Page 64 of Welker

Right. Big help.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Welker choked. “I’m, uh, going to go light the grill.”

Or more likely have a laughing fit once he cleared the door.

Sure. Abandon ship, now. Coward.

He scooted away as if his ass were on fire.

“Would you…? I was just…” Moira blinked a few times to regroup and address Mrs. Vest…uh, Bette. “I have porkchops marinating, and there’s enough for you to stay for dinner if you like.”

Shit. Had the woman come to spend the night? Moira didn’t see any luggage, but for all she knew, Welk’s mother kept a stash of clothes somewhere in the house.

“I’d love to stay and eat with you.” Bette pulled back and beamed. “But I can’t be too long. My bridge group is getting together later tonight for some slams,” she smirked. “And I don’t just mean our scoring bonuses.”

Those were all gobbledy-gook words to Moira, but Welker hmphed as he reentered the room and shook his head, clearly having heard his mother. “Mom? You’re not planning on driving, I hope,” he admonished. “Last time you got so obliterated and belligerent that Edna Baker had to forcibly take your keys.”

“Oh, Edna is an old curmudgeon,” Bette laughed. “But no. Actually, my new beau will be giving me a ride home,” she said smugly.

“Great.” Welker rolled his eyes. “Is this Dave, or Gerry?”

“Phttt. Neither. I got rid of those two weeks ago. My new squeeze is Greg, and he might just be a keeper.”

Bette winked at Moira.

Welker had been moving them slowly toward the kitchen as the conversation continued, for which Moira was glad. She was way out of her depth, and as soon as they hit the room, Moira began fussing with the food, which gave her something to do with her hands. She ran water into a pot and put it on the stove to boil.

Welker continued. “I’ll want Greg’s last name so I can look into him.”

Bette’s laugh tinkled merrily. “Of course you do. But honey, I can read ‘em, and this guy is a gem. He’s a retired firefighter, and still keeps in shape, if you know what I mean.” She winked again.

Welker groaned. “TMI, Mom. But I’ll still want his contact info.”

Bette patted Welker’s arm and nodded. “You’re a very good son.” She clapped her hands together. “Now.” She turned her attention to Moira, in a way Moira imagined would be just like a shark, if a shark wanted to pull your brain apart before it ate you. “Tell me about yourself.”

Moira had never been given the third degree by a date’s mother before, and didn’t exactly know how to proceed. And all this, right after she’d had her mind short-circuited by multiple orgasms. Moira had to fight down a blush at what Bette would have seen had she had access to the house a few hours earlier.

Welker intervened.

“Mom. If you must, ask specific questions so Moira isn’t left floundering.”

Even though it wasn’t the actual save Moira wanted, Welker’s mild mediation was at least something.

“Okay.” The woman hopped up to perch on one of Welker’s bar stools. “Where are you from?”

“Uh, close by,” Moira offered tentatively. “In Bar Harbor.”

“That’s nice. Do your parents still live there?”

Moira busied her hands peeling potatoes, cutting them up into small pieces to cook quickly in the now-simmering water.

“Umm. My father does,” she finally offered.

“Oh. Your mother lives somewhere else?”

“You…could say that.”

Moira swung her hair in front of her now red face, and plated up the raw porkchops. She then turned to wash her hands before burying her hot cheeks in the refrigerator to take out fresh asparagus.

---