Page 16 of When In Doubt

My chest constricts and I have to look away. Mom doesn’t need me showing up all mopey. I head to the kitchen at a fast clip, dropping a kiss to her cheek as I stand next to her by the stove. “Hey, Ma.”

“I’m doing a pot roast. I had chicken that needed using.”

“Smells great.”

“Did you have a good day?” she asks, doing a crappy job of hiding her smirk.

“Sounds like you already know,” I answer, crossing my arms. “Who called?”

She laughs. “Who didn’t?”

I sigh. I don’t even want to imagine.

“It was nothing. We just had coffee.”

“Really?” She narrows her eyes skeptically. “Thought you had coffee at home?”

“I needed to apologize for something.”

She turns, slowly, like something out of a horror movie. “Apologize for what?” She draws up to her full height, which puts her just under my chin. “Oscar Murphy, what did you do?”

I sigh. “It was nothing.”

“You don’t apologize for ‘nothing.’ Spill it, young man.”

It’s useless trying to hide anything from her. She’ll find out one way or another. I lay out the whole story, watching the crease between her brows grow deeper with every word. By the time I’m done, her mouth is pinched and she looks ready to drag me out by the scruff of my neck.

Instead she goes for picking up the dishtowel next to her and slapping me in the chest with it.

“Ow! Ma!” I yell, rubbing the spot she hit.

“I raised you better than that!” She takes another crack, this time catching my bicep.

“I know,” I practically whine, trying to shield myself with my hands outstretched. “That’s why I went over there. It’s all sorted now, you can put down the towel!” She’s brandishing it like a weapon, ready to hit me again at the slightest provocation.

“You’d better have,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes in a glare as she slings the towel over one shoulder. “Go set the table before I decide not to feed you.”

“How’s the open house going?” Mom asks between mouthfuls.

I finish my mouthful before replying. “Pretty good, we hit some roadblocks with the dunk tank, but now it’s basically smooth sailing.”

“Cat competition all ready?”

I huff out a laugh. Last year Birdie insisted on being allowed to add (and judge) a “Cat Competition.” It’s part feline beauty pageant, part meow-off, and all chaos. Nobody quite understands her judging matrix, but every cat in town gets trotted out for inspection.

“Podium’s ready to go.”

“You think there will be another brawl?”

Six months ago, two members of Joyce’s posse had gotten into it after Mary accused Sue of “illegal brushing technique”, whatever that means.

“Mack’ll be there to keep ’em in line.” He’d never allow anything to ruin Birdie’s day.

“And you’ve got all the vendors?” There’s something intent in her expression.

“Pretty much.”

“Is Freya doing anything?” she asks, trying unsuccessfully to sound nonchalant.