I almost laugh at the thought. Just as the question leaves his mouth, Colt walks in and sits next to his son.
“I’ll take whatever he’s having,” he says to me. “Please and thank you.” I walk to him, bend down and give him a soft, chaste kiss on the lips.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “And my champion can get me all the flowers he wants.”
“Good. Now, go make my sandwich.” He winks at me.
“Watch this, kid,” I say to Evan. “Colt, I’m going to make Evan some real cookies. Not the stuff with the sugar substitute. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”
His head snaps up, but I can see the amusement in his eyes.
“I know better than to argue with a woman, especially one who’s going to make me a sandwich.”
“Me and Vickie are going to learn to knit together,” Evan announces to the kitchen.
“How long was I in the room?” Colt asks.
I roll my eyes at him and Evan giggles. “Hurry up so we can go to the store.”
Evan shoves the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and runs off to get his shoes.
“You know,” Colt says. “Shopping for groceries together is very traditional. Just so you’re aware, there will be pictures taken of us together.”
“Are we going or what? You talk too much, and I’m really in the mood for cookies.”
He raises both hands up in surrender. “Yes, ma’am, but I want my food first. And this knitting thing.” He pulls me close and looks into my eyes. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman who knits. You seem more of the cashmere sweater buying type. Cute little hat with matching scarf type. And mittens. I’m picturing it now.” He raises his eyebrows, and I shrug.
I get up and butter the whole wheat bread and put the first slice in the skillet. “Whatever. I’m going to find us a class.”
“Oh, a knitting class with Evan.” I hear him stand and walk around the kitchen. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into his body. “You,” he says, brushing my hair off the side of my neck and kissing the exposed skin, “are the most amazing woman.”
THIRTY
Picturesof us together are tweeted almost immediately. There’s one with Evan on my shoulders while I hold Vickie’s hand. There’s another one of us at the checkout line where Vickie offers cash before I can put Evan down to take out my wallet. The absurd caption reads “Did Colt the Bolt Chastain find himself a sugar mama? “The third picture is when we step outside, and I put my arm across her shoulders to hold her close. This time, Evan is holding her hand.
It was a great evening. The two made cookies while I got a workout and stretch from my personal trainer. Whatever resistance Evan had regarding Vickie is gone. He talks nonstop in the store and at home. He runs around the kitchen, doing her bidding, practically bouncing off the walls in his excitement to bake.
When I emerge back into the kitchen, Tara, Vincent, and Ethan are there, eating cookies and talking. The kitchen smells great, and after the boys grab a few more cookies, they both leave for Evan’s room.
“Tara brought more devil’s milk into your house. Whoops,” Vickie says. She breaks a cookie in half and hands it to me. I stick the entire thing in my mouth and reach for another.
“I’m glad you two are here. I want to invite you to a little dinner party I’m throwing while my mother is here. Maybe after we win and before we leave for Alabama.” I snake an arm around Vickie and pull her to me, surprising her. “Queen Vee has very graciously agreed to meet Mary Leigh Chastain. Watch out, you two,” I say pointing at Ethan and Tara. “You’re no longer the best-looking couple in Manhattan.”
Tara laughs at me and says, “You guys can have Manhattan. We’re taking the entire northeast.”
“The world, baby,” Ethan says.
THIRTY-ONE
Two days before
“You haveto make sure you rest and make all your practices. Listen to Coach Walsh, and don’t forget to pray. I’ve been prayin’ all season. I think this will be your year, Son. Another year to bring a championship to Manhattan. And I love that it’s one of our own from Alabama that’s bringing them all these wins.” I listen to Mama on FaceTime. She has her eyes closed tight when she mentions praying. I would hope the Lord has better things to worry about than my championship, but I don’t dare tell her that. Her eyes pop open again, and something changes. I can tell she’s going to talk about something I don’t want to discuss.
“I was thinkin’ I could bring your brother with me to New York. He’s been killin’ himself at the restaurant and—”
“No, Mama.” My voice is firm but not hard. She stops and stares into my eyes. When I was younger, I’d always look away in shame when she would give me that look. It’s a combination of sadness mixed with disappointment. I’d apologize and agree to whatever she wants, but not now. Not this time.
“Well,” she says, shaking her head as if that would erase my refusal, “where would we all be if we weren’t forgiven for our sins? Jesus died so that we could be saved.” I run a hand over my face and bite my tongue. This is not an argument that I want to take on, so I let her rant. “Do you know how many times in this life I’ve messed up? Or how many times your father, may he rest in peace, messed up? It’s only by His grace that we were able to move on.”
