Aisha whisked another rack of mugs from the counter and lowered them into the steaming bleach solution in the big double sink. Late afternoon sunshine filtered through the dining hall’s kitchen windows, dappling the counters, making the pine cabinets shine, and turning a bowl of apples on Jo’s bright yellow vintage table into a glowing work of art. How much she loved this place was really getting on her nerves. She let out a small huff of annoyance.
Jo misunderstood the sound. “You’ve been working all day. You’re clocked out. Why don’t you let me do this?”
“I like to help. You know that. Besides, what else would I do? Mo’s having a tea party or something with Sam.”
If it struck Jo as odd that Aisha only referred to Sam as being Mo’s grandmother when Mo was around, she didn’t let on. Instead she made a hard to interpret “Hmm” sound, then asked, “Everything okay?”
Leaving the new tray to soak, Aisha had grabbed tongs and started to remove the first batch of freshly whitened and brightened mugs from the scalding rinse water. Now she stopped mid-motion to glance at her aunt.
“Yep, all’s fine.”
“There’s nothing wrong? You’re sure?” Jo hefted another tray, teacups this time, onto the counter beside Aisha.
“I’m sure. Nothing’s wrong. Or nothing real anyway—and definitely nothing that has anything to do with you and Callum. You guys are great.”
Jo hesitated for a breath, then pressed on like the straight shooter she was. Just one of the many qualities Aisha loved about her aunt. “How are things with Sam?”
Okay, on second thought, sometimes she wished Jo would just avoid uncomfortable, awkward conversations like a normal person. Not that she was any better than Jo usually, but she fully embraced her double standard. Being direct was far more of a plus when you were the one being direct, not the one being targeted by the direct person.
“So, it is something to do with Sam?” Jo pressed when she didn’t answer right away.
“No, it’s not Sam. She’s fine. We’re fine.”
And that was generally true—but their relationship was still strained for Aisha, even after nearly four years. Maybe it always would be. She had all the issues you’d expect someone to have when they had unresolved grief over the loss of their mom and then their dad got remarried too soon. Okay, the “too soon” was unfair. It hadn’t been that soon—just Aisha couldn’t seem to stop hating the fact her mom had to be replaced at all. And that the new wife, the replacement, also happened to be Aisha’s biological mother was just, well, ugh.
Yet she was the one who’d sought Sam out—for advice on what to do when she found herself in her birth mom’s shoes, pregnant at seventeen—so it was a bit stupid to resent her presence. Of course, she hadn’t foreseen Sam falling for her dad or becoming a permanent part of her life as her stepmother, or she might’ve reconsidered the whole bio-mom search. Except that . . . it was also great to have Sam around. She genuinely liked her. Most of the time. And admired her. Often enough, anyway. Plus, Mo deserved every crazy-in-love-with-her adult that Aisha could provide her with. If she ended up dying young too, she wanted her daughter surrounded—absolutely surrounded!—by strong women and a big supportive family. And speaking of which, last but not least, searching for Sam had gotten Aisha Jo. And River’s Sigh. And even, in a roundabout way, Mo herself.
Jo was patiently scrubbing away at a particularly tough tea stain ringing one mug. Aisha sighed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just a loser these days. I’ll get myself figured out.”
“That’s it!” Jo’s rubber dishwashing gloves made sharp sucking sounds as she snapped them off. “I’ll finish these later. We’re having a coffee break and then you’re out of here. Go work in your shop, visit Katelyn and brainstorm new upcycling ideas, draft floor plans, or have a nap until Mo returns, I don’t care—but I won’t listen to nonsense. You are the furthest thing from a loser. The furthest thing.”
Aisha removed her gloves too, let herself be pushed onto a vinyl-seated, chrome-legged chair, then accepted the steaming coffee mug Jo shoved at her. Her docile acquiescence made Jo’s big amber eyes narrow with even deeper concern and suspicion.
Before Jo could say another word, Aisha raised a hand. Her short fingernails, painted with shiny black polish, caught the sun and gleamed with a maniacal cheer that Aisha wished she could feel again. “Just stop. Please. You’re right. I am kind of going through some stuff. I’m worried that maybe I’m stagnating here. I love it—but is that healthy? I’m twenty-one, and I live like a sixty-year-old.”
