Page 46 of The Wrong Guy
“No, no, no ... Wren, that’s on me. Put that on me.” I pat my chest forcefully, making a few deep thumps in the process. “I didn’t go around telling everyone to keep this from you, but they could see the way I watched you, the way I wanted you. They wanted us to have our time, when it was right. Like now. They’re happy for us.”
She looks around the room and granted, there are more than a few eyes turned to us, but it’s not in judgment. “I still feel stupid.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her pouty tone. “Birdie, the absolute last thing anyone would ever think about you is that you’re stupid. You’re smarter than damn near everyone in town, and probably most folks in the state. I bet Ben thanks his lucky stars every night that you decided to stay here, and I don’t know what I did in a previous life to be rewarded with the slightest bit of you, but I’m so fucking glad I did it.”
“Excuse me, lovebirds. Here’s your nachos.” Charlene sets the heavy plate, piled with chips, in the middle of the table and refills Wren’s water glass. “Jesse, you want a beer?”
“Make it a pitcher. We’ve got incoming ...” I lift my chin toward the door where Wyatt, Hazel, Winston, Avery, and my mom are coming in. “Better go ahead and bring more nachos, too, because we ain’t sharing these.”
Charlene winks and runs off, calling out, “Daisy Sullivan, you’d best keep that baby away from me. That shit’s contagious and this baby factory is closed, ya hear me?”
My mom laughs, holding Winston and Avery’s son out like a monster that’s going to get Charlene. “Get her, Joe! Git’er!” When they surround our table, my mom tells Hazel, “You hear that? Babies are contagious. You wanna hold him?”
She holds Joe out, and Hazel takes him easily, cooing, “Just because you come with every single body fluid known to man, that doesn’t mean you’re contagious, does it? You snot, drool, pee, and shit on everyone and we think it’s cute as can be, don’t we? But you’re not fooling me, man. Grandpa Joe’s been teaching you, hasn’t he?”
Hazel winks at the baby like she’s in on his game plan of cuteness. Credit to Joe, he babbles and grins, goo-ing at the words.
Wyatt takes the more direct approach. “Daisy, I’m not having mini-Hazels running around until I know how to handle the full-size one I’ve got.”
“Hey!” Hazel balks, but we all know Wyatt has a valid point.
Mom laughs. “Good luck with that, then. Guess I’ll have to count on Winston and Avery for more grandbabies.”
Technically, we’re not related to either Winston or Avery, so their baby—or babies as the case may be—wouldn’t be Mom’s grandchildren. But no one would dare tell her that. Family is more than DNA sometimes.
They pull chairs from here and there, joining us. As soon as she’s got her butt in a chair, Mom looks from me to Wren and back, measuring the distance between us, which is basically none. It’s obvious that things are different now. Mom’s smile beams as she clasps her hands below her chin. “For real?”
“Smooth, Mom,” I scold her dryly. “Real subtle.” But I can’t be mad at her. Mom listened to me rant and rave in the early days when I was hurt bad by Wren not calling me back, and has been there to help me stay steady in the months since. “Long story short, I was crazy for her, she was crazy for me, but we’re shit communicators and in our heads too much. We fixed that last night.”
Mom holds her arms out to us, jumping up and rushing around the table to fold Wren into a hug. “Welcome to the family! I always knew he’d win you over.”
“Jeezusss!” I hiss. “Maybe don’t make it seem like I’m such a loser.”
But Wren’s laughing at Mom’s exuberance and hugging her back, though with considerably more reserve. “Oh, you hush, Jesse. Let a mom be happy for her kids.” I think she means Hazel and me, but Mom kinda takes on a caretaker role for everyone in town. Primarily through their stomachs, since she makes the best pastries around.
“Thanks, Ms. Sullivan,” Wren tells my mom.
“Daisy ... or Mom?” she suggests instead, flashing puppy-dog eyes of hopefulness at Wren.
Surprised, Wren stammers out, “Uhm, thanks ... Daisy.”
As Mom sits down, pleased as punch with herself, she lets out a whooping noise. “Whoo-wee, that was the good news I needed to hear ’cuz I don’t know about you, but I had a helluva day.”
Wren and I look at each other and share a private grin, both certain that nothing could top our day.
“Chrissy Ford came on in to the Bakery Box, in the middle of my morning rush hour, and started measuring walls like she was gonna rip them down, right then and there.” She waits for our gasps of surprise and anger but keeps right on rolling. “I told her to get out of my shop, and she started some song and dance about how she’s gonna get the building in the divorce and is thinking about what she might want to do with it.”
Jed Ford, and apparently Chrissy, own buildings all over Cold Springs, including the one where my mom’s bakery has been since the day she opened the place. Her apartment is upstairs, too, so Chrissy trying to do something with the building would affect Mom’s work and home.
“You have an airtight lease in place, right?” Wren goes right for the legal solutions, sticking with what she knows.
Hazel and I run a different path. “I know what she can do with it,” I say. Hazel finishes with the line Aunt Etta taught us. “Shove it right up her ass and whistle a tune.”
Mom waves us off from hunting Chrissy down and answers Wren, “Yes, I do.” To us, she says, “No need for that. I know a thing or two about a thing or two, so I told Chrissy that she might want to concern herself with bigger fish than my little bakery.” She smiles evilly, and almost as if she’s changing subjects, she says, “Pregnancy cravings are a bitch. It’s a good thing I’ve got Donny doing some deliveries around town these days.”
Wait.
Is she saying ...