The second she was off the phone with whoever made her cry again, she got a call from her mother, and I knew that from the “I can’t talk now, Mom. I’m about to eat the world’s greatest omelet.” There was a pause. “Croy made it for me.” Another pause. “Oh, I wish, but no, he belongs to Dallas.”
And I was going to correct her, but she put the phone on speaker and put it down on the counter so she could take the plate I passed her.
“Mom, he made hash browns too. From scratch. I watched him grate the potato.”
“Are you serious?”
“You’re on speaker,” she said with a snicker before she dug into her plate.
“Croy?”
“Hello,” I said, horrified that I was talking to the mother of a man I hadn’t even known for a full twenty-four hours yet.
“You’re cooking for my daughter?”
“Yes, ma’am. She looked like she needed some food.”
Cate moaned in the background as I poured her some orange juice and put buttered wheat toast down beside her plate.
“Is it good?” her mother teased her.
“Ohmygod, Mom, it’s so good.”
“Well, I will definitely need to come see, then.”
What?
“You’re almost a half an hour away,” Cate reminded her.
“Normally, but the way I drive, it’s more like fifteen.”
“She drives like a maniac,” Cate assured me.
“I was coming to check on the state of your brother’s refrigerator before yoga, so I’m almost there anyway.”
“Likely story,” Cate whispered, happily rocking back and forth in her chair before she raised her voice. “Listen, Dallas isn’t awake yet, so don’t be noisy when you come in.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Dallas is sleeping.”
More silence.
“At eleven thirty in the morning?” she finally said.
“We’re working a case together,” I informed both women, “so we were up late last night.”
“Are you with the FBI as well?” Cate asked between bites.
“No, I’m a private contractor in town from Chicago.”
“What?” Cate gasped.
“Oh heavens, no,” his mother said and then hung up.
I flipped my omelet, adding the cubed ham and mushrooms, red peppers—because I didn’t like the green ones—and an excessive amount of cheese.
“Is she actually coming over here?” I asked Cate.
She nodded, back to looking sad.
“So, tell me why Women’s Wellness Center is a no-go.”
“Oh,” she said, deflating, “well, I wanted to call it Stirrups, because we have this sort of western theme going and because, yes, we offer counseling that doesn’t include therapy horses, but the horses are a huge part of our business.”
It explained her outfit, the riding boots that had seen better days and the breeches, as well as the dirt on her pale blue polo.
“And you have a partner, or partners?”
“Partners,” she explained. “Two of them, both counselors like me, and they feel that calling it Stirrups makes it sound like we’re a gynecologist’s office or something.”
“And your contention is that Women’s Wellness Center misses the mark as well.”
She nodded.
“I understand the idea of stirrups,” I told her, swallowing my bite before speaking, because I wasn’t raised in a barn. “Because they help you up, keep you balanced, assist with control, and even allow you to rest.”
“Yes,” she almost whimpered. “Exactly. You get it.”
“But I can see where your partners might think stirrups would lead to thoughts of an obstetrician.”
She groaned loudly.
“What about Shepherds?” I asked her. “Because I understand what you’re saying, but I think some women might feel like you’re comparing them to cattle.”
“Really?”
“It’s possible,” I said gently. “But I think with something like Shepherds, you still have the steering component, but hopefully no one will think of sheep that are more traditionally cared for because you keep them. It gives off the same vibe as the steered, driven, guided thing, and you shepherd people along, not in the sense of sheep but in the sense of mentoring and guiding. And you can still get the sheep-horse connection, because horses are used in the corralling of flocks, right? You’re not driving something somewhere to eat and drink, but instead you’re guiding them. You need a logo that denotes shepherding the recovery of your people through––”
“Yes!” she squealed, grabbed her phone and was already talking to, I was guessing, her partner, or partners, when the front door opened and a woman came through.
She was older, maybe late fifties, early sixties, and she was in yoga pants, some high-end walking shoes, a white polo and, much like her daughter, had a purse that she could easily fit a small child into. She took off her oversized Prada sunglasses as she crossed the floor to the island.
“Good morning,” she greeted me, holding out her hand.
I took it, squeezed gently, and smiled, because I liked her smile, the same one she had gifted to both her children. She had given her son his gorgeous bone structure, his sunset-colored hair, though hers was darker, as was Cate’s, but not his eyes. Hers, like Cate’s, were a lovely, bright Caribbean Sea blue, not the storm-washed depth of her son’s.