an attractive woman. She’s thin and petite. Her sons apparently inherited their height from their dad. But it’s not all Jack Gartner genetics that have been passed down to his sons. Will definitely has Abby’s green eyes.
“Mom, come on.” Chase pulls away from his mom. “Please. I think that’s enough.”
Abby is far from done, though. In fact, there’s so much fanfare in the next five minutes from his mother that Chase ends up walking away.
“I can’t do this right now,” he says as he heads for the stairs. “I’m going up to take a shower.”
“You’ll be down for dinner, though, right, baby?” Abby sounds like a wounded puppy.
“Yep,” Chase replies, his tone clipped.
And then he’s up the stairs and out of sight, leaving me standing in the entry hall with his overwrought mom.
Wow. Chase may have made peace with his dad today, but I can see there’s much work ahead when it comes to reaching a common ground with his mother.
Abby eyes me appraisingly for a full two minutes. “Hmm,” she says at last. “So, you’re Kay.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well.” She blows out a breath, and then surprises me when she says, “I have to say I think you may be the best thing that has happened to my son. He’s a little high-strung at the moment”— he’s high-strung? I almost blurt out—“but overall, he seems…different around you.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow, curious as to her perceptions. “How does he seem different?”
Abby taps a pink manicured nail to her chin in a thoughtful manner. “Chase is definitely calmer than he was a few months ago,” she begins. “And, despite his irritation with me a few minutes ago, he seems more grounded.”
Okay, so this woman is not completely flighty and unaware. She’s perceptive when it suits her, or so it seems.
I relax a bit.
She relaxes too, and after a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, Abby asks me to accompany her to the kitchen.
“Come on,” she says, turning and beckoning. “You can help me get dinner started.”
I’d much rather head upstairs to make sure Chase is all right, but what can I do? Should I tell Abby no? I don’t think that would be prudent since I’m staying in her house, so I keep my mouth shut and follow her to the kitchen.
When we start prepping for dinner, I discover something new about Chase’s mother—she’s quite bossy.
She hands me three large, ripe tomatoes and says, “Here, chop these up. Finely chopped is what I prefer. I don’t like my tomatoes too chunky.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “Finely chopped it is.”
I barely get my response out before Abby is talking right over me. “Now put them in the salad when you’re done.” She pushes a big wooden bowl she’s just filled with a bagged salad down the counter to me.
Eight minutes later, Abby is at the stove, frying chicken. “Kay,” she says, “can you come over here and turn these chicken breasts for me? I need to run out to the back patio for a little air. It feels stuffy in here.”
I think it feels fine in the house, but I nonetheless set the salad aside, and say, “Yeah, sure,” as I step over to the stove.
When the chicken is just about done, Abby returns. She takes over at the stove, and I get a whiff of cigarette smoke from the deep-rose sheath dress she’s wearing.
Hmm …
Chase suspected his mother had not given up smoking. Guess he was correct.
Abby leans away from the stove, frying oil spattering in her wake. She turns down the heat while opening a utility drawer with her other hand. From the drawer, she removes a small bottle of perfume and sprays a little on the tan skin of her wrist, and then on the dress.
“What?” she says as she catches me watching her. “I smoke when I’m stressed, okay?” She brandishes the perfume bottle. “This hides the odor from Greg.”
I quickly turn away. Raising a hand, I say, “It’s not my business.”
“Perhaps not,” she replies slowly. “But there’s one little
“Mom, come on.” Chase pulls away from his mom. “Please. I think that’s enough.”
Abby is far from done, though. In fact, there’s so much fanfare in the next five minutes from his mother that Chase ends up walking away.
“I can’t do this right now,” he says as he heads for the stairs. “I’m going up to take a shower.”
“You’ll be down for dinner, though, right, baby?” Abby sounds like a wounded puppy.
“Yep,” Chase replies, his tone clipped.
And then he’s up the stairs and out of sight, leaving me standing in the entry hall with his overwrought mom.
Wow. Chase may have made peace with his dad today, but I can see there’s much work ahead when it comes to reaching a common ground with his mother.
Abby eyes me appraisingly for a full two minutes. “Hmm,” she says at last. “So, you’re Kay.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well.” She blows out a breath, and then surprises me when she says, “I have to say I think you may be the best thing that has happened to my son. He’s a little high-strung at the moment”— he’s high-strung? I almost blurt out—“but overall, he seems…different around you.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow, curious as to her perceptions. “How does he seem different?”
Abby taps a pink manicured nail to her chin in a thoughtful manner. “Chase is definitely calmer than he was a few months ago,” she begins. “And, despite his irritation with me a few minutes ago, he seems more grounded.”
Okay, so this woman is not completely flighty and unaware. She’s perceptive when it suits her, or so it seems.
I relax a bit.
She relaxes too, and after a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, Abby asks me to accompany her to the kitchen.
“Come on,” she says, turning and beckoning. “You can help me get dinner started.”
I’d much rather head upstairs to make sure Chase is all right, but what can I do? Should I tell Abby no? I don’t think that would be prudent since I’m staying in her house, so I keep my mouth shut and follow her to the kitchen.
When we start prepping for dinner, I discover something new about Chase’s mother—she’s quite bossy.
She hands me three large, ripe tomatoes and says, “Here, chop these up. Finely chopped is what I prefer. I don’t like my tomatoes too chunky.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “Finely chopped it is.”
I barely get my response out before Abby is talking right over me. “Now put them in the salad when you’re done.” She pushes a big wooden bowl she’s just filled with a bagged salad down the counter to me.
Eight minutes later, Abby is at the stove, frying chicken. “Kay,” she says, “can you come over here and turn these chicken breasts for me? I need to run out to the back patio for a little air. It feels stuffy in here.”
I think it feels fine in the house, but I nonetheless set the salad aside, and say, “Yeah, sure,” as I step over to the stove.
When the chicken is just about done, Abby returns. She takes over at the stove, and I get a whiff of cigarette smoke from the deep-rose sheath dress she’s wearing.
Hmm …
Chase suspected his mother had not given up smoking. Guess he was correct.
Abby leans away from the stove, frying oil spattering in her wake. She turns down the heat while opening a utility drawer with her other hand. From the drawer, she removes a small bottle of perfume and sprays a little on the tan skin of her wrist, and then on the dress.
“What?” she says as she catches me watching her. “I smoke when I’m stressed, okay?” She brandishes the perfume bottle. “This hides the odor from Greg.”
I quickly turn away. Raising a hand, I say, “It’s not my business.”
“Perhaps not,” she replies slowly. “But there’s one little
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