Page 95 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“I didn’t say I was posing for a painting.”

My gag reflex kicks in, but I keep the volume internally. “Oh God, Mom. No. I do not need to hear this.” I push the pie away, definitely not eating that. “Also, don’t share any more of your lies. I’m good. Some things need to go to the grave with you. That Pollack story being one of them.”

“Well, it inspired me to wait for your father. He was worth every minute I sat in that uncomfortable chair, hoping to see him again.”

“Did he ever find out you did that?”

“Yes, we once confessed. That’s when I found out he had been stopping by the bakery every morning at eight because that’s where he had once seen me.”

Throwing my arms open wide, I groan. “Why was everything so romantic back then?”

“Romance was in the air, but we definitely made it happen.”

I pop upright. “You always said that you stopped modeling eight months after you met Dad to work with him, but how long did you date before getting married, and why do I not know this?”

“Thought you didn’t want to know any more of my secrets?”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, use my words against me.”

By how she’s giggling, she’s enjoying this a little too much. Or she has a sugar rush from the pie. Either way, I’m glad we’re connecting like this again. She says, “It’s not something I advertise because everyone has an opinion on it, but we went down to the courthouse ten months before our actual ceremony and got married.” She nudges my leg. “That was the most romantic day of my life. Just us committing our lives to each other. I’ve not regretted it once since the day John and I met.”

My heart pings to life, the gushy stuff reminding me of lying in bed at the bungalow with Nick when he asked me if I wanted to get married. “And no one knew prior?”

“No,” she replies, appearing pleased by her admission with a smile that reveals her secret. “My parents would have lost their ever-loving minds. Everyone celebrates the date of the big to-do we had at the Plaza. We celebrate our special day, just the two of us.”

Trying to math through this, I finally just ask, “How long did you date before you eloped?”

She opens the door wider but stays. “Nine weeks to the day.” Her finger crosses her lips. “But don’t tell anyone. That’s our little secret.” Giving me a wink, she adds, “Let me know if you’d like me to book a flight for you.” Am I that transparent?Probably.

“I’ll keep you posted.”

I’m given a reassuring smile before she closes the door behind her.

Sprawled across the middle of the bed, I’m still grinning. It’s weird to think of my parents as younger and to find out they’re stalkers for each other. I might die from the sweetness.

With all that was said on my mind, especially about her and Dad eloping so soon after they met, I pull the covers around me and snuggle with my thoughts. Nick would use that story to his favor. Any evidence to support his case is free game.

Taking up so much of the bed reminds me how Nick always lets me hog the middle, and he’s content to settle around me.He was good like that.

Was?

Do I want to get caught up in wallowing? Or take action?

I roll over and see the pie. I promised I would stay for Thanksgiving, so I guess everything needs to wait a day.

I shove a big bite of pie in my mouth and then push up to get dressed. I rummage through the last few clean items in my suitcase but only find one sad pair of stretched-out, unflattering lavender running pants stuffed in the pocket of the insert. I yank them out, and a piece of paper flutters to the floor.

Bending down, I pick up the circular piece of paper and turn it over. It’s an illustrated chocolate chip cookie with a bite taken out of it. “What the heck is this?”

Printed at the top reads: From the desk of Cookie Christiansen. My smile is instant. This is kind of kooky. I laugh at my pun, but with no idea what her note could possibly say, my gaze dips to her handwritten cursive. “Destiny will always find a way through a misunderstanding. Love, Cookie.”

I flip it over several times, looking for more hints to what that means, but then I wonder how this even got in here. Was it meant for me, or did it somehow get caught in my belongings? She did ship this suitcase and my laptop bag to me, but would she—I inhale a hard breath when I realize what this really is.

I take off. Running downstairs, I call out, “Mom!”

“In here.” I spin several times in the main entry, trying to figure out where that came from before she adds, “In the kitchen,” and start running again. Flailing my arms in the air, I hold the note, and exclaim, “This is a sign.”

“What is?” Her eyes narrow on the note in my hand. “That is?”

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