Jo gave Aisha’s vintage rock T-shirt and neon blue skinny jeans a pointedly dubious look.
“I didn’t say I dressed like a sixty-year-old. I said I felt like one.”
The gentle teasing in Jo’s expression fell away immediately. She sipped her coffee and waited for Aisha to continue.
“No, that’s not it either, not really—or it’s just part of it.” Aisha scrunched her face and rubbed her temples. “Fine,” she said resignedly. “It’s not going away on its own, so I might as well tell you. It’s two-fold, I think. Maybe three. I don’t know.”
Jo nodded like Aisha wasn’t a totally annoying drama queen—a kindness Aisha appreciated, but didn’t extend to herself.
“First, yes, as you guessed, it’s Sam. I know it’s pathetic, but I’m still confused about who we are to each other, really—who she is to me. She’s Mo’s grandmother, sure, but everyone acts like she’s my mom and . . . I don’t need that. I had a mother, a really great one.” Aisha broke off, trying to figure out exactly what she was trying to say, but, as ever it seemed, failing epically. She exhaled a blast of frustration and cracked her knuckles. What did she owe Sam? Anything? What did she owe her deceased mother, except everything?
Jo cleared her throat as if to speak but didn’t, so Aisha continued. “Second, I thought I’d be doing something important by now—making a difference of some kind, running my own business, helping reduce the amount of stuff that goes into landfills. . . . Instead I’m living this cushy, pampered life—and ugh . . . I don’t know!”
Jo winced and her eyes grew shiny. “And the maybe three?”
Aisha looked down at her hands which were folded—more like clenched—in her lap.
“I’m lonely,” she wanted to say, but didn’t. How could she without sounding, without being, ungrateful? She had Mo. She had Katelyn, her best friend and a true kindred spirit. She had her dad, and Jo and Callum, and yes, even Sam—plus a myriad other friends and acquaintances of varying degrees of closeness. Besides, she worried enough about prematurely losing people she loved, as it was. The last thing she needed was someone else to be concerned about. “Nothing,” she said finally. “I’m just being dumb about a non-issue.”
Jo waited a beat, a question on her face, but finally let it go. “Well, you know my advice about Sam, but I’ll say it again in short form—and I’ll repeat it as long and as often as you need me to.”
Aisha nodded.
“Don’t stress out trying to define your roles with each other. Let her be her, and let you be you. It’s enough. You don’t have to label it.”
Aisha nodded again, but it was easier said than done. Sam, as Aisha’s father’s wife and Mo’s grandma, was set up in a specific spot in Aisha’s life, no matter how Aisha fought it, or how much it chaffed. None of that meant Jo’s advice wasn’t good though; it just didn’t fit Aisha. She wasn’t as chill as Jo. She wanted concrete lines.
“And about the rest. You’re being insanely hard on yourself—”
“No!” Aisha inserted, ready to argue—and only didn’t because Jo held up her hand. Apparently stop sign hands were another genetic trait. Who knew?
“Hear me out. Your goals are intense, inspiringly so, and I’m positive you’ll meet or beat every one, but here’s the thing, Aish. You’re young. You may not feel like it, but you really are. And you have an amazing child who you’re doing a fantastic job raising.”
Aisha shrugged off the compliment.
“And you work your butt off here, so I’m not sure what your idea of pampered and cushy is, but dude, it’s sure not mine—and it’s definitely the furthest thing from your birth mama’s.”
Aisha shook her head and smiled despite her crappy mood. Whenever Jo tried to talk “hip” it was hilarious.
“And,” Jo emphasized, “I’m also sure that if what you really want is to have your own shop, you will. Look how much work you’ve done toward it already.”
Aisha thought of the bank account she’d managed to grow over the last three years—not huge, but not nothing, either—and in her mind’s eye, she saw her increasingly packed workshop, stuffed with secondhand goods and eclectic furniture pieces of all sorts, restyled or refurbished by her. And then she replayed the rumors of a new store opening downtown, and something inside her withered.
