by KD Fisher
And just like that the tough part of the conversation was over. Pete yammered on about our pilgrimage to Boston to visit his own personal version of the holy land until he got distracted by a family walking by with cider donuts and scampered off to buy some of his own. Adrenaline and embarrassment warred for control of my body. Deep breath in. Count to ten. Nothing worked.
Bracing myself for the coming questions from Beth, I shifted my gaze to the trees, scanning for another perfect apple that might distract her enough to avoid this conversation. What was I supposed to say? Yes, my son knows next to nothing about his entire extended family and might not ever meet his dad. No, I have no idea what I’m doing. But yeah, I’m probably failing as a mother.
“Hey.” Beth didn’t touch me. Her voice was low but not laced with the kind of cloyingly sweet pity I couldn’t bear hearing. “What do you need right now?”
The question startled me so much, my thoughts seemed to grind to a halt. I had no clue. I did know that my eyes fizzed with tears and that was not happening. I shook my head and raked my hands through my hair. This was fine. I was fine. Nothing to worry about. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m alright. Just, uh, I don’t really want my family to know where I am. I don’t like thinking about that stuff.”
Beth nodded slowly, her eyes locked with mine. “Can I hug you?”
I laughed and pulled her into my arms. And darn if it didn’t make me feel a thousand times better.
* * *
Both Jay and Mac had insisted, for what felt like the twentieth time in the past week, that I take Monday night off. Finally relenting, I felt at loose ends. Listless. I wasn’t really used to having time to myself that wasn’t spent with my son. As I’d wandered out of the kitchen into the warm, early afternoon light, I’d decided to text Beth and see if she wanted to have dinner with Pete and me. She’d responded right away, in a flurry of exclamation points and grinning emojis that she would come get me in twenty minutes. And she had, her little beat-up car screeching around the corner, some kind of frantic flamenco music blasting from the speakers.
Since we had about two hours to kill before Pete’s school let out for the day, we walked down to the small beach on the far end of town. Aside from a few old men fishing and a mom and daughter looking for shells, we were alone with the swaying seagrass and soft rush of water. Conversation flowed easy between us. Beth told me about her time in New Orleans: about the woman she’d almost moved in with, about the tangle of ferns and vines spilling from her tiny apartment’s balcony, about late nights at her girlfriend’s jazz club. And I told her about St. Louis: about meeting Dorothy—my first and only serious girlfriend—about learning to be a mom, about my grimy basement studio, about early mornings at the diner learning to poach the perfect egg.
Beth was in the middle of telling me about how she and her brother had spent countless late nights watching YouTube tutorials to learn how to transform the neglected hearth at her mom’s café into The Yellow House’s fancy wood burning oven, when her phone started buzzing loudly where it rested on the ground between our feet. A picture of an older woman with long hair pulled back in a braid and a bright smile flashed up on the screen.
“Oh shit!” Beth grabbed the phone and scrambled to answer it. “Hey Mom. I know. I know. I’m with Adah.” She rolled her eyes dramatically at me. The very enthusiastic sound of a woman’s voice poured from the speaker.
Beth pulled the phone away from her ear and covered the bottom. “I totally forgot that my mom and dad are headed down to Boston tonight for a concert. Any chance you want to come with me to pick up Hamlet from my parents before we get Pete? Will Vanessa care about you having a dog at your place?”
Heat flooded my face at the thought of meeting Beth’s mother. I’d heard about her from Beth and she sounded like a kind, if slightly kooky, woman. My hesitation must have shown in my face, because Beth’s hand covered mine and her expression softened.
“Hey, you can totally wait in the car if you want.”
In the background I faintly made out the sound of her mom saying “No she cannot. I want to meet this girl!”
I shook my head. “No it’s fine. It’s totally okay. And Vanessa won’t mind at all. Heck, Pete’s gonna be over the moon.”
