Page 41 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Are you sure?” she shoots back. “I know a little more about relationships than you do, Sophie, and from where I’m standing, you’re the one hiding here. Not me.”
It’s not often that Mom uses her therapist voice on me, but that was it, and her words hit me harder than I expect.
She thinksI’mhiding? From what? And what does she know about my dating life? I’m actively trying to find someone, to settle down. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
“I heard from Dad,” I say, my words pointed and sharp. “That’s why I’m here.”
Mom tilts her head toward me. She’s still on her lounge chair, but her body language has completely shifted. “What?”
“I need to pick up the box of journals he gave me when I was in middle school.”
“His mother’s journals?” Mom asks. “But he gave those to you.”
“He did. But now Callie is working on a family history project at school, and he thinks she’d like to read them.”
Mom scoffs. “Callie,huh? Is she his oldest?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s a freshman this year. Almost fifteen.”
“Wow,” Mom says, almost more to herself than to me. “Time goes by fast.” She sits up a little taller. “You know, those areyourjournals, Sophie. Your father can’t just pry a gift out of one daughter’s hands and give it to another. You can say no,” she says.
I fight to contain my sigh. Ididsay I wanted to needle her, but I clearly forgot how much her anger drains me. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. I haven’t looked at those journals in years.”
She purses her lips, her frustration clear on her face. “Well. Still,” she huffs. “I think it’s rude that he just expects?—”
“Knock, knock,” Peter says from behind me, and I sit up, spinning to face him, relief washing over me like a cool breeze. “Hey! You’re here.”
“Sorry for just letting myself in,” he says. “No one answered when I knocked, so I took a gamble and found the door unlocked.”
“I’m so glad you did,” Mom says, standing from her chair and moving toward Peter. Whatever anger she had simmering beneath the surface moments ago is completely gone now, but that doesn’t surprise me.
Mom will never pass up an opportunity to be beautiful and charming.
“Hi, Peter,” she says, pulling him into a hug. “How are you?”
“Good, Mrs. Stewart. It’s nice to see you.” He looks around the backyard. “You have a pool now.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she says. “Want to swim? I still have a ton of Pierre’s clothes. I’m sure there’s some trunks you could borrow.”
Peter’s eyes dart to mine, and I do my best to communicate how much Idon’twant that to happen. “Oh, um, that’s okay,” he says. “I think…Sophie and I actually have somewhere to be.”
I give him a quick thumbs up before my mother turns around to face me. “But you just got here.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just a…thing. It’s been scheduled a while,” I say. “But I’ll come back soon when I have more time.” I stand and move toward the patio doors. “I’m just going to go upstairs to find the journals.”
“I’ll come too,” Peter says, but my mother intercepts him.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she says. “You sit here and chat with me a while. Sophie can manage one small box on her own.”
Peter shoots me another look.
“I’ll be fast,” I say, and he nods.
The journals are exactly where I expect them to be. I open the box and pull the top one out, flipping through the first few pages. I read them all when I was younger, anxious to feel some connection to the paternal grandmother I would never know. She was a gardener, like me, and wrote a lot about her heirloom tomatoes and her prize-winning pumpkins. It didn’t mean a lot to me then, but I feel a sudden desire to read them again now. Maybe I will before I give them back to Dad.
Peter stands the minute I appear in the kitchen and lets himself in through the back door. “Ready to go?” he says, and I suddenly wonder what Mom said to make him so jumpy.
“Yeah,” I say. “You okay?”
