Beth, Trevor’s mom, is absolutely beautiful in a comforting but not overpowering way. She’s petite yet curvy. Her hair is a mixture of Duncan and Trevor’s, not as dark as one or as light as the other. And right away, it’s her eyes that I notice, the same stunning green as her sons’. What makes them even better is the way they’re smiling at me, sincere and loving, with little fine lines crinkling their corners.
“Shana, it’s so good to meet you again,” she says.
I fight with the again in her sentence, and then I recall Kimbra’s wedding. “Yes, Mrs. Willis, it’s nice to see you again too.”
“Oh, dear, my name is Beth,” she says as she wraps me in a hug. Over her shoulder I notice Duncan’s and Kimbra’s smiles. When she pulls back, she looks me directly in the eye. “Now, I want to hear all about how you caught my son’s attention.” She lowers her voice. “And I can’t tell you how happy we are that you did.”
I glance over to Trevor, who comes to the rescue, securing my hand and tugging me back toward him. “Mom, yes, this is Shana. Can you please let her breathe?”
Beth laughs, reaching for Trevor and giving him a hug. “I can’t believe that I had to learn about this beautiful—and from what I hear, successful—woman from someone besides my son.”
Trevor’s gaze goes to Duncan and back to his mom. “Yeah, I was surprised about that too.”
“Hey,” Duncan says, “I didn’t say a word.”
Without shame, Kimbra raises her hand. “It was me. It was all me. I just couldn’t contain myself, and well, Duncan got tired of listening to me go on and on, so I called Beth.”
A handsome man, an older version of what I decide is more Trevor than Duncan, steps forward offering me his hand. “It’s always the dad who’s the last to know. Nice to meet you, Shana. Since no one is introducing me, I will. I’m Christopher Willis.”
“Hello, Mr. Willis.”
“And that makes you, Miss Price?” he says with a wink.
“Christopher,” I correct. “It seems like you all know all about me.”
It’s Kimbra’s turn to speak. “First and last name. Occupation. Current job status as well as the possibilities for the future. Most sharable information from our living together.” She smiles my direction. “With emphasis on your affinity for shoes. I love the ones you’re wearing, by the way. Oh, and I didn’t mention cannoli.”
“Oh, do you like cannoli?” Beth asks.
Duncan, Kimbra, Trevor, and I all turn her way as the blood drains from my cheeks. I feel faint as the life-giving circulation seems to still. If it weren’t for Trevor’s hand returning to my back, I think I may fall to the floor.
“If you do,” she goes on, totally oblivious to my discomfort, “I have the best recipe. Do you bake?”
Letting out a breath, I answer with a nod, “I-I love to bake, but honestly, I don’t do much since I live alone.”
“Oh, let me send you my recipe. The best part is you can freeze them, and then you don’t have to eat them all at once.” She laughs as we all find seats around Duncan and Kimbra’s living room. “I know for me personally, if I don’t use some self-control, I can overindulge on cannoli.”
Kimbra leans back in an oversized chair—or maybe a baby loveseat, I’m not sure—next to Duncan and grins. “Death by cannoli. Not a bad way to go.”
“So, Dad,” Trevor says, trying to change the subject, “how’s work?”
“Should I share with the competition?”
“Dad and I work for different engineering firms,” Trevor explains.
A few minutes later when Kimbra stands, I do also. “Maybe I could help you in the kitchen?” I ask.
Beth stands too. “I’m all for letting the men do the cleanup—well, your men,” she adds with a laugh. “Christopher and I will be off to the Philharmonic. But for now, we can help Kimbra get the dinner ready.” She puts her arm around my back. “So you and Kimbra lived together here in New York and now you live in London? I’ve always wanted to visit London. What should I see first? Buckingham Palace? The London Eye? Big Ben? There are just so many options.”
We step into the kitchen to the wonderful aroma of whatever Kimbra is cooking.
“Kimbra, this smells divine. What is it?”
She waves me off. “It’s just a pork loin. We have potatoes and some vegetables.”
“Honey,” Beth says to me, “I brought an apple pie. However, if I’d have known you loved cannoli, I would have brought my homemade ones.”
Shaking my head, I look past Beth to Kimbra’s smile, and it takes all of my restraint not to break out laughing.
“Beth,” Kimbra says, “I left my glass of wine in the living room.”
“Oh,” I say, “So did I. I can go get them.”
“Nonsense, girls, I’ll go get them.” Before Beth makes it to the door, she turns back. “Shana, I promise, I’m not always this overwhelming. It’s that I’m so happy you’re here and that you and Kimbra are friends. It’s every mother’s dream.”
“I’m happy to be here.”
Once she’s gone, I turn to Kimbra. “Death by cannoli?”
“Technically, we’ve already tried her homemade ones.” Her eyebrows dance.
My nose scrunches. “Oh my God, will you stop?”
“She is their mother. She made them.”
I shake my head, wondering how long it will take for Beth to return with our wine.
“Fine,” Kimbra says. “How was your no-plan weekend?”
“It was wonderful.”
And then reality hits me like a subway train, and my laughter disappears as tears prick the back of my eyes.
Kimbra reaches for my hands. “Babe, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the cannoli. It’s just that Duncan is still giving me a hard time about it.”
“A hard time? And you’re complaining?” I shake my head as I look down with a sigh and continue before letting her speak. “No. It’s not that. It’s that I really like Trevor. I like him a lot.”
“If that’s a secret, you’re not doing a good job of hiding it.”
“I think he likes me.”
“You think?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and wipe away a renegade tear that escaped down my cheek. “Five more days and it’s over.”
“Stop. It’s not. According to Stephen you killed that fashion show. Even you have told me that the numbers have exceeded speculation. I know enough about the running of a business to know that numbers speak louder than anyone’s opinion. Have faith.”
“I want to.”
Before Kimbra can reply, the kitchen door swings inward and Beth enters with three large goblets of moscato. I move toward her, trying to ease one from her hands.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she says, “A long time ago, I was a waitress.”
“You were?” I ask, surprised.
“Working my way through college, I could carry three platters on one arm.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed.