“That you, baby boy?” she called from the kitchen.
“Nope.” Crap, the kitchen. Yep. She was going to want to talk. Not yet, not yet, not y—
“Step into my office, sweetheart.”
Resigned, he dumped his messenger bag on the sofa. The smells of lemon oil and fabric softener were subtle but pervasive, clean scents that comforted him. Pausing in the doorway, he watched as his mom made coffee with absolute economy of motion. She still wore her black pants and white shirt from the diner, but she’d exchanged her sneakers for slippers. Such a beautiful woman, he thought. Such a hard life. But it had been that way for all of them after his old man had been killed sixteen years ago, and he hadn’t made it any easier by finding ways to express his grief through a life half-lived on the streets.
Glancing over her shoulder, she tipped her chin toward the table. “I watched you walk up—one of those nights at the club, hmm? Have a seat, even though you didn’t call to let me know you were coming today.”
He slid into his chair and balanced on the two rear legs, hands crossed over his belly. “I don’t think my forgetting to call in for Sunday supper reservations constitutes a kitchen inquisition, does it?”
“Depends on whether or not you make me break out the thumb screws.”
“Funny lady.” She set a cup of coffee in front of him, the color a deep caramel, and he sighed. “You know, I’ll be certain I’ve found the woman for me when she can make coffee as well as you can.” He lifted the mug to his lips and, at the same time, they both said, “Dollop of love.”
Laughing, she pulled up a seat. “So, what happened?”
“Club was fine. Then I had a...date. Typical kiss-the-girl stuff.”
“Pretty story. Now tell me the truth.”
Justin fought the urge to squirm. “No story. She’s just a woman.”
He hated the way her shoulders visibly relaxed, hated that he had caused her to fear he’d taken a huge step backward into his previous life of violence. Her fear was well warranted, though, seeing as he’d spent years putting it there.
“So, this woman. Who is she?”
“I’m pushing thirty-one, Mom. This obsession with my love life isn’t natural.”
“Your protest is duly noted. I still want to know who she is.”
“Her name is Grace.”
“Any chance this is the same Grace you mentioned a thousand times while you were teaching?”
“I beg your pardon,” he answered, feigning indignation. “I hardly mentioned her at all.”
“Justin.”
He shifted to stare at the ceiling. “Yes, Mom. One and the same.”
“Don’t ‘yes, Mom’ me, Justin Alexander Maxwell. I have a reason for asking.”
“You’re nosy?” he quipped, wincing when she reached over and slapped his shoulder.
“Be respectful.”
The sight of her settling in her chair, sipping coffee, equaled comfort. For all he teased her, he wouldn’t give up these kitchen-table talks for anything. It was rare these days that they had a spare moment alone together given that his sisters always wanted to be involved in everything. He loved them, truly, but these quiet moments with his mother were precious.