“Moira,” Digger says gently, “you’ve got a lot on your plate. Let me stop by and see if there’s anything I can do. Please.”
“Well, if you insist. I’d appreciate your opinion on my hot water heater. It’s been acting up lately.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” Before he hangs up, he says, “I love you. You’ve got this.”
I’m suddenly too tired to heat up a Toaster Strudel. Dragging myself up the stairs, I realize that I’m tired of my whole life. While I love my kids and I’m appreciative for all that I have, I hate the amount of responsibility that comes with it. I hate feeling tired and overwhelmed. I hate the small-minded bitches, like Sissy Sinclair, who cast aspersions on my character. I hate this house.
I could go on hating for hours, but as I crawl between the crisp cotton sheets of my bed, I force the litany to end. I remember my grandmother telling me, “For everything you hate, you have to like two things, or you’re gonna slide into the pit of despair, girl.”
Starting a new list, I announce to the empty room, “I love my boys. I love the color green. I love chocolate. I love summer evenings. I love Digger and Grandpa Jack. I love …” Shoot, that’s all I can come up with. I’m either going to have to learn how to love more, or I’m going to have to give up hating so much. At this point, I’m not sure which would be easier.
An image of Ethan Caplan pops into my mind. Tall, handsome, polite, interested in baseball …What am I doing?I am not going to let myself start pining for some unattainable man. That’s no way to make my life better.
As I doze off to sleep, I dream that I made different choices. I fantasize that I told Everett that I couldn’t marry him because I’d decided to go to culinary school. I dream that I packed up and moved to some big city like New York or Los Angeles, to live a life full of adventure and excitement.
My imaginings go on for hours and I love every one of them. From opening my own fine dining establishment, to vacationing in exotic locations, which include riding horses on a beach in Cancun; I travel the world and go out dancing nightly. I relish the choices I could have made but didn’t. But then I hear one word in the back of my reverie, and it wakes me with a start.Mom.
I know why I didn’t leave Gamble when I had the opportunity, and that reason is my mother. Bethany McKenzie was never satisfied with life in a small town. So much so, she packed up and left me, Digger, and our dad here while she moved to Hollywood to follow her dream of becoming a movie star.
She didn’t call us; she didn’t visit us; she just walked away like we were nothing to her. For her troubles, she wound up hooked on drugs and was found dead in an alley before we could make our peace with her.
I remind myself that Ichoseto stay in Gamble. I had something to prove to the universe—I was nothing like my mom. I wasn’t a malcontent who always needed more. I convinced myself that I was happy with my lot, and I was going to raise children the way I wish I’d been raised.
An icy sweat starts to form on my neck as I continue to reassure myself that I am nothing like the woman who gave me life. I love my kids and I’ll do everything I can to make sure they have the lives they deserve. I need to quit pining for more. I have enough, and come hell or high water, I’m going to focus on what really matters.
My stomach lets out a loud groan. Those three crackers have given up the ghost and I’m starving. The thought of Grandma Adele’s raspberry coffee cake makes me drool. Looking at the clock, I see it’s already four in the morning—only an hour before I usually get up.
Throwing off the top sheet, I slide out of bed, intent on making a coffee cake before going into work. Even though my boys aren’t here to enjoy it, I remind myself that good mothers put their kids' needs above their own. I’ll drop some off at Digger’s before going into work becausethat’swhat a good mother would do.
Chapter6
Ethan
I sleep like a rock for the first time since I was a kid, and I don’t wake up until after ten. I would have probably stayed in bed longer, but my stomach lets out a roar like a monster truck gearing up for destruction. Popping open my eyes, I stare up at the vaulted ceiling and smile. Day one of my new life has begun. I’m going to go for a long run every day, and maybe throw in a few push-ups and core exercises, then I’ll spend the rest of my days writing. But first, breakfast.
I mentally run over the meager things I usually eat at home and decide that Moira’s cook can probably do a lot better. The thought of a farmer’s omelet, or a stack of fluffy pancakes catapults me out of bed.
After a quick shower, I throw on some jeans and a T-shirt and make my way down the road to the diner. I love the feel of the terrain here. It’s lush and rugged, almost like I’ve driven through a time portal to an ancient land.Look at me flexing my descriptive muscles like a real author.
Getting out of my rental car, I realize that I’m more than a little excited about the meal to come. As I walk through the door, the bell rings, announcing my arrival. There is only a smattering of customers seated around the dining room, making me think the breakfast rush comes earlier around here. Moira is carrying a coffee pot as she hurries from table-to-table, topping people up. She briefly makes eye contact and offers a small smile, but I’m not buying it. There’s something about her energy that’s off.
Making my way over to the table I sat at yesterday, I pluck the laminated menu off the wire rack that also holds the napkins, ketchup bottle, and salt and pepper shakers. A few seconds later, Moira appears with an empty mug in one hand and a carafe in the other. “Coffee?”
“Absolutely, thank you.” Noticing the dark circles under her eyes, I ask, “How’s your morning going?”
“I’ve had better,” she says while filling my cup.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Do you have a time machine?”
“That bad, huh?”
She purses her lips tightly. “Some days the whole single mom, running a diner, living in a house falling down around your ears thing gets to be a bit much. There’s never enough time in the day to do what needs doing.” She stops, as though she realizes she’s said more than she’d probably planned to. “Anyway, I’ll be back in a minute to take your order, unless you already know what you want.”
“I’ll have the woodsman’s breakfast and whole wheat toast, please. Dry.”
“You want that with three eggs or five?”