Free Sink Trap by Christy Evans Page B

dropped in on their mothers, too.
    One of the things I missed living in Pine Ridge was a dojo.
    I hadn’t stopped training. I still worked out at home. But it wasn’t the same.
    The empty dance studio would be ideal. All I had to do was find someone with the money to lease it, the dedication
to renovate, and the patience to teach martial arts in a small town.
    No problem, right?
     
     
    Even though I tried to put Monday’s dinner out of my mind, eventually it was time to show up at Mother’s for my command performance.
    I dressed the part, in the silk pants and cashmere sweater I hadn’t worn on the canceled dinner date with Wade. As a peace offering to my mother, I put on the string of pearls she’d bought me when I graduated from high school. I would have preferred a boom box for my dorm room, but she insisted that every lady needed a string of pearls.
    Mostly, they lay coiled in the bottom of my jewelry box.
    Some temptations, though, are too much. Parking the ’Vette in Mother’s driveway earned me a disapproving frown, in spite of the pearls. Well, it might have had something to do with the growl of 427 well-tuned cubic inches.
    Gregory put on his best host face, making small talk about the car. After a very few minutes, I realized he knew next to nothing about me. Apparently, whatever the relationship between him and my mother—and judging from the way he was playing host, it was more than professional—she hadn’t told him much about her only child.
    Wade arrived a few minutes later, and by the time dinner was ready, we had played out all the polite conversational bits. We agreed the weather was still cool for this late in the spring, that the local sports teams needed to make some good draft picks, and it was good that the high school was being repainted over the summer break.
    I offered to help Mom put the food on the table, leaving Wade and Gregory to their own devices.
    Walking into my mom’s kitchen, full of the smells of her favorite company dinner, was like a trip back to my childhood. A ham, covered in pineapple rings and studded
with whole cloves, rested on the counter. Mom pulled a bubbling casserole of au gratin potatoes from the oven, and I could see a tray of golden biscuits behind it.
    “Put the green beans in the serving bowl, please.” Mom nodded toward the counter, where a warmed bowl waited.
    I did as I was told, as I always had in Mom’s kitchen, and carried the bowl to the dining room table. There were hot pads arranged on the table, and I knew where each dish went. I ferried the ham and potatoes in, while Mom put the biscuits in a bread basket.
    I was suddenly eight years old again, helping Mom set the dining room table for “grown-up” company, before I got my dinner on a tray table in front of the television.
    I liked it when Mom and Dad had grown-up company. To this day, eating on a tray table in front of the TV reminds me of those nights. Minus the home-cooked meal, of course—I never managed to inherit my mother’s gifts in the kitchen.
    As usual, Mom’s food was delicious. The ham was hot and juicy, with a touch of honey and sweet cloves, and the potatoes dripped with her homemade cheese sauce, rich with cream.
    For several minutes the room was quiet except for the murmurs of “please” and “thank you” as platters and bowls were passed around and plates filled, followed by the clink of silver against china.
    The presence of the china and silver gave me a sense of foreboding. They had always been reserved for special occasions in the past, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what was special about tonight.
    I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
    As soon as his plate was filled, Gregory excused himself and went to the kitchen. He returned a minute later with a bottle of Oregon pinot noir. He poured glasses for each of us, and cleared his throat.
    “Here’s to old friends,” he said, looking first at Mom and then at Wade, “and to new ones.”

    He looked at