Free That's (Not Exactly) Amore by Tracey Bateman Page B

anymore. I mean, I’m glad and all, but still . . . it is a little weird.
    In my bedroom, I pull out the outfit I plan to wear tonight. A long skirt—it’s a few years old, but I like it—and a short denim jacket that I happen to think complements the whole thing. No matter what Dancy or Tabby think. They can be slaves to the fashion industry all they want. I’d rather make my own decisions.
    Mom taps on my door a second later and walks right in without waiting for me to invite her. But then, she never has, so I wouldn’t expect anything different.
    “All settled in?” she asks, then notices the skirt. “Is that what you’re wearing to church in the morning?”
    “Date tonight.”
    Her eyebrows (which, by the way, are plucked for the first time in as many years as I can remember) shoot up. “You have a date?”
    I nod, enjoying this feeling of control as she decides whether or not to go ahead and ask the questions or wait for me to offer the information. Normally, I’d take pity on her and just open up. But first I have some questions of my own.
    “So, Ma,” I say, sitting next to her on the bed. “What’s with all the lights and flowers?”
    She sucks in her lower lip and begins to nibble a little.
    “Okay, seriously,” I say. “Something is going on. Do you have a boyfriend?”
    Her eyes go big, and I know I’ve hit on something. “Do you? Ma!”
    “No. Not a boyfriend as in we’re going steady or anything.”
    Aw, she said going steady. That’s so cute. Okay, wait. Stop patronizing Mom and get some information.
    “Who is he, Ma?”
    Her face reddens considerably. “Aaron Bland—and don’t make any cracks about him being bland. Because he’s not. He’s very interesting. And nice. He goes to church with me. And he knows everything about flowers.”
    “Even the knockoffs of the brand names?” I snort at my own joke, but judging from her scowl, she’s either not amused or she doesn’t get it. My money is on the former.
    “Anyway, you’ll get a chance to meet him tomorrow at the church picnic.”
    “What do you mean, church picnic?”
    “There’s a picnic after service tomorrow,” she says in a tone that clearly conveys that I should already know this information. And if I don’t, well, that’s not her fault.
    Who is this woman?
    “I really don’t want to go to a picnic with a bunch of people I don’t know, Ma.”
    She gives me a look, springs up from the bed, and stops at the door. “If I can do it, you can do it. Besides, we’ve been going there for a while. Maybe it’s time to get involved.”
    And she just leaves! Just like that, before I can remind her that I’m thirty years old, I’ve been living on my own for years, and I do not have to go to her church picnic if I choose not to. I mean, really!
    By six o’clock I’m showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table watching the clock.
    “For goodness’ sake, Elaine. Stop fidgeting.”
    My mother calls me Elaine from time to time. I don’t like it, but what am I going to do? I can’t even get out of going to a church picnic once she’s made up her mind I’m going.
    “I know. I’m just nervous. I haven’t been on a real date in a long time.” Other than the coffee date that turned into lunch. But this is a real, nighttime date. In a league all its own.
    “I’m not sure I like the thought of you dating a police officer.”
    She says this as though it’s the first time it’s come up. In fact, we’ve had more than one discussion today regarding the wisdom—or the lack thereof—of dating a man in such a dangerous profession.
    “It’s a date, Ma. Not a wedding.” My lips twist into a grin. “Unless he asks for a quick elopement.”
    A deep frown clues me in to the fact that Mom doesn’t find my quip amusing. “Is it too much to ask that I not be mocked for caring whether or not your husband dies in his prime?”
    Her lower lip trembles. And just like that the mother I know has returned to the