The First Taste(124)

“That’s not really the point—”

“Moms—and families—come in different shapes and sizes. You don’t have to drive a certain kind of vehicle or dress in khaki Bermuda shorts.”

I gasp. “Bermuda shorts—oh, God. You’re making it worse.”

She laughs. “I’m saying not all moms look alike. There are just a few really important things you have to be or do. I don’t think you need me to tell you those.”

Bell folds her arms over her chest, surveying the picnic tables, her stance the exact same as her dad’s when he inspected their work a minute ago. I think of my own mom, who was, for the most part, good to me. But she did her own damage, all while looking exactly as a mom should, according to the rest of the world.

What would I have to be to Bell? A role model, a support beam, a cheerleader. What would I have to do? Love her unconditionally. But am I capable of that? Loving a child seems like it would be more graceful and simple than surrendering your heart to a lover. Already, I feel protective of her. Proud of the headstrong, independent girl she is. If I let myself love her, though—what happens if Andrew and I don’t make it?

“If I do this,” I say, “it’s for good. I can’t just walk away if it gets hard.”

Flora nods her head. “It’s true that Bell isn’t as tough as she acts. But Andrew is teaching her strength, and if one day you leave, she’ll survive.”

“That’s very . . . practical.”

“I’d hate to see you walk away, or worse, not give them a hundred percent of yourself because you’re worried about hurting them down the line. They’re survivors.”

Andrew squats to Bell’s level, his brows furrowed. He listens to whatever she says with complete focus, as if she’s giving him directions to a fortune.

My heart surges with adoration. “I’m not going to walk away,” I say. “It’s more that I’m not sure how not to be a businesswoman.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can be both. So you cut back on evenings and weekends. So you work from home more. Don’t you own your own business?”

I swallow. Letting go of avec won’t be easy. Already, I feel a void. Work will always be important to me, and I know I’ll figure out something else. Ultimately, I have to believe in the decision I made because the reasons were right. “Yes,” I say.

“Maybe you get some clients out here. Or open another branch.” She shrugs. “You’re the boss—that’s what bosses do. Adapt.”

Wise old woman. “It’ll take some rearranging.”

“That can be a good thing.”

I cross my arms. Andrew notices us and waves, so I smile at him. It can be a good thing. I think it could be a great thing.





THIRTY-FIVE



The universe is infamous for playing tricks—and right now, the joke is on me. Not twenty minutes after Flora boosted my maternal confidence, the doorbell rang, and so began a steady stream of messy, rowdy children and their Bermuda-shorts-wearing, mini-van-driving mothers. I’m suddenly one of them, only in four-inch heels and a four-hundred dollar frock. The party has begun.

Flora was right—my heels do sink in the grass. I don’t let that discourage me. I pick up napkins that fly off the table with every breeze. I maneuver around toys, discarded plastic cups, and actual small humans.

“I love your dress,” one of the mom gushes, her eyes wide. “Is that from the Spring collection?”

“It is, actually,” I say, guilty over my obvious surprise.

“Oh, I don’t own anything by DVF,” she says, “but I follow a few fashion blogs religiously. Just to torment myself.”

“Really?” I ask, my interest piqued. “You don’t think it’s silly?”

“What, fashion? Not at all. A friend of mine and I shop the vintage stores in the area all the time. Once in a while we’ll score a rare find like an authentic Gucci clutch. It’s better than nothing, which is what my husband lets me have at designer prices.”

“You just haven’t found your bargaining chip yet.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

“No man should have final say over your wardrobe. He can have input at best.”

“But it’s his money,” she says.

“You don’t work?”

“Not unless you count raising three children work.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I? If you’re not making a salary for that, then a Gucci bag is the least he can do.”

“Does that really work?” she asks.

“If it doesn’t, calculate back pay on the hours you’ve worked since your firstborn. That’ll light a fire under his ass.”

She grins and holds out her hand. “We haven’t officially met, but I need to know you. I’m Lynn.”

Lynn and I talk fashion a little longer until she’s called away by her daughter.

I’m not alone long before another mom takes her place. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, scanning me from head to toe. “Which one’s yours?”

“None,” I say. “I’m a friend of the host.”

“Andrew?” She blinks. “A friend?”