Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“What about the indigenous workers clause? Are they fine with that? You can’t compromise on that, son.”
“Mama, I know.” I chuckle, heading back inside to the kitchen. “We won’t. Look, I didn’t call to talk about Deutimus. I need a recipe.”
A brief silence follows my statement.
“A recipe?” A smile creeps into my mother’s voice. “Well, well, well. So you’re finally putting some of my training to good use. I’ve been worried about you and Harold eating out so much with no woman to take care of you.”
“Henri’s here with us, Mama, but she doesn’t cook much either.”
“Girls these days.” She sighs. “So what recipe can I help you with and why?”
I pause in front of the oven, the last part of her question making me cautious. Using the oven mitt, I pull the artichoke hearts out.
“Remember that black and blue cobbler you make sometimes? You made it last Fourth of July down at the beach house?”
“Oh, yes. That’s a hit. Easy, too. Why do you need it?”
“I wanted to bake it, Mama, of course.”
“Don’t ‘of course’ me, Trevor.” She laughs heartily on the other end. “You haven’t cooked anything in ages, and you call me out of the blue asking about cobbler? On a Wednesday night? Fess up. You’re cooking for someone.”
“Is that a crime?” I grin and toss the artichoke hearts with capers, yellow peppers, red onion, and parsley. “I thought you’d be happy about me making a home-cooked meal.”
“But the question is why, son?” Curiosity soaks right through the short silence on the other end of the line. “Is it a girl?”
A girl? Sofie? I’m sure she was a girl once, but it’s hard to think of her in those terms.
“Yeah, it’s a girl, Mama, but don’t make it a big deal, okay?”
“Wait till I tell your sisters.”
So much for it not being a big deal. I’ll have a six-way Skype session with them all before the week is over to discuss this.
“Could you just not?” I check the refrigerator for the vinaigrette I picked up this afternoon.
“Trevor, you haven’t really dated anyone since Fleur, so I—”
“We’re not dating, Mama. It’s dinner. Our first, by the way.”
“But you like her.”
The statement stops me in my tracks. I’ve been in constant motion since I argued with Sofie this morning in the middle of a busy city block. Meetings all day, and then zipping into nearby shops to get things for tonight’s dinner. I haven’t stopped, but that question from my mother stops me. She really wants to know, and I’ve never been less than honest with her.
“Yes, ma’am, I like her a lot.”
Maybe my response is too quiet. Too serious. Something steals Mama’s words for a few seconds at least.
“Well, tell me about her, Trev.”
I get going again, heading out to the patio to check the steaks.
“Nothing to tell, Mama.”
“Is she pretty?”
God, is she.
“Yeah, she’s attractive.”
Understatement.
“And what else? I know you want more than a pretty face, Trevor.”
“She’s smart.” I pull the steaks off, plating them and heading back inside. “She was accepted to Princeton, Sarah Lawrence, and UCLA.”
Mama’s all about education. Broke her heart when I dropped out of Princeton.
“Impressive. Pretty and smart. Those are a dime a dozen, though. There must be something that sets her apart considering you haven’t shown much interest in anyone since Fleur.”
Mama loved Fleur, and I broke her heart again when I called off our engagement last year.
“She’s…I don’t know. Confident. Honest. Ambitious. Funny.”
Rude. Sarcastic. Vain.
“She sounds sweet.”
I don’t correct my mother, but I’m not sure “sweet” is accurate.
“What’s her name?”
I don’t know what my mother’s heard about Sofie Baston, the supermodel, and I don’t want it to taint what she still has to learn about Sofie, the woman I’m still getting to know myself.
“Uh…Sofie.” I heft generous portions of the grilled artichoke salad onto the plates beside the steaks.
“Sofie. That’s lovely. Maybe you could bring her to Thanksgiving at the beach this year.”
Oh, that’ll happen. Sofie down on Tybee Island with all my sisters, not sure if they should waterboard her or ask for fashion tips. My brother begging her to sign his copy of Playboy. Mama asking where she stands on global warming, or some shit. And my father? If he isn’t making sure we remember the actual meaning of the holiday instead of the commemoration of a Pilgrim fantasy, he’d probably be the only normal one of the bunch.
“We’ll see.” I set the plates on the dining room table. “It’s our first date.”
It feels odd to say I’m having a date with Sofie after fighting so hard to make it happen.
“What’s her last name?” Mama is just getting started. “What does she do for a living? I want to know all about her, Trev.”
The doorbell ringing comes just in time.
“She’s here, Mama.” I give the table one quick glance. I’ll light the candles later. “I gotta go.”