She: Part 2 (34 page)

“Ooh,” Amber shrieks, “you know what you
should
do tomorrow night?” Knowing her the way I do, I’m reluctant to even ask. “It’ll definitely spice things up.”

“We don’t
need
spice,” I laugh even more.

She ignores me and presses on, “You should take your panties off and stash them in Logan’s tuxedo pocket and then watch him mingle knowing that at any moment he could find them.”

Seamus bursts into laughter.

“It’ll be sexy,” she nods, insistently, and it’s clear to me that she’s completely serious. That, to Amber, actually sounds like a good idea.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, as I walk back down the garden path.

She grins at me, knowing what I really mean is:
over my dead body
!

* * *

Just as I suspected I would, I spend the entire morning in a happy stupor, making work borderline impossible. My progress through my allotted schedule is slow, at best, and as I type on my keyboard I keep staring at my ring finger, marvelling that soon — Sunday, according to Logan — I will have a ring on it, a symbol of the choice that we both made last night. I feel like I might be floating at the mere thought of it.

At lunchtime I go for a long, grounding walk, and after a couple of blocks I feel like I might just be getting a grip on myself until Logan calls me, and my happy daze is reinstated. We talk for twenty minutes, about nothing in particular, before I have to get back to work. If this morning has taught me anything, it’s that I have to find a way to operate more effectively amongst my hyper excitement. But that seems like an insurmountable feat, so as I approach Pierson House at the end of my lunch hour, I instead soothe myself by telling myself that I’ve
only
got a few hours until the weekend, and two deliciously Logan-filled days. Somewhere over the weekend I can figure out how to manage my thoughts better.

With this in mind, I’m able to maintain a slightly more focussed attention point, and I revel in how fast the time flies. Usually on a Friday afternoon, it slows to an unreasonably slow pace, but today is one of those rare gems. Even time, it seems, wants Logan and I to be together.

At five-thirty I leave in an excellent mood, stopping at reception to wish Layla a pleasant weekend.

“I hear you’re having dinner with Patrick’s brother,” I say.

“Oui, son frère et sa belle soeur, la femme qui parle beaucoup,” she says, making me laugh.
Yes
,
his brother and sister-in-law
,
the woman who talks a lot
.

That’s Amber, I think affectionately. “Passez une bonne soirée,” I wave.
Have a nice evening
.

“Vous aussi,” she smiles.
You too
. “Bonsoir, au revoir, Gemima.”

As soon as I step outside I pull out my phone and call my mom’s salon, intending to remind her of our imminent arrival. She’s tends to show her scatterbrain nature off on a regular basis, and I don’t want tonight to be one of those times. Lucie answers and manages to both assure me — by telling me that my mom is expecting us —
and
alarm me — by confessing that several members of staff are staying late, just to get a glimpse of my new beau.

The speed of the Metro means that I arrive ahead of both Logan and his mother, allowing me to assess the situation. Most of the staff are on their way out, it’s only Lucie, Bianco, and Pedro who are staying behind to spy. I burst out laughing when I see their prying technique: they are all seated as if they’re clientele rather than staff, with a selection of magazines scattered in front of them for show-only.
Clever
, I think, feeling amused.

“Bonsoir, tout le monde,” I say to the room at large.
Good evening
,
everybody
. I make my way over to the three troublemakers, and perch myself on Lucie’s lap, enquiring into how they’ve all been since I last saw them.

Just when I’ve heard each of their updates and they quiz me about
my
life, my mother comes hurrying out of the back storeroom, making a beeline for me.

“Je pense que ma vie devra demeurer un mystère,” I tease Lucie, Bianco, and Pedro, standing up to greet my mom.
I think my life will have to remain a mystery
.

She and I haven’t seen each other since the Lonely Hearts Party. I cannot believe how much has changed since then. I never in my wildest dreams thought that night that I would be so in love, let alone engaged such a short time later! It’s surreal, in the most magical way, and yet Amber’s comment about my mom hitting the roof infiltrates my mind as we hug each other, and I know that it’s the truth. Jerry cheating on me cemented her disdain for
all
men, and so despite desperately wanting to share my joy with her, to do so without explaining everything that’s proceeded Logan’s and my engagement would result in her and I fighting, I’m sure of it. Without knowing Logan, she’ll protest, she’ll disapprove, she’ll just assume him to be as hateful as she finds all other men.

