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Just closing your eyes and breathing in the salty sea air is enough to bring a comforting solitude.
“You’re being intentionally vague,” Emma remarks.
“It’s part of the fun, right?” Winking at her, I lead her up the gravel path toward the front door. Just as I lift my knuckles to knock on the door, it flies open, and I’m slapped in the face by the scent of fish, spices, and the underlying warmth of baking.
“Caspian!” My elderly mother grabs the front of my shirt and jerks me down to her height with surprising strength. Then her hands are on my face, turning my head this way and that as she checks me over to make sure I’m as healthy as I was the last time I saw her.
“Mother,” I laugh. I'm sorry I’m late; I had to make a detour.”
“You had me worried, you idiot,” she scolds, but it’s all in jest. “You’re looking thin. Peaky. Have you not been taking care of yourself, hmm? Come on, in. In, in, in!” She releases me and flaps her hands while striding deeper into the house. “And shut the door!”
Chuckling, I reach for Emma’s hand, and she takes it after a half second of hesitation. Her other hand works quickly to smooth down her blouse, adjust the belt on her jeans, and pat down her hair.
“Your mother?” she hisses at me as we step inside. “You brought me to meet your mother? God, I look a mess…”
“Relax,” I assure her gently. “You look amazing. You always do.”
With the door closed, I head deeper into the house and find my mother in the kitchen, her frail arms elbow-deep in flour.
“Mom, didn’t the doctor say you were supposed to be using the mixer now instead of your hands?”
“I’m sorry, are you a chef?” Mom snaps, fixing me with one beady eye. “Do you want bread that tastes like metal and laziness?”
Biting back another laugh, I shake my head. “You know I’m only concerned for you and your joints.”
“You worry about your own joints, sunshine,” she snaps. “Being that tall isn’t good for your body, I’ve told you before.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Maybe you should have distributed your genes a little better.”
Mom grumbles and returns to her kneading. Her hands move with a deftness and strength that doesn’t quite fit her frail form but her years as a top chef taught her all the secrets.
“Mom, I want to introduce you to someone.” Squeezing Emma’s hand, I encourage her forward with a smile. “This is Emma, the woman I told you about.”
“You told your mom about me?” Emma hisses out the side of her mouth, pink flushing over her cheeks. She steps forward and smiles brightly. “It’s lovely to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Do I look old enough to be a ma’am? Past my prime, they say.” A throaty laugh rises up from Mom, and she sets aside her dough, then picks up a towel to wipe stray flour from her fingers. She silently studies Emma for all of thirty seconds. Then she smiles brightly.
“Goodness,” Mom continues. “Look at you, so full of life. You see this, Caspian? When will you come to me looking this healthy, hmm? Look at that smile!” She approached Emma with speed unbecoming of her age and immediately pinches one of her cheeks. “Aren’t you just a beautiful thing now. I can see why he likes you.”
“Th-Thank you,” Emma replies hesitantly. Her hands clutch together at her waist and she sends me a nervous glance. “Sorry for the ma’am, I wasn’t sure what to call?—”
“Call me Betty, all my friends do,” Mom says, giving Emma one more glance then returning to the counter.
“Does this mean we’re friends?” Emma asks, and some of her sweet confidence leaks through.
“Of course we are,” Mom replies. “It takes a special woman to turn the head of my Caspian. He’s so stubborn. For years I was certain he was blind and simply couldn’t even see women.”
“Mom!” Even my complaint can’t hide the affectionate smile she brings out of me. “Sometimes it takes time.”
“A late bloomer, huh?” Emma grows more relaxed by the second and she winks at me. “Hot.”
“Oh my God,” I murmur under my breath. “This was a mistake.”
“Nonsense!” Mom snaps. “But make yourself useful. Lunch won’t make itself.”
She puts us to work quickly. Emma joins her in making the bread and I take over basting the fish. Mom asks Emma enough questions about herself to fill a book, but Emma answers them all in her stride. The conversation then turns to art and when we sit down to eat, Mom brings out some of her proudest pieces. She was a fantastic artist back in the day before arthritis took her chef career and her artistic capability. Now, she just dabbles, but she is clearly the source of my own artistic talent.
“As soon as he picked up a brush, I knew,” Mom says between bites of fish and freshly baked bread. “He has an incredible eye for beauty. And then he breaks my heart and goes into teaching.”
