Odd Mom Out

“Marta . . .”

“I travel all the time. There could be an accident. Plane, car—”

“Of course I’d take her,” he interrupts gruffly. “But I wouldn’t just want weekends and holidays. She’s my granddaughter. She’s you. She’s your mother.” And then his face tightens, lines deepening everywhere. “She’s all that I love best.”

I bite down hard. My dad isn’t a complicated man, and he’s not a particularly deep man, but he has spent most of the last fifteen years taking care of his women. “I’ve met someone, Dad.”

“Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome with a Harley?”

I crack a smile. “It’s a Freedom bike. And how did you know?”

“Your daughter tells me everything.”

“Does she?”

He nods, but there’s a soberness in his eyes that tells me he’s worried, he’s worried about all of us. Here he is at sixty-eight, and nothing in his world seems as secure as it once did, not with Mom slowly disappearing, not with his only child single and raising a child of her own.

“Why aren’t you spending Christmas with him?” he asks bluntly.

“He’s coming over later tonight.”

“After your mom and I leave?” Dad guesses.

I smile wryly. “He’s a good person.” And just thinking of Luke, I get that blasted lump again, the one that fills my throat and makes my chest hurt. My feelings for him have gotten so strong and there are times, like now, where I don’t want to feel this much.

“Why don’t you invite him over sometime when we are here?” Dad’s trying to sound blasé. He’s not succeeding. I know he’s interested. He told me once he wouldn’t sleep properly until he had me settled.

Settled.

The expression used to annoy me, but it’s actually beginning to sound better and better, because settled no longer means settling, but comfortable. Safe. Secure.

Maybe at thirty-six going on thirty-seven, I’m ready to settle down. “Maybe I will.”

“How about dinner the Sunday after you get back from Whistler?”

“Dad.”

“I’ll throw some steaks on the grill. We’ll keep it casual and friendly.”

“Dad.”

“Afraid we’ll embarrass you?”

I think of Luke, and my heart turns over. “No.”

He waits, silent. And knowing him, I know he’ll just continue to wait. He’ll wait forever. I sigh, push the hair back from my face. “If I do invite him for dinner at your house, it’ll just make everything more serious. You know, take it to the next level.”

Dad collects the dessert plates and stands up. “’Bout time.”

The week we spend in Whistler, British Columbia, between Christmas and New Year’s is better than the best medicine in the world. Eva and I have a great time. We ski and ice-skate and sit in the hot tub outside the hotel and laugh as the snow falls on us.

One night we indulge in fondue at a little Swiss style restaurant. Another night we eat steaks and ribs and huge potatoes. The next night we stay in our room and watch a movie and get room service.

Then Luke arrives, the day before New Year’s Eve, and he has his own hotel across town, so we shuttle back and forth, comparing his accommodations with ours. We, Eva concludes gleefully, have the better hotel.

New Year’s Eve, the three of us attend a party hosted by someone none of us know, but Luke being Luke Flynn gets invitations to all sorts of things, and Luke thought Eva might enjoy a proper New Year’s Eve gala, one of those parties where everyone dresses black tie and dances in an ornate ballroom and drinks expensive champagne.

I hadn’t brought anything so fancy with us, so Eva and I go shopping in downtown Whistler and hit every boutique we can, searching for a proper party dress.

I find a simple black gown that’s cut on the bias and hugs the figure, and Eva falls in love with a midnight blue velvet dress with a lace collar. With dresses and new shoes, stockings and coats and purses, we head to the hotel to dress.

The New Year’s Eve party is crowded and very posh, but Luke’s wonderful sense of humor keeps Eva and me in stitches.

With the clock and crowd counting down the time, I stand with Luke and Eva with our party hats and noisemakers and wait for the New Year.

The hour strikes, brilliant bits of confetti fall, and Luke lets me kiss Eva, and then he kisses me, and as we stand there, the three of us, I think, This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life.

My man. My child. My family.

By the time we drive home on New Year’s Day, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll hire that young ad executive I liked so much, the woman who wants to relocate from San Francisco to be closer to her boyfriend in Seattle. I’m going to give her the Trident account, and I’m going to take Freedom Bikes. And the New Year will be prosperous, less stressful, and happy.

Especially happy.

I do exactly what I resolved to do.

I hire Beth on Tuesday, put her on a plane to New York Thursday, and Friday afternoon I jump in my truck and head to Seattle to attend my first meeting with the Freedom Bike Group’s executive board.

I’m definitely nervous, though. Frank had sent me bios on everybody, and I’m the only female in the bunch. But I wouldn’t be here, I remind myself as I park and take the elevator up, if I didn’t have something to contribute.

The meeting is held in Freedom’s new office space, and everyone’s already in the conference room, mingling.

I recognize a few faces from the last time I was here, but I don’t see Frank, and I’m disappointed because he’s at least one person I know.

Then I freeze, and my smile falters. I do a double take. Luke. Luke?

What the hell?

My pulse quickens as everyone begins to take a seat. I wait for Luke to look at me, make eye contact, but he doesn’t. It’s not until everyone’s seated and I’m the only one left standing that I force myself to move. Into the last open seat, the seat at his left.

Hell. Hell, hell, hell.

My legs feel like fire pokers as I make my way to the table. I’m so upset that I can hardly see straight. What is Luke doing here?

How is he connected with the Freedom Bike Group?

“Join us, Marta,” a voice booms from the far end of the table, and it’s the man I recognize from the first dinner I had with the group, the one with thick gray hair and an equally thick gray handlebar mustache.

I shift my briefcase to the other hand and slide uncomfortably into the seat next to Luke.

His half-smiling eyes meet mine as I sit down.

I’m not smiling. I’m livid. Beyond livid. What the hell is going on?

Little spots dance before my eyes. My head swims.

“Breathe,” Luke mutters. “You’re about to turn blue.”

I’d object, but I can’t. He’s right. I am holding my breath, and I force myself to exhale and then inhale, and exhale. But the breathing isn’t helping. I’m just getting more and more upset.

I know he’s looking at me, but I refuse to glance his way again. I’m shaking in my seat. My arms, legs, and hands tremble with shock and fury. I don’t want to be sitting here feeling this, either. Freedom is business. I’m here for business. I’m here to work.

Which leads me back to Luke. Why is he here? And what is his part with Freedom?

The man with the mustache, R.J., calls the meeting to order, and we’re to go around and introduce ourselves, giving our name, our title, and anything else we feel is pertinent. R.J. starts, and the introductions go to his right. I’m listening to the introductions but taking in only about half of what everyone is saying, as I’m too aware of Luke to my left.

When it comes to Luke, he says the least of anyone so far. “Luke Flynn.” And that’s it. That’s all he says.

R.J. laughs. “Our Luke is a closemouthed guy.”

Our Luke. So R.J. knows him well, quite well, if he refers to Luke Flynn that way.

Luke meets my gaze and arches an eyebrow

.

Deliberately I turn away, my gaze sweeping the table. “I’m Marta Zinsser, president of Z Design, a Seattle-based advertising agency. I met many of you in October, and as you know, I’m a big fan of Freedom Bikes.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Luke shift abruptly. He’s scribbling something on the pad of paper in front of him and slides it toward me.

I look at the paper and what he’s written: “Even though you ride a Harley?”

Looking up, I meet his eyes, but I can’t smile. I feel sick. Dead. This is a trick, I think, but I don’t know what the trick is yet to understand it.

“What are you doing here?” I write on the pad of paper.

He scribbles back, “I’ll tell you after.”