which appeared rheumy, but which actually took in everything around them with uncanny clarity, crackled as she looked from Rob to me and then back again. “Who is your little friend, Jessica? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
The idea of Great-aunt Rose, a tiny shrimp of a woman, calling Rob “little” would have made me laugh at any other time. As it was, however, I merely longed for the floor of the mall to open up and swallow me as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
My mother, looking tired and distracted—and who wouldn’t, having spent the day with Great-aunt Rose—put down the many bags she was holding and said, “Oh, Mary. It’s you. How are you?” My mom knew Mrs. Wilkins from the restaurant, of course.
“Hi, Mrs. Mastriani,” Mrs. Wilkins said with her sunny smile. “How are you today?”
“Fair,” my mom said, “to middling.” She looked at me and Ruth. “Hello, girls. Any luck with the sales?”
“I got a cashmere sweater at Benneton,” Ruth said, holding up a bag like a triumphant hunter, “for only fifteen dollars.”
“It’s chartreuse,” I reminded her, before she could get too cocky.
“I’m sure it’s very flattering,” my mother said, just to be polite, because anyone who saw Ruth’s blonde hair and sallow complexion would know chartreuse would not be flattering on her at all.
“And
you
are?” Great-aunt Rose asked Rob, pointedly.
Rob, God love him, carefully wiped off his hand on his jeans before extending it toward my aunt and going, in his deep voice, “Rob Wilkins, ma’am. Very nice to meet you.”
Great-aunt Rose merely lifted her nose at the sight of Rob’s hand. “And what are your intentions toward my niece?” she demanded.
Mrs. Wilkins looked startled. My mother looked confused. Ruth looked delighted. I am sure I looked like I had just swallowed a cactus. Only Rob remained calm, as he replied, in the same polite tone, “I have no intentions toward her at all, ma’am.”
Which is exactly the problem.
I saw my mother’s eyes narrow as she looked at Rob. I knew what she was going to say a second before it was out of her mouth.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
The sad part was, she did. But I wasn’t about to let her stick around to figure out where. Because where she knew Rob from was the police station, the last time I’d been hauled in there for questioning … a connection I did not want my mother making just then.
“I’m sure you’ve just seen him around, Mom,” I said, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward Santa’s Workshop. “Hey, look, Santa’s back! Don’t you want to take my picture sitting on his lap?”
My mom looked down at me with mild amusement. “Not exactly,” she said. “Considering you’re no longer five years old.”
Ruth, for once in her life, did something helpful, and came up on my mom’s other side, saying, “Aw, come on, Mrs. M. It would be so funny. My parents would crack up if they saw a picture of me and Jess on Santa’s lap. And to get her back, I’ll make Jess come to temple and sit on Hanukkah Harry’s lap next week. Come on.”
My mom looked helplessly at Mrs. Wilkins, who fortunately didn’t seem aware that anything unusual—such as the fact that her son’s supposed girlfriend was doing everything in her power to keep her mother from actually meeting him—was going on.
“Oh, go on,” Mrs. Wilkins said, laughingly, to my mom. “It’ll be a hoot.”
My mom, shaking her head, let us steer her into the line to see Santa. It was only when I came back to say good-bye to Mrs. Wilkins—I was ignoring Rob—and to get the bags my mom had set down that I overheard Great-aunt Rose hiss at Rob, “Watch yourself, young man. I’ve seen your type before, and I’m warning you: Don’t you even think about laying a finger on my niece. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
I glared at Great-aunt Rose. Just what I needed, for her to give
The idea of Great-aunt Rose, a tiny shrimp of a woman, calling Rob “little” would have made me laugh at any other time. As it was, however, I merely longed for the floor of the mall to open up and swallow me as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
My mother, looking tired and distracted—and who wouldn’t, having spent the day with Great-aunt Rose—put down the many bags she was holding and said, “Oh, Mary. It’s you. How are you?” My mom knew Mrs. Wilkins from the restaurant, of course.
“Hi, Mrs. Mastriani,” Mrs. Wilkins said with her sunny smile. “How are you today?”
“Fair,” my mom said, “to middling.” She looked at me and Ruth. “Hello, girls. Any luck with the sales?”
“I got a cashmere sweater at Benneton,” Ruth said, holding up a bag like a triumphant hunter, “for only fifteen dollars.”
“It’s chartreuse,” I reminded her, before she could get too cocky.
“I’m sure it’s very flattering,” my mother said, just to be polite, because anyone who saw Ruth’s blonde hair and sallow complexion would know chartreuse would not be flattering on her at all.
“And
you
are?” Great-aunt Rose asked Rob, pointedly.
Rob, God love him, carefully wiped off his hand on his jeans before extending it toward my aunt and going, in his deep voice, “Rob Wilkins, ma’am. Very nice to meet you.”
Great-aunt Rose merely lifted her nose at the sight of Rob’s hand. “And what are your intentions toward my niece?” she demanded.
Mrs. Wilkins looked startled. My mother looked confused. Ruth looked delighted. I am sure I looked like I had just swallowed a cactus. Only Rob remained calm, as he replied, in the same polite tone, “I have no intentions toward her at all, ma’am.”
Which is exactly the problem.
I saw my mother’s eyes narrow as she looked at Rob. I knew what she was going to say a second before it was out of her mouth.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
The sad part was, she did. But I wasn’t about to let her stick around to figure out where. Because where she knew Rob from was the police station, the last time I’d been hauled in there for questioning … a connection I did not want my mother making just then.
“I’m sure you’ve just seen him around, Mom,” I said, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward Santa’s Workshop. “Hey, look, Santa’s back! Don’t you want to take my picture sitting on his lap?”
My mom looked down at me with mild amusement. “Not exactly,” she said. “Considering you’re no longer five years old.”
Ruth, for once in her life, did something helpful, and came up on my mom’s other side, saying, “Aw, come on, Mrs. M. It would be so funny. My parents would crack up if they saw a picture of me and Jess on Santa’s lap. And to get her back, I’ll make Jess come to temple and sit on Hanukkah Harry’s lap next week. Come on.”
My mom looked helplessly at Mrs. Wilkins, who fortunately didn’t seem aware that anything unusual—such as the fact that her son’s supposed girlfriend was doing everything in her power to keep her mother from actually meeting him—was going on.
“Oh, go on,” Mrs. Wilkins said, laughingly, to my mom. “It’ll be a hoot.”
My mom, shaking her head, let us steer her into the line to see Santa. It was only when I came back to say good-bye to Mrs. Wilkins—I was ignoring Rob—and to get the bags my mom had set down that I overheard Great-aunt Rose hiss at Rob, “Watch yourself, young man. I’ve seen your type before, and I’m warning you: Don’t you even think about laying a finger on my niece. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
I glared at Great-aunt Rose. Just what I needed, for her to give
Similar Books
