Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(64)

We wait a few more minutes before Lucia decides she’s done waiting.

“Come on. Lauren can join us when she arrives.” She leads us away. “No use missing out on fresh mimosas!” She links an arm through mine.

The Princess is a local treasure. It’s lush greenery and opulent accommodations have been featured in magazines, so I know what I’m about to see. We walk through just a fraction of the grounds until we come to a big building with massive doors. Lucia pulls on one of the ornate iron door handles and ushers us in.

The ballroom carries a cacophony of ladies’ voices. White-linen-dressed tables take up the center of the room, while long rectangular tables laden with trays of food and carving stations flank the edges. At the front is a platform stage with a microphone.

“We’re at table three,” Lucia says, passing me. We weave our way through the tables until we arrive at ours. A shallow bowl filled with white roses serves as the centerpiece, and each place is set with silverware.

As soon as we settle into our seats, a man comes over and hands Lucia and me a mimosa. Claire receives a pink lemonade.

We’re the first at our table. As the others join us, Lucia makes introductions. Everyone knows each other, it seems, and this event is a ritual. Each person asks the same question: How do you know Lucia? And then they have the same aghast reaction: Lucia, you have a granddaughter? Since when? Lucia smiles gracefully each time. Life can be so interesting, don’t you think? The important thing now is that we have Aubrey and Claire. She moves on, telling them about Claire’s arm, and then Claire takes the floor. She informs everybody of what grade she’s in and who her friends are.

Their hungry eyes tell me they’re all dying for something juicier, but Lucia either doesn't see or is a fantastic pretender.

Lauren arrives then, and I’m grateful. It takes the heat off me. Her cheeks are rosy, like she’s fresh from a workout. I’m not the only person who notices.

“Did you get to the gym today?” Lucia lifts a section of Lauren’s hair. It’s still wet underneath.

“Before you get upset with me, you should know that I'm training for a 5k.” She gives Lucia a pointed look. “I want to do well. And by do well I mean not die.”

Lucia’s frown turns into a resolute smile. “I’m proud of you. And I’d rather you not die, too.”

Lauren barks a laugh, but it’s enough to cut through the tense moment. She greets the women around the table and makes small talk with them. Like the proud mother she is, Lucia announces why Lauren was late.

Maybe Isaac’s wrong about there being an issue with Lucia and Lauren. That seemed more like general irritation, not being at odds.

The ladies ask question after question about Lauren’s training regimen. Claire grows bored, so I give her a coloring book and crayons from my purse.

A tall, blond woman takes the stage. She introduces herself as the chairperson of the mom’s organization and talks for a while about the group and what they do in the community. She ends her speech by asking if there is anybody celebrating a birthday today or tomorrow. “Mother’s Day birthdays are extra special!”

A dampness springs up on my palms. My knee bounces. I look down, willing my leg to stop, but it doesn’t work, and now I’m queasy.

“Mommy?” Claire whisper-yells.

“What?” I whisper back, my voice strained.

“Your birthday is in May.”

I look from Claire and into Lucia’s curious eyes. My smile is shaky. “End of May,” I clarify. I feel bad for lying to her.

She looks relieved. I can practically read her thoughts. Of all people, Aubrey couldn’t possibly have a birthday that falls around Mother’s Day. That would be too cruel.

Except I do.

Mother’s Day is always the second Sunday in May. And my birthday is May tenth.

The irony isn’t lost on me, and it wasn’t lost on Lucia just now either. Luckily Claire doesn’t remember my actual birthday, and now Lucia thinks I was shown some mercy.

The moment passes, lunch is served, and just when I think I might make it out of here with only that tiny incident, the woman directly across from me clears her throat and says my name.

“Yes?” I smile at her. She has a pinched face, the kind that looks judgy all the time.

“Your mother couldn’t make it today? Does she live out of state?” Her eyebrows draw together, but the concern looks fake.

My fork is paused mid-air, and I grip it tighter.

“She was unable to attend. It’s just me and Claire today.” My cheerful tone sounds as false as the woman’s concern. I set down the utensil and use my now empty hand to wrap an arm around Claire’s shoulder.

“Well, I don’t know what could be more important than a mother-daughter brunch. Especially when you have a grand-baby as sweet as Claire.” She smiles at Claire.

I don’t respond. I’m too busy using my napkin to meticulously wipe the chicken salad off Claire’s face. See how busy I am cleaning my child’s face? Way too busy to realize you are even speaking.

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Astrid.” Lucia speaks up. “Where in the world are Grace and those little munchkins of hers?”

With a lot of irritation and hand flapping, Astrid (if I ever had to pick a name for someone with a face as pinched as hers, Astrid would be it) explains that her daughter and their family are in Washington DC for the weekend.