Odd Mom Out

“I’m here almost every day.” She grimaces. “Gives me something to do.”

“You’d never consider working part-time?” I ask, bundling my arms across my chest. “It sounds like it could be good for you.”

“It would”—she sighs—“but Michael needs me.”

We part just as it begins to rain. It’s a cold rain, too. Winter is on the way.

Reaching the house, I spot a huge, exotic floral arrangement at the door. After parking, I head to the front step and pick up the enormous glass vase teeming with flowers—it’s heavy—and smell the opulent perfume of plumeria and tuberose.

I carry the deep purple vase into the house to open the card tied to the front of it.

After flicking on the kitchen lights, I open the envelope. The card looks like Albrecht Dürer’s work, and it’s a woodblock print of a huge brown chicken.

I open the card and read, “Marta, scared yet? Luke Flynn.”

My lips twitch. Extravagant flowers. An artsy linen card featuring a big brown chicken. And a taunting one-liner.

Interesting. Luke must like playing with fire.

Chapter Eighteen

I return to the studio without the card or flowers. Since it’s Friday and the team works only a half day on Fridays, Allie and Chris have already left, and Robert is just shutting off his computer and cleaning off his desk.

“It’s going to be a wet weekend,” he says as I enter the studio, fat raindrops pinging against the studio’s glass door.

I drop into my chair at my desk, still thinking about Luke and his card. “It’s cold, too,” I answer, thinking that I very much like the sexy tension that sizzles and crackles between Luke and me.

I like that Luke’s bigger than me.

I like that he’s not scared of me.

I like that my motorcycle doesn’t have him running in the opposite direction.

I think I like him very much.

Robert grabs his leather satchel, shoves his laptop and paperwork into it, and, after throwing me a kiss, exits.

As leaves blow into the studio, I reach for the phone and the scrap of paper with Luke’s number and give him a call.

He answers on the third ring. “Luke Flynn.”

His voice sounds distant, and he seems distracted. “Luke, it’s Marta.”

“Marta, how are you?” The distance and detachment are gone. He sounds amused now.

The fact that I amuse him just makes me want him more. “Thank you for the flowers. Very thoughtful of you.”

I can feel his smile across the line. “That’s what I am. A very thoughtful man.”

That fizzy rush returns, and I find it hard to breathe. “You like chicken, then,” I say, my heart hammering so hard that I’m grateful my voice doesn’t come out a squeak.

“Are you inviting me to dinner?”

The husky sexiness in his voice has me running mental circles. Go-go-go, and I don’t even know where I’m going. The headless chicken racing around the poultry yard.

“I’m sure you already have plans for a Friday night,” I answer, and this time there is a faint catch in my voice, my crazy rush of adrenaline more than I can handle.

“I don’t. What time should I be there?”

I laugh and nervously tuck hair behind my ear. “You’re not serious.”

“I like chicken, Marta.” His voice has dropped, and it practically caresses me, flooding me with yet another rush of desire. Hope.

Luke Flynn is making it very difficult for me to remember why I chose a life of celibacy.

“But I’m serving pizza or pasta, something easy like takeout.”

“Even better. I’ll bring a bottle of red.”

“Luke.”

“Yes, my chicken?”

I’m blushing furiously even as I cough. “That’s horrible. Don’t say that again.”

“Would it sound better in French?”

“No. But if you want to come for dinner, be prepared for a boring girls night. Tonight it’s just Eva and me hanging out, probably watching one of her teen angst movies.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Sevenish?”

“Sevenish it is.”

Hanging up, I go weak all over, flabbergasted at my ballsy move. Not only do I call Luke, but now he’s coming for dinner.

To say Eva is excited about us having a male guest for dinner is like saying someone’s anxious to get off the sinking Titanic. Once I told her the news, she hopped around the house, asking questions and then making rapid-fire decisions on her own.

What are we going to eat? What will you make? How about your lasagna? That’s always good. Okay, lasagna.

If we’re going to make lasagna, we have to go to the store right now. Need to buy cheese and all the other stuff. What stuff do we need? I’ll start a list. Mom, tell me what we need.

And what will we have for dessert? What about that chocolate Kahlúa cake? Or the rum cake? Men like cake. And pie, too. I could make a cake or pie if you just show me how.

So what will you wear? I think it should be something pretty. Let’s go look at your closet now. Maybe the red dress? Yes, the red dress with high heels.

That’s when I put a stop to her plans. Lasagna will be fine. Cake is good. But no high heels and no red dresses. Yes, it’s Friday night, but this is my house, not a brothel.

We leave for the store. Eva wants to go to Whole Foods, but I don’t have time for such a megastore right now, so we hit the QFC close to our house, the one near the Chevron from the other fateful day.

I pick up the ingredients for lasagna and salad and garlic bread while Eva studies all the boxes of cake mix.

On our way home, she keeps tapping her foot. “How are we doing on time?” she demands, shifting restlessly on the bench seat.

“It’s not even four yet,” I tell her.

“Good.” She nods firmly. “We’ve got a lot to do. A lot.”

I glance at my daughter with her dark pixie cut and her gamine features, which will one day become more mature, and reach over to pat her knee. “I love you, Eva. Even if you make me crazy.”

She smiles back at me. “I love you, too, Mom. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

At home, I get to work making my famous homemade meat sauce (okay, famous in my own home, but that still counts for something), and Eva runs around straightening up the house. She vacuums while I put the noodles on to boil, and then while I start assembling the layers she pulls out the cake box, the mixer, eggs, and oil.

Eva and I have fun making the cake together. She loves baking and is the most serious measurer I’ve encountered yet, bending low to gaze eye level at the water and oil, scraping the bowl diligently, timing the beati

ng to the exact second since it’s science.

As I watch her divide the cake batter between the two pans, I smile, amazed, awed, proud. This is my little girl. This is my Eva, who gave me such a scare and put me on bed rest. My Eva, who insisted on walking early, talking early, who was so determined to grow up fast.

“Stop looking at me,” she says gruffly, her cheeks darkening to a gorgeous red.

“I can’t help it. I love looking at you. You’re my girl.” And I mean it in that deep, bone-aching way where I can’t imagine myself without her, can’t imagine how I’d get through a day if anything ever happened to her.

Do other mothers ever torture themselves this way? Do all mothers love their children so much that the love brings you to your knees?

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Do you still hate my hair?”

“I don’t hate your hair. I think it’s cute. It suits you. But do you hate your hair?”

She sets down the bowl, her fingers covered with chocolate cake mix, and licks one sticky finger. “No. I actually kind of like it. It’s different.” Her shoulders rise and fall. “I kind of like being different.”

My heart catches, a funny little trip, and even though I never cry, my eyes burn and sting. “You do?”

“Yeah. Like you always say, why be like everybody else?”

With the lasagna and cake baking, I go to my room to shower and change into something a little fresher, and there on my bed Eva’s laid out her favorite dress, the cherry red linen sheath with the halter neckline.

It’s a dress I’ve worn just once in New York for a summer party at Shey’s place, and Eva loved it so much that she talked about it for months after. She said I looked so beautiful, more beautiful than even Aunt Shey, and I looked not like a mom, but like a model from a magazine, and now it’s the dress she wants me to wear.

I touch the linen fabric, see how it curves at the waist and shapes the breasts, and I feel such a pang for my daughter who craves a glamorous mother. But I never wanted to be that Betty Crocker–Martha Stewart perfect woman, never wanted to be whipping up recipes in the kitchen in my 1940s frock and pearls and heels.