Chapter 10
STEAK TO A TIGER
FORD
I wish I could say I was surprised. But this is so unbelievably on brand for her that I simply let out a heavy sigh.
Skylar’s irises flicker with question marks. A worried frown curves those pretty lips.
Right. She has no idea what my mom is like. She might think something bad is happening. “This isn’t the first time she’s done this,” I try to reassure her.
Her shoulders relax. “You’re…not joking?”
Shaking my head, I beckon for her to join me as I stride through the labyrinth of tables, sloth lamps, and an umbrella holder with an elephant-head at the top (who knew?) toward the front of the store.
“When I was eighteen and driving to college, I was pulled over by highway patrol. Wasn’t even speeding.
Had no clue what it could be for. A broken taillight?
Maybe my tags were out of date? But when I rolled down the window, the officer said, ‘Are you Ford Devon?’ I said yes, of course.
He said, ‘Call your mom. She hasn’t heard from you in a couple of hours. ’ Then he walked off.”
Skylar’s eyes spark with an amusement that spreads across her whole face. “Noooo.”
“Yessss.”
“That’s…fantastic.”
“That’s annoying,” I correct.
“I meant it’s fantastically diabolical.”
She gets it. “Yes. All because my cell phone battery ran out somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Mom said she wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Skylar’s green eyes flicker with more amusement than eyes should be allowed to hold.
“How many times did she do this when you were a toddler? Were you endlessly paged in grocery stores? Did they know your name at the local super store? Did they call out, ‘Ford in the toy aisle—go find your mom in tampons?’”
She sounds positively delighted. A far cry from my ex, who loathed my mother. I get it. Mom is like cilantro—not to everyone’s liking.
“I wish I could tell you that didn’t happen, but it did,” I say as we weave past a haphazard row of reclaimed wood tables. Pretty sure that cream table is the one we picked for Mom, but right now I’m too irked by her to give it a second thought.
“I probably should actually give her my number at some point,” Skylar offers, “so she doesn’t worry.”
That is entirely too kind. And also dangerous. “Do you want to throw raw steak to a tiger?”
“I hate steak, so that’d be a no. But why?” Skylar’s eating up every detail of Mom like they’re gumdrops on the path to the gingerbread house in the woods.
“You’ll get stories upon stories, articles upon articles. More ‘did you knows’ than you’d know what to do with. Did you know you can tell the Google Hub to remind you when your laundry is done? Did you know you can compost wine corks? Did you know that Sex and the City is finally streaming?”
Skylar blinks. “It is? Huh. I guess I haven’t looked for that in a long time. But thanks, Mama Devon, I know what I’ll be bingeing tonight.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting off a laugh as we reach the front counter.
A man with a thick beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a wry smile is waggling a beige phone receiver. “Let me guess. You’re Ford Devon?”
“Was it the reluctant look in his eyes that gave him away?" Skylar asks, drumming the countertop in an amused rhythm.
“I’d have to say yes,” the man says, then hands off the phone with a good luck, you’re going to need it look.
Deep breath.
Chill out.
Remember your morning yoga meditations—all is well, and I am calm.
I press the receiver to my ear. “Mom, I know that Sex and the City is finally streaming. And I will get to it, I promise.”
Skylar snorts, not at all delicately. It’s like a full-bodied snort, and it’s…kind of cute. Because it’s so…bold.
“Darling, I tried calling you. You didn’t answer. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is always okay. You don’t page me in the middle of hockey games. Why are you paging me now?”
“Of course I don’t page you in the middle of hockey games.
I know you’re busy then. But right now, you were supposed to be available for our video chat, so naturally, I was concerned.
I also have a lunch in a little bit, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.
We probably have to switch back to your cell phone though.
Did you know you can’t really do video conferencing on landlines? ”
I drop my forehead in my hand. “Yes, Mom, I am aware. I will call you back.”
When I end the call, Skylar shoots me an I’ve got this look. “Want me to show her around?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I say, but I’m crossing my fingers. I hope Mom likes her style. She’s been critical of other designers, but I want a win for Skylar.
“Oh, I heard the warning loud and clear,” she says as we retrace our steps. I hit Mom’s name on the phone, then hand it to Skylar as it rings, mouthing, “good luck.”
When my mother answers on video, Skylar flashes her the same determined smile she gave me when she showed up on my front porch with those kale dog biscuits that Zamboni turned up her snout at.
