The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

“You are?” Surprise and skepticism saturated her voice, and when her mother’s mouth tightened at the corners, Sydney hated that she hadn’t been able to contain it. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean that like it came out.”

Patricia arched an eyebrow. And though guilt fluttered inside her, Sydney lightly chuckled. That gesture had been a staple in Sydney’s childhood. No one or nothing called bullshit like her mother’s right eyebrow.

“Okay, how about I didn’t want it to come out that way,” she amended with a dry laugh. “Can I start over?” When her mother nodded, she sighed. “Hey, Mom. I got some amazing news today, and I wanted to share it with you.”

“You did?” Now surprise colored her voice. So did pleasure. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. You know how much I love secrets. What’s happened?”

Sydney smiled, a smoky curl of wistfulness uncoiling inside her chest. Yes, she’d forgotten that about her mother. She’d had a big mouth as a child, and often, especially around Christmas and Patricia’s birthday, her mother would bribe Sydney with freshly baked cookies or the promise of trying on some of the clothes in the boutique in the grown-up dressing rooms to spill about the presents her father had bought. Sydney silently snickered, but that amusement mellowed, softened into a melancholy glow. There’d been a time when Sydney had actually giggled with her mother, conspiring like thieves.

She’d forgotten that, too.

“I think it’s better if I show you,” Sydney murmured, digging into her purse. She plucked the carefully folded scroll of sonogram images from the depths and handed it to her mother. “Pictures of your granddaughter.”

Her mother’s eyes rounded as she released a hushed gasp. Almost tentatively, she accepted the printout and after a long moment, wrenched her gaze from Sydney’s and dropped her head, all her attention focused on the black-and-white pictures.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, straightening the long row of images and studying them one by one. “A little girl. I’m going to be a GiGi.” She laughed softly, the low sound a little damp, shaking her head. “I always said that if either of you girls had kids of your own, I didn’t want to be a boring grandma or nana. I wanted to be a glamorous GiGi.”

Sydney braced herself against the offhand mention of Carlin, nearly rocking back on her heels. Other than asking Sydney if she intended to visit her sister’s grave with them every year, her parents never—never—talked about Carlin. That her mother had, here...and so easily...with her...

Sydney swallowed past the lump of emotion—cautious hope, timid delight, dulled sadness—in her throat, a little afraid to speak. Because history reminded Sydney that she and her mother tended to fuck up when they attempted to do things like talk. It never failed that one or both of them would emerge from the occasion scratched and bruised by words, frustration and disappointed expectations.

But in this store, with her mother’s joy evident in every excited coo over the image, Sydney stepped out onto that shaky ledge called faith.

To hell with it.

She leaped.

“I mean, you own a boutique. I think it goes without saying you’re already glamorous, Mom,” Sydney teased. “But I’m suddenly realizing this baby is going to be beyond spoiled,” she grumbled. But her grin ruined the irritated tone.

“Pshaw.” Her mother waved a hand in her direction, never removing her gaze from the images. “Spoiling is a grandmother’s prerogative...and right.”

“Did you really just ‘pshaw’ me?” Sydney snickered. “Mom, I thought I was the one who lived in the South for the last eight years. Are you going to offer me a big glass of sweet tea next?”

“Ha ha. I blame it on Kelly Prioleau. Since she started working with your father, I’ve become addicted to grits, and have been bingeing them by the pot.”

Sydney blinked. Fought back a grin. Lost the fight. “Have you had them with shrimp yet?”

“God. Yes.” Her mother loosed a frankly lascivious groan.

Their eyes met.

And they burst out laughing.

Good. Sydney felt good. How long had it been since she’d done this with her mother? She couldn’t remember. That first year after Carlin died had blurred into a haze of grief, guilt and hot rage. And later? Cold. Their house had been plunged into a deep freeze marked by pockets of angry outbursts, silly rebellions and bitter defiance. The distance between Sydney and her parents—especially her mother—had grown and grown until trekking around the globe in a broke-down Winnebago would’ve been easier than crossing that emotional divide.

But in this moment, with her mother smiling at her, clutching sonogram pictures of her granddaughter and a warmth in her brown eyes that had Sydney’s breath catching in her lungs, that divide shrunk just a bit.

“I have something for you.” Her mother retraced her steps to the counter, and seconds later, reemerged holding the straps of a large paper bag with her store’s logo scrawled across the front. “I ordered these for you last week and they just came in yesterday. I hope you like them.”

Astonishment rippled through her, and Sydney gaped at Patricia. A gift? For her? Of course, for Christmas and her birthdays, her parents had sent cards and even small presents. But a just-because gift? And given how their last interaction had gone...

“For me?” she whispered.

Her mother tilted her head to the side, a small smile curving her mouth even as what could’ve been a hint of sadness gleamed in her eyes. “Yes, for you.”

Swallowing hard, Sydney slowly reached out for the offered bag. And just as slowly, she opened it and peered inside. Clothes. A stack of tops, dresses and pants. Still unbelieving, she stroked a hand over an eyelet blouse in a lovely shade of teal.

“Mom...” she murmured.

“Maternity clothes,” her mother explained. “Not my usual inventory, but when you came home...” She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug that struck Sydney as a little self-conscious. “Well, what’s the point of owning a boutique if I can’t provide clothes for my daughter? I had