I realise abruptly that I owe it to her to tell her everything, and I should do so soon…as in,
right now
, I think — a mother and daughter chat, just the two of us. I’ve no idea how long I’ll have her to myself, so making the most of it, I take her hand and say quietly, “Let’s talk.”

She leads the way over to a trio of empty seats, which she has set up for us at the back of the salon, away from everyone else. This either means that she’s disapproving of her staffs invasive plan to spy, or that she wants Logan and his mother alone to better interrogate them. I can’t work out which.

“Have you settled back into the daily grind?” I ask her.

“No,” she tells, “I’m still in denial. I keep hoping I’m going to wake up back in Brazil,” she sighs.

I slump back into one of the purple leather chairs and she stands in front of me, her hands on her hips, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“What?” I ask her what she’s thinking.

“You look different,” she says.

“Do I?” I throw a quick glance at myself in the mirror; no noticeable changes as far as I can see — same brown-haired, blue-eyed woman.

“Yes, but I can’t put my finger on it,” she sits in the chair next to me. I study her as well and note that she’s changed too, though mostly in cosmetic ways, rather than emotional ones. Her skin is tanned and warm and vibrant once more. She looks reenergised, healthy, and despite her grumblings I’m certain that she’s happy to be back at work. This salon is one of her pride and joys. I’m her other one.

“You’ve cut your hair,” I realise, taking in her short, sharp bob cut. It used to sit long and bouncy, very similar to mine, which resulted in me occasionally looking like her mini-me. We’re the same height, same colour hair and eyes. Our similarities have often left me wondering what attributes, if anything, I inherited from my father.

“Stop swinging on the fucking chair!” she screams down the length of the salon at Pedro.

And just like that I’m comically reminded that I no doubt inherited my father’s cool temperament.
Sort of
.

Doing a full one-eighty, she brings her attention back to me, and says sweetly, “How have you been, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been…busy,” I say, honestly.

“With work?” she assumes.

“No, mostly with Logan,” I smile.

“Ah, Logan…the man who is already in my daughter’s pants,” she unfortunately recalls our phone conversation.

I pull a face.
Shit
! I was certain she was too drunk to be able to remember. Embodying the maturity that I’ve on occasion been known to convey, I take a deep breath and say, “Let’s not dwell on
that
aspect, I’d much rather you know him for who he is.”

“And who might that be?” she asks, entertained.

Where do I even begin?
How
can I convey the enormity of who he is and what he means to me? He is ineffable. Trying my best to be clear, I tell her, “He’s special to me, mom. He’s genuine and generous and attentive. He’s independent and a self-made man. I’ve never met anyone who is so vibrant and intensely passionate, but also so calm.”

“Calmness usually comes with
age
,” she says, eyeing me knowingly.

“He’s thirty-five, as of yesterday,” I tell her, wondering if her reaction will be the same as Amber’s. Sometimes they’re two peas in a pod.

Surprising me, my mom says, “Oh, that’s fine, then. What does he do for a living? Please tell me that he is an employed thirty-five year old,” she says pointedly.

“Yes,” I laugh. “You know that construction site a few blocks from your house? The one with the three huge buildings going up?”

“Yes,” she says slowly.

“Logan’s company is in charge of that site. And many others around the city,” I hasten to add. “I don’t know if you’ve ever read the banners that line the fencing—”

“Leary Constructions?” she interrupts.

I smile at her, her words taking me back to Logan’s and my first lunch date when he had heard of my mom’s work, and now here she is, recognising his. I nod. “Logan Leary,” I say smugly. “He used to be Jerry’s boss, until he fired him.”

“Ah-ha, so he’s a good judge of character, then,” she says. “And do you feel for Logan similar things that you felt for Jerry?”

“I never loved Jerry the way that I love Logan,” I blurt out, almost defensively. They are poles apart, as men and as partners, and mentioning them in the same sentence will never, ever feel right to me.

