It was true, not the weight or the change in size, but that my mom was beautiful.
She had a light inside her that only seemed to grow brighter through the years. Charisma or charm, or maybe it was simply that she seemed to care about everyone she met, no matter if they were the checkout clerk at the grocery store or her hairdresser.
“She’s beautiful,” Eden murmured, head turning so she could smile up at me.
My heart squeezed, and I knew she got it, knew she could see, even from a distance that the beauty of my mom came not from the outward appearance—though my mom was an attractive woman—but because of what was inside.
Cliché.
But sometimes clichés were true.
Eden understood that. She knew what it was like to be judged on her outside appearance, but she also knew what it was to deal with a monster lurking beneath the veneer of innocence. What was inside was critically important, cliché or not.
“Yes, she is,” I agreed, maneuvering my car into my spot, or what had been my spot during high school. With three teenagers in the house and multiple sports and extra-curriculars and five cars between us, parking had been undertaken with military precision.
Though my car was a lot nicer now.
“What are you smiling about?” Eden asked as I turned off the engine.
“I was thinking about the old beater that somehow managed to get me from school and sports and back when I was in high school.”
Her lips curved. “At least you had a car?”
“There is that, though my friends always teased it was more rust than metal.” I popped my door and started to get out, pausing to glance back at her. “Didn’t stop them from bumming a ride, though.”
Her laughter trailed me around to the trunk of my car, but before I could open it, my mom was there, and I was wrapped in the quintessential Mom Hug. Warm, soft yet firm, and filled with her scent. Roses and vanilla, which I knew was her favorite because I always shipped her a big box of lotion, soap, and other womanly things every year for her birthday.
“You’ve been gone too long,” she said.
Of course, she always said that, but this time she was right. I hadn’t been home in months, and I hadn’t quite realized how much I’d missed it until I was here, surrounded by redwoods, moisture in the air, the mountains in the distance.
Same state, different world.
“I’m glad I’m here now.”
One more squeeze and she jumped back. “Oh dear, I’m being terribly rude in ignoring your friend.”
“Hi,” Eden said with a wave. She’d come out of the car and was standing a few feet away, smile on her lips. “I’m Eden. It’s nice to meet you. Damon has told me so much about you. I hope you don’t mind me crashing his visit.”
My mom glanced at me, eyes wide and warm, before crossing over to Eden and pulling her into a hug. “Mind? Dear, it’s so lovely to meet you. Carrot was one of my favorite films ever.”
Eden blushed.
“Now, now,” my mom tutted. “No blushing. You’re a fabulous actress, and I can’t wait to see what else you’ve made.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Garcia.”
“Anabelle, please.” My mom wound her arm through Eden’s. “Or Belle. Or hey you, I’m hungry and need food.”
Eden glanced up at her. “I’m sorry?”
My mom chuckled. “Sorry, I always joke that was my name when my house was filled with teenagers. Here, now, come on into the house.”
Eden hesitated, turned back to me. “I should get my bag.”
“Pish. Damon’s got them.”
I blew her a kiss when her bright emerald eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t dream of making a big movie star carry her own things.”
Those pretty eyes narrowed.
My mom tutted. “He’s just teasing you.”
Eden laughed. “Oh, I know all about Damon and his teasing.”
A beat, a shared grin. Then, my mom continued tugging her toward the house and I heard Eden say, “So was he also teasing when he said you’d share your world-famous French toast recipe with me?”
My mom mock-gasped. “How dare he promise I give away my spoils?” A beat. “But seriously, I’d be happy to share it. I can only cook a few things really well, but that’s one of them—”
“She’s lying!” I called, tugging our bags from the trunk. “Everything she cooks is delicious.”
“I paid him to say that,” my mom stage-whispered.
“Well, let’s hope I can pay him to say the same,” Eden said. “Because I can make one thing and that thing is blueberry pancakes.”
“Well”—my mom patted Eden’s arm—“I’ll share my French toast if you share your pancakes.”
“Hey!” I accused, coming up behind them. “I’ve begged you for that recipe for years!”
“You’re not worthy,” my mom tossed over her shoulder as they headed up the porch steps. “It’s girls only.”
“Ouch!” I mimed getting stabbed in the chest. “Five minutes and I’m already tossed to the side. Your only son, betrayed and left wanting.”
Eden grinned. “There are those acting skills again.” She glanced down at my mom. “I keep telling him that he should put them to use, Belle. In fact, there’s this perfect role in a script I was just sent.”
“Oh!” My mom dropped her arms, or rather put them up to her face. “I’ve said the same! He’s so talented and—”
I dropped the bags and darted forward to scoop Eden up and toss her over my shoulder. “You’re going to pay for that, baby.” I clamped one hand over her legs to hold her in place and the other I brought up to her waist, tickling in the spot I’d discovered just the night before.
“Damon!” she shrieked, but she was laughing and squirming . . . and so was my mom—well, laughing, that was. She’d scooped up the bags and gone ahead of us, holding the door so I could carry Eden through.
“Quick! Into the closet, Damon,” my mom said over the sound of Eden’s protesting. “That’s where we keep all of our captives.”
I snorted so hard I almost lost my grip on Eden.
My fingers faltered, but Eden lost it.
My mom lost it.
And I followed suit.
I knew that this weekend was going to be absolutely perfect.
I just didn’t realize it was going to decimate me when it was over.
Sixteen
Eden
I did get the French toast recipe and Damon was right, it was delicious. I also tried my hand at making tortillas and quickly discovered that they were well outside of my limited cooking skills.
Damon snagged the lopsided lump of dough I’d mangled away from me. “Um, nice job?”
I took it back with glarey eyes, trying to smooth it out with my hands. “Not all round foods are created equal.”
Belle tutted, reshaped the mound in a perfectly round ball. “Try again, dear.”
“Pancakes, I can do,” I muttered, placing it in the tortilla maker, closing the top, and then pulling down firmly on the handle, exactly like she’d shown me.