* * *
Beth’s childhood home was less than a mile away from The Yellow House, down a heavily wooded road leading in the direction of the ocean. In fact the house was right on the water, a small cedar-sided colonial with a mess of buoys, wind chimes, and a canoe hanging from the roof of the covered porch. The garden was a riot of colorful blooms and herbs. Some of the sunflowers along the back of a vegetable bed were almost certainly taller than me. The front door was painted ocean blue and adorned with a seashell wreath. As we walked up the paved path to the door I noticed Beth’s name carved into the cement in curvy cursive, and her brother Andrew’s name next to it in blocky print. It was the kind of house I knew I would have loved to grow up in. Just the kind of house I’d pictured producing a woman like Beth Summers.
Beth turned to me, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Okay, just to warn you my mom is...kind of a lot. Like I’m really sorry if she says something weird or sort of offensive. Her heart is in the right place, she just has no filter and—”
“I heard that, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Summers tugged open the door and shook her head at her daughter. “I do too have a filter. It’s only the older I get the less I choose to use it.”
Beth’s mom looked a lot like her daughter. Her hair was a little shorter than Beth’s, but still fell past her shoulders in copper-colored waves shot through with silver. Her face was tanned and lovely, her features sharp in a way that made her look like a fairy queen from one of Pete’s old storybooks. She wore a pair of overalls over a striped T-shirt and no shoes. I noticed her toenails were painted a shocking shade of purple. I liked her right away.
“Adah.” She said my name so warmly I wasn’t even startled when she pulled me into a hug that smelled like freshly turned soil and clean laundry. “I have heard so much about you.” She held me out at arm’s length. “And holy shit you are gorgeous. My daughter wasn’t kidding.”
“Mom,” Beth groaned. “You can let her go now.”
“Is Pete in the car?” Mrs. Summers looked over my shoulder.
“Oh no, ma’am. He’s at school until three.”
“Right, right. School. Ma’am bullshit. Call me Robin. That’s too bad though. My daughter here has told me lots about you and your kiddo. He sounds like a sweetheart. You three will have to come over whenever you have a night off. Which—” she waved between us, “—I know, I know, hardly happens. And I’m sure you like to have the time to yourselves. But I can make you my lobster pot pie. I promise it’ll be worth putting up with my husband.”
I thought the lobster pot pie sounded great and was about to say so when Hamlet came bounding out the house and nearly tackled Beth. His tail wagged wildly and within about two seconds everyone was coated in slobber. The laugh bubbling from my chest surprised me.
“Okay, Mom, well we need to go pick up Pete. Have fun at the concert though. And thank you for watching my baby.”
“Honey, I know I sound like a broken record but...”
“Yes.” Beth sighed fondly. “I need to work less. I hear you loud and clear.”
Mrs. Summers’s clear blue eyes fell on me and I stood up a bit taller. “Both of you girls need to relax more. Elizabeth tells me how much you work, too, my dear.”
It felt nice to be on the receiving end of such a well-meaning maternal lecture. I nodded. “You’re right, ma’am—uh, Robin.”
Despite Beth’s best attempts to leave, the three of us stood chatting on the porch for a few minutes before Robin invited Beth and me inside for some iced tea and banana bread. It occurred to me then how strange it was that I’d been to Beth’s family’s house before I’d been to her home. She’d invited me ove
r a few times but it hadn’t worked out with our schedules and Pete’s school and increasingly busy social calendar. I was sure in that moment, though, that Beth’s place would feel like home. What little I knew of where she grew up and the business she’d built had me sure that whatever space she’d created herself would be a perfect reflection of her. Bright, a little chaotic, and fully welcoming.
Beth must have successfully declined her mom’s invitation for snacks because before I knew it Robin was thrusting a grocery bag full of zucchini and greens into my arms and two foil-wrapped loaves of banana bread into Beth’s hands.
“Mom, you know I literally bake for a living, right?” Beth laughed, accepting the food nonetheless.
“I do. But I also know your brother tells me you eat nothing but old bread and leftovers that are about to go into the compost. Adah, tell her she needs to take better care of herself. This girl used to be the queen of...what did you call it, honey, self-care?”
