“I don’t think I have a choice.”
ERIC LEAVES USDANGEROUSLY alone with a bottle of wine as he disappears into the kitchen.
“You must have known each other for a while,” his mother comments, a glass of wine in hand as her gaze wanders across the restaurant.
“Not really.”
I take a sip of wine, nervous now.
“Yet you seem to know everything about him. It’s as if you’ve known him for years.”
“I just try to understand him,” I say diplomatically. “And to listen.”
“I assume Frederick has told you about us –about the family.”
“Not really, to be honest.”
She nods slowly, sipping at her wine.
“He keeps us at a distance. He keeps us out of his life.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I just sit in silence, waiting to see how this conversation will pan out.
“He thinks we don’t approve of his choices.”
“And do you?” I ask instinctively.
She looks at me. “Eric grew up following a predetermined path. He knew when he was a child that he’d have taken his father’s place one day. But somewhere along the way, something got lost. It wasn’t easy for any of us.”
“What? Knowing that what he wanted was different from what you wanted for him?”
Eric’s mother raises an eyebrow. “You said you didn’t know much about him.”
“There are some things you can just see.” I take another sip of wine, my gaze falling over to the kitchen, where Eric has just appeared with two waiters. “Some things you can feel inside you, as if they were yours.”
“Are you in love with my son?” Eric’s mother asks me out of the blue.
I smile politely. “With all due respect, Mrs. O’Shea, I don’t think I have to tell you.”
“Here we go,” Eric interrupts before I can say anything else. “Guinness-glazed lamb cutlets with pumpkin purée and gratin potatoes.” He places a plate in front of his mother. It smells delicious, inviting.
“And for you…”
He looks at me. And not the way he looked at me yesterday, or last week. Or the way he looked at me when I set foot in the restaurant tonight. He looks at me in a new way – a way that’s all his. A way that hurts.
“Filet mignon with mushroom sauce, sweet potatoes, and asparagus.”
“Thank you.” I blush for no reason.
Eric sits with us as the waiters place his own dinner down in front of him, as well as our side dishes, before turning to leave.
“What did you make for yourself?” I ask, curious.
“Fettuccine with a lemon and chicken sauce.”
“You are a pasta lover…” I comment stupidly. “Of course,” I add, taking a drink before I can say anything else.
“No one knows me better than you.”
