Seven Brothers of Sin

But then I hear my mom’s voice again.

“Hello there!” Marsha squeals, throwing her arms around a tall, fit blonde. Even though they’re about the same age, the two women look completely different. My mom is short and pudgy. She hides it well behind professional clothes, but there’s no doubt that Marsha’s wider than she is tall.

By contrast, this woman is long and lean with toned arms and legs, perky breasts, and a great tan. She’s got a short, blonde bob and wears designer sunglasses and a bright blue beach cover-up. She could be a tennis instructor at a fancy country club, or a professional golf player.

“Macy,” my mom calls, gesturing to me. “Come and meet Mrs. Morgan. You remember Mrs. Morgan from next door?”

Slowly, I get up and make my way over. Up close, the blonde is even more tanned and athletic, bursting with health. This is Mrs. Morgan? How in the world does she have seven kids? There’s no hint of pooch on her belly, her abs tight and firm. Damn, I’m always fighting my gut, and I haven’t even been pregnant once.

But Mrs. Morgan smiles widely.

“Hi there Macy,” she says. “Long time no see.”

“Hi,” I say, head down, holding out my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

I figure we’ll shake, but instead Mrs. Morgan takes my hand and pulls me in for a hug. Then she holds me away, her hands on my shoulders, giving me the once over.

“Look at you,” she burbles. “Looking healthy after your first year away.”

What? How come these middle aged ladies get to say whatever they want about my appearance? First my mom, and now this?

“I, um,” I start to say, glancing down and flushing.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she interrupts. “The boys like a little meat on a woman’s bones. You’re just gorgeous. I’ll probably have to cage my boys to keep them from bothering you all summer.”

She’s always been kind, but it doesn’t make me feel better as I consider that she’s probably double my age, but half my weight. God.

But Mrs. Morgan is real nice, and there’s nothing scary about the woman. So I manage a reply.

“Oh thanks,” I say, trying to appear confident. “Where are your boys?”

I feel weird saying boys because by my count, they’re not boys at all. I think the youngest is probably nearing thirty and the oldest is probably in his forties. Not boys at all, nope.

“All on their way home, actually,” she says, stepping over to claim a lounge chair. She tosses her towel and bag down and slips fancy sandals off. “Unfortunately, Ted had a stroke recently.”

Oh no. Immediately, I feel terrible. Here I was worrying about inconsequential stuff while her husband’s gravely ill?

“I’m sorry,” is my sincere reply, sitting next to her on the deck. “I think my mom did tell me that. How’s he doing?”

But instead of replying right away, the blonde turns to my mom, arranging platters of food along a table near the house, and yells, “Marsha, do you need any help, honey?”

My mom waves a dismissive hand at her. “No, dear, you and Macy go ahead and catch up.”

Mrs. Morgan turns back to me. “Sorry, sweetie, what were we talking about?”

“Mr. Morgan’s stroke,” I say slowly.

That brings her back to reality.

“Oh yes,” she says, eyes shimmering with tears suddenly. “The stroke was so scary. And surprising. Ted is such an active man. We cycle together twice a week and run together three times a week. Just shows that you can’t outwit Mother Nature.”

“But,” she continues, taking a deep breath. “Some good has come out of it because the boys have all agreed to come home for a bit of the summer. Their dad needs extra help and it sounded like the right time to have everyone under one roof. I wish it were under easier circumstances,” she says reflectively. “But when crisis strikes, my boys band together.”

Wow. They definitely must be a close-knit family, which is so unlike my relationship with my parents.

“That’s awesome,” I say sincerely. “I’m so glad to hear you’ll have your sons’ support.” And at that moment, I see a guy fiddling with the pool gate. Mrs. Morgan hears the scrape of the metal as well, and turns, clapping her hands.

“You’re gonna get a chance to meet one of them now,” she says to me with a smile. “Mattie,” she calls. “Come say hi to Macy.”

Mattie? What kind of name is that? I had a boy Cabbage Patch doll way back when, and his name was Mattie. It’s cute, in a spunky, go-getter type of way.

But no way is the guy walking towards us a Cabbage Patch. The opposite in fact. Because the man’s a god, all strong thighs and washboard abs. Holy smokes. My lady parts are all in a twist just looking at the alpha’s jet-black hair, sparkling blue eyes and five-o’clock shadow.