Page 25 of The Carver

“Nothing but work. But what about you?”

“I’ve taken up embroidery.”

“That’s nice.”What the fuck was embroidery?

“And I’ve started yoga. There’s a new studio down the street from my house. Met a few girls there.”

“Good for you, Mom.”

She took another bite of her croissant, most of it gone at this point. She sat perfectly straight without the chair for support, behaving like a typical rich French woman, all elegance all the time. “Are you seeing anyone?” She tore another piece off the croissant, her eyes down like she expected me to give the same answer I always gave when she asked this question.

This time, I gave a different response. “I am.”

Her eyes flicked up from what she was doing, her fingers still gripping the croissant. “You are?”

“I am,” I repeated.

She left the croissant where it lay and wiped her fingers with a napkin, her eyes locked on mine with a hint of elated surprise she did her best to hide. “Is it serious?”

It seemed serious whenever Fleur let her guard down, when she let me fully into her heart and mind. She told me things that other women were too afraid or proud to say, put her cards on the table because she thought she was out of the game. I caught her stare, the depth deeper than the flesh. And when she came back to me and begged for my forgiveness, she finally showed what I meant to her—that I was the best thing that ever happened to her. “Not yet, but we’re headed in that direction.”

My mother brightened in a way I hadn’t seen in a very long time, like the mere possibility of grandkids was enough to light her up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Tell me about her. What does she do? Do you have a picture of her?”

I chuckled. “Mom, chill. I just said it wasn’t serious?—”

“Yet.” She held up her finger to me in typical mom fashion. “This is the first woman you’ve mentioned since you left the house. By that fact alone, I know she means a great deal to you. Do you have a picture? I want to see her.”

“I don’t have any.”

“None?” she asked incredulously.

I’d taken some photos of her, but she was asleep at the time, wearing my shirt or nothing at all, photos I took in private. “None that I’m at liberty to share.” My mother and I didn’t talk about my personal life often, but she knew I was a young manliving a bachelor life, and she never pried, probably for her own sanity.

She sidestepped my answer. “Is she beautiful?”

I smiled before I scoffed. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Blond or brunette? Redhead?”

“She’s a brunette. Long brown hair. Green eyes. She’s on the shorter side, a little over five feet tall. But what she lacks in height, she makes up in sass.”

“Ooh, I love her already,” she said. “Does she work? Is she a model?”

“I gave her a job as an assistant at the investment firm.”

“What did she do before that?”

“Well…” I knew my mother wouldn’t like this part. “She was married, so she didn’t work.”

“She was married.” She said it with abject disapproval. “How old is she?”

“I’ve never asked. Almost thirty, if I had to guess.”

“So, she’s already been divorced, and she’s not even thirty?”

“Mom, I love you, but you better park that judgment bus.”

“I just don’t understand how a woman so young?—”

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