Chapter Thirty
The last place I want to feel like a little kid is at the open house event I’m throwing, but the purse of my mother’s lips sends me back to the hypervigilant days when I tested the air like a sailor afraid of an impending storm.
Going off course was Mom’s specialty, as she always had me to hold the wheel steady while she dissociated through choppy waters. But when I made a distress call to my grandmother for the one thing I couldn’t manage myself? Well, she’ll never forgive me for that.
I’m pretty sure it’s why my mom did what she did the summer all the not-talking-about-it came to a head, and everything got screwed up forever.
If I ask what she’s doing here, she’ll be offended and stepping into a victim role so fast I’ll be the one left reeling. I open my mouth to greet her, only to be asked why I’m wearing a shade of lipstick too dark for my complexion.
Two seconds in, and I’m rolling my shoulders and lips inward, minimizing myself already. “Thank you,” I say, sarcasm easier to strap on than armor.
I’ve worked so hard on rebuilding my confidence and setting boundaries, and I’ll never understand why it’s so much easier to do with everyone except her—my mother and the main reason I need boundaries in the first place.
I flinch and think no, wait. That’s too mean, the good girl within feeling I should take it back, even if I meant it.
Mom throws her arms around my neck and hauls me down for a hug, her shorter stature leaving me hunched over. I squeeze her back, but she releases me lickety-split once she notices the guy at my side. “Why hello, who’s this? Mia, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
If she’d given me half a second maybe. While I went with a bold lip stain she’s already voiced her disapproval of, her over-the-top grin only highlights the smear of dusty rose lipstick on her front teeth as she turns on the charm.
She’s so thrilled to have a husband who takes care of her, she can’t fathom why I wouldn’t try harder to find one.
Because there’s codependency, and then there’s Diane Goodwin-Andrews-Robinson.
“Noah,” I say. “This is my mom. Mom, Noah.”
She clucks her tongue. “That’s not much of an introduction.” Extending a hand, she smiles and adds, “I’m Diane.”
It’s not that my mother’s not kind, it’s that she’s so outwardly so in public, I spent a lot of my childhood wondering why she liked everyone besides me.
I do a quick scan for grandmothers—if they had knowledge of Mom’s visit and didn’t warn me, they’re dead. But if she’s dropped by unannounced, I owe it to Grandma Helen to sound the alert.
Another wave of people floods in, not a familiar face in the bunch. The great turnout and interest in residency are what I’ve wished for since taking this job and planning this night, but now each arrival spikes my blood pressure.
For some reason Jan’s pointing at me, my surroundings slightly distorted like the jumble of questions my mom’s asking Noah, and none of this was on the agenda.
Obviously, I can’t miss the opportunity to network and incentivize new tenants, but the idea of leaving her without supervision rids the air from my lungs.
I’m clammy and feeling the rapid beats of my heart down my arm and into my fingertips as my nerves begin to fray—I don’t have time to deal with my mom and whatever-this-is.
Noah trails fingertips up and down my spine, a shiver of a lifeline that finds me in the great big sea of panic. I was about to ground myself with five things I can see, but there are at least four parts of his body I’d like to get my hands on and touch, so my brain skips ahead…
I recall the gravelly timbre of his voice, hearing it in my head from that very first day he called me sugar, and again in the golf cart; I inhale the sunshine and woodsy Palo Santo scent that’s lingered with me since the day he held the door open for me while trying to rein in his grandfather; the heat of his body and how the knot in my chest eases as we exchange secrets and future promises with our eyes.
His amused quirk says he noticed my perusal of appreciation, and he feels rather smug about it, too. If I squint, I can almost convince myself it’s just me and Noah, talking plants and recalcitrant grandparents, not a glimmer of a glimmer about occupancy rates and numbers.
The pair of white women Jan pointed my way approach, their similar features, combined with their difference in ages leading me to believe I’m not the only daughter dealing with her mother.
“Hello, and welcome to Lakeview,” I say, taking a step in their direction. “How can I help you?”
