The drizzly morning matched Amanda’s mood as she battled for a parking spot near the upscale restaurant. She punched the pedal of her red Toyota hatchback, sped past a Starbucks and a Talbots to nab an empty space from a retreating SUV.
Wheeling in to a squeaky halt, she bared her teeth to the rear-view mirror to check for lipstick smudges. She snapped off the radio and grabbed the leather handbag Mother bought her for Christmas in college: It’s a classic, honey. You’ll carry it for the rest of your life.
She hadn’t cared for the light shade of the purse, but it was no use arguing with Mother. Besides, she was usually right.
Usually, but not always. This time, Mother was wrong.
Leaping over pothole puddles, Amanda gave herself a pep talk.
She would not argue. She would state her case, pass on the information, then leave. Mother could take the news however she wanted, Amanda’s only job was to tell the truth.
Then she’d treat herself to an afternoon of watching movies with Mark. Maybe she could cheer him up with the Three Stooges or Blazing Saddles. Something silly, to make him laugh.
News of the meeting with James had sent Amanda into a tailspin, yet Mark seemed determined to finish out his tenure as best he could.
It was almost as if the firing hadn’t taken place. They never really talked about it, and Amanda hadn’t seen Mark get angry, or sad, or even call James ugly names like she did in her heated moments.
He didn’t seem to fear what would happen next, where they would go or what they would do. He simply went to work each day like nothing had ever happened. When she pushed him, he’d say, “It’ll all work out. Give it time, and everything will be okay.”
Amanda didn’t see how, but she believed him anyway.
Inside the overcrowded French café, fresh-baked quiches lay behind sparkling glass and rotisserie chickens spun like headless dancers on steel rods. Amanda spotted Katy Thompson seated at a corner table, cozied up to the riverstone fireplace, partially secluded by a palm. Mother insisted on the best tables. She’d been known to move three times in one dining experience.
“Morning.” Essence of rose swept over Amanda as she kissed her mother’s cheek. The familiar smell she’d known forever. The scent of perfection.One she’d never quite been able to mimic. As a girl, she’d doused herself from the heavy bottle on Katy’s vanity, but it wasn’t the same. On Amanda, the fragrance had become loud and clumsy and she’d taken a steamy bath with deodorant soap to hide the embarrassment.
If Mother noticed her daughter’s theft, she never said so. But a week later, Amanda found a pretty gift set on her own bathroom counter, full of beautiful soaps and a small vial of fresh scent. When Amanda tried it, it suited her.
She still had one of the soaps tucked in a drawer somewhere, knowing even as a child not to waste it all.
At the brunch, Katy dressed in fabulous shades of taupe and burgundy red, which offset her golden highlights. An unobtainable high-end form of panty hose, known only to Junior League presidents and sometimes favorite underlings, encased her slim ankles.
“Amanda.” After air-kissing her daughter’s cheek, Katy Thompson gave her a cool once-over, then sat down and stirred coffee. Not cappuccino, but the blackest roast with the heaviest cream.
A dark-haired waiter, wearing an oxford shirt under a white apron, brought a breadbasket with muffins and biscuits. He took their order and gave Amanda a warm look, more personal than customer service required.
I’m pregnant and the waiter’s flirting with me. He’s ogling a mommy, and doesn’t even know it.
She smiled impersonally into his Tabasco-print tie and grabbed the biggest muffin. She was starving, and the dense carbs might help settle her stomach.
While they waited for their food, Katy released a slender cigarette from a metallic case. “So, how’s your preacher friend? Mark, isn’t it?”
Preacher friend. Somehow the woman spoke condescendingly of both Mark’s chosen profession and his relationship with her daughter in two callous words. Highly irritating.
Amanda forced a smile, marveling how her mother could smoke a cigarette and look like a 1940s silver-screen diva. Her own attempts at the habit in high school, practiced in front of a mirror, had made her look more like trailer trash.
“Mark’s great. And you know his name.” Amanda spun the slim ring on her finger, left hand hidden under the heavy tablecloth. She nibbled her muffin and watched her mother smoke.
The silence seemed heavier in a room filled with chatterers. Katy’s complacency reminded Amanda of an old Western, the proud and beautiful Indian chief high on a horse.
An impasse, she thought. We are at an impasse.
Careful not to let the stuck-together ice slap back in her face and soak her shirt, Amanda wet her mouth with the chilled water. “Actually, that’s part of the reason I wanted to have breakfast this morning. To talk about Mark. And me,” she clarified, clearing her throat. “Mark and me.”
“And here I thought you wanted a pleasant brunch with your lonely, old mother sheerly for the sake of my company.”
Amanda let that slip by. “He’s really wonderful.” She hated that she had to promote Mark, to soft sell him to anyone. Mark was better than wonderful-he was glorious, tender and brilliant. If Katy Thompson couldn’t admit that, this might be the quickest brunch in history. “You just need to get to know him.”
Katy blinked curled eyelashes, singly defined with jet-black mascara. No comment.
“We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Amanda added. “I want you to like him, Mother. I need you to accept him. For me.” She fought the urge to plead, hating that sound in her voice. The mama-won’t-you-approve-of-me whine that accompanied every boyfriend, every dress she ever picked out, every new job or life choice.
Amanda pressed on. “He’s the one.”
