Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(10)

He hadn’t worked out what he’d do then. Thankfully, it wasn’t a question he needed to answer that minute. The remainder of his day was routine, with meetings stacked on meetings, and it was nearly seven o’clock when he left the off ice. Instead of driving to his condo, he stopped at his mother’s house in Bellevue. She’d tried to call him earlier in the afternoon but he’d been tied up in a meeting with the ad agency. Gloria Hutchinson’s face brightened the instant Hutch walked in the door. “I’m so glad you came by.”

He made an effort to visit and update her on what was happening at the off ice at least once a week.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“No, but I had a late lunch.”

“It doesn’t matter. You should eat.” Hutch enjoyed the way she fussed over him and knew his mother needed to be needed. She’d adjusted to widowhood with diff iculty. Fortunately his sister, Jessie, spent a lot of time with her, for which Hutch was grateful. The three of them had always been close and still were.

“I called you this afternoon.”

“I got the message,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, his mother took out eggs and cheese and set them on the kitchen counter. “I called to see how your physical went.”

“It was f ine.” No reason to worry her.

“How’s your cholesterol?”

“Excellent.” That was true, anyway.

“Oh, good.” The rest of his health was far from excellent, but he didn’t plan to mention that.

“You’re too thin.”

Hutch didn’t think so but he didn’t want to argue. “Yeah, I could put on a few pounds,” he said mildly.

She added grated cheese to the eggs and whipped them together. Melting a pat of butter in the pan, she poured in the eggs and cheese and stirred.

Without asking, Hutch slid two slices of bread—whole wheat, he told himself righteously—in the toaster.

“I can’t tell you the number of nights I made your father eggs for dinner,” his mother went on to say. “The two of you are so much alike.” As if she suddenly realized what she’d said, Gloria paused. “Do take care of yourself, Hutch. You will, won’t you?”

She turned to cast him a pleading look.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he said in a cheerful voice that took a bit of effort. “I’m f it as a f iddle.”

Her eyes grew sad. “I thought your father was, too.”

“I got a gym membership today.”

“That’s wonderful.” She spooned the scrambled eggs onto a plate and set it on the breakfast bar.

Hutch pulled up a stool. “I start an exercise program f irst thing in the morning.” He’d set his alarm an hour earlier and launch into his three-times-a-week regimen. The prospect of losing an hour’s sleep left him feeling vaguely depressed. But that was nothing compared to how he felt about the knitting class….

The toast popped up; his mother buttered it and brought it to him. Hutch stood to get some of his favorite homemade raspberry jelly from the refrigerator.

“What you really need is a wife.”

This was a frequent topic of conversation initiated by his mother. The truth was, Hutch would’ve liked nothing better, but meeting the right woman wasn’t easy. Not with his busy schedule. He’d tried the Internet but that hadn’t worked out. It was too complicated, too time-consuming. Neither had the dating service he’d contacted. Whenever he’d met a woman, who, according to the professional matchmakers, was perfect for him, the spark just wasn’t there. It’d happened repeatedly until he’d f inally given up.

“Do you have a candidate in mind?” he asked. From her returning smile, he knew she did.

“It’s a school friend of Jessie’s.”

“Okay.” His sister had impeccable taste—in everything.

“Divorced?”

His mother nodded.

“Kids?”

“A boy and girl and they’re both darling.”

“So you’ve met her?”

His mother grinned sheepishly. “Yes, and I think she’s delightful. Would you like her phone number?”

“Sure.” He had no idea when he’d be able to meet this

“delightful” woman, but that was a minor detail. The least he could do was try.

“Don’t tell the whole world, but I’m taking a knitting class.”

He offered this tidbit because he thought it would please his mother—and to shift the conversation away from his marital status.

Her eyes widened. “You?”

“It’s supposed to help me relax and Dave said it might be good therapy for my thumb.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. It’s on Wednesday nights. First class is next week.”

She blinked. “You aren’t pulling my leg, are you?”

“Would I do that?”

She laughed, then placed her hands on both sides of his face and affectionately kissed his cheek. “I never guessed that my son would become a knitter.” She laughed again. “Not me, not my daughter, but my son.”

His own laughter was a little forced. However, he’d committed himself now. And how hard could knitting be, anyway?