“That lady”—the older of the two lifts a hand off her walker to jab a thumb at Jan— “told us to come speak to you about the events you force all the old people to do.”
“Mom.” To me, the tall, stylish brunette in her late forties to early fifties extends a hand, sleek metal bracelets rattling.
And the iconic, Chanel Classic flap bag on her arm, it’s most definitely not fake.
“Sorry, she’s reluctant to leave her crumbling tri-level near the swamp.
I told her the next time she falls and breaks a hip, the gators’ll eat her before we even know anything’s wrong, and she—”
“I told her to let ’em.” Bayou Meemaw crosses her arms so hard she harrumphs, leading me to believe that’s the disdainful noise their generation prefers. “And it’s not a house, it’s my home.”
At the daughter’s long-suffering sigh, they devolve into bickering about broken bones and who could tell who what to do. It’s wild to see such similar features and still wonder how they came from the same gene pool.
This is clearly going to take all the brainpower I have at my disposal, so my mom’s going to have to wait on the back burner.
I just don’t want her anywhere near Noah, because the pot, it will boil over and start spilling details from her skewed memory I’d rather reveal myself. For her, life’s about being well-liked and looking good for everyone else.
Pretty on the outside.
Leaves you feeling empty on the inside.
I guess that’s what bugs me about the originality of the purse on her shoulder; how everything about it is for others, just like she saved all her kind, effusive actions for them, too.
Rather than dwelling on the childhood I didn’t get to have, I focus on the commonalities that connect us as humans and drop into relatable saleswoman mode. “I understand how hard it can be to leave the place you’ve known all your life.”
My mind goes to my apartment in Miami rather than the hodgepodge, 1970s rancher home in Indiana where I grew up.
“But take a look at this amazing calendar.” I snag a booklet off a nearby end table. “It’s filled with members from our very own neighborhood and all the events you might want to attend along with them.”
I flip the pages on their behalf, showcasing a colorful glimpse before opening to the current month. “You can stay home alone if you’d like, but there’s no shortage of activities when you want to join in.”
I point out the list with a snapshot of activities, a suggestion I took from the Cronies, along with bumping up the font. “Here at Lakeview, we don’t think of moving into a retirement village as an end, but as the perfect place to start your endless summer.”
Bayou Meemaw looks unconvinced, but a tap on my shoulder draws my attention to another duo, ages comparably split.
I’m on the younger end of the spectrum and the tiny woman with a halo of white curls is on the other.
She reminds me a whole lot of a gif of an older woman that says It’s been eighty-four years.
“Pardon the eavesdropping, but that’s exactly what caught my eye.
” Mid-forties, tan skin, and wearing a hot pink pantsuit with blingy buttons and radiating an enviable amount of confidence, she motions to the elderly enchantress at her side.
“Mags is far too active and fun to relegate her to a nursing home where residents are in bed by six p.m.”
Mags gives us a queenly wave, the sequin shawl draped over her shoulder sending fractals of light everywhere, and I freaking love her already.
“Nah, we’re party animals here at Lakeview.
” Opal, the Seam Queens president who had the idea to fill up all the men’s tee times, sweeps in and grips Mags by the shoulder as though we’ve practiced the move, when I merely asked inhabitants for their assistance talking up the community. “Sometimes we go till nine o’clock.”
Mags bursts out laughing, the sound raspy but happy. “You’re a hoot, aren’t you?”
“And a half.” Opal snorts and introduces herself, and with each minute of laughter and banter, wallflower types come out of the woodwork.
Pretty soon we’ve amassed a semicircle, like I’m a librarian at story time, so I continue passing out calendars and smiles, letting the camaraderie build before layering in pitch points.
To my bafflement and delight, Mags and Bayou Meemaw hit it off.
Soon they’re discussing finding houses next door to each other, relief filling their niece’s and daughter’s expressions.
I experience the exact opposite once I realize I’ve lost track of Noah and my mother.
Doing my best not to splinter off into a dozen worst-case scenarios, I launch into my spiel on clubs and activities. “Including a community favorite—Boozy Bingo.”
