Harper’s face brightened. “Are you nervous about meeting his mother?” she gasped in delight.

“It’s Mrs. Moretta!” Gloria tried to defend herself. “She’s terrifying. Who wouldn’t be nervous about meeting her?”

Harper grinned.

Crap. Fine. Whatever.

“Oh, screw it!” The woman would take her as she was or not at all, Gloria decided. “Just let me brush my hair and bag up some of the cookies I baked this morning.”

24

Mrs. Moretta was even more terrifying in person. Gloria’s potential future boyfriend’s mother was a loud, opinionated grump.

She threw open the door before they had even crossed the porch. “He’s awake, and he asked if everyone else was okay and then said he wanted a cheeseburger,” Mrs. Moretta announced. “And now I have to pack to meet him ‘somewhere’ in the near future, which is a pain in my ass. I didn’t ask my son to blow himself up. Who’s gonna water my plants and get my mail and steam iron the draperies? Draperies don’t just do that themselves.”

“I’d be happy to help while you’re gone,” Gloria stupidly volunteered.

She really needed to stop doing that.

Mrs. Moretta harrumphed. “Who the hell are you?’

“Mrs. Moretta, this is my friend Gloria.” Harper made the introductions.

“Ohhh. So you’re the girl my son has his eye on,” she said with a fierce frown, giving Gloria a withering once-over.

Gloria did her best not to wilt under the woman’s stare.

“Sorry,” Harper hissed under her breath. “It slipped out. There was wine and tears.”

“You think I’m deaf just ‘cause I’m old?”

Mrs. Moretta couldn’t have been more than fifty-five. But she sure had the crotchety thing going for her.

“Well, come in then,” Mrs. Moretta demanded, shuffling away from the door. She was round and soft in the body and hard and sharp in the tongue.

She snatched the offered bag out of Gloria’s hands. “I thought you might like some cookies,” Gloria began.

But Mrs. Moretta had already opened the bag and shoved a hand inside. “You’re probably as hungover as I am,” she said to Harper, offering her the bag.

“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee as big as my face,” Harper told her, helping herself to a cookie.

Harper had explained the emotional, boxed wine sit-in she, Claire, and Mrs. Moretta had shared last night. Hence the movie-star sunglasses Harper was rocking.

The dogs wandered into the kitchen and laid down on the cool tile.

“You make coffee,” Mrs. Moretta pointed at Harper. “And you can help me pack.”

“Me?” Gloria asked.

“How else am I supposed to tell if you’re good enough for my son!” Mrs. Moretta shook her head like she was tired of explaining things to idiots and mounted the steps to the second floor.

“Good luck,” Harper sang under her breath.

Numbly, Gloria plodded up the stairs to her doom.