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The hedge surrounded the back part of the property, only interrupted by the trunks of two large trees. The real estate agent had mentioned that the previous renters kept a vegetable garden, the remnants of which were still visible at the far end of the outdoor space, just waiting for a few seeds to bring them back to life. Given that I had never successfully looked after a plant in my life, I was more than happy for that spot to remain empty.
“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to one-up your date with what’s-his-name? The one who hated picnics,” I said, remembering our conversation from many moons ago.
Sophie, who was busy unfurling the blanket and smoothing it out on the grass, laughed loudly, her voice ringing pleasantly. “Oh gosh! I didn’t even think about that. Now I can’t stop thinking about you and Shaun vying for my attention over a picnic basket.”
“Me and my big mouth.”
“You have a lovely mouth.” She grinned and settled down on the blanket. “And don’t worry, I have many other good memories of picnics I’d rather focus on. Like Danny and I always used to have them in our backyard under the big willow tree.” She leaned on an outstretched arm and folded her legs on top of each other. “My dad didn’t have the heart to cut it downeven though it blocked a ton of sun from the house. I swear my mother resented him for it. It was always cold. Even in summer.”
I joined Sophie on the blanket, unable to wipe the smile off my face. My cheeks ached from all the smiling I’d been doing over the weekend, and it had carried into today. Sam had even looked me up and down this morning and told me to get a grip, saying that I was glowing like a pregnant woman and that I was embarrassing myself.
“Just so you know,” I said, hoping to justify the motive behind choosing the evening picnic instead of sharing dinner at the table, “the real reason I thought about having a picnic is because it used to be a tradition for me.”
“Did you picnic all by yourself, Alex?” Sophie teased.
“Nope. With my mom. Every Sunday morning, no matter the weather. Rain or shine, we were at the park.”
Memories came rushing into my mind like flashes of lightning—just the two of us, Mom and me, sitting on a gray fleece blanket, eating cinnamon buns and drinking soda while the world ran in circles around us. For those two hours every Sunday, our lives felt perfectly normal, as if my mother wasn’t working herself to death to support us, as if my father wasn’t a selfish ass who had chosen the easy way out.
Sophie’s gaze was on my face, her eyes bright and her bottom lip caught behind her top incisor. She switched arms, leaning toward me instead. “You haven’t told me much about her. Or really anything about your family.”
“That’s not true. I told you that she liked camping.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “That’s like saying she liked eating apples.”
I laughed, then reached for the picnic basket, lifting up its lid and digging my hand blindly into the assortment of foods. My fingers touched the small tubs of pasta salad, a small jar of marinated olives, and a packet of something I suspectedheld two brownies but could also have been a pair of Nutella sandwiches—Sophie’s cravings were all over the place.
I had just pulled out a container of sliced cheese when Sophie’s hand reached out, her slender fingers encircling my wrist. “You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to,” she remarked, as if sensing I was purposefully steering clear of any more mention of my mother.
And to be honest, Sophie was right. The subject was touchy for no other reason than that my mother had died far too young, from a disease that would’ve been treatable if she had only stopped taking care of me and started taking care of herself.
“Just so you know,” she added, “I would love to know a bit more about our babies’ grandmother.”
Sophie had a point. To not speak about my mother would be an injustice to her memory.
Besides, we were getting to know each other, the deeper intricacies of each other’s lives, and parents fell into that mix.
“Alright then,” I said, fetching the crackers and giving a cheese-layered one to Sophie.
“Her name was Agnes but everyone I knew called her Aggie.”
“I like that name,” said Sophie, watching me with her head tilted to the side as if she was trying to read my thoughts.
If only she knew what I was thinking, it would be so much easier to explain how I felt about her. How even before she was pregnant, before we slept together, she had already made a huge impression on me. Everything about Sophie drove me crazy—her smile, the way she laughed so loudly and freely and shared so easily; the way she teased me like she was desperate to get a reaction out of me and then flashed that triumphant grin when she succeeded, or looked at me so trustingly, as if I could solve all her problems when she was upset.
Sophie chewed on the cracker and I continued. “My mother studied art but never got to make it a career. You won’t believe it, but I was an accident. A complete surprise.”
“Well, at least our babies can relate to that.”
“Should we tell them one day? Out of the blue, like my mother told me. A real shock to the system, to be honest. It felt like I was finding out a secret I wasn’t allowed to know.”
She laughed, not caring that her mouth was still full of crackers. I did too, enjoying the way our voices rang across the garden, imprinting on the trees the walls, and the decks. This perfect, blissful, no-worrying-about-Vicki moment would be remembered forever.
Once she had gathered herself, Sophie said, “How about we tell them when they’re teenagers and driving us mad?”
“Great idea,” I said, reaching for the two plastic wine glasses I’d packed in the basket. I poured us each a glass of grape juice and handed one to Sophie.
She took it and asked, “So is that why your mom didn’t pursue a career in art?”
