The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(111)

Her arched eyebrow conveys that my excuse is embarrassing. “You’re trying your hardest, aren’t you?”

The dagger strikes deep. My hardest isn’t good enough in Mrs. Tucker’s eyes.

Breath tight in my chest, I slowly toe off my boots and make the short trek across the open-concept room toward the kitchen, dragging my stocking-covered feet with each step. The apartment is bigger than my childhood home, and on most days I’m giddy over the space, but Mrs. Tucker has a way of vacuuming up all the air in the room.

Silently, I put away the milk, eggs, and butter. The convenience store was over-priced, but it was close by and I was feeling a little desperate. Now? I’m feeling small and incompetent.

“Is Jamie with Tucker?” I ask. The apartment’s as quiet as a study carrel at Harvard.

“She’s in her crib sleeping,” Mrs. Tucker says tersely, not glancing up from the onions she’s chopping.

I make an attempt to smile. “Did you enjoy seeing her in person for the first time?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I did. She’s my only grandchild.”

My half-hearted smile fades. I gulp again. Oh God, this visit is going to be brutal.

“I’m going to run in and check on her.” I shove a carton of juice in the fridge before fleeing the kitchen.

In the nursery, the unmade bed Tucker and Fitzy had hauled up here last weekend taunts me. The sheets stacked on one end only serve to highlight my ineptness as a mother and a housekeeper. If those are traits that Mrs. Tucker values in a daughter-in-law, then I’m failing miserably.

Jamie’s sleeping blissfully in her crib, wrapped up tight in her blanket. I resist the urge to pick her up, despite knowing that holding her sweet, nonjudgmental body will make me feel so much better. But she needs to sleep and I have shit to get done.

As quietly as possible, I make the bed and then creep out to join Mrs. Tucker in the kitchen.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer. She has the onions in a pan, and the apartment is filling with the fragrant smell of sweet herbs and tangy garlic.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Can I help you make your…” I wave my hand toward the stove.

“Chili?” she fills in. “No.”

Okay then. I lick my lips and consider my options. My first preference is to hide in the bedroom until Tucker comes home, but as my gaze falls on the mound of dishes, I decide that tidying up should come first. Even if I have to make conversation with someone who clearly thinks I’m about as low as a slug.

“Has Tucker shown you the bar yet?” I ask, stacking the bowls first. “He’s done a great job and it’s already making decent money.” Tucker’s Bar has been full since it opened its doors.

“It’s early yet. Most bars fail after a couple of years. It’s not what I would’ve wanted for him to spend his father’s insurance money on.” Her lips pinch. “I would’ve told him that if he’d asked me.”

Good thing he hadn’t. Tucker is clearly in love with his bar. He’s already talking about buying another one since his estimated cash flow from year one would allow him enough profit to invest in another business. He’s a businessman, not a bartender, as anyone who listens to him for five minutes can attest to. He talks about leveraging risk, returns on investments, profit margins, and hidden opportunities.

“I think it’s going to be a big success,” I declare confidently.

“You would think that.” She huffs. “Tucker could’ve bought the realty business back home. He should be in an office, not working in a bar.”

She says bar like someone else might say whorehouse.

“And now he’s living over it.” She heaves another huge, disappointed sigh. “This isn’t what his daddy would’ve wanted.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I turn the conversation to Jamie because surely she couldn’t be critical of Jamie.

“Was Jamie awake when you got home? She’s so smart. We’ve been reading to her every day. I found an article that says if you read to your infant at least two hours a day, she’ll be an advanced reader.”

Jeez. I’m beginning to sound like Nana, spouting off pseudo-facts that are presented in click bait articles as if they’re gospel.

Tucker’s mother ignores my remarks. “Tuck says you’re breastfeeding and that she’s only in the fifth percentile for weight. That sounds dangerously underweight. In my day, we all used formula. It filled those tummies up and helped them grow.”

I resign myself to the fact that there’s not a thing associated with me that Mrs. Tucker won’t find fault with.

Grabbing for the threads of my fraying patience, I say, “Most doctors really push for breastfeeding these days. The mother’s milk is calibrated to match the infant’s needs, and there are studies—”

“There are studies that prove anything,” she says disdainfully. She flicks the burner to low and moves toward the sink, where she begins to wash her hands vigorously. “I heard there was a study that said kids who are around alcohol tend to grow up to have a lot of problems. I hope that isn’t the case with Jamie.”

I place one foot over the other and stomp down, hoping the pain will serve as a distraction since grinding my molars isn’t doing the trick. I remind myself that Mrs. Tucker loves her son and that all her criticism, some of it founded, comes from a place of love. Not for me, but for her son. I should respect that.