My mother looks a little disbelieving. “Love is a strong word, sweetheart,” she says cautiously.

“It’s the perfect word to describe how I feel about Logan,” I tell her sincerely. “He’s
such
a better man than Jerry. He’s respectful and mature and affectionate and open with me. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I do love him, mom, I promise you that.”

“
Hmm
…” She looks impassive more than skeptical.

“What?”

“I’ve never known you to be a drama queen or to blow things out of proportion, at least, not important things like this. You
must
like him,” she concludes.

I smile.
Good
,
she believes me
. This is a perfect start to our mother-daughter talk, but there’s still so much more to say. “I
more
than like him. I honestly, truly, completely adore him,” I impress, opening up even more, “and I really think you’re going to as well.”

“I’m intrigued, Gem,” she says, looking it.

There’s a quiet little cough behind me. It’s Evelyn, a teenage hairdressing apprentice and the youngest member of my mom’s staff. “Désolé de s’interrompre. Votre prochain client est ici.”
Sorry to interrupt. Your next client is here
.

My head whips around faster than any healthcare professional would recommend.
Ouch
! Near the front of the salon, Mary-Gene is happily chatting to Lucie. As I stand, she catches sight of me and waves.

“Hello,” I grin at her, hurrying over to her and giving her a quick hug, before the introductions begin. “Mom, this is Mary-Gene George, Logan’s mother. Mary-Gene this is Barbara-Anne Samuels.”

They begin with an awkward handshake, which eventually turns into a hug with both of them speaking over the top of one another, saying the usual,
hello
,
how are you
?

“Welcome,” my mom smiles, indicating the empty chairs at the back of the salon, which they both start walking towards. “Or welcome
back
.”

“I’m such a huge admirer of yours, Ms. Samuels,” Mary-Gene exclaims, showcasing her Southern manners.

I’m mid-step, about to follow them, when I change my mind. I spin and instead join Pedro, Bianco, and Lucie, deciding to let our mothers get acquainted without me babysitting them. I’m sure they’ll find lots to talk about.

“That’s his mom?” Bianco rightly assumes.

“Yes,” I nod, before a huge smile overcomes my face as I spot Logan outside the salon window, approaching the front door, and I realise that he must’ve dropped his mom off and then gone to park.

Seeing the sudden spark in me, Lucie follows my line of sight and sees Logan for the first time. “Oh mon dieu!” she cries, making me laugh.
Yup
, I think,
that seems like a suitable reaction
.

Logan looks up, his eyes finding mine, and everything outside of our bubble melts away.
That
’
s the man I’m going to marry
, I think. He smiles back at me and I don’t know why my heart is pounding so hard, but it is. I don’t know why I feel like I could burst into tears, but I do. Perhaps it’s the overwhelmingly happy memory of last night, or maybe it’s just the inexplicable everyday effect that he has on me?
Yes
, I think,
that
’
s it
. It’s the fact that he can make me feel loved and worthy and wanted, just by the way he looks at me. It’s not something I’ve yet grown used to, and I find myself hoping that I never do. I find myself hoping that for the rest of our life together, he’s always able to make me feel like this.

I automatically walk towards the door, my steps falling in time with his. I look him up and down appreciating every aspect of him. He’s the perfect mix of beauty and sex-appeal, wearing the sharp blue suit that I picked out for him this morning, choosing it because it matches perfectly with my own dress-and-blazer outfit. Making things match is second nature to me, an ingrained habit from my work.

With each step he takes, Logan is one step closer to meeting my mom, his future mother-in-law, for the first time and yet he doesn’t look one bit nervous. On the contrary, he looks as in command of himself as ever, his usual composure and elegance on full display. I meet him just inside of the door, knowing that we probably look like lovesick teenagers. His arms reach for me and I slide so willingly into them, my own reaching up to wrap around his neck.

“What do you think about a summer wedding?” he asks me immediately. “This summer,” he clarifies.

I reach up and smile against his lips, saying, “I’m pretty sure I’m free.”

“Good,” he laughs, before kissing me hungrily. I know from his fervour alone that he’s been thinking about me all day as much as I’ve been thinking about him.