I didn’t give either of them a chance to say another word. Which was a shame, really, because there was a lot more I wanted to say to Arthur, but I couldn’t risk it.

“He seems nice,” Mom said, as we headed down the hall near the lobby.

“He is.” I lowered my voice. “And his aunt was never flirting with Dad.”

Mom gave me a look that was difficult to read as we walked. “You’re sure about that now?”

“So, so, so sure.” I didn’t tell her why I was certain. It felt important to get official verification about Esha’s orientation and relationship with Grandma Jo before I blurted out something else misleading to my mother. There were enough messes for me to clean up already, thanks.

When we rounded the corner into the lobby we found it blessedly empty. Except for Val, who was leaning against the interior of the front desk, arms crossed, eyes closed. Yet she still said, “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Brown,” when we entered.

Mom smiled in return. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Val.”

Val’s eyes never moved.

Mom and I continued to the far end of the lounge and sat on the floral sofas, surrounded by the sights and smells of late December. The fire in the fireplace dwindled but still had enough energy left to heat the room.

We sat facing each other, both feet on the floor in a way that was suddenly weirdly formal and I didn’t like it.

I stood.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked Mom, gesturing to the hot chocolate bar in the corner. Arthur had inspired me.

“Some hot water would be nice.”

I should have guessed that. After the sun went down in winter, Mom liked to drink hot water only. In summer, it was a big glass of ice water. It was one of her quirks. I preferred to disguise my water with something, which right then was a bag of Harney & Sons holiday black tea and a packet of raw sugar. Which wouldn’t necessarily help me decompress from this crazy day, but it tasted good and gave me something to do with my hands.

Once that was accomplished, I sat back down again and faced her, holding the mug in my lap.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, reaching out to touch my forearm. “How are you?”

Where to begin?

“Fine,” I lied.

“Not too busy at the inn?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

This was excruciating. I’d never had this much difficulty talking with my mom. Sure, we’d had our issues and there were many times when I’d want her to leave me alone. Many times. But that was basic teenager stuff.

This? This felt like I was talking with my Uncle Lonnie in Florida, whom I barely knew.