“The one?” Katy’s brows shot up. “How could you possibly know if he’s the one? You’ve been dating for less than a year.” She ground out her cigarette for emphasis and removed another from the case, snapping the lid shut.
Chain-smoking. Not a good sign.
“Now, if you would date other men-it’s not like I don’t care for Mark-but more professional men like I’ve introduced you to, maybe you would have some frame of reference. Instead of limiting yourself.” Katy shook her head at the pity of it all. “So exclusive.”
“Is it the exclusivity that bothers you? Or the fact Mark doesn’t take home six figures?”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
“Mother, I don’t need a frame of reference. I know. We love each other.”
“Well, of course he loves you, Amanda. You are beautiful, gifted, smart and young. Far too young to tie yourself to a preacher who will never be able to support you in the way you are accustomed. Trust me.” Katy took a deep drag, the thin burn line pulling halfway down the cigarette. The tower of ashes, a miniature Pisa, held on, leaning, before she flicked it in the marble ashtray. The tower didn’t disintegrate but fell, broken in two, atop the other ashes.
“Mother.” Amanda twisted the linen napkin in her lap, making a storkish-looking bird shape. “I love him,” she repeated. She met her mother’s gaze. “We’re getting married.”
Through the elegant swirls of smoke, Katy Thompson’s deep blue eyes widened, then narrowed.
Amanda brought forward her hand to reveal the ring. The marquise tilted to the side and slid upside down. She balanced it so the diamond would show.
Katy squinted at the ring as if to assess the quality of the stone, then leaned back and brought the dying cigarette to her matte red mouth. “It doesn’t fit.”
“We have to take it in.”
“He didn’t know your size? Nice.” Katy ran a buffed fingernail over her lips, examining her daughter.
Amanda felt like a one-celled microorganism under her stare, with no supporting skeletal structure.
“Are you pregnant?” Katy’s voice broke the quiet. Almost a whisper, but piercing.
“Yes.” Amanda hooded her eyes and fiddled with her fork.
“On purpose?”
“Mother!”
“I know how much you want to have a family. It’s what you’ve always wanted since you were a little girl with your dolls.”
The ones you wouldn’t let me play with, high on the shelf, too precious for my awkward hands.
“No, not on purpose. But I’m not sorry.” Amanda lifted her chin. “I’m ready for a family, with Mark. To make a life together, build a marriage.” Not like yours went unsaid.
“I understand about the baby. It happens.” Katy sniffed. “To the best of us.”
The Thompsons’ shotgun wedding still sent kicks through the family, aftershocks Amanda felt on nearly every birthday. Ben Thompson, a redneck pilot from nowhere, landed a society bird dripping in oil money. Opposites attracting, but not sticking. Loosely jointed for two and a half decades, always on the verge of collapse.
Amanda had asked her father once when he knew for certain he loved her mother. “Why, I guess when her daddy left her all that money,” he drawled, then popped the tab on his beer. The worst part was she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. The idea of being locked in a marriage like her parents’ kept Amanda awake some nights.
Which is why she knew Mark was perfect for her. She made him laugh and he loved her for it, flaws and all. He didn’t hide out in the garage, like her father, but reveled in all the world had to offer. Effortlessly gliding through the social channels with the skill of a chameleon. Everyone loved him, so how could she not? Goldenboy.
Besides, Mark and Amanda had it. Whatever it was, that intangible thing, a gut-level connection. They didn’t seem to struggle as much as other couples, but had an almost rhythmic, unspoken communication.
They faced their first real hurdle with this early pregnancy, and Amanda could admit, it was a doozy. Still, she thought they both handled it rather well.
Katy sighed, and sat silent for a moment. “So, it’s a done deal then.”
“Yes.” Amanda refused to slump or cry under the weight of her mother’s resignation. It blanketed her, but she would not wrestle against it, knowing it would only tangle her further.
She looked at her mother, and kept her expression clear. I will not cry. I will not fall apart in this snooty uptown restaurant with unbelievably delicious quiche. I wonder if I could get another slice to go?
“I never wanted you to repeat my mistakes.” Katy’s voice could barely be heard.
“It’s not a mistake. I know what I’m doing.” Amanda watched the headless chickens spin, oil shining on their flanks. Twirling. Imprisoned for the delight of the feasting diners.
“You don’t have to go through with it.” Katy leaned forward. “You know I’ll help you… whatever it takes.”
“I know.” Amanda wiped a wayward tear. “But this is what I want. I want Mark. I want this baby.” She was off the silver spindle, ready to dance on her own, to break free and begin her own adventure. With Mark, her favorite person, at her side.
“You’re sure?”
“No question.” Perhaps she hadn’t started in the right order, according to some, but she’d landed the man of her dreams. And a baby too. Not too shabby for a rich girl from Houston, destined to serve on volunteer committees in the best panty hose.
Katy nodded once. “Don’t tell your father. I’ll do it when the time is right.” She stamped out the cigarette butt with a final tap, signaling an end to that strain of conversation.
She cradled Amanda’s cheek with a tobacco-scented hand. “It’s going to be okay, baby.”
The tenderness in the endearment nearly slayed Amanda’s bravado, but she nodded and accepted the gesture.
Katy Thompson shifted back and surveyed her daughter over an ivory coffee cup. “We’ve got a wedding to plan, little girl.” And with that announcement, she bestowed her first genuine smile of the morning.