Ashley
HOME, BITTERSWEET HOME.
As I stare at my parents’ modest pale yellow colonial, I’m reminded of the warmth and laughter that filled our house for as long as I lived in it. With its simple white shutters and the trellis that never was sturdy enough to climb, this place served as my childhood oasis. That I needed an oasis at all is the bittersweet part.
My mother appears at the screen door, a mixing bowl and wooden spoon in her hands. “Ashley, get in here and save me from this kitchen. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Very true. She’s known for many things, but cooking is not one of them.
I pull my carry-on over the circular brick-paved driveway and up the front steps. Mentally calling dibs on the swing seat on the farmer’s porch, I enter the house and take a deep breath. “Something’s burning,” I say as I park my suitcase by the umbrella stand.
Moving like the Road Runner, my mother kisses my forehead, scrambles to the oven, and peers through the glass window. “Oh shit. My corn bread.”
I set my purse on the table and wave away the acrid air. “Did you set the timer?”
She stuffs her hands in the oven mitts. “That makes too much sense, sweetie. I’m a let’s-just-wing-it kind of chef.” When she opens the oven door, a cloud of smoke whooshes out and she coughs. “That’ll teach me to cook.”
“Should have left it to Dad,” I mumble.
“I heard that, smart-ass.”
“Sorry.” I can’t help grinning. “What can I do to help?”
She tosses the muffin pan on the stovetop, and it clanks against the burners when it lands. “Sit. Have a cup of coffee with me. We bought a Keurig, so I can’t screw that up.”
“All right, let me run to the bathroom first.”
When I return, I fiddle with the K-Cups, deciding on a Colombian blend. While I wait for my mother’s cup to brew, I study her.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. You look good.” And she does. Her short wavy hair is graying at the sides but otherwise retains the rich chocolate brown color she’s had for decades. Faint lines bracket the corners of her mouth, highlighting the sassy smile that always graces her lovely face.
“You do, too,” she says, cupping my chin. “Beautiful, really. And I’m so glad you’re home.”
We switch places in front of the coffeemaker. “I’m glad to be home.”
“It’s not nice to lie to your mother,” she says over my shoulder.
I spin around just as the machine’s ready button lights and the coffee drips into my cup. “I am. Well, glad to be here for Tori and Carter. And to see you, and Dad, and Kimberly. The other folks?” I shrug. “Eh. It’ll be fine.”
We take our coffee and sit at the kitchen table, a striped maple monstrosity that my father and Carter made when we were teens. Neither my father nor Carter wanted my help. Instead, they built it together, a male-bonding project that spanned an entire summer and left me outside literally spinning my wheels on the upgraded bike my parents gave me for my birthday.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Carter and Tori went to the airport to pick up her family. Your father is at the hardware store looking for an extension cord that’ll reach the gazebo. Kimberly’s taking the kids to get haircuts. And most of our guests will be here this afternoon. A few stragglers won’t get here until Saturday.”
“Are you excited?”
The dreamy expression on her face is answer enough. “One of my babies is getting married. I’m ecstatic.”
“Tori’s lovely.”
My mother lets out a happy sigh. “The minute I met her I knew she was the one for Carter. I’m so glad they figured it out.”
“Me, too. He has less time to worry about me now.”
“Yes, but now I can pick up the slack.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “No need to. Truly. Am I staying in my old bedroom?”
My mother lets me change the subject—because yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that if she wanted to press it she would. “I’m putting the young folks in the guest house. You’ll have more fun there. Everybody else will stay here. But bear in mind, as far as I know, Carter and Tori are not sleeping in the same room.”
Over the years, my mother’s refused Carter’s many offers to buy her a new home. Instead, she compromised and gave him permission to build a guest house on the back end of the property. With my father’s help and waivers from the local permit office, he oversaw the construction. It has four bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen, and four bathrooms, so calling it a guest house is a bit of a misnomer.
“I was thinking you and Tori’s best friend could share the room with the double beds, but if you want to stay with the old folks, that’s fine, too.”
“Why? Is Lydia staying?”
Although she still lives in Harmon, I imagine Lydia’s fear of missing out would compel her to hang around anyway.
“She’s not coming.”
