Page 45 of Fake it ’Til Fall

My mother and I are not bad at love. We are bad at letting love arrive without a project attached. She worries by making plans. I avoid worry by becoming useful. Between us, whole rooms get decorated, fed, and emotionally ignored.

“I’ll ask,” I say. “I’m not saying yes yet.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

She does not know. Mothers hear “I’ll think about it” and immediately start mentally washing guest sheets.

“Also,” she says.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”

“I heard ‘also.’ Also is a trapdoor word.”

“There will be a community dinner that week,” Mom powers through. “The high school athletic department is using the vineyard for a small donor and parent event before the fall sports fundraiser. It overlaps with some wedding setup, but we can manage both.”

I stare at the tiny pumpkin on my desk. It stares back with judgmental vegetable confidence.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“If you could help me organize it—” She pauses, then clears her voice. “I’ll pay you for that too.”

“So, you want me for both events?” I ask.

“Yes. I wanted to give you the full picture.”

The full picture is this: Liam and Carla are getting married at my family’s vineyard. Gloria has escaped into what I hope is a peaceful retirement involving no mothers and unlimited gin. My mother wants me to come home, be paid well, smile nicely, and arrange the wedding where my betrayal gets centerpieces.

Also, apparently, the high school athletic department will be wandering around the vineyard that week like a bonus subplot with booster checks.

Fall, as a season, has become far too ambitious.

“I’ll call you later,” I say.

“Thank you, darling.”

“I haven’t agreed.”

“I know.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can hear your cheekbones.”

Mom laughs softly, and for one second she is not the vineyard owner or the woman asking too much. She is just my mother, tired and hopeful and probably standing near a window in Winterberry Cove, looking out at the rows she refuses to give up on.

I miss home for half a second.

Then I remember home is a beautiful emotional sinkhole with excellent catering.

“I’ll call later,” I repeat, and hang up before either of us can become tender about it.