Page 3 of His One True Wish

Mom and Gran’s old truck was parked in the drive. The truck was piled high with boxes, and there was a blue tarp covering half the truck bed. Mom and Gran had used that truck to run their “Starlight Catering” business for years. Now that Gran was gone, Mom was ready to retire. She deserved to cash-in and travel. It was just off-putting to imagine another family living in my old house.

It was early November, and snowfall wasn’t predicted until later in the week. Crisp, cold air stung my cheeks as I pulled my roller bag to the front walk. Clumps of melting snow dotted the flower beds on either side of the drive. White puffy clouds decorated the robin’s-egg-blue sky like a spring-day masquerade. I packed for cold, but not heavy snow. It wasn’t like I was going to ski this visit. Mom and I had too much work to do before the open house.

Our sweet, blue-and-white bungalow was a little worse for wear, but winter cabbages filled the window boxes, and a fresh coat of paint shone on the shutters. I told Mom to paint and add flowers out front. I was happy she listened to both my suggestions. I made it a point to add touches like this to The Holiday Apartment building I managed in Seattle. It made a big difference attracting and keeping tenants.

On the porch, the front door stood propped open by a trash bin.

“Mom?” I called, pulling the front door shut and stepping inside. “The new paint looks great. I wonder what genius told you to do that?”

“Billie, is that you, honey?” Mom’s voice carried down the hall. I guessed she was in the kitchen making the promised tacos.

“Yes, and it’s freezing in here. You really shouldn’t heat the great outdoors,” I sang, mock scolding her.

Mom stepped into the hall from the kitchen, her smile wide. Cheeks flushed, her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail and baseball hat. She wore baggy, pink sweats and a Broncos jersey, her favorite team. Old-fashioned, green dishwashing gloves masked her hands.

“Oh, honey, thank you. I couldn’t figure out why it was so cold,”she said, enveloping me in a big hug. Mom kissed my cheeks. Her warm lips pressed against my skin no doubt left enormous, red lip-stains.

“Look at you,” she said, cradling my face with her wet, sticky fingers.

“Mom, the gloves. Ew,” I said, playfully swatting her hand away.

She peeled her gloves off like a surgeon. “I just finished the dishes, and your tacos are ready.”

“Thank you for the tacos, and you know you can totally afford a dishwasher, Mom.”

“Nonsense,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I know how I like to clean. It soothes me, like meditation.”

“Just think about all the real meditation you could do with all the time you save not washing dishes.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You know I like to do things myself. Come on into the kitchen.” I followed Mom down the hall, inhaling the smell of Pine-Sol, taco seasoning, and unexpectedly, fresh chocolate chip cookies.

I sniffed the air. “Were you baking?” I asked, my stomach growling.

“Of course I was.” Mom glanced back at me over her shoulder. “Sweet treats and tacos.”

In the kitchen, Mom set out a bowl of meat, shredded lettuce, beans, cheese, and taco shells. There was a plate of fresh cookies already on the round kitchen table.

“Did I tell you that Abby said I don’t need to put any more money into the kitchen?” Mom said.

“Really?” I asked, surprised at this news. Mom’s kitchen was a time capsule from the fifties.

“Abby says it’s better to keep the space vintage and let the new buyer invest.”

“Is Abby the agent?” I took a seat at the kitchen table and picked up one of the cookies. It was still warm. I broke it in two, stretching the melty chocolate chips apart.

“Oh, yes. She’s a real go-getter.” Mom took a seat across from me. “And don’t worry. You are not in trouble for eating dessert before dinner.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of the cookie. “I thought Shelia from Zumba was your agent.”

Mom’s eyes grew wide for a moment. She leaned across the table. “Oh, I didn’t want to stress you out with the drama.” She waved her hands in the air.

“Zumba drama?” I took another bite.

“No.” Mom leaned in closer, and I knew I was about to get a heaping serving of gossip, revealed in my mother’s effortless “gossip” whisper. “Real estate drama.”

“Wow. Sounds intense, Mom.”

“Oh, honey. Don’t make fun. I felt terrible about it. I’m actually glad this came up. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Abby. Shelia was my first pick. I thought she was the right agent, and I almost signed, but you know almost every other woman at Zumba is a real estate agent.”

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