“Let this play out, babe,” Gaston says, capturing his wife’s attention. She looks up at him and opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but he covers her lips with his thumb, cutting her off. “Let it play out.”
“Fine,” she mumbles against his finger; then her eyes come to me, and his finger drops away.
“Go have lunch with your husband,” I tell her before she can ask me the hundred questions I see in her eyes. “I’m good here and will be even better if you happen to stop somewhere on your way back and pick me up a burger with fries.”
“Anna—”
“Babe, let’s go get lunch,” Gaston cuts in, and she bites the inside of her cheek as she looks at me, the door, then back again.
“Don’t make Gaston carry you out of here. I’m good. Just go have lunch and feed that baby.” I look at her belly as she rests her hand on her stomach in a protective gesture. I know from our talks that she’s nervous about becoming a mom, but I have no doubt she’s going to be one of the best moms around.
“Okay,” she agrees reluctantly. “And I’ll bring you back a burger, but later, you and I are going to talk.”
“I can’t wait,” I joke, and Gaston laughs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leading her outside. When they’re gone, I close my eyes, wondering how I can feel equally scared and excited about the idea of seeing Calvin again.
Suggestion 3
DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP
ANNA
I place a carton of strawberries in my cart, then look at the shopping app on my cell phone, checking them off before scanning the rest of the list. Growing up, I never went to the grocery store. I just put what I needed on the housekeeper’s list, and like magic, it would appear the next day. In college, I didn’t cook or shop very often. Then later, when I got my own place, I used a service, so everything was delivered. And I did that after I moved in with Lance, because it was easier with both our busy schedules. I wouldn’t have thought I’d find wandering the aisles and picking things for myself enjoyable, but there is something relaxing, maybe even fulfilling, about the simple task of making a list and going to the grocery store.
“Anna.” I lift my head and frown when I see a woman I don’t know walking toward me, quickly pushing a cart that seems to be overflowing with food. She’s smiling like we know each other. “You’re Anna, aren’t you?”
“Yes . . . have we met before?” I ask, trying to place her. Since I started working at the bakery, when I’m out and about around town I often run into people who’ve come to the shop, but she doesn’t look familiar.
“Oh Lord,” she says with a laugh as she reaches out to grasp my arm. “Please excuse my manners. I’m Elsie, Calvin’s mom.”
Calvin’s mom. Holy cow. My heart drops into my stomach.
“Pearl mentioned you had red hair and that you were very pretty, so when I saw you, I just knew it was you.” She shrugs, giving my arm a squeeze before dropping her hand away. “So what are you doing here?”
“Umm . . .” I automatically glance at her shopping cart and mine, and she laughs, catching me off guard with the exuberant sound.
“You’re shopping. Of course you’re shopping. What else would you be doing at the grocery store?” She waves her hand like she’s wiping away the question.
I giggle, unable to control it, and her eyes brighten with humor. “Sorry,” I say.
“For what? Laughter is the best medicine.” She presses her lips together briefly. “At least that’s what the plaque in my kitchen says.”
“Are you sure you’re Calvin’s mom?” My eyes widen, and I want to snatch the question back, but it’s too late. It’s already out. “Sorry, I mean . . . he’s awesome, great really. It’s just—”
“Don’t apologize,” she says, cutting off my rambling. “I know my son can be a little gruff. He’s like his father in that way, but I promise once you get to know him, you’ll find out he’s also sweet.”
Sweet? I wouldn’t describe Calvin as sweet. I’d describe him as hot, forward, and aggressive. Or maybe he’s just hot, and the rest was just the impression he gave me the last time I saw him, a week ago. Not that I’m counting the days or disappointed he hasn’t kept his promise of seeing me again.
“Trust me: he’s a big softy.”
“I don’t really know your son that well, but I’m sure you’re right,” I say while fighting the urge to laugh. Even not really knowing the man, I can imagine what his reaction would be to his mom describing him as a softy.