Odd Mom Out

I blink, turn to look at Shey, who is still smiling, but the curve of her lips is faintly ironic. We both know it’s not easy. Never has been, never will be.

For a moment, neither of us says anything, and the only sound is that of metal clanging and the shouts of the ferry workers down below.

“I am going to get more involved,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’m going to volunteer to help out at Eva’s school—”

“But it’s not just for Eva, it’s for you, too. It’s so you can have friends here and be included—”

“With the Bellevue Babes? The Eastside Barbies?”

Shey laughs, and it’s low and throaty and very Texan. “Now I remember why we became friends.” She looks at me sideways. “You needed me. No one else could handle being your friend.”

“We’re off!” Eva cries from the railing, and I can feel the deep vibration from within the ferry. We are indeed moving.

Shey and I rise from our bench and join Eva at the railing. The water churns blue green with foamy white, and as we move we gradually begin to pick up speed.

The wind blows our hair, and the sun shines down, hot, bold, reckless. The sun doesn’t have anything to worry about. It’s old, it’s strong, and it’s seen everything.

Eva, I think, circling her shoulders with my arm, is still just learning everything for the first time.

And as I stand behind Eva, my arms around her shoulders, her heart beating beneath my hands, I think I am, too.

After we disembark from the ferry, Shey catches a cab to the airport, and we grab one to take us in the opposite direction, north to Lake Union, where we left our car at the terminal for the seaplane.

Once I’m at the wheel again, I drive to Bellevue and stop at the grocery store to pick up what we’ll need tonight for the barbecue.

Eva wants to stay in the truck and read one of her magazines she found stashed behind the bench seat. It’s a tattered issue of Town & Country Weddings, but she’s delighted to reread an old friend.

I park near the front, tell Eva to lock the doors and if she gets nervous at all to come inside and find me.

Eva just buries her head in a Mexico beach wedding layout, and I finish talking to the top of her head.

I shop quickly, knowing exactly what I need: chicken, barbecue sauce, corn on the cob, some cans of baked beans I’ll doctor to make taste even better, and some garlic bread. Eva wants to make a cake, she’d mentioned it earlier, so I’m hustling to get all the shopping done so we can go home to get the cake made on time.

I’ve just grabbed four white husked corn when I step back and ram right into someone. I was moving quickly, so I hit hard, a slam of bodies and red baskets that sends me reeling backward.

“I’m sorry,” I exclaim, certain I’ve just run over a little old lady. But it’s not a little old lady.

It’s him.

The real him, the guy who passed me in the fog on Saturday, the man who literally took my breath away.

I stare at him, and he’s even bigger now, up close. “Are you okay?” he asks, putting out a hand to steady me.

I feel the warmth of his hand on my arm even as his deep voice registers somewhere inside me. He’s big, thickly muscled, with a wide chest and long legs and an intense gaze. I can’t tell if his eyes are blue, green, or both.

“Yes,” I answer, dazed, far too fascinated by everything about him. I’m tall, but he’s huge. He’s a mountain. His shoulders would fill my truck.

“That was a pretty good hit.” His gaze meets mine and I can’t read his expression, but there’s such an intensity in his eyes that I don’t look away.

I exhale hard even as I grow warm. He intrigues me on so many different levels. He’s big. He’s powerfully built. And he’s flat-out gorgeous.

Just as I process that he’s not like anybody I’ve ever met before, and certainly not like the men around here, I also realize I’m staring openly.

I’m blushing now, all the way from my chin to my forehead, my skin so hot that I’m grateful when the water in the produce section kicks on, misting the vegetables. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you.”

“I’m fine, too.”

I see a flash of white, straight teeth as he smiles. “That’s good.”

He’s teasing me, and flushing, I shove the ears of corn into a plastic bag. “Well, have a good day.”

“You too.”

I rush off then, my legs not entirely steady, but knowing that Eva’s in the car keeps me hurrying. I grab a pint of strawberries and then look for the right selection of chicken breasts, legs, and thighs. Scooping up the chicken, I see him from the corner of my eye. He’s picked up a case of beer—Alaskan Amber—and now he’s selecting steaks, a pack of big, thick New Yorks.