“We’re leaving now. Thank you, Mom.” Beth brushed a kiss over her mom’s cheek and I almost wanted to do the same.
* * *
After Pete quite literally jumped for joy at the sight of Hamlet waiting with me and Beth outside his school, the four of us walked the few blocks to the apartment together. The crisp autumn air smelled like cinnamon from the bakery a few blocks away and some of the stores along the main cobbled street had put out cutesy arrangements of pumpkins and chrysanthemums. And was it just me or did everyone in this town seem to own a dang plaid scarf? Maybe I should get one for Pete.
My son was talking a mile a minute about the book report his teacher, Mr. O’Brien, had assigned as we clomped up the stairs to the apartment. He’d ended up loving his teacher, a very energetic guy in his early twenties that made me feel about a thousand years old every time I talked to him. I was proud of my son, though, for branching out and making even more new friends at his school. Which reminded me, I needed to call Jason’s dads back to make some kind of playdate. As I turned the key in the lock, Hamlet somehow managed to squeeze his gigantic body in front of me and bounded into the kitchen.
“Sorry,” Beth said through a laugh. “He always has to be first.”
“Mom, do you think I could take Hamlet to the park?” Pete shrugged off his backpack and kicked his shoes into the middle of the floor. I pinned him with a long look and he hurried to hang his backpack on the back of a kitchen chair and at least relocate his shoes to the mat by the door so we wouldn’t trip on them and break our necks.
“Weren’t you just talking about how much homework you have?” I washed my hands at the sink and started pulling a few things for dinner out of the fridge. Nothing fancy. Pete had been asking for spaghetti and meatballs for weeks, so I’d picked up the ingredients at the little Italian market around the corner.
“Yeah.” He heaved a dramatic sigh and threw his body into the kitchen chair where he’d slung his backpack.
“Here,” Beth said, sitting down next to him. “Why don’t I sit with you while you get started on your book report? I have some work I need get caught up on too. Once we’re done maybe we can all go over to the park. Or even the dog beach if you want.”
An easy quiet fell over the kitchen as I got to work on dinner prep. I was surprised Beth hadn’t tried to help but I was glad she hadn’t. I wanted to cook for her. I wanted to take care of her. Shaking my head at my sappy thoughts, I began chopping the onion, carrots, and celery for the mirepoix.
I slid easily into my typical super-focused, forget-the-world-around-me cooking mode. The rhythms of chopping and predictability of heat and fat transforming into something new calmed me. Then the sound of Pete laughing uproariously pulled my attention away from the tomato sauce.
“That doesn’t sound like a British accent at all.” Pete shook his head at Beth. She shrugged and started reading out loud from a book from Pete’s school library in an accent that sounded a little like the crocodile guy from Australia and a little like an old-timey mobster from the movies I’d never been allowed to see as a kid. My lips twitched up, but I narrowed my eyes at my son.
“Peter David Campbell. Are you making Beth read you that book? You should be doing your own homework.”
Beth stopped reading and rolled her eyes at me, fondly I hoped. “No, Chef Grumpypants. He started laughing at this line from the book so I asked to read it and, well, this book is really good so I started reading out loud.”
“In that weird as hel—heck voice.” Pete caught himself before I made him put a quarter in the swear jar.
The two of them started laughing again and I couldn’t hide my smile.
* * *
It turned out Beth did her darnedest to help out with dinner. Pete had decided to head to the park with Jason and Hamlet in tow, promising to be back in exactly a half hour. For a few minutes Beth stayed seated at the kitchen table, filling the room with lighthearted chitchat. But as I started to wash the tender greens from her mother’s garden, Beth’s arms came around me from behind and she buried her nose in the crook of my neck.
“What are we thinking for salad?” Beth’s voice was warm and low, sending a small shiver rippling across my skin.
Drying my hands on a clean dishtowel, I turned and brushed a kiss over her cheek. Then another to her lips. She was so soft. I couldn’t get enough of the feel of every inch of her against me.
