* * * *
March was intent on going out like a lion. Despite our super high-tech insulated windows, some rooms of the house were blistering cold from the ridiculous winds of the sea. As close as we were to the ocean, we didn’t see as much snow as we did sleet and ice. The weather was so miserable it was going to threaten Neil’s birthday party. He seemed fine with that; after the huge party for his fiftieth, he was more than happy to stay at home and have a birthday cupcake on his fifty-first. But I’d already arranged a party and hired caterers. I didn’t want that effort to go to waste.
Maybe I should have been rooting for some kind of horrible winter storm to keep the party from happening. With my mother coming to stay with us, we needed everything to be way less complicated. Especially since we didn’t really know when she’d be leaving.
I was stressing out about her staying with us before she’d even arrived. That was probably a great sign.
“I’m begging you to rethink that cup of coffee,” Neil urged as I filled my travel mug. “You’re tense enough already.”
“Well, let’s see. My mom is coming to stay with us for the first time ever, and she totally hates you, so…” I fitted the lid tight and took a sip. “Oh, and she’s going to be here just in time for your birthday, which will really hammer home the age difference she’s such a fan of.”
“She doesn’t hate me,” Neil said, then, a little less confidently, “I wouldn’t say she hated me, would you?”
“You’re fifty years old and marrying her twenty-six year old daughter. That’s not something she’s going to just be over,” I reminded him.
“I just haven’t had time to grow on her.” He was sitting at the kitchen island, and he held out his empty coffee mug toward me. “Who could possibly resist my charming personality?”
I frowned at him and snatched his mug. I made a disapproving face at him the entire time I was filling it. “Yeah, you’re Mr. Charming, all right.”
He took the mug back. “Call me Neil. Mr. Charming was my father.”
Damn. Even when I was keyed up and trying to stay that way, he could make me laugh. “Stop being so fucking cute.”
My entire life had been spent systematically lying to my mother about important things, either through flat-out dishonesty or the milder sin of omission. Like when I’d forgotten for a whole year to tell her that, hey, my boyfriend was twice my age. I’d sprung it on her the first time they’d met. And, today, she was going to get another shock, since I’d mentioned that we’d bought a house, but I hadn’t given her much detail about it beyond “mansion” and “there’s plenty of room”.
The plan was to pick up my mom up at JFK in the helicopter and fly her straight out to the house, where she and Neil and I could have a nice meal together while she recovered from the shock of seeing what my life was actually like. I lived it, and it still shocked me on a regular basis. Mom was coming here from her burned down single-wide trailer and a life where Houghton, Michigan was considered “the city”. She was going to need recovery time.
I met Mom on the tarmac as she disembarked our private jet. She already looked bewildered.
“Did you know there is a bed in this plane?” she demanded, in lieu of a hello.
She put her arms out, and I picked up my pace toward her. Most of the time, her constant phone calls were enough that I didn’t miss her, but hugging her hard, I felt every day that we’d been apart.
“Yes, I knew,” I said as I stepped back. “How was your flight?”
“Better than any time I’ve flown before.” She slipped her coat off as we approached the car waiting for us.
“You might want to leave that on,” I advised. “We’re only driving to the heliport.”
Mom’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t offer any further comment.
“Ma’am?” The flight attendant wheeled Mom’s small suitcase over.
“Is that all you brought?” I asked then winced at my stupidity. “That’s all that’s left.”
She nodded grimly. “I got my extensions redone before I came, though.” Her dyed blonde, extension-accentuated hair was straightened, the front pulled back in a slight poof. Her jeweled sunglasses were, I swear to god, the size of my bra.
“Oh my gosh, you look so different,” she said, following me to the airport car that waited for us.
I looked down. “I do?”
“Well, yeah, honey,” she said in disbelief. “You’re filling out.”
“What?” I shrieked.
But Mom was already past that, lifting one of my dark curls from my shoulder. “And your hair is longer. That is such a good style on you. I hated the long bangs.”
“Thanks.” I’d forgotten that seeing my mother was like getting hit by a train transporting backhanded compliments. “Look, the helicopter is waiting, is this all your stuff?”