If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(20)

“You know what?” she continued, possibly encouraged by my reaction. “You should approach local shop owners and ask them to carry the products.”

Naturally she butted in to tell me how much better she could run things. After all, she was the “smart” sister.

I shrugged noncommittally, having no interest in her taking over—and taking credit for—my business. Now was a good time to change the subject. “Hey, sorry I missed the baby shower thingy on Thursday. Did you have fun?”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Amanda waved it off. “I know you hate shopping anyway.”

“But I’m excited about the baby. Can I see the registration list?” I asked, curious about why she and Mom remained circumspect about their big day. “I want first choice of gifts.”

If I had more money, my niece would want for nothing. Most of Amanda’s colleagues and neighbors would be able to afford the better items on the list, though. A month from now the family room would be filled with prettily wrapped boxes and prettier women, plus Mom and Aunt Dodo.

While I couldn’t fill my niece’s playroom with toys, no one else could craft a line of organic baby soap products—chamomile-infused oatmeal bars—special for her. Once Amanda shared the baby’s name, I’d order a monogrammed stamp for the little bars, too.

“I’ll send you the links later.” Amanda touched my hand. “I’m rethinking the whole party idea, anyway.”

“What? Why?” Okay, now I was beginning to worry. Was something wrong with the baby?

“I’m just . . . overwhelmed right now.” She and my mom exchanged another peculiar look, but if she didn’t want to tell me the truth, I didn’t want to know. It’s not like she ever took my advice about anything anyway, so why work myself up? “Either way, I don’t expect you to get me anything.”

Because I was broke. She didn’t have to say it for me to know that’s what she meant. At least she didn’t look smug. And, truthfully, at this point I couldn’t even argue. “Of course I’m going to get something for my niece. I’m her aunt Erin, though maybe the first thing I should get is a better name for myself. A nickname . . . something cool, like Zizi.” Zizi. Zizi-E—like a rapper.

The oven timer dinged, and Mom muttered something under her breath. She seemed a bit absent tonight, which was also unusual. Even at sixty-two, she had loads of energy and a quick mind. Lots of opinions, too. In that way, she and I did share something in common, except our opinions rarely matched and I didn’t impose mine on others as often.

“Let me grab the pork so we can sit down.” Amanda crossed to the oven.

I couldn’t take the strain anymore, despite my resolve to butt out. “Is everything okay with you and the baby?”

Mom made a sign of the cross. “The baby is perfectly fine, Erin. Don’t say such things.”

“Sorry.” I bit my tongue, having known better than to try.

Amanda pulled a roast out of the oven and set the pan on the stove. Caramel-brown pork and potatoes and a hint of rosemary, apricot, and maple wafted through the kitchen. Her cooking made my temporary discomfort worthwhile.

My mouth watered as if I hadn’t eaten in days. “That roast looks perfect.”

Man, Lyle ought to bow down and kiss her feet every single day. She kept the house spotless, cooked like a master, and bent into a pretzel to please everyone, especially him. All that could get on my nerves, because her striving for perfection made me feel like I never knew my sister. Who was she, and what made her happy—because pleasing everyone else could not, in and of itself, be a life goal, could it?

Amanda shrugged. “Thanks.”

She’d spent years trying to interest me in preparing something that didn’t come in a box with plastic wrap, so I expected detailed instructions about how to make this dish. When she didn’t elaborate, that sinking feeling returned. “You two are awful quiet. Did you invite me over because of Max? ’Cause I’m fine. I swear.”

Amanda’s brows pinched. “What happened with Max?”

“I broke up with him.” I drummed my hands on the counter. “He moved out while I was at the retreat.”

Instead of jumping for joy, my mom started touching her cheek the way she always did when she got nervous. She’d never much cared for Max, though. When I’d invited him to live with me the month after my dad died, she’d accused me of using him to fill a void and said I’d regret it. If anything, I’d expect her to start celebrating the fact that she’d possibly been a little bit right.

Maybe she preferred me to be with someone rather than no one. She probably couldn’t imagine my life as a young, single woman. Heck, aside from running the public library’s genre-based book groups on Thursday nights, she still struggled with what to do with herself as a widow. No kids to boss around at home or at school, either—except for Amanda. Last fall when I’d suggested she should write a book, she’d glared at me like I’d said she was ugly or something. Meanwhile, I thought I’d given her a compliment. She was a good writer and knew more about books than anyone I’d ever met.

“What made you do that?” Amanda carved the roast with extra zeal.

“Whoa, take it easy. It’s already dead.” I laughed.

She glanced up, cheeks pink from embarrassment.