I’m so afraid of being caught staring that I head for the checkout line. Honestly, I haven’t felt this gauche in years. You’d think I’d never been with a man before.

I’m standing in line when I realize I forgot garlic bread, but as I still have time before it’s my turn, I leave my basket on the ground to hold my spot before dashing to the bakery for a loaf of French bread.

He’s behind my little red basket when I return.

I peek into his basket as I slide back into my spot in line. Steaks, beer, potatoes, and lettuce. My kind of meal.

My kind of guy.

I can feel him behind me in line, too. I can tell he’s looking at me, watching me, and I want to say something to him, want to turn and speak to him, but nothing comes to mind. What would I say, anyway? Nice day. Great weather for a barbecue. Looks like you’re eating steak tonight.

Ridiculous. I’m feeling very ridiculous, yet when the young female cashier takes my basket to start ringing up my items, I glance over my shoulder and end up looking him right in the eye.

Crazy, I think, this is crazy, but I totally dig this guy. I’ve been thinking about him ever since my run on Saturday morning, and here I am, feeling practically dizzy with desire.

I’ve always thought how clichéd romance novels are. Around the hero, the heroine’s pulse races so fast that she can hardly think, much less breathe, but that’s exactly how I am right now.

It’s exactly what I feel.

Dizzy, breathless, dazed.

“Are you a QFC Advantage member?” the clerk asks, and I jerk myself back around, force myself to finish the transaction, my hand trembling as I input my home number, which is also my Advantage number, and then swipe my debit card.

The cashier’s phone rings, and as I wait for her to finish the call, to push whatever buttons she must push to let me escape, I just grow warmer.

I’m so aware of the man behind me that my nape, back, and hips burn, my skin hot and sensitive everywhere. I’m also now aware that my jeans are frayed and my red tank T-shirt is faded and has some bleach marks near the hem. In short, I’m a mess, and my hair needs washing, and I wish I looked better, wish he weren’t so close.

Then like that, the cashier’s call is ended, she pushes the approval button, rips off my receipt, and hands it to me. “Have a good day,” she chirps.

“Thanks.” I smile self-consciously. “You too.”

I’m leaving now, exiting through the sliding glass doors, and as I go, I feel a whoosh of disappointment, the same disappointment I felt in Friday Harbor when I spotted the man who wasn’t the right man.

But this one—the one I bumped into in the store, the one who stood behind me in line—this one has done something to me, and my body’s acting as though he is the right man.

My body’s acting as though he is my man.

I leave the store, searching for my sunglasses in my bag, as I walk out into the late afternoon sunshine, and then my keys. I’m still digging around in my bag when Eva leans out the truck window.

“Mom,” she calls to me, holding out the cell phone. “Grandma’s on the phone.”

As I near the truck, she covers the phone and adds, “And

I think she’s mad at you.”

I drop the bags in the back of the truck and take the phone from Eva. “Hi, Mom, it’s Marta.”

“Where are you? What happened? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

“We’ve been gone just two days, Mom.”

“It’s not been two days.”

“It has,” I say, leaning against the truck, the door smooth and warm against my back. It’s as I’m leaning there that I see him again, and this time he’s climbing into his own truck, a battered Land Rover.

His Land Rover isn’t the typical Range Rover driven in Bellevue. No, this is a proper Land Rover, an old beat-up beige four-wheel-drive vehicle that looks as if it’s really seen service in Africa, bouncing up and over rain-gutted roads, tracking big game, logging serious miles beneath a blazing sun.

He drives past me, his window down, his tan left arm resting on the sill, and as he drives past, his gaze meets mine once again. Our eyes lock, and for a moment I forget my mom, I forget Eva, I forget everything but those intensely focused eyes of his and that firm, not quite smiling curve of his lips.

“Marta? . . . Marta,” my mom repeats, trying hard to get my attention.

“I’m listening, Mom,” I say quickly, pushing dark, heavy hair back from my hot face and watching the Land Rover disappear from the parking lot.

He’s hunky, too hunky, with a body to die for and an ass and legs that look perfect in faded Levi’s.

“So where were you?” Mom demands.

“With Shey, on Orcas Island,” I answer, gathering my wits and climbing into my truck.

“Shey?”