Page 7 of A Thirst for Franc

“You’re only the best.”

“I walked up to him and offered and after chatting he asked me to start tomorrow.”

“I told you the universe works in mysterious ways. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” She was always telling me how the universe sends us signs, and I just need to be open to them. I assumed it was a coping method for her when we were trying to make our last five dollars stretch for a week.

“It was more of a happy coincidence.”

“If you say so.” Mom worried her lip, and I knew something was plaguing her mind. We practically grew up together. I knew her better than anyone. She wasn’t just my mom; she was my best friend.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bull. What’s wrong?”

She sighed and swished her lips back and forth.

“Just spit it out.”

“It’s just… you went from being a teacher in a school with a class of twenty-eight kids. You have your master's degree. Do you really want to be a babysitter? I mean, how much could you possibly make?”

“A lot. The father is one of the Grasso kids. He works and owns a stake in the winery, and from what I’ve read, they’re loaded. He didn’t even bat an eye at the money, and it is almost double what I was making as a teacher.”

Mom lifted her eyebrows in approval, her lip pressing upward. “Was he cute?” Mom asked, and I rolled my eyes. “Is he married?”

“I didn’t ask.” I didn’t notice a ring either, but that didn’t mean anything. I knew a lot of guys who hated wearing jewelry.

“But he’s cute.” Of course she clung to what I didn’t say.

“Very, but that is not the point. Besides, he’s much older than me.” I assumed he was, and a quick Google search confirmed it.

“I’m four years older than Scott.” Sometimes you would never know it. My stepdad was the glue that held the family together and had been from the minute he entered our lives. An old soul with a heart of gold.

“Four years is nothing. Not to mention Scott has been acting like a seventy-year-old man since I first met him.”

“His body is definitely not seventy.”

“Mom!”

“What? You should be happy that after all these years, I’m still attracted and satisfied by my husband.”

A loud gag noise came from behind her, and I laughed.

“Is Mom talking about sex again?” CeeCee, who was now seventeen—though to me, she would always be the four-year-old with blonde pigtails I’d push on the swings for hours—stepped into the frame and waved.

“Yes, make her stop,” I begged.

CeeCee’s hand clamped over Mom’s mouth, her long hair falling over Mom like a curtain.

Mom swatted her away. “Make fun all you want,” Mom said when she effectively removed CeeCee’s hand. “But one day you’ll understand. At least that’s my hope.”

“That we understand sex?” CeeCee asked. “Hate to break it to you, Mom, but they taught us about sex in middle school. I understand the mechanics.”

“I’m not talking about the mechanics. I’m not even talking about sex. And you better not be having sex.”

“Then what are you talking about?” I asked., and CeeCee mouthed a thank you to me. I had no idea if she was having sex. But frankly, it was none of my business. If she wanted to tell me, then I would be there for her, but until then, she was free to be a teenager.

“I’m talking about finding the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

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