“That’s a personal favorite of mine,” Noah says from directly behind me, and I spin like a top inside, eagerly awaiting the moment I can twirl into him.
I cast a sassy glance over my shoulder, thinking I’ll gain the upper hand…
I’m a goner the instant I meet endlessly blue eyes that twinkle with mischief.
“Mia,” Rita singsongs. “I found Dr. Vasquez wandering around outside and thought you might— Dios míos.” Her brown eyes fly wide, her arm and finger indicating she’s spotted my mom as she whips toward Wanda, who’s trailing so closely behind Carlos they nearly collide. “Where’s Helen?”
My grandmother is bringing up the tail end, and tension crackles through the air as she and Mom lock eyes across the distance. So many retirement village hopefuls crowd the area, and this is where they have to have a showdown? Also, could they not?
“Nobody told me Mia and Noah were on another date,” Rita says, “or I wouldn’t have brought the doctor.” She pulls a face. “That’s on me for making it awkward.”
My cheeks are bright red, I can tell from the heat radiating off my face. It’s one thing to tell a guy that things might not work out, and then there’s inviting him to the grand opening of me getting flirty with another man.
“We’re not turning my granddaughter into a swinger,” Grandma Helen says, and my brain refuses to acknowledge this is a real thing that is happening.
“Unless that’s what she wants,” she adds for the sake of the gaping crowd, and this is a shining example of why I didn’t ask the Cronies to be part of the pep squad for the open house—the more unruly grannies, the less I can control.
I summon a smile from the depths of my panicking soul and join the pointing club, gesturing to Jan and the cluster of people in the entryway. “If interested parties will please form a line at the door, our property manager will be by to collect you for the next tour.”
That clears out the resident hopefuls, and Noah steps up to my side and hooks a possessive hand on my hip.
I am a contrast of sensations, affection and warmth warring with flustering impropriety, and am I okay with Noah claiming me? “Carlos,” I say, a little shakily.
“Mia.” He nods. “How’s the finger?”
“Better.” I lift it like that’ll tell him anything. “I’m hoping my doctor will let me switch to buddy taping soon.”
He grins at that, chasing away the residual awkwardness.
I’m so glad we can have a nice, cordial conversation, almost like nothing happened.
On paper, he’s perfect for me; back in Miami while putting in seventy hours a week, I would’ve leaped at a guy who’d leave me alone to do my work for weeks and weeks.
But as I told the handsome doctor after I drove him home, I didn’t think we should hang out or date or whatever-we-were-doing anymore.
“It’s the work thing, isn’t it? Still too much for you?” he’d asked with a resigned sigh.
“No.” I’d looked across the console of the car, into his handsome, dimpled face and said, “It’s me. I’ve changed.”
And I have, in so many ways. No matter what happens, I’ll always look back on my golden era with the biddies fondly.
I glance at Noah, my heart rate picking up speed at the chiseled and clenched jawline. “You okay?”
“This is exactly why I told myself…” He shakes his head the tiniest, nearly imperceptible amount and mutters, “All this time I thought the men fighting over my grandma were ridiculous, but here I am, having a moment.”
Given the drunken butterflies that overtake my fluttering heart, so am I.
What if I stayed?
I have too much on my plate right now to seriously contemplate whether dating Noah would be enough to let go of my dream of returning to Miami, and the top priority has to be this event.
My Hail Mary pass is sailing like a dream, but I won’t know if it’s caught until we reach that vital 85 percent mark.
All at once, our ragtag group bursts out talking, and the voices are heated and accusatory, but I’m struggling to sort one from the next.
Okay, now they’re definitely arguing and drawing attention, too.
Then Mom’s voice booms loudest. “This is exactly what I was afraid of,” she practically yells, and what even is my life right now? “Anytime you pull Mia into your hijinks, you make the biggest messes, and then I’m left to fix it.”
The record scratch resonates through me, the unfinished melody of my possible success abandoned and unresolved.
More, I’m head-to-toe confused, with a cherry on top.
Because it sounds an awful lot like my mom thinks she’s the fixer.