Yet didn’t the fact that she’d dropped the ball, hadn’t opened her business sooner and lost her chance, say something important that she needed to consider? Maybe she hadn’t merely been focussing on having enough stuff to sell and making sure she had enough money to support a year or two that might not see a profit. Maybe she’d been procrastinating for another reason. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I’m not sure about my shop idea anymore. You’ve heard the rumors too, I’m sure.”
Jo nodded pensively.
“So, what do I do? Move somewhere else?”
“Selfishly, I hope not.”
“Me too. I wish there was a way I could stay here forever without being a lame squatter.”
Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “You totally can stay here forever, and you earn your keep and pay and then some. If anything, I worry we’re taking advantage of you.”
Aisha laughed, and an idea flashed—then disappeared as Jo continued, “Don’t make any rash decisions, Aish. You were right, are right, when you said you’ll figure it out. And regardless of what you end up doing or not doing down the line, right now you’re already doing something important, something that makes a difference—raising Mo, helping me and Callum, just being you.”
Aisha snorted.
“I’m serious,” Jo said softly. “You don’t know how much I appreciate you, or how much having you as my niece means. I always longed for family and for connection . . . and now I have both. I’m sorry for the sappy word, but seriously, you really are a blessing.”
“Gross,” Aisha muttered.
Jo’s eyes crinkled with silent laughter. “I knew you’d like that.”
And that was the thing . . . Aisha did like it. She liked everything about her coddling big-sister-like aunt. It was the hugest part of her problem, the part she couldn’t bear to tell Jo: how deeply she loved being an integral part of River’s Sigh’s operations, how much she too enjoyed and benefited from this new-to-her extended family—with her dad and Sam on neighboring property and Callum’s brother Brian and Katelyn, her best friend and fellow maker-of-unique-things, on an acreage just north of them. How good she had it was making her apathetic, complacent and comfortable. The idea of moving on and being self-sufficient was terrifying—and that she felt that way was even more terrifying.
She’d always viewed herself as independent, spontaneous and willing to take risks. If she wasn’t those things, who was she? Confronting this scaredy-cat version of herself was—
Jo interrupted Aisha’s thoughts. “Also, give yourself a break. Angst is normal. You’re on the cusp of big changes. You never used to have a moment to yourself, between all your work here to support you and Mo, and her needing you every second you weren’t working.”
“But I loved that. I never resented—”
“I know that.” Jo’s eyes crinkled once more, and Aisha was struck yet again by how looking at her aunt—and definitely at Sam—was surreal sometimes. It was like gazing into a mirror that showed exactly what she would look like in another fifteen years or so. As a kid, she’d never felt deprived not seeing her features in someone else, but now that she did, she was continually floored by how weird and cool it was.
“And I’m not saying it wasn’t wonderful,” Jo continued, “and I know you miss Mo’s baby days in a lot of ways, but she gets more independent every second—and gee, who does she get that from, I wonder? When she’s in regular school, you’ll have even more wide-open days like this. You’re going to be able to move from dreaming and planning to doing. I know how terrifying that is.”
Aisha nodded. Jo really did know what it was like to want something desperately and to wonder if she could ever pull it off. Yet here she was, making a go of it. Plus, as skeptical as Aisha sometimes was about the notion of love-true-love, at least for herself, Jo was another unique soul—yet she’d found a true partner who shared the same passions. These days especially, Aisha felt there were things she was missing out on by being single. Her traitorous brain flashed an image of giant Jase scrubbing up in the creek.
“Aisha?” Jo sounded mildly alarmed.
“What?”
“Your face is bright red. What did I say?”
Aisha’s cheeks burned hotter still, no doubt giving the bowl of apples in front of her some competition. “Nothing. I appreciate your input. Thank you.”
Jo’s eyebrows raised. “Umm, you’re welcome?”
Aisha shook her head but smiled a little.
“Okay, quick subject change before I forget—”
Whatever Jo was going to say got cut off. The kitchen’s swinging door banged open and Sam appeared with her usual combo of dramatic flair and terrible timing.
“I have to say, Jo, the new landscaping guys are very, well, just very. Have you noticed?”
“No comment.”