Yes, yes, yes. My brain and heart high-five each other. “She isn’t?”
“Nope. Aunt Carol says she’s got some big work-related trip she couldn’t postpone. But Aunt Carol and Uncle Richard are driving up from Pennsylvania. Let’s see, I figure we’ll have”—she uses her fingers to tick off the names—“Carter and Tori in one bedroom, Tori’s sister, Bianca, in another, Julian gets his own, and you and Eva in the fourth.”
“Got it. That’s too bad about Lydia, though. We’ll miss her.”
My mother snorts. She knows very well that my cousin and I get along like opponents in The Hunger Games. “I’m sure you will.” She narrows her eyes. “Kind of undermines your reasons for wanting to pretend to be dating Julian, huh?”
“You know about that already?”
“Carter and Tori filled us in on the plan when they got here.”
I take a sip of my coffee before I answer. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. It’s no longer necessary. I mean, Aunt Carol will be a pain in the butt, but I can handle her. And if Lydia isn’t here, she might even tone down her pettiness.”
“You don’t seem relieved by any of this. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
My mother should have been a detective—or a hound dog. She can sniff out intrigue and cover-ups like a veteran sleuth. And if I want some semblance of peace this weekend, I should be honest with her.
“So I might have had a tiny little crush on Julian in my teens,” I say, pressing my thumb and forefinger together to emphasize the insignificance of my infatuation back then.
My mother waves me off. “I knew that. But I’m more interested in what’s going on in the here and now.”
“Are we really having this conversation?”
She scrunches her brows and shakes her head. “Is there any reason not to? You’re twenty-six years old, sweetie. And I do know where babies come from.”
My forehead hits the table. “Oh God.”
She lays a hand on my hair and smooths it. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll start. Your Dad and I still—”
“Stop, please,” I say. “I applaud whatever you and Dad are still doing, but I don’t need to know about it.”
She gives me a toothy smile, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes deepening. “There, there. It’ll be fine. Take a deep breath and tell your mother what’s going on.”
I do as she says. “I like Julian.” I take a furtive glance in her direction. “I’m attracted to him. But we agreed that it doesn’t make sense to do anything about it. Plus, I’m not looking for anything serious, so why complicate things for what’s essentially a desire to scratch an itch? I don’t want Carter in my business just as much as Carter doesn’t want me in his.”
She listens and sips her coffee, a neutral expression denying me any clue as to what she thinks about the situation.
“Thoughts?” I ask.
“Well, I guess on some level I understand his hesitation. Men can be weird about these things. And he’s got the added factor that he’s never truly been comfortable acting as Carter’s agent. Carter’s said as much on more than one occasion. So I get it. But I’m not sure I understand what’s holding you back.”
“It’s just . . . he’ll always be Carter’s friend first and foremost. That’s just a fact. They have so much history together. If Carter and I had a fight, Julian would definitely take Carter’s side. Goodness, it’s in his own professional interests to. Can’t you see how dicey that could be? I don’t want to be with anyone who won’t put me first.”
My mother tuts. “I think you’re underestimating Julian and yourself, but if all we’re talking about here is, as you put it, ‘scratching an itch,’ why would all this matter?”
I dip my chin into my cowl-necked top. Because scratching an itch with your brother’s best friend isn’t something you can pretend never happened. And okay, yes, I like Julian way more than I should. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. The smartest thing to do is step aside and get out of their way.”
“Sounds a lot like the reason you didn’t want to go to Weston.”
She never fails to bring up this sore spot between us. When I was fifteen, I begged my parents to enroll me in the local public school rather than the town’s day and boarding school. My mother was a guidance counselor at Weston, so they would have received a significant tuition discount, but I couldn’t bear the idea of going to school with Carter. By then, he was regularly appearing in commercials, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he landed a major role. I didn’t want to be part of the madness, didn’t want people to think they could get to him through me, and I didn’t want to become known only as Carter’s sister.
“It’s just how I feel, Mom.”
“Fine. It’s certainly not my job to push you. I will say this, though. I love Julian dearly, and if you happened to date him for real, I’d be happy for the both of you.”
“Carter wouldn’t,” I grumble.
“Hard to say what Carter would think, but in the end, this is about you and Julian.”
