The road was narrow, and not at all what I’d become accustomed to. The motorcycle dodged right and left unexpectedly, yanking the handlebars from side to side without warning. Every few feet, the tire would drop off into a pot-hole, causing me to fly out of the seat.

It was, however, much better than riding in a cage.

The trip would have taken three solid days in a car. On the bike, it took two. My willingness to ride was equal to Cash’s, and we’d ridden almost seven hundred miles a day to get there. Our early morning “crack of dawn” start assured us we’d arrive before nightfall, and we were doing just that.

Barely.

As the sun was setting, we pulled up the long, narrow drive. At the low speed we were traveling, the low rumble from the exhaust gave little warning of our arrival.

“You didn’t tell her anything?” I asked. “Seriously?”

“Not a word. It’s how I roll.”

“I can’t wait to meet the woman who is okay with that,” I said with a laugh.

Surrounded by large trees, green grass, and acres upon acres of rolling hills, the home looked like a typical farmhouse out of the movies. A front porch – complete with two swings – ran the entire width of the front of the home.

When we were a hundred or so yards from the front of the home, woman stepped onto the porch with a gun in her arms.

“That’s her,” Cash said.

“Holy crap. She’s not going to shoot us, is she?”

“I hope not,” he said with a laugh.

Despite the condition of the crappy road, he sped up. Half the distance to the porch, the woman musty have recognized him. She leaned the gun against the door’s frame and rushed to down the steps.

By the time she reached the drive, we were coming to a stop.

Her skin was pale with a tinge of redness to it. She was tall and thin, like Cash. Her hair was long, white, and draped over her shoulder in a long braid. The dress she wore was white with faded blue flowers and had pockets in the front. Adorable was the only word I could use to describe her.

She outstretched her arms and flapped her hands up and down excitedly. “Get that thing off your head and let me have a look at you,” she said, in a thick Irish accent.

As Cash put down the kickstand, I took off my helmet.

“Oh, my word. He was right, you’re beautiful.” She continued to flap her hands. “Climb off that motorbike and come here.”

“Nice to see you, ma,” Cash said sarcastically. “And, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s a motorcycle, not a motorbike.”

“It’s a feckin’ motorbike,” she snapped. “Always will be.”

I stepped off the motorcycle, almost falling in the process. “Sorry, my legs fell asleep.”

She shot cash a glare. “You didn’t let her stretch her legs, did ya?”

“She didn’t want to.”

“If he didn’t already tell you, my name’s Erin.” she said.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Kimberly.”

She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a smothering hug. When she released me, she leaned away and looked me over. “I can tell you this, he doesn’t deserve you, Kimberly. He was the orneriest child that ever graced this countryside, and don’t let him tell you differently. I hope he’s in heaven two hours before the devil knows he’s dead. Did he tell you lies to get you a courtin’? He must have, because you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not deservin’.”

“Lies.” I laughed. “I hope not.”

She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and turned toward the porch. “Come in, I’ll tell you the truth about him. He might be riding home alone.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Cash stood at the rear of his motorcycle, wearing a smile like I’d never seen.

He cleared his throat. “I said, Nice to see you, ma.”

“I heard ya when you said it the first time.” She waved her hand in his direction without so much as turning around. “I saw you eight months ago. It sores my eyes to look at ya.”

She led me to the kitchen and poured me a cup of tea while Cash unpacked our things. Before Cash so much as stepped through the doorway, she’d taken me on a tour of the home.

She pointed into the downstairs bedroom. Posters of motorcycles were pinned to the walls, and the few places that were free of posters were covered with stuffed fish.

“Was this his room?”

“The only room on this floor. Did he tell you why he moved into it?”

“I guess not.”

“So that manky slag Ashley could slip through the window,” she said. “She broke his heart, that one.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. “Manky slag.”

“She’s calling her a dirty whore,” Cash said from behind me.

“I was being proper,” Erin said.

“You were talkin’ shit, ma. She did not break my heart.”

“I’ll put that bar of soap in your mouth, Brock Cashton, and don’t think I won’t. You might be thirty-one, but your still my son.”

“Sorry, ma.”

I laughed to myself at the thought of Cash not cussing.

We went to the kitchen and sat at the table, Cash on one side of her, and me on the other. With her arms outstretched, she held each of our hands. Her eyes drifted back and forth, between us.

“What?” Cash asked.

“You’d make beautiful babies.” She looked at Cash. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

I would love to have a child, but knew it wasn’t possible.

“We’ll see, ma. First things first.”

She lifted my hand. “She needs a ring on this finger, you eejit.”

Cash scowled. “Enough with the eejits, ma.”

She glanced around the kitchen. “I got so carried away with looking at this fine thing, I forgot to feed you. Let me get something.”

I stood. “Can I help?”

She smiled. “If you’re willing.”

I could listen to her speak all night. Her Irish accent made even the simplest words sound multifaceted. Together, we prepared a meal of potatoes, bacon, cabbage, and onions. According to her, it was one of Cash’s favorites.

While she formed the mixture into patties and fried them in a skillet, I made two loaves of the bread Cash had grown to love.

“So, your love is shoes, is it?” she asked as I pulled the bread out of the oven.

“No. Shoes is what I can afford. Everything’s expensive in Southern California.”

“What’s your true love, Love?”

I sighed. “I’d love to have a nursery. I love growing flowers. Tending to them. Watching them grow. Nurturing them. Having them depend on me to support them and to sustain life. I never let them down. Mine are the best in the neighborhood.”

“Have you always loved tending flowers?” she asked.

“No. It started right after menopause,” I said with a laugh. “Go figure.”

She smiled. “I’ll pray that dream comes true one day.” She smiled. “The luck of the Irish.”

“Following my dreams isn’t going to be easy. Not in San Diego.”

“Don’t follow your dreams,” she said with a grin. “Chase them.”

After we ate, we had a cup of coffee. Cash talked about our plan to search for a home when we returned to San Diego. She seemed genuinely thrilled at the thought of us being together, and of us living together. Seeing her excitement – and witnessing her love for Cash – made me feel welcome, and almost as if I had a parent again.

When we finally decided to retire for the night, Erin walked me to the living room while Cash carried our things to the bedroom.

She placed her hand on my shoulder. “He called me one night in tears when you were apart,” she said. “His heart was broken.”

I didn’t know that he’d even told her. I felt terrible. Before I could tell her my fear of losing him was all that caused it, she gave me a hug.

“I told him, your feet will bring you where your heart is.” She kissed me on the cheek and then looked me over. “And, look where they took him.”

She turned away. “Sleep well.”

I smiled. “Thank you. Sweet dreams.”

* * *

We stayed for three wonderful days. I hated the thought of leaving but knew we must. A few hours ahead of a storm, we loaded our gear, and walked out to the motorbike together.

Cash looked up at the darkening sky. “I hope we miss this son-of-a-bitch.”

Erin smiled. “If you don’t, just remember, there’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.”

I thought about what she said long after we were gone. In fact, I thought about it for most of the trip.

When we arrived home, I missed having her around. I missed the immediate comebacks to Cash’s smart mouth, her Irish accent, and her Irish sayings that seemed to solve all of my problems and worries.

“When can we go back and visit your mother?” I asked as I unpacked my bag.

“Whenever you want.”

“Before summer’s over?”

“Sure.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

Upon reaching the bottom of the bag, I found a folded sheet of paper. Knowing I didn’t put it there, I unfolded it, wondering what it was, and how it got there. A few sentences were hand-written in a beautiful cursive script.

I folded the piece of paper and closed my eyes.

Thank you.