The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo(20)

She didn’t. In fact, she was nothing but supportive.

Now I’m wondering if that was more out of respect than approval.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” my mom says as I open the refrigerator door. “Or I should say I’ve hatched a plan.”

I grab a bottle of Pellegrino, the plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, and the watery tub of burrata cheese. “Oh, no,” I say. “What have you done?”

My mom laughs. She’s always had such a great laugh. It’s very carefree, very young. Mine is inconsistent. Sometimes it’s loud; sometimes it’s wheezy. Other times I sound like an old man. David used to say he thought my old-man laugh was the most genuine, because no one in their right mind would want to sound like that. Now I’m trying to remember the last time it happened.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” my mom says. “It’s still in the idea phase. But I’m thinking I want to come visit.”

I don’t say anything for a moment, weighing the pros and cons, as I chew the massive chunk of cheese I just put in my mouth. Con: she will critique every single outfit I wear in her presence. Pro: she will make macaroni and cheese and coconut cake. Con: she will ask me if I’m OK every three seconds. Pro: for at least a few days, when I come home, this apartment will not be empty.

I swallow. “OK,” I say finally. “Great idea. I can take you to a show, maybe.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says. “I already booked the ticket.”

“Mom,” I say, groaning.

“What? I could have canceled it if you’d said no. But you didn’t. So great. I’ll be there in about two weeks. That works, right?”

I knew this was going to happen as soon as my mom partially retired from teaching last year. She spent decades as the head of the science department at a private high school, and the moment she told me she was stepping down and only teaching two classes, I knew that extra time and attention would have to go somewhere.

“Yeah, that works,” I say as I cut up the tomatoes and pour olive oil on them.

“I just want to make sure you’re OK,” my mom says. “I want to be there. You shouldn’t—”

“I know, Mom,” I say, cutting her off. “I know. I get it. Thank you. For coming. It will be fun.”

It won’t be fun, necessarily. But it will be good. It’s like going to a party when you’ve had a bad day. You don’t want to go, but you know you should. You know that even if you don’t enjoy it, it will do you good to get out of the house.

“Did you get the package I sent?” she says.

“The package?”

“With your dad’s photos?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I didn’t.”

We are quiet for a moment, and then my mom gets exasperated by my silence. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, but I can’t wait any longer. How’s it going with Evelyn Hugo?” she says. “I’m dying to know, and you’re not offering anything!”

I pour my Pellegrino and tell her that Evelyn is somehow both forthright and hard to read. And then I tell her that she isn’t giving me the story for Vivant. That she wants me to write a book.

“I’m confused,” my mom says. “She wants you to write her biography?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And as exciting as it is, there’s something weird about it. I mean, I don’t think she ever considered doing a piece with Vivant at all. I think she was . . .” I trail off, because I haven’t figured out exactly what it is I’m trying to say.

“What?”

I think about it more. “Using Vivant to get to me. I don’t quite know. But Evelyn is very calculating. She’s up to something.”

“Well, I’m not surprised she wants you. You’re talented. You’re bright . . .”

I find myself rolling my eyes at my mother’s predictability, but I do still appreciate it. “No, I know, Mom. But there’s another layer here. I’m convinced of it.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I guess so.”

“Should I be worried?” my mom asks. “I mean, are you worried?”

I hadn’t thought about it in such direct terms, but I suppose my answer is no. “I think I’m too intrigued to be worried,” I say.

“Well, then, just make sure you share the real juicy stuff with your mother. I did suffer through a twenty-two-hour labor for you. I deserve this.”

I laugh, and it comes out, just a little bit, like an old man. “All right,” I say. “I promise.”

* * *