For All She Knows (Potomac Point #3) - Jamie Beck Page 0,14

watch. “I wish we had more time.”

“Actually, I’ve got errands to run for Kim’s birthday sleepover party tomorrow, so I wouldn’t be able to linger as much today, either.”

“Aw, how fun.” She set her phone on the table while shucking out of her short-waisted puffy silver coat. Then she combed her fingers through her curls and shook her gobs of tousled hair. Even when worn messy, it looked terrific. “I would’ve loved a daughter. Tea parties and manicures and all the hairdos!” She wiggled her fingers. Each of her nails was painted a different color, which made me smile.

Mimi did everything big and loud, like how she’d dressed up in formal wear for the boys’ middle school music recitals, or how she strung dozens of strands of colorful lights around her house and yard at Christmas, or how she hollered from the sidelines during football games. She had a flair that made ordinary things more extraordinary. As more people let her in, they’d want her to do that for them, too.

“Except that we’re talking about Kimmy.” I folded my hands (with their unimaginative clear polish) in my lap. My daughter’s picture would not be in the dictionary beside words like “dainty,” “demure,” or “biddable.” “God give me strength to get through her preteen and teen years. Something tells me they’ll be much harder than Carter’s.”

I leaned back when Hannah showed up with our drinks and a softball-size muffin. The dense, bright-green, moist pistachio treat was coated with crystallized sugar and loads of crushed pistachios. Utter decadence.

“Hannah!” Mimi immediately cut into the muffin. “How’s it going?”

“Terrific, thanks. You?”

“Hanging in there.” Mimi scrutinized Hannah’s hair. “I think it’s time we touch up the pink, and maybe brighten the roots, too?”

Hannah heaved a dramatic sigh. “Being this good lookin’ ain’t easy or cheap.” Then she cackled before wandering back to the counter, her psychedelic handmade knit sweater flowing behind her as she called over her shoulder, “I’ll book an appointment next week.”

Mimi gave her a thumbs-up before turning back to me. “Where were we?”

“Kimmy entering puberty,” I replied ominously.

“Ah. Yes. Listen, Grace. No one—boy, girl, or gender-fluid person—would be as easy as Carter. I swear, he’s all the best parts of you and Sam shoved into one body.” She sipped her drink and then sucked in air, waving her hand rapidly in front of her mouth. “Hot!”

“Thank you.” My son always brought a smile to my face—until recently. “Sadly, he’s shy like me. More so, maybe, so he’s never developed a gang of friends. He could really use one, especially now.” If anyone could empathize with that, it should be her.

Mimi leaned forward, her chin on her fist. “Why especially now?”

My mother would tell me not to meddle, but Carter was suffering, and I wouldn’t stand by and watch it another day, the way she’d done with Margot and me. Until he developed better coping tactics, I would be Carter’s advocate.

It took two heartbeats before I spoke up. “Well, it’s delicate because it relates to the budget debate, which I know we agreed not to discuss. I alluded to it on Monday night when I mentioned how some boys have been picking on kids like Carter. I feel awful because he might’ve been spared if I hadn’t gotten involved, yet you know I’m trying to teach my kids to stand up for their beliefs so they don’t have my regrets.”

“Are you trying to say Rowan is bullying Carter?” She frowned.

“No, Carter’s never mentioned Rowan.” Rowan didn’t go out of his way to be considerate of Carter, but he had never been rude that I knew of.

“Good.” She blew out a relieved breath.

As much as Mimi adored her son, when she’d had a second glass of wine, she’d confide her worries that he’d turn out like his dad—a car salesman who wasn’t keen on taking responsibility for much, including child support. For the most part she was a terrific mom, except I sometimes worried that she overcompensated for Dirk’s absence by letting Rowan run wild. Mimi rarely lectured him. Sometimes it seemed like she’d rather be his friend than his mom. By the end of his freshman year of high school, her permissiveness was legendary—no curfew, serving alcohol at parties, not grounding him when he cut classes.

Other moms would question me or expect me to say something, as if it were my business to tell Mimi how to parent. Even though I secretly believed she should rein him in, I defended Mimi’s right to