“You must be Skylar,” Mom says, effortlessly professional, temporarily hiding her dragon self. “So lovely to meet you.”
“And you. Also, I’m so glad you called. Ford was getting far too distracted by the billiards table,” Skylar says.
“Seriously?” I mutter, shooting her a how could you throw me under the bus look.
But Skylar doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“Oh no, I like mid-century, not man cave. He’d better not be looking at moose heads.”
“You have my word, Mrs. Devon. I will never decorate with death…or man cave,” Skylar says.
“Call me Maggie,” Mom says, with a smile just for the designer.
“Maggie,” Skylar echoes. “May I show you the couch I have in mind?”
“Please do,” Mom says, and Skylar guides her through the store to the chocolate brown couch.
“Here you go,” Skylar says, voice bright and hopeful as she spins the phone around, giving Mom a tour of the sofa.
My muscles are tight. I’m bracing for Mom’s reaction.
She’s silent. For a long, long time. So long it makes my skin feel itchy. Time to sell it to her. I grab the phone and flip it back around as I sit on the couch. “It’s comfortable, Mom.”
Her face is stern, and she sighs—the deep, aggrieved sigh only a mother can deliver. “I despise it.”
Skylar blinks. Steps back, out of view of the screen. Says oh quietly, low enough that Mom can’t hear.
Things were going so well, I doubt she saw the smackdown coming.
“Mom, what is wrong with it? It’s…” I cast about for a word, landing only on, “nice.” Because what else is there to say about a couch?
Mom gives me a look like I should know better. “Ford, I detest brown. Did you not tell Skylar?”
“You don’t like brown?”
“Have you ever seen me wear brown?”
“I don’t catalogue the colors of your clothes,” I say, sinking deeper into the couch. All this time spent here has been a waste. I glance at Skylar—she looks shell-shocked.
“I don’t have a single item in brown. Not even boots,” Mom continues.
“I don’t look at your shoes.”
“The only thing I like that’s brown is chocolate,” she adds, punctuating her point.
I roll my eyes. “Message received.”
Skylar clears her throat, then beckons for the phone. I’m all too happy to hand it to her.
“Maggie, is it just the color?” she asks diplomatically, recovering quickly from her surprise.
“Yes! It’s loathsome.”
Skylar takes the comment in stride. “But the style? How do you feel about the style?”
“It’s hard to see past the color,” Mom admits, but there’s a hint of intrigue in her voice—a tell me more kind of tone.
Skylar trots off with the phone, moving so fast through the couches I might need to jog to keep up.
I find her at…a gray version of the same couch.
“It’s dove gray,” Skylar is saying. “And as I’m sure you know, you can throw a pretty sage green or dusty rose fleece over the back of it to give a pop of color. That way, too, you can alter the look to feature cooler shades in winter and warmer umber-toned ones in fall.”
Mom narrows her eyes on the screen, studying Skylar as she settles into the new couch now, patting the cushions, stretching out an arm along the back of it.
“Dove gray is pretty, isn’t it?” Skylar asks.
More silence on the other end of the line, then at last, a nod. “It is. Dove gray is one of the unsung shades.”
“Yes! I was saying the same thing the other night,” Skylar says.
And holy shit…did she just—charm my mother?
I think she might have, since Mom is saying, “I like that one.”
“Good. Let me show you some tables.”
Skylar weaves through the store, effortlessly navigating Mom’s rapid-fire opinions on the pieces we selected earlier to show her—some are dismissed outright, others earn a considering hum.
Through it all, Skylar listens intently, pivoting when needed, adjusting her choices without hesitation.
And the best part? I don’t have to handle my mom.
Skylar’s doing it perfectly.
When we finish at a pale-yellow breakfast table that Mom approves since it’ll catch the sun just right in the morning, Skylar asks, “Should I arrange to have all these items delivered to the Sausalito home? I can stage them, take pictures, and do another video tour once they’re in place.
I have an arrangement with the store—try before you buy.
If anything doesn’t work in the space, we can return it. ”
Mom shifts to me. “Ford, why don’t all stores do that? None of the previous designers offered that.”
I don’t bother pointing out that we never got to the furniture-shopping stage with them. “It’s one of the mysteries of the universe.”
Mom checks her watch, then says, “I should go soon.”
Skylar leans closer, almost whispering, like she has a secret, “Before you do…would you like to see the Eames chair up close? The one I had them set aside for you?”
“I’ve only been dying to get another look since I saw the first photo,” Mom says.