Ten Mountain Men's Baby (Love by Numbers 9)

They both looked at me, speechless.

I hadn’t given much thought to Mrs. Freedman’s proposal, aside from a few passing fanciful daydreams. I wasn’t even sure the suggestion was a serious one. But at that moment, I felt my parents were ganging up on me. They were callous and disrespectful—not at all the way I’d been raised. And I was upset and wanted to challenge them.

“She followed the blog of my hike through Nunavut. She thinks a fundraising campaign, a thru-hike of Appalachia would be perfect for me.”

I could see my parents getting more and more visibly uncomfortable, and that only served to fuel me on. “And I think she may have a point.”

Ellen put her hands down flat on the table. “But, honey, your practice?”

I smirked. “Let’s not forget: Felicity Freedman made my practice.”

“And she’s blackmailing you?” asked Chris.

“No!” I lowered my voice. “No, Chris, she’s not blackmailing me. I just mean that if she wants me to go on the hike, and if I agree, she can make sure my practice doesn’t suffer for it. That’s what I’m saying.”

My mother was outraged. “You mean you’re considering it?”

After a good bit of back and forth and getting no support from either of them—for a decision I hadn’t even made yet—I had to excuse myself from the table, go wash up, and cool down.

I needed to get home, have a drink with my roommate, see if I was out of my mind or if my parents were unreasonable as I suspected. I splashed cold water onto my face, looked in the mirror, breathed in and breathed out. Go back there. Change the subject. All’s well that ends well.

I never left my parents’ place in a bad mood, and I wasn’t going to start now. I was determined to end the brunch on a positive note.

When I returned to the backyard table, they were picking up, so I jumped in to give them a hand. Ellen and I took the plates into the kitchen while Chris cleaned up the grill. I stood next to my mom at the kitchen sink, she did the washing, and I did the drying.

It was impossible to stay mad at someone while doing the dishes together. After a few plates, I turned to her and said, “How are your teeth?”

She leaned her head back and opened her mouth wide.

I took a quick glance. “Looks good.”

“And how are your teeth,” she asked.

I leaned my head back and opened my mouth wide.

“Looks pretty good, as far as I can tell.” She handed me a dish to dry. “Any other life-changing decision I should know about?”

I pretended to give her question serious thought. “None I can think of, but I’ll be seeing Gwen later, so you never know.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You remind me of me when I was your age.”

I nudged her with my elbow. “And look at you. You did pretty well for yourself.”

“You think?”

I glanced around the kitchen. “I don’t know. Beautiful home, loving husband, loving daughter.” I pointed at her head. “And a stylish new coif.”

She handed me a dish. “You dry slowly.” But then she smiled, and I could tell that our argument was over.On my way home, I stopped off at the store, intending to get a bottle of rum. I ended up buying two bottles and a few limes.

“How was brunch?” asked Gwen.

“It was…” I pulled out the bottles and set them onto the counter that separated our open kitchen from the living area. “It was trying.”

Gwen is the hardest working person I know. She had saved up enough money to buy a café near the beach and had managed to turn it into quite a popular establishment. Consequently, even though we shared an apartment together, I hardly ever saw her. Starting a week ago, we’d decided we’d make a tradition of spending Sunday nights together at home, watching cheesy movies, and catching up. After that uncomfortable exchange with my parents, I was very happy we’d made that pact. I was also very happy to be drinking my third ti'-punch of the evening.

“Gwen.”

“That’s what they call me.”

“What’s the first thing you think of when you hear Appalachian Trail?”

Gwen burst out laughing.

“What? What is it?”

She nearly choked on her laughter and had to pound her chest to regain her composure.

“What’s so funny?”

She shook her head. “It’s such a randomly specific question.”

“I know.”

“And I have a randomly specific answer,” she said, blushing.

“And?”

“Well, when I hear mention of the Appalachian Trail, immediately I think of that politician. I can’t remember his name. I think he was from South Carolina or North Carolina.” She waved a hand in the air as if to swat away any objections. “I don’t know. One of the Carolinas, I think. Remember, he was having an affair with a woman in Argentina.”