If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(56)

And yet, as wrong as I might be about many things in life, I was right about one: she had to start believing in herself.

Amanda worked today, so I’d wait to hash things out when we wouldn’t be rushed. This morning I’d make peace with my mom by preparing breakfast. My sister would’ve whipped up protein pancakes with quinoa and fresh mango or something, but I went with the sweet Dunkin’ Donuts salted-caramel coffee Mom loved and a stack of toaster waffles. Seemed like a lot considering that I usually made do with a cup of yogurt.

Mom shuffled into the kitchen—her blue robe’s sash tied snugly beneath her breasts, her hair brushed away from her face—wearing an apprehensive expression that reflected my mood.

“Have a seat.” I pulled out a kitchen chair, flashing a smile meant to put us both at ease.

She sniffed the sweetened air. “What did you do?”

“I thought we might enjoy a little breakfast before I start my first yoga class downstairs.” I set a cup of coffee in front of her, then buttered the waffles and smothered them in syrup.

Her brows rose as she scooted her chair up to the table and immediately cut into the short stack. “This is nice.”

If she remembered that she’d served us toaster waffles as a reward when we were young, she didn’t mention it.

“I feel bad about last night.” A not-quite apology of the variety I usually gave her. It neither disappointed nor surprised me when she didn’t reciprocate. “At the risk of reopening a can of worms, you have to know I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. In my heart of hearts, I know Amanda will be fine. She’s smart, and once she gets over her shock, she’ll land a full-time teaching job and we’ll help her raise Willa.”

When my mother concentrated on cutting her waffles rather than reply, I continued, “But, Mom, I’m worried about you. Dad’s social security income and your pension cover your daily needs, but not emergencies or serious health issues. That insurance money was your safety net. Recovering it has to outweigh protecting your reputation. Sooner or later the truth about Lyle will leak. Delaying the inevitable only gives him more time to flee. If I actually believed you and Amanda could trap him yourselves, maybe I’d get on board. But Lyle isn’t as dumb as Max, so it won’t be as easy. Please reconsider. Involving the cops is the only way to get justice.”

She closed her eyes on a sigh before lifting her chin to meet my gaze.

“It doesn’t help when you point out the obvious, Erin. I’m plenty worried on my own, but I can’t go back and do things differently. I lent those funds for reasons that made sense to me at the time, and I’ll live with my mistake, even if it costs me all that money.” She pounded the table twice with her palm. “Justice that entails my humiliation doesn’t interest me, especially when it doesn’t guarantee I’ll be repaid. You don’t understand because you’ve never lived through interviews and a trial, the media circus . . . It’s extremely stressful, and stress is dangerous for pregnant women, you know. I couldn’t live with myself if escalating this situation sent your sister into premature labor. I would hope you couldn’t, either.”

“Of course not.” Another pop of guilt singed my subconscious like lye. My silence in February had given Lyle ample time to plot his devious plan. A confession might underscore my sense of urgency to my mother, but I couldn’t make myself do it when the truth would only divide us at a time when we needed to pull together.

“How many strangers will be in my basement today?” Her abrupt change of subject yanked me from my dilemma.

“They aren’t strangers. In fact, you probably remember Lucy Cahill from high school.” I hadn’t been friends with Lucy, who was a few years older than me, but every kid had spent time at the school library. “In any case, only three have reserved space for my first official class.”

Not too bad, considering the only advertising I’d done was posting flyers at Sugar Momma’s, the post office, Stewart’s Grocery Mart, and the laundromat. Fewer students meant individualized attention. And I felt good about giving beginners an affordable option.

After washing down a bite of waffles with a swig of coffee, Mom asked, “What do you charge?”

“Fifteen bucks.” Less than half my hourly wage at Give Me Strength, which could add up to a decent supplemental income.

Mom nodded. “Forty-five dollars for an hour of stretching is pretty good.”

Not half as much as Nancy Thompson made, but I kept that crack to myself. “Ideally, I’d like a class size of about five students four times per week. I could add one or two evening classes if the interest is there . . .” Annualized, that could add around twenty grand to my income. If I could also grow Shakti Suds from making two grand per year to ten or fifteen, I could move out of here to someplace half-decent.

“Those people won’t be coming upstairs, though, right?”

“No. I hung a sign on the front door directing them around back, so you can run around in your underwear and curlers and no one will be the wiser.” I wiggled my brows.

My mom almost smiled, but she fought it like always. I swear she spent her whole life refusing to joke around with me, as if her not laughing at my silliness might somehow make me more mature. Yet again my dad’s absence snuck up on me from behind. If he were here, we’d be snickering. I missed that deep chuckle, which had often ended with his arm around my shoulders and a kiss on the temple or a tweak of my nose. Oh, Daddy.