But it felt like more than that. Her mom had never treated her the same way after she’d gotten pregnant.
Or maybe she’d never treated her mom the same way after.
“Just taking a break.” She folded her arms against her chest, then recognized the vibe the body language gave and forced herself to lower her hands to her sides. “Max said I could.”
No idea why she added that last part. As if she needed Max Ringgold’s permission for anything. He’d been the reason she’d wound up where she was—and Cody, too. She hadn’t asked Max for permission or help thirteen years ago, and the thought of starting now made the indignant, self-sufficient woman inside her cringe in her high-heeled career shoes.
And made the counselor inside her realize just how many issues she still had with various factors of Broken Bend.
Her mom rocked back, eyes narrowed, except this time it wasn’t because of the sunshine. Guess Emma’s intuition and knack for probing into others lives came from somewhere honest. “Let’s go have tea.”
“No, Mom. You’re gardening.” She wasn’t about to interrupt her mother’s routine, or she’d never hear the end of it—whether from her family or herself. Besides, despite Mom’s strong belief, tea didn’t cure everything. She dropped to her knees in the grass instead and gestured toward the rows of seeds. “Carry on.”
Mom adjusted one of her gloves, hesitated with another sharp glance and then obeyed, continuing to pluck weeds from the stubborn patch of earth surrounding her meticulous lines of soon-to-be-vegetables.
Emma tentatively reached for another section of weeds, in spite of her lack of gloves, and tore the skinny green intruders from the earth. She hated to sit and do nothing, and maybe if she worked, they wouldn’t talk as much.
No such luck.
“How’s Cody?”
Wasn’t that the question of the hour? She schooled her expression into an indifferent mask, not willing to let her mom know just how much was riding on the next couple weeks. “He’s as good as he can be. Making progress.”
Mom nodded as she shifted over to the next row, the pile of discarded weeds beside her growing taller as she worked. “And the girls you’re counseling?”
Why was everyone shooting questions from the hip today? “Doing okay.” She ripped out another, surprised at the level of stress relief the simple action brought. She might not be able to make a difference where it counted, but she could make a difference to this garden. In both appearance and substance.
“So everyone is okay.”
Her mom’s tone hinted at her disbelief, and Emma couldn’t blame her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to open the floodgates of confession, either. Because once the words—and the tears—started, they might not stop.
“It’s a good thing you’re there, then.”
Emma sat back and stretched her shoulders, bracing herself for something else hard to hear. “Why’s that?”
Her mother continued working as if the tension between them didn’t exist. And for her, maybe it didn’t. She’d always leaned toward being oblivious. “You have a gift for making ‘okay’ turn out better than okay.”
A compliment. From her mother. And it wasn’t even Christmas.