“How about you relax, huh?” I kissed her again. She smiled against my lips and shook her head.
“No thanks. I was thinking we could do a nice lemon vinaigrette and some blistered cherry tomatoes? Does Pete like fennel, because I could quick pickle...”
I pressed a single finger to her lips and grinned at her. “Sit down.” I dropped my voice a touch.
Beth’s eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before she scoffed. “You play dirty, Campbell.” With a dramatic sigh she hopped up on the counter, sitting too close to my cutting board for comfort. After a moment she let out an audible gasp and picked up her phone. “Shit. I totally forgot to mention it to you!” She angled her phone toward me, but all I could make out was an email on the screen.
“Mention what?” I asked, wiping my hands on a clean towel and coming close to her to look at the message.
“You might already know about this but if not you guys should totally sign up. Might be a good way to connect with more of the locals as the season ends. Not that you need the prize money.” She raised her eyebrows and tipped her chin down.
I decided to let that one slide. Plus she was right. Riccardo had more money than he knew what to do with. “Sign up for what? That font is so dang small I can’t read it.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s an email from the Port Catherine Business Association. Autumn Fest is at the end of the month. When I was growing up it used to be kind of a cheesy thing they put on to try to get the last little bit of tourist money they could before it got too cold for anyone to want to visit. But I guess a few years ago it got featured on one of those Cuisine Channel shows, you know that one with the dude who eats all the weird stuff?”
Beth paused and I shook my head. I’d never followed the cooking shows. Never had the time or interest. I quickly checked on the sauce, which was slowly reducing to a perfect silkiness.
“Anyway, he came up to try the truly disgusting lobster tomalley candy our neighbor Dan used to make. Since then it’s become kind of a foodie thing. People in town with nothing better to do, such as my father, judge a competition for best seafood supper. The prize this year for first place is three thousand dollars. That money should definitely be going to the food pantry but I’m gonna enter since I could really use some cash to expand our dining room.”
I could feel my confusion register on my face. “If you want to win why would you want me to enter?”
Beth shrieked with laughter. “Damn, you’re awfully confident.” She slid down off the counter and brushed her lips over mine. “I�
��m winning this one. Hands down. Just thought I’d try to make it a little more of a challenge for myself.” Her fingers fluttered up the back of my neck and into my hair. A hot shock of desire coursed through me. Desire for Beth. And desire to win.
I covered her mouth with mine, savoring the taste of her lips. As I pulled away I whispered low in her ear, “You’re going down, Summers.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t get my focus back. The normal level of longing I felt in her presence had been cranked up by the thought of competing with her. Beth’s gaze followed me around the kitchen, and I found myself seeking out any small excuse to touch her. The meatballs were simmering in their sauce, the pasta water was on to boil, and my salad prep was done. I crossed the small kitchen to stand between her knees.
“I see you went the Caesar route for the salad. Classic. I’ll allow it.”
“It’s Pete’s favorite. Been a while since I made it for him.” I shrugged, not admitting it was my favorite too.
Beth brushed my hair back from my face and scooted closer to me. “He’s really lucky to have you. We both are.”
All I could do was kiss her, but her words kept me smiling all through dinner.
As Pete cleared the plates, Hamlet hot on his heels, he paused to look back at me and Beth. She’d pulled her chair up close to mine as we got into it about the merits of white chocolate. Beth argued that in small amounts, good quality white chocolate could elevate the flavors of other ingredients in desserts. Since I knew better, I argued it should be banned as a hideously sweet toxic substance.
“Are you sleeping over, Beth?” Pete asked, setting the plates next to the sink. His eyes flicked from the two of us to the kitchen window. The sky was almost dark, the deep blue right before night.
“Oh.” Beth’s cheeks pinked. “Um, I—”
“I have sleepovers all the time. Well not all the time, but I slept over at Jason’s house and it was really fun. One of his dads even let us stay up late to watch Saturday Night Live.” He shot a sheepish glance in my direction. I pressed my lips together. A little TV wasn’t going to hurt the kid.