Mrs. Moretta’s bedroom had been hosed down in baby pink. The walls, the bedspread, the pillows, the carpet. There was a huge flat screen TV hung on one wall and a white dresser with pink roses on the other. The dresser drawers and closet doors were flung open, and clothing was everywhere except for in the open suitcase on the foot of the bed. What looked like a floral muumuu was draped over the pink armchair in the corner.

“What do you pack for an open-ended hospital trip?” Mrs. Moretta demanded.

“Um. Underwear?” Gloria guessed.

“Never wear it!” The woman sounded like a foghorn proudly proclaiming her commando status.

She should have brought the cookies up with her. And wine. She could use some right about now. A gallon of it.

“Okay.” Gloria took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the task at hand rather than the absurdity. “Let’s start with comfortable clothing. You don’t want to be sitting in a hospital room in stilettos and leather pants.”

Mrs. Moretta guffawed. “So you’re funny then?”

Gloria gave a little shrug and pulled a cardigan sweater with a dozen cats embroidered on it. “I guess so. Let’s do some layers in case the hospital is cold.”

“Do you plan to have babies with my son?” Mrs. Moretta demanded when Gloria folded up a pink t-shirt with rhinestones inexplicably covering only the breast region.

“Babies aren’t really on my radar right now,” Gloria said slowly. And one kiss wasn’t exactly a marriage proposal. One mind-melting, bone-warming, remember-for-a-lifetime kiss. But still.

Mrs. Moretta hurled a mud-brown turtleneck sweater at her.

“Huh,” she harrumphed. “Well, I suppose in your situation—being new to relationships that aren’t complete shitstorms and all—it’s smart to take it slow.”

Was that a compliment? Gloria couldn’t tell. She folded the turtleneck and stuffed it in the suitcase.

“How about marriage?” Mrs. Moretta demanded. “You’re not one of those broads who thinks she’s too good to wear a ring, are you? Because I won’t like that.” She shook a metal clothes hanger at Gloria.

“No, I like marriage. At least the idea of it. It would have to be a very special man.”

“You mean to deal with all your baggage?” Mrs. Moretta shouted.

“That, and he’d have to be special for me to deal with his baggage.”

Still wielding the clothes hanger, Mrs. Moretta frowned for a moment. “That’s smart. So you’re funny and smart. And your cookies are okay. As long as you’re not some kind of crazy bridezilla or an alcoholic asshole or some horny one-night stand kinda gal, you have my blessing to date my Aldo.”