Page 44 of The Frog Prince
And now Mom is in David’s doorway, and she’s still waving, but it’s become a big two-arm wave, like the guys at the airport on the tarmac directing pilots arid their planes.Come this way, right this way, easy, that’s nice, slow, slow, okay, almost there, yes! Engines off…
I drop my coat and purse on my desk, tucking a loose bit of hair behind my ear before I head toward David’s office. “Mom.”
Josh discreetly fades into the background, and my mother throws her arms around me. “Holly.” She squeezes me hard. “Holly. Holly. Hol—”
“Hi, Mom.” I give her a quick, panicked squeeze back before letting go. Mom’s voice is loud enough that I’m certain everyone can hear her maternal proclamations of love, and I appreciate the love—we all need love—but in my four-plus months working at City Events I’ve never seen another parent put in an appearance.
“Holly, this is quite an office,” Mom says, adjusting the strap of her purse on her arm. “Very, very impressive.”
I look up and around. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Look at all these awards,” she adds, gesturing to the wall of awards and blown-up news clippings. “Obviously a successful company.”
I’m pleased she thinks so, and I beam. “Yes.”
Again she glances up at the wall and then looks back to me, and a hint of puzzlement creases her eyes. “So what doyoudo here?”
I hesitate. “Events.” Her puzzlement hasn’t cleared so I add, “Planevents.”
“Plan events?”
“I’m an event planner.”
The creases deepen in her forehead and around her eyes. “You know how to do that?”
I’m beginning to feel a little prickly. “It’s what I did in Fresno, Mom.”
“Youdid?”
“That’s all I’ve ever done.”
She makes a little sound, a puff of air as she exhales in utter surprise. “I had no idea.”
I swear, this has been our relationship from birth. I smother my frustration. Can’t be frustrated with Mom. Love Mom. She’s my mom. Mom needs love.
Take a deep breath, Holly, I say to myself.Think nice thoughts.“So what are you doing in the city?”
A new, fine frown line puckers between her brows. Her eyebrows are thinner, sparser, and for a moment I’m worried—cancer? Stress? And then I realize she’s just overplucked them.
“I love San Francisco,” she says.
She hasn’t been here in years. She hates driving in cities, has the same phobia I do about steep hills, runaway cable cars, and earthquakes.
“Did you come to see me?” I ask.
She looks startled, draws her purse against her middle. “No.”
Things feel hot inside me, hot and tight, and I want to hug her, if only to keep from throttling her. Mom and I have issues going back to, well, birth. It’s been this way since the beginning. I was her hardest delivery. I was her colicky baby. I was the dark, hairy girl when she wanted a beautiful blond boy named Jack. Apparently I never did figure out how to latch on properly and I wouldn’t nurse right, and then when she’d burp me, I’d spew. Apparently I hated her singing voice. And the way she walked me. And the clothes she bought me. And we’re still talking the first year of my life.
But hey, that’s all history. “When did you arrive, Mom?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“Did you fly?”
“Fly?” She has that slightly bewildered look again, which sends my blood pressure spiking. Airplanes are not generational. They had airplanes when she was a child, too. “Mom. Did you drive?”
“Of course.”