“It’s not without difficulty,” I answered honestly.
“Your momma must be so proud. I watch our grandchildren once a week and they are the joy of my life. I bet your momma likes watching your kids just as much.”
My chest tightened. Elaine’s words made me miss my mom with so much acuity, my heart ached. It was a wound that never truly healed. Even though the sting of grief had eased with time, it never truly left. It was dormant, awakening at odd times, forever tinging my life’s happy moments, like a photograph in sepia tone.
Polite smile in place, I responded, “My mother passed away when I was young. But she would’ve been a wonderful grandmother. After all, she was the best mom.”
Unlike me,the uncharitable thought floated around me, unbidden.
* * *
Thirty minutes of torture later, our brunch was over. I, as always, excused myself to the bathroom so I didn’t have to spend more time with my father than necessary.
As I washed my hands, I studied myself in the gilded mirror. Staring back at me was a stranger, someone with blonde hair smoothed into a sleek chignon, polished makeup, and high-necked navy dress. The epitome of demure. Despite the makeup, I could see the traces of dark circles under her eyes and the tightness in the set of her mouth. Like there was someone trapped underneath her perfect mask, just waiting to be set free. Elaine’s words came back to me:Your momma must be so proud.
This was not who I was supposed to be by the age of thirty-eight.
Stepping to the side, I glanced down, inspecting the aquamarine velvet peep-toe heels I’d worn today. I’d taken note of my father’s sneer four weeks ago when I wore my favorite red high heels. But I still couldn’t bear to wear ugly shoes today—or any of the other Sundays I’d come here. It was a small sort of rebellion, I suppose. Shoes and books had become my own joy-filled escape. If I could have a secret room that was all books on one side and all shoes on the other, it’d be my own personal heaven.
“Maybe in another life,” I whispered to the sad woman in the mirror before walking out.
The humidity of the early July summer enveloped into me as I went outside to collect my car, the large stone portico shading me from the direct sunlight. Glancing at the valet stand, warmth suffused my body. And no, it wasn’t the cloying Tennessee heat. There at the podium, not seeing me yet, was Jace.
Four weeks ago, at my first Sunday brunch, I’d used the valet service because I knew my father would expect it. Jeffrey had dropped off the Tesla the night before and told me to use it on Sundays—appearances and all that—as they both felt my Nissan SUV didn’t give off the right (and I’m paraphrasing here) “vibe" to his constituency. Then, having forgotten to bring money for a tip, I’d had to dig around the center console praying I’d find cash. I’d found cash alright, two twenty-dollar bills, nothing smaller. After palming one of the twenties, I whipped around to find a young man holding my door open.
Jace, his nametag had read. His black polo highlighted his strong shoulders and defined biceps, making him look like a living, breathing gym advertisement. He flashed a friendly smile at me as strands of his long curly brown hair fluttered in the wind, falling just past his cheekbones. He looked young, early twenties at most, but still young enough that I had no business noticing him. I definitely shouldn’t have noticed his bright hazel eyes that danced with humor or the fact that the dimple in his left cheek was deeper than the one on the right.
Then, he called mema’am, breaking me from my spell. Sure, it was the South. Ma’am’s were dropped all the time. But that word had the undesired effect of making me realize that I’d been checking out a guy who was possiblya whole adult person younger than me—a thought that still made me want to stab a pen in my eye.
So, I unfortunately panicked and gave him all the cash in my hand.
An entire twenty-dollar bill.
Then after brunch, I’d felt obligated to tip Jace my other twenty bucks, the only other cash I had on me, when I picked up my car.
And even more unfortunately, because he kept being here every single Sunday, and I didn’t want to make him feel like he’d done a bad job, I kept up the same routine.
If you’re counting, that makes the cost of parking my carforty whole dollarseach week.
But I digress.
I took a deep breath in and started toward the valet stand. Jace’s eyes lit when he spotted me.
He’s only acting like that because he knows he’s going to get another incredible tip, moneybags.
He started walking toward me, his expression set in that laidback way of his, just on the edge of a smile, causing my legs to go all melty. And like they were fourteen-year-old cheerleaders, my hormones started waving poms-poms in the air. I painted on a polite expression and told my body to cool it.
“Y’all set?” His lilted Tennessee accent was liquid honey. Ignoring my suddenly dry mouth, I nodded as I reached into my purse for the valet ticket.
“How was your brunch?” he asked, starting in on what I’d describe as our typical post-brunch conversation. It had been the same conversation every week.
“Good.”
“What’d you get?”
“The omelet and hash browns.”
After this, he usually smiled, took my ticket, and walked off. But today, his face fell.
