“Hello, Mommy,” she mumbles, hopping off the counter and rushing toward me. I kneel before her and let the feel of her small arms around me bring me some much-needed comfort.
She dashes back to her grandmother’s side.
My mom is the worst influence. London should be eating her snack, but instead, she’s been on a junk food and sweets fest diet courtesy of grandma.
“You’re the absolute worst, Sharon,” I complain, and she waves me off.
“Some wine?” she asks as she hops off the stool. My mother will never age, I observe. She is still as gorgeous as I remember. She’s maintained her slim figure, and she will not be seen dead without an array of colors in her hair.
“Yes, please.” I plop myself onto a bar stool.
“Hectic day?”
“Is it ever not?” I laugh. “Carl got a threatening phone call, and he could make no sense of what the person was on about, just that he didn’t want the flowers. When Carl asked him what flowers, he hung up.”
“Odd. Who wouldn’t want free flowers, even if they got them my mistake?”
“People are fucking weird.”
“Language!” London scolds.
“Sorry, baby.” I cover my mouth.
My mother laughs. “She’s so much like Logan.”
I smile.
“How’s the exhibit going?” My mother’s paintings are finally getting the recognition they deserve, no thanks to her. I had to beg her to even exhibit, approaching the gallery myself.
“It’s Redmond; it’s surviving.”
“I told you Carl knows someone in one of the galleries downtown.”
“I don’t paint for the money, Hay. Besides, your father’s alimony made sure of that.”
I shake my head. “No, but you need the exposure. You’re brilliant, and those town folk won’t see that if it slapped them in the face.”
We both laughed and clinked our glasses.
“It’s good to have you here, Mom.” I smile as I stand, making my way to the bathroom for a well-deserved soak. Dinner can wait an hour. London has eaten enough sweets till then, and Mom never drinks after dinner. I fill my bath and sink into the bubbles, the scent of lavender surrounding me. I close my eyes, and as always, I see the man I should forget. Wyatt, broken, his soul bleeding out as he says those words I’d thought about every day since I last saw him. “Don’t go . . .”