“So you did!” Sam exclaimed triumphantly, then added conspiratorially, “I’m afraid I stared at the big one—but I’m sure he’s used to it. He must be. What is he, do you think? Seven-three? Four? Taller even? He’s . . . striking.”
“They’re employees, Sam. Young employees.”
Sam ignored her. “And the one who looks like he’s constantly in the middle of some photo shoot?” Sam waggled her eyebrows at Aisha. “Whew. Am I right?”
Aisha didn’t respond, so Sam turned back to Jo. “Seriously, we could do a hot guys of River’s Sigh B & B calendar as a fundraiser, starring those boys.”
Aisha bit back a grouchy sigh. It was an all too common, very annoying phenomenon: Sam muttering something out of the blue that closely echoed something Aisha herself had thought.
Sam grinned again. “They look like they’re around your age, Aish.”
Ugh. So not going to talk men with my birth mom a.k.a. my father’s wife, Aisha thought. She stuck her fingers in her ears. “Can’t hear you—and also you do know you’re married to my dad, right?”
“Oh, your dad won’t mind me ogling. I’m only human. Besides, he’d ogle them too, if he wasn’t such a prude.” Sam winked. “Not to mention, he’d make a super-hot addition to the calendar himself.”
Barf! Aisha was saved from having to respond, however, because the kitchen’s swinging door banged again.
“Mom!” Mo hollered, running in—and Aisha was more overjoyed than usual to see her daughter.
Mo twirled her hands in Aisha’s direction. “Grandma and I had mani-pedis. Aren’t they gor-geous?”
Aisha sighed. It wasn’t that she had an issue with nail polish. That would be hypocritical, obviously . . . just she liked it best when Mo spent her time doing kid things. She was only four, after all.
“And then we made mud pies in her real kitchen! Real mud pies out of real mud! In her real kitchen! It was hilarious! And then I hammered her door with a real hammer—well, not her door. A real nail was sticking out on the frame-thingy and we fixed it ourselves.”
Aisha blinked. Then laughed—though at what exactly, she wasn’t sure. True, Mo’s overuse of the word “real” always killed her. The kid was obsessed with the concept lately, ever since she’d realized that some things were pretend or imaginary and others were, as she noted again and again: real. But she could’ve just as easily been laughing because . . . Sam. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the complete contradiction the woman was. Her mother. Stepmom. Bio parent. Whatever she was.
“I’m gonna head out,” Aisha said, getting to her feet. “Mo and I are hitting the public swim in town with Katelyn and the kids.”
“For real? Yay!” Mo jumped up and down, making the three primary women in her life grin widely.
“Oh, wait, I just remembered. What were you going to ask me before Sam”—Aisha caught herself just before she said interrupted—“arrived?”
“Right! Thanks for reminding me. We have lots of advance warning, but apparently Callum’s mom is moving forward with the gallery show.”
“Really?” It was hard not to sound downright disbelieving let alone skeptical. How many times had Caren postponed the show? Like at least three times in two years. Aisha was almost surprised the gallery would still work with her, but then again, she was an amazing talent. . . .
Jo shrugged. “That’s what she says, anyway. Are you interested in making a few bucks running the bar?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. It’s a couple months out, and I’ll let you know when—if—I know more. I just wanted to get a sense of whether you wanted the work or if I should ask someone else.”
“No, I’m in. Definitely. Thanks.” Aisha herded Mo toward the door, then turned back. “Thanks for watching, Mo, Sam. I know she had a blast.”
“Anytime. I mean it.”
Aisha knew Sam was sincere and wished she didn’t feel a flash of irritation. Also, was it her imagination or did Sam look a little sad?
Mo rushed back from the door and threw her arms around Sam’s legs. “Good-bye Grandma! I love you!”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Any sadness in Sam’s face, imagined or real, dissipated as she bent down and pressed exaggerated kisses—“Mwah! Mwah!”—on each of Mo’s chubby cheeks, making Mo giggle madly.
The tiny awkwardness of the previous moment was instantly smoothed over, thanks to Mo—so why did Aisha feel so out of sorts?
“Come on, my girl,” she called and Mo, ever enthusiastic—and so endearingly free of reservations about any of the women in her life—skipped over and followed her out the door.