Page 40 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Wait,” I say as I follow behind her. “Pierregot a whim? Mom, did he pay for this pool?”
“I mean, technically yes, but I’ll have to cover the upkeep and cleaning.”
She pours a mimosa into a tall champagne flute and hands it over.
“How generous of him,” I say, taking the glass. I look over my shoulder. “But didn’t you break up? What happened to Jean-Luc?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Jean-Luc was just a cruise fling. But Pierre and I did break up.”
I take a sip of my mimosa, not fully believing what I’m hearing. “So, he paid for your pool, and then youbroke up? Do you have to pay him back?”
“Honey, this pool was pocket change for him. He’s probably already forgotten about it.” She settles onto a lounge chair with her own mimosa and pulls her sunglasses down, tilting her face toward the warm, spring sunshine. “If the leggy brunette he met on the boat is any indication, he’s not thinking about me at all.”
I lower myself onto the deck chair beside hers. I hate to admit it, but with the sound of the water feature splashing into the pool, the warm spring breeze, the birds chirping overhead, it really does feel pretty magical out here.
Mom spends the next ten minutes giving me a rundown of her favorite moments from her trans-Pacific cruise. Tokyo, Bali, Singapore. She mentions Pierre multiple times, and every time, she speaks of him with affection and humor.
I don’t know how she does it. How she transfers her affection so easily. How she isn’t seething over the breakup. Maybe coming home to a brand-new backyard pool eased the sting a little?
“Can I ask you a question?” I say when Mom’s travelogue finally comes to an end.
She turns her head and smiles at me. “You can ask me anything.”
“Do you actually fall in love with all the men you date?”
“Of course I do,” she says easily, like it’s hardly a question worth asking.
“Really? All of them?”
“Sure,” she says. “Why would I date them if I didn’t?”
“But you don’t seem all that heartbroken over Pierre,” I say, still struggling to understand. “And you were with Jean-Luc, what, five minutes after you broke up? How could it have been real love if you aren’t sad about the relationship ending?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, eyes toward the sky. I start to wonder if she’s going to answer at all, but then she takes a deep breath and lifts her sunglasses from her face, pushing them up into her long auburn hair. “Look. I know some relationships last decades. Lifetimes. I saw clients married for twenty, thirty, forty years work through hardships and come out the other side even stronger. I know it’s possible. But that’s not how I’m built, Sophie. I did love Pierre. I loved our time together. I loved how much he made me laugh, how sweet he is with his grandkids. But it was time to move on. I knew it. He knew it. I loved him while it lasted, and I’ll love the next one, too.”
Mom pulls her glasses down and looks back up at the sun with an air of finality, like she has nothing more to say on the subject. But I’m not ready to leave it alone. She’s atherapist.She made a career out of helping people stay connected and weather life’s storms. It feels counterintuitive that she’s the one who keeps moving from man to man.
“But what if thereisa man out there who you’re supposed to love forever?” I ask. “What if there’s someone so much better than all the other men you’ve been with?”
Mom lifts her glasses one more time and smirks. “If there is, I doubt he could afford this pool.”
I drop back onto my chair and drape an arm over my eyes to shield them from the sun. I didn’t wear sunglasses today,orbring a swimsuit, two things I might have done differently had I known Mom’s backyard had morphed into a tropical oasis.
I don’t want to think my mom is a liar. But if she reallydidlove Pierre and Jean-Luc and Frank and Tom and Leonardo and all the others, I don’t think it’s the same kind of love the Hathaways have—the kind that makes my flower bloom.
I have to believe it isn’t. I have to believe that what I’m searching for is bigger than anything that fades or passes so quickly.
I’m also not naive enough to miss the layers hiding behind my mother’s casual assertions. I see the way she’s protecting herself from the heartache that scorned her not once, but twice.
“I just think it looks like you’re scared, Mom,” I say. “Like you’re hiding behind all these shallow relationships because you don’t want to get your heart broken again.”
Mom scoffs. “Well that’s quite a judgment coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
She gives me a pointed look. “I don’t seeyousettling down.”
I huff out a breath and reach for my mimosa, draining it in two long swallows. “Are you serious?” I say. “I’m only twenty-five. This is not the same thing.”
