?”

“What? Why would I?”

“You’re under oath, sir.”

A ghost of a smile floats onto my lips. “No, Goolia. I did not.”

She flashes me a playful, sassy look. “If I die, the blood is on your hands.”

“For the record, someone who’d do something like that probably wouldn’t admit it.”