Page 11 of The Charm of You

Sure, the view and solitude are both nice and peaceful, but anxious energy crawls up my nerves like I’m forgetting about something I should be doing.

I try to fill the void by sifting through emails, messages, and voice mails on my phone. A few emails are from HR with what I’ve dubbed the screw-you, farewell paperwork. Once I click out of those, I listen to my newest voice mail, which confuses me to no end.

It’s from Mildred McMurray—a potential client. Evidently, she called the office yesterday and was blindsided by the news that I no longer work there. She’s also flabbergasted, and that makes two of us.

Is she just being nice, or is she really upset that we won’t be working together? I have no idea what to believe about my capability as a real estate agent. In truth, I don’t know what to think about myself at all.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Mama.” I slide my phone onto the table, and she shuffles sleepily toward the second rocking chair on the other side. A matching mug to mine is nestled between her hands, steam rising from the rim and getting lost in the breeze.

“What are you doing out here? It’s a little chilly.” She slides her thumb out from her long, thick sleeve and hooks it behind her toward the house. “I can get a fire going. You used to love sitting in front of the fireplace while you sang ‘Good Ole Morning Muffins.’”

Instantly, I smile, recalling the silly song I made up as a seven-year-old. “I totally forgot about that.”

“What were the words? Let’s see…” She taps her chin, and a wistful smile appears on her pale lips. “There are flavors of lemon, cinnamon, and blueberry?—”

“And it doesn’t have to be Christmas to be merry,” I sing along.

“All we need is a good ole morning muffin and a little dairy.”

We both burst into laughter, which disrupts the quiet yard and launches a couple of birds from the bushes.

“I was ridiculous.” I shake my head.

“You were adorable. Imaginative. And… a little ornery at times.” My mother snorts.

“And curious. Don’t forget how many questions I asked you and Daddy.” I tap the side of my mug with my forefinger. “Do you remember the night I asked you how I’d know when I was in love with the right man? How I’d know if he was my Prince Charming?”

She nods, and her nostalgic smile stretches farther across her weary cheeks. The crinkles in her eyes having multiplied since her last visit to New York in the spring. “You were about twelve, and Wakeford Burke had asked you to be his girlfriend while you two played at the park. You told him you’d think about it, then came running to me to ask how you’re supposed to know if you want to or not. You kept it up the entire drive home and for the rest of that night.”

“And you finally told me it was a feeling,” I say absentmindedly as the memory rushes back like a wave crashing onto a leveled shore. “You said it was an innate feeling I’d have when I was in love, and I would recognize it when the time came. Then you told me to drink the rest of my juice and finish my vegetables.”

“But not before you hounded me for the definition of innate.”

I laugh softly into my mug, then trace the outline of the sun carved on the side of it. Mama’s cabinet is full of matching coffee mugs with various designs on the sides like this one. She makes them in her weekly pottery class, and when I asked why she doesn’t make anything else, she answered, “Who cares what I make? I only go to catch up on the latest gossip with the other girls.”

“What’s going on, Caroline?” she asks, and the genuine question, along with her soothing, whimsical tone, tugs on my heart. “Does it have anything to do with why Eddie didn’t drive down with you?”

“He doesn’t like being called Eddie.” I cross my leg over the other, and my foot dances restlessly to the beat of the lyrical birds. “I’m sorry he didn’t come. I know you were excited to meet him. He was so busy when you visited. He’s always busy.” I say the last part mostly to myself.

“There’s no need to apologize, honey,” she says. “I’m just worried about you. You seem tense and stressed. Nothing like the girl who sang ‘Good Ole Morning Muffins’ once upon a time.”

“A lot has changed since then, Mama.”

“Sure, but the same wondrous girl with big dreams is still in there. She just seems a little haunted this morning.”

My shoulders slump deeper into my knit sweater as disappointment weighs my lips down into a frown.

I hate disappointing people, especially my mother. She’s my biggest cheerleader, and breaking her heart crushes me worse than if I were pinned under a river current.

But her loving expression is as encouraging as it is unyielding.

“Edward proposed to me the other night,” I confess through an exhale.

“Oh?” is all she says, but I can’t decipher its meaning. Is it surprise? Is it the opposite of a surprise?

There’s no indication in her simple oh to suggest Edward asked for her permission. It’s an old-fashioned tradition, and call it the small-town girl in me or whatever, but I always imagined my future husband to have such respect and courtesy.

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