Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words….” ~Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
T here’d be no maybe expired yogurt consumed while charting today. The smell of leftover vegetarian lasagna from Saturday filled Nat’s office. Between bites of the cheesy pasta, she waged an internal debate on whether Noah was better at cooking or sexing her until her toes curled…it was a tie, and as she completed paperwork requests for patients, she reveled in being her again. After waking up this morning to find Noah brewing coffee and making avocado toast in her kitchen, she’d resolved to wear her new red shoes. Paired with a navy pinstripe pencil skirt and red blouse, she was embracing both Dr. Owens and Nat.
Why deny who you are to be what you are? Noah’s words from last night hummed within her.
“That smells delicious.” Mom appeared at the open office door, inhaling deeply. “Did Elle and Clayton leave you food for the week?”
Nat swiveled to face her mom. “Uh…” Her mouth closed as soon as it opened.
She’d almost said Noah made it for me, but then that may or may not lead to more questions. Clayton had asked Noah to check in on her. It wouldn’t be out of character for him to drop dinner off. Everyone knew the pinnacle of Nat’s culinary expertise was ordering takeout or making almost burnt frozen pizza. But what if Mom used her maternal superpowers and sniffed out that this wasn’t regular lasagna, but sex lasagna?
Ah! You’ve been quiet too long!
“Zambito’s,” she blurted.
Eyebrows knitted, her mom’s head tilted. “Zambito’s?”
“It’s a place on Lake Canandaigua. It’s Italian. I went there for dinner last night… By myself. Solo date,” she sputtered.
“Not with Duncan?”
She made a disgusted noise to cover her discomfort with the conversation. This was Mom. Lying to her had never been easy. At least this was true. “I’m not seeing him ever again.”
“Well, I’m glad you came to that conclusion yourself. I never liked Duncan. He had a weak handshake,” Mom said, combing her fingers through her long silvery-blonde strands.
Unlike Nat, everything about Mom was long and lean. If Nat was built like a compact car, then Mom was a stretch limo. Like Dad and Clayton, she was tall but with a slender frame. Silver shimmered along her blondish strands that hung loose past her shoulders. A regal approachability oozed from her mom. At sixty-two, she was still one of the most beautiful women in any room.
“Clayton and Evan didn’t care for him either,” she said.
“Yup.” Mom’s jaw clenched, and her gray eyes lifted to the fluorescent ceiling lights.
Nat fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “Ev…” she stopped.
Her stare zeroed in on the fingers of Mom’s right hand pulling at the cuticles of her left. An image of nails bitten past the quick and ragged red cuticles flashed in her vision. They never talked about Evan, especially with Mom. Why had she mentioned him?
“Everything at Zambito’s is good. Dad and you should go on a date night.” She reached for a distraction from the ghost of Evan swirling between them.
Mom’s gaze flicked to the picture frames on Nat’s desk. That gaze narrowed in on the one from Nat’s eighteenth birthday, the last “Complete Owens Family” picture with Evan.
“Mrs. Owens.” LeAnne appeared at the door, her dark brows linked in frustration. “I’m having issues with one of the insurance companies. Can you come work your magic?”
“Of course,” Mom said, tearing her gaze from the photo and shifting away with LeAnne.
Nat picked up the picture and stared at it. The last captured moment of all of them. The last time when mentioning Evan’s name didn’t send Mom into a tailspin. Opening her top drawer, she slid the picture inside and with a sigh shut the drawer.