“I really like it here,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to have to leave. Talk with him, Maggie? Tell him there are jealous women in Santa Fe who just want to make trouble for me. I’ve only always wanted to protect my son. Ned’ll listen to you. He likes you.”
I could have told her there and then what Edward was to me, but something held me back. Feeling like a heel, I simply said, “I’ve already talked with him. I told him he couldn’t fire you, and he won’t, but we’ll have to wait for that meeting to know what he wants. Relax, Grace. Work. Actually, if you start worrying, go up and see my mother. I’ve talked about you a lot. She wants to meet you.”
“Good God, no,” Grace cried, as though the suggestion was preposterous. “I can’t do that. I am not the kind of person you want your mother to meet.”
“And you think she’s innocent?” I shot back. “You think I’m innocent? You think neither one of us has done things wrong? Ask yourself why I’ve never talked about her or why she’s never been here before. Grace,” I said. “Everyone in the world is guilty of something.”
“Not like me,” she said, but gave me a quick hug before slipping out the door.
* * *
Cornelia came early Sunday to meet my mother and insisted, Margaret later told me somewhat wryly, on staying through Nina’s visit. And how had Nina known my mother was there? Me. I had called her. I kept remembering what she had said about being totally alone, kept hearing the desperation in her words, and I figured that if anyone could handle her, it was my mother. Besides, it wasn’t like Nina didn’t already know the worst.
After the fact, I realized that Nina’s questions might tip off Cornelia. But the questions hadn’t gone anywhere near there. They had focused on The Buttered Scone, which fascinated Nina and which Margaret was only too happy to describe.
Then came Joe Hellinger and his wife, then Joyce again, then Edward with lunch, then my friend Alex. If I had wanted Margaret to see my life here, I couldn’t have asked for better. These people gave her a glimpse of it without her ever having to leave the Inn. By the time I was done with work early Sunday afternoon, though, she wanted to see where I lived. I told her she ought to rest instead. The woman was recovering from a broken hip, for God’s sake. She had been half-dead Friday morning.
But she didn’t seem half-dead now. She was the Margaret McGowan Reid who kept going no matter what. She actually seemed exhilarated. And how could I fight that?
So we put on our jackets—Mom snug in the new little quilted number Liam had brought her. She had Kevin’s scarf around her neck. The scarf was one-hundred percent merino wool, she informed me, though all I could do was wonder how Kevin knew that one of the dozens of shades of green in the hand-dyed wool would perfectly match my mother’s eyes.
Walking slowly, elbows linked, we went down to the truck. I still had my doubts about what we were doing, but when she managed to climb up into the seat with some care but no mishap, despite the cast on her wrist and the cane that she hadn’t quite mastered, I let it go. I desperately wanted her to see my home, and while it didn’t have to be today, it actually did. I had to keep busy until four or I’d go nuts.
It was the second time in as many weeks that I had the responsibility of a passenger, the first being when Chris popped up in my backseat. I hadn’t had a choice then; I was already on the road. I did have a choice now. I knew I needed to do this.
But if I was just the slightest bit uneasy, my mother was not. As blasé as could be, she said that Liam had offered to drive, but she didn’t want to go with him. She wanted me.
And how could I fight that?
We talked more during that short drive than I believe we’d ever done in a car. She told me how much she admired Cornelia and how she sensed a lonely soul in Nina. She knew that Joe and his wife didn’t let me spend a Thanksgiving or Christmas alone, and that friends like Alex and Joyce and Kevin were loyal