Page 27 of Crazy In Love
“There she is,” my father said, pushing to his feet before wrapping me in a hug. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Hi.” I leaned over and kissed my mom’s cheek as she remained in the booth. “Good to see you guys.”
“You, too. We have lots to discuss,” my mother said as she reached for her wine glass.
Was she angry?
We paused to order when Edith stopped by to ask what we wanted. I quickly ordered a glass of wine and the chicken pot pie. My father went with the house special, meatloaf, and my mother got a chicken salad.
Margaret Taylor always ate salad for dinner.
“That’s a lot of carbs for the evening,” she said with a raised a brow.
“Yep. I’m good with it. I’ve already been on a run this morning, and I skipped lunch, so I’m hungry.” I blew out a breath.
“Let the girl eat,” Dad grumped. He always took issue with my mother and her digs about food whenever I ate in front of her.
“Listen, you’re skinny now, but who knows how long that will last. You’re in your late twenties—things could change, Emilia. I wish my mother had warned me about it back then. I had to figure it out for myself. I’m just looking out for you,” she said, as if her comment wasn’t completely offensive.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said, trying to hide my irritation. “But I’ve worked hard to have a healthy relationship with food, and I’m grateful for it. I exercise and eat well most of the time, and if I want to have a chicken pot pie every now and then, I’m okay with it.”
“What is going on with you lately?” she said, shaking her head as if she’d been holding in these thoughts. “You go and get a polygraph test, which completely blindsides us. You then file for a business license, when you’re already running the flower shop. And now you’re defensive about a chicken pot pie?”
I’m defensive?
I thought I just made it clear that I am happy about the damn chicken pot pie.
“That’s a lot to unpack,” I said. “So let’s start with one thing at a time.”
“Yes, I think we should unpack all of it,” Mom said as she held her glass up and caught Edith’s attention, requesting a second glass.
“Okay, well, for starters, you shouldn’t have been blindsided by the polygraph test. I asked you both to print something in the paper that would make it clear that I am not the author of ‘The Taylor Tea.’ But you felt that it would be going against your journalistic integrity. I get it. But I’m not writing the column, and I wanted to clear my name. I told you a week ago that I was doing this. Why would you be surprised when I went through with it? It wasn’t a secret. I was open with you about it.” I reached for my glass of wine. I was clearly going to needit, considering my mother appeared to be enraged, and all that venom was directed at me at the moment.
“And we were supposed to take you seriously? I thought you were kidding.” She flattened her lips as her nostrils flared.
“Sweetheart, we were just caught off guard. A lot of people thought it was you,” Dad said.
“I’m aware. And it was affecting business at the flower shop, and I didn’t appreciate being accused of something that I wasn’t doing.” I paused when Edith set our food down in front of us, and she winked at me. Almost like she could sense that there was a two-against-one situation going on at the table, and I was the odd woman out.
I am always the odd woman out with these two.
“You’re worried about ‘The Taylor Tea’ hurting business at the flower shop, yet you’ve filed for another business license? I’m guessing that will also have an impact on the flower shop.” My mother had a gift for arching her brow in a way that let you know she was judging you—and she didn’t like what she saw.
I took a bite of my delicious carb-filled chicken pot pie as I processed her words.
“The negativity around me writing ‘The Taylor Tea’ was the reason that the Vintage Rose got egged, which in turn looks bad for business. Me opening my design company doesn’t hurt the flower shop. Beatrice will increase her hours if this business takes off. I can still oversee everything, and increase her hours to full-time, and even bring on another employee if needed.”
My mother chuckled. It wasn’t the good kind of lighthearted laugh; it was fueled by irritation, and it was a laugh I was very familiar with. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. You have no experience. Do you honestly think clients are just going to walk in the flower shop and ask if you know of an interior designer?”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat and reached for my glass of wine, taking a sip while I let my father jump in.
“That’s a bit harsh, Margaret,” Dad said. “What she means is that you live in a small town, and it will be challenging to get clients. Plus, I would assume designing a home is a lot of work. This feels more like a”—he tapped his chin with his finger as he tried to think of the word, and I prepared myself to be offended—“a hobby. A pipe dream. And you always have been our little daydreamer, haven’t you?”
He said it as if I should be flattered by his words, and I was anything but. I often wondered how I was part of this family.
They didn’t get me.
They didn’t want to get me.