Before I can respond, the screen door creaks, alerting us that someone’s arrived. Judging by the number of voices, it’s quite a crowd.
Carter and Tori stumble into the kitchen, laughing and jostling each other as they find their footing. Behind them, three women, two of them almost certainly related to Tori, take tentative steps inside as they scan the room. An older man who must be Tori’s dad brings up the rear, a roughly carved wooden cane at his side.
My mother rises from her chair and holds out her arms. “Lourdes, it’s so good to see you.”
She must be Tori’s mom.
“Susan, good seeing you, too,” she says as she steps into my mother’s embrace. Lourdes turns to the younger woman who favors her. “And you remember my older daughter, Bianca, yes?”
“Sure, sure,” my mother says. “So glad to have everyone here.”
A striking black woman with a halo of chestnut brown curls steps up and holds out her hand. “I’m Eva, Tori’s partner in crime. Thanks so much for letting me stay in your beautiful home.”
My mother gives her a warm smile. “My pleasure, dear.”
Lourdes leans back and looks over her shoulder. “Psst. Pedro, ven aquí.”
Tori’s father stops perusing the framed pictures at the kitchen’s entrance, wipes a hand on his slacks, and comes forward. “Hi again, Susan.”
They shake hands, and then my mother announces, “This is my daughter Ashley.”
From there, we bustle around the kitchen, engaging in small talk, riffling through bags for phones and chargers, and going over sleeping arrangements.
A few minutes later, my niece and nephew barrel through the kitchen with my older sister, Kimberly, in tow. My father shows up next and pulls me into a bear hug. Another stream of introductions and reintroductions follows, and if some of these people weren’t related to me, I wouldn’t be able to keep it straight.
Beside me, Eva snorts. “Jesus, we need name tags.”
“I know, right?” I say. “I’m sure my mother bought some. Luckily for us, we’ll be away from the hub.”
Together my parents ransack the fridge, pulling out beverages and large Tupperware bowls.
Amid the bustle, I slip out and escape to the living room. With fevered hands, I send Julian a circumspect text:
Circumstances have changed. Abort operation. Stand down. Copy?
He responds within seconds:
Got it. Be there soon.
Although it would have been fun to pretend to be his girlfriend, I’m relieved I won’t have to. The pressure is off, and we won’t need to engage in any awkward interactions that’ll leave me wanting what I can’t have. Best of all, my barracuda of a cousin won’t be around to criticize me and make snide remarks—or flirt with Julian. Smiling, I return to the kitchen and immerse myself in the flurry of activity.
“We’ve got three types of salads—chicken, pasta, and garden,” my mother explains. “Oh, and meatballs. We can nibble on this to tide us over until dinner.”
Everyone scrambles to wash their hands, and then we all pounce on the food. There isn’t enough room for everyone to sit, so a group of us—Carter, Tori, Eva, Bianca, and I—retreat onto the porch.
I’m leaning against the railing with a paper plate in my hand when two cars pull up. Shielding my face from the sun, I peer through the window to make out which family members have joined us and see Aunt Carol sitting in the passenger seat. Ugh.
Worse, the rear passenger window of the first car lowers to reveal Lydia in the backseat. She throws her arm out and waves. “We’re here, everybody.”
Dammit. Why is she here?
Then the rear door of the second car opens and Julian climbs out.
He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans that sit low on his trim hips. His eyes are hidden behind aviators, but his full smile is plain to see. My heart trips and quickly recovers, as if it’s a person stumbling in the street when she knows someone’s watching. The driver sets Julian’s bag beside him, along with a guitar case that looks an awful lot like mine. Stunned, I watch Julian slip several bills into the guy’s hand.
Lydia climbs out of my uncle’s car and spins to face Julian. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Steal-My-Heart in the flesh.”
Her play on Julian’s last name makes me want to gag.
Behind me, Eva says, “Oh, my lord. Please tell me that’s the last time I’ll hear that.”
“Unfortunately, it won’t be,” I tell her out of the side of my mouth. “I guarantee it.”
Then the circumstances hit me upside my head like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. Lydia’s here. And I told Julian to stand down. But he doesn’t know why. Shit.
What the hell do I do now?