Angel's Rest - By Emily March Page 0,30

women crossed to the sofa and took seats beside their friend.

“Honey?” Sage asked. “What’s wrong?”

Nic didn’t need to ask. She’d known Sarah Reese for most of her life. Despite the struggles she faced as a single mother in the small town, Sarah loved being a mom to Lori. From Girl Scout leader to perennial field trip mom, basketball team mom, and chair of the prom committee, Sarah did it all. Both she and Lori had thrived as a result. “You’ve had me fooled, Sarah Elizabeth. I really thought you were tired of fund-raisers and sports banquets. I thought you were looking forward to this next stage of your life.”

Sarah’s lips wobbled. “I lied. I don’t want her to be a senior. I don’t want her to graduate. I don’t want her to go to college. I want her to still be six years old.”

“That’s a problem,” Sage said.

Sarah swiped at the tears with the back of her hand. “It just makes me so angry. I feel old and I’m not even thirty-five yet.”

“Close to it,” Nic pointed out, trying to distract her.

“Oh, hand me a tissue.” When Nic did just that, she continued. “All I’ve ever wanted to be is a mom. Nothing against you two, but I never needed the validation of having a career outside the home. That was never my thing. Motherhood fulfilled me.”

“That’s true,” Nic agreed. Glancing at Sage, she added, “Her mom always said the women’s libbers wasted their burning bras on Sarah.”

“I was born to be a homemaker, and I’ve done a darn good job of it—despite the fact my home was missing a penis,” Sarah said.

“The visual on that isn’t attractive,” Sage observed. “However, you shouldn’t be defensive. I think you’re lucky that you know what you are supposed to do, what you were born to do. I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure that out, and I still don’t have the answer.”

Nic held up a palm. “Okay. Hold on. I’m confused. Sage, you have to be the most self-assured woman I’ve ever known. I’ve looked at your work, and I’ve observed your work method. If you weren’t born to be an artist, then I don’t know a Holstein from a Hereford. And I’m a vet!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Excuse me?” Sarah folded her arms. “This is my crisis. I would appreciate it if we can keep the focus on me, please?”

Nic sighed. “It’s gonna be a long year and a half, isn’t it?”

“This is our next-to-last Christmas together!” Sarah said.

“News flash!” Nic waved her hands. “College students come home for Christmas break.”

“But it’ll be different. I don’t want it to be different. I love life the way it is, and it just ticks me off that it has to change. Now, I know that’s a bad attitude, but it’s my attitude and I own it!”

“Well, that’s honest, anyway,” Sage said. “Futile, but honest.”

“Unlike others among us who pretend they are just fine with being lonely, I choose not to lie to myself.”

“Okay, now that’s just mean.”

“Sorry. Not.”

“One good thing about Lori growing up is that with any luck, Sarah will quit talking like a teenager.”

“Excuse me?” Sage interrupted. “Can we pause the bickering for more important matters, please? Look. There’s a time-out on the court.”

Which meant more Coach Romano camera time. The three women focused on the TV.

“OMG,” Sarah said, the slang usage obviously for Nic’s benefit. On the screen, the man in question had slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and he was holding a basketball in a one-handed grip. “Look at the size of those hands.”

Sage fanned her face. “Think of what he could do with them.”

“At the risk of sounding crude, this is the first time in my life my boobs ever wished they were a basketball,” Nic observed.

Out in the hallway, something heavy thumped to the floor. Nic recognized the voice that muttered the epithet that immediately followed. Gabe Callahan.

She glanced in the wall mirror and smoothed her flyaway hair, catching Sarah’s knowing smirk as she did so. She stuck out her tongue at her best friend and sent up a little prayer that his hearing wasn’t all that sharp.

“Gabe?” Sarah called out. “Everything all right?”

Footsteps approached and he came into sight, pausing in the doorway. He wore a blue-and-gray plaid flannel shirt tucked into a snug pair of faded Levi’s. He had a stained and scruffy pair of lined leather work gloves tucked into a back pocket of his jeans, and his steel-toed boots showed

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