Page 27 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

“No,” I said softly. “He wouldn’t want that.”

“So, okay. Go on a date with Principal Darlington. Have fun.” She wrinkled her nose. “But not too much fun. Or if you do, don’t tell me about it. That’s gross.”

I laughed. “Because I’m your mom?” I teased.

“Because you’re old.”

“Hey!” I swatted my daughter’s calf playfully. “You’re lucky you’re up there where I can’t get you.”

Jessica laughed. “Sure, Mom.”

The bell jangled as Betty and Jean exited the shop to admire the window from outside.

Jessica climbed down the ladder, skipping the last two rungs and landing safely on the sidewalk with a little bounce. “What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s beautiful, baby,” Betty said. The tall Black woman’s face softened as she turned to Jean, a curvy white woman with snow-white curls. “Now, what does this remind you of?”

Jean’s own face took on a dreamy, romantic expression. “When I asked you to marry me.”

Betty handed Jessica her phone. “Take our picture in front of your painting, will you? We don’t get out to the mountains much anymore. Our hikes are shorter these days. Gotta protect the knees.”

“Sure,” Jessica said. She wiped her hands on a rag and took the phone.

A lump formed in my throat as I watched Betty wrap her arm around Jean’s waist and Jean return the affection with a kiss on the cheek. Betty and Jean had been a couple for longer than I had been alive. It was hard to bear witness to so much love and not wish for…a fairy tale.

Because that’s what it was. Lasting love was something that happened to other people, not to me. It felt so out of reach that I might as well be watching a prince awaken a princess from an evil spell with a magic kiss.

A strident voice broke through my thoughts.

“Is it too much to ask that my only child return my phone calls?”

I settled into the well-worn chair at Hot and Wired, the coffee shop on Main Street, and girded my loins for the inevitable. Mom sat across from me, but she didn’t do anything so gauche as settle. She perched primly, as though something sharp was pointed directly at her bum, rather than a soft cushion.

Mom frowned at the pine table that stood between us, the knotted planks scarred from years of use. Shabby. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head as clearly as if she had spoken the word out loud. It didn’t help when the barista arrived with our order—a pumpkin pie latte topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream and sprinkle of cinnamon for me, and an Earl Grey tea for Mom—causing the table to shift unsteadily as she placed one mug followed by the other.

But that didn’t stop my mother from smiling at the barista and saying thank you. Grace Locklear had a holy horror of rudeness. She would no sooner berate a server than she would leave the house without lipstick.

“We could have gone to the country club,” Mom said. “They have a wonderful tea service.”

I glanced around. Hot and Wired might not be fancy, but it was cozy, and the pastries were yummy. Nothing matched, and most of the furniture had seen better days. In one corner was a gas fireplace and a small bookshelf, which operated as an informal library. I had spent more than a few Sunday mornings here with Jessica when she was tiny, indulging in much-needed caffeine and reading her books by the fireplace.

“I like it here,” I said with a shrug.

Mom sniffed. “Well. To each her own, I suppose.”

Rich words coming from the woman who was here for the sole purpose of insisting that a man’s memorial service be held in a location he would hate. I lifted my mug to my face, breathing in the rich, spicy aroma. It softened the sharp edges of my annoyance into something more like resigned tolerance. Getting angry with my mother never did any good. In the end, I would give her what she wanted.

That was why I had put it off so long to begin with. I had always been a fan of putting off the inevitable.

“Ten years, Katharine,” Mom said, apropos of the inevitable. “Don’t you think George deserves to be in our hearts and minds? Or perhaps you’re fine with Hart’s Ridge forgetting the sacrifice he made.”

“I have not forgotten,” I said fiercely.

Because I hadn’t. I never would.

George had never wanted to join the army in the first place. We had both been accepted to the University of North Carolina. I hadn’t decided my major yet, but George had always known he wanted to study art. He had been less certain as to how that major would turn into a job or money, but that was a problem for later.

Until “later” arrived unexpectedly early in the form of a positive pregnancy test, five months before graduation. Suddenly, paying bills and making money were a “now” problem. Like so many other eighteen-year-olds from small towns without a whole lot of job prospects, he had signed up for military service.

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