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She chewed on her bottom lip, her brown eyes conciliatory as she gave me a slight nod. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” I relaxed a little, even though I knew that she’d probably conveniently forget about our agreement in a few days. A week, tops.
“So tell us all about your trip,” she said, changing the subject like a pro.
I gave her a small smile. “Italy was amazing. The architecture, the smells, the food, the art…”
Jacob made sure we did everything under the sun, but I still felt like there were countless things to unearth and discover. Her eyes widened as I told her about the hotels and dresses and the jets and cars. I left out the bits about Rachel, she still was a client and now that my mother was buddies with people dying for a juicy story, the last thing I needed to do was serve Rachel up on a platter.
“So when do we get to meet Jacob?” Mom was practically salivating, rubbing her hands together with anticipation. I didn’t dare tell her that he wanted to come home with me today, but I wasn’t quite ready for the ‘meet the folks’ stage.
“He’s pretty busy getting settled back in after the trip.” I lied, almost blushing at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
You want to meet them?
Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the two people that helped create the most deliciously stubborn woman I’ve ever met?
“Well maybe you can bring him to Mass one Sunday.” When she saw the ‘hell no’ written on my face, she added. “Or Sunday dinner.”
My mother was from the South, born and bred in the church and since my dad was pretty much a Catholic in name only, he adopted her faith. I had not so fond memories of Sunday school and spending summers at bible camp. Once I was eighteen and living on my own, church was the first habit I kicked and I had a feeling Jacob had no interest in spending his time in church when we’d spent the last month doing all sorts of highly sinful things.
“I’m starved,” I said, diverting the conversation to safer waters. “Anyone want a sandwich?”
She stood up immediately. “Let me get you some leftover spaghetti.”
I followed her in the kitchen, finally beginning to unwind—until the house phone shrilled to life.
“I bet that’s Lucy,” Mom said with an uncomfortable chuckle when she saw the dark glare I threw at phone. “She and I usually catch a matinee Thursday afternoons.”
“Uh huh,” I grunted, not believing that for a second. We both knew that was some photographer or tabloid writer, dangling some juicy carrot in exchange for a picture or lead on me and Jacob. But once the phone stopped ringing and the room filled with the fragrant aroma of tomatoes, peppers, and garlic, I forgot my annoyance and turned to grab a couple of plates. My mom began spooning out pasta and I stepped forward to help.
“Let me do that, Mom.”
“I got it.” The firmness in her tone left no room for contestation. “You can set the table.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of tea, filled the cups, put out napkins and lined the placemats with utensils. I sat in my seat, my mouth watering as she brought over two plates. We both ate in silence for a few minutes and it was pure bliss to not focus on anything but the taste of the food.
“This is delicious,” I said finally. Even though I’d had her spaghetti countless times before, it felt like the first time.
My mother flashed a warm smile before she took a sip of her drink. “It’s Grandma Nathalie’s recipe.” Grandma Nathalie was my father’s mother. She’d come to the states from Sicily with her family when she was a child. “She gave it to me after I married your father.”
I knew what was next, but it didn’t stop me from hoping she wouldn’t go there. “And I’ll give it to you when you marry Jacob.”
I stabbed at my salad with swift, vicious strokes. “Even if I did cook, I won’t need the recipe, Mom.”
“Of course you will. Even if he can afford fancy restaurants, there’s nothing like a good, home cooked meal.”
Other than the obvious fact that Jacob and I were nowhere near the wedding planning stage of our relationship, my mother was conveniently forgetting that the last time I’d tried making a home cooked meal I’d nearly burned our house down.
“Actually, I think Jacob is more likely to the cook the meals.”
Her brown eyebrows arched in surprise. “He is?”
“Well, I’ve only had his breakfast,” I said after swallowing a forkful of spaghetti. “But it was killer.”
“Huh,” she said with a chuckle. “I would have guessed the only thing he knew about cooking was it being something the help did.”
“Nope,” I said, pride settling on my skin like a warm blanket. “He’s actually full of surprises.”
