Page 54 of Head Over Heels

They both stared at me.

The older woman smiled, as did the younger one—questioning smiles, like I had any idea what they were thinking, certainly not enough that I’d be able to give them an answer.

My lips lifted a fraction, enough that I wasn’t being rude, but my stomach flipped unsteadily when the older woman stood and started walking in my direction.

Maybe if I started wearing jeans and T-shirts and flip-flops, no one would pay attention to my comings and goings, but gawd, I wasn’t sure I could use that as a justification.

Jeans were a prison for the wearer, if you asked me. A punishment derived from the casual fashion industry to make us think we were dressed down. Nothing about them was more comfortable than a nice dress, and I’d die on that hill.

Leggings, I could understand. Even I wore them on occasion.

Denim? Absolutely fucking not.

But at that moment, as the two women walked in my direction, I’d take the Levis and be perfectly happy.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” the older woman said. “But are you Ivy Lynch?”

There was something particularly ominous about the fact that she knew my name. But she had kind eyes, and she wasn’t flashing every single tooth in her mouth with that smile, so I felt a tad more inclined to trust her than Marcy I’m in love with Cameron Wilder Jenkins.

“I am.”

She smiled. “I thought you might be.”

Since they were both staring down at me, it felt odd to remain in my seat, so I stood slowly, adjusting the belt on my shirt-dress, fighting the urge to check my hair.

“My goodness, I wish I could pull off a dress like that.”

The younger woman next to her smiled wide, and there was a small ping of recognition in the very back of my head. Why did she look so familiar?

“You look like your mother,” the older woman said.

I froze. “You knew her?”

“A bit,” she answered. “We don’t live too far down the road from your grandparents’ house, and I remember your mom from before she left even though she was younger than me and my husband, Tim.” Then she tilted her chin in a vague gesture. “She worked here, actually.”

“She did?”

The woman hummed. “Waited tables here and at the bar right downtown on the weekends. Just about anyone in town who lived here then would remember her, I’m sure.”

Indecision sliced through me, a clean cut right down the middle.

I wanted to know everything.

And I didn’t want to know anything.

Some part of my brain corralled itself from getting too curious, the very same reason I felt an impossibly strong urge to stay out of that house. I coudn’t miss what I didn’t know. My dad hardly ever talked about her beyond how they met and what they’d both wanted. He bottled up his grief so effectively that I’d had no choice but to do the same. And when you didn’t remember anything, didn't know anything, it was easier to keep that bottle closed tight.

Knowing this side of my mom was very much like opening Pandora’s box. It was a side of her that took up nineteen years of her life, unfiltered through my father and his own biases.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you,” I told her. Something in her eyes told me she knew I had no intention of going to the bar downtown and fishing for good ole days stories. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

The younger woman laughed. “My mom is used to everyone knowing who she is. I keep telling her to keep her ego in check.”

The older woman clucked her tongue, giving her daughter a warm, affectionate look that had my insides sharp and cold, the loneliness of the entire day hitting me in an entirely unwelcome way.

“This smart-ass is my daughter, Poppy.”

Poppy held out her hand, and I took it, pleasantly surprised at her firm handshake.

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