Seven Hundred Beachfront by Ligia de Wit

Carole hadn’t sent a thing to keep him busy, damn woman, and I’d only used the TV for movies. Wait a sec—Jessie left a Star Wars movie at my place, the first one, so I should have it here.

“No Scooby, kiddo,” I said while looking in the boxes, “but you’re gonna like this one. It’s the real thing, not a single goofy character one mile near it.”

“ ’Kay.” He sat on the old, flowery couch and gazed at me, expectant.

“How do you want your fish?” I asked while putting the movie on, realizing I had no idea what Bobby liked.

“Dead.”

I gave a small smile. “But how do you like it prepared? Pan fried?”

“No. Like Mom does it.” He lifted his little arms and mimed putting something in a pan. “Like this.”

“You’re not much help, kiddo. I’ll cook it pan fried.”

“ ’Kay,” Bobby whispered, gaze down.

After leaving him with the movie, I got ready to cook. The stove burners were a little rusty but worked. I prepared pan-fried fish, along with steamed vegetables and wild rice. Maybe I didn’t have many accomplishments in my life, but, damn, I could cook. It had been either that or be resigned to eating frozen dinners.

When other kids watched cartoons, I watched cooking shows. At ten, I prepared chicken cordon-bleu. Even Aunt Marie was impressed. Carole just grimaced. It’s overcooked, she’d said.

The aroma of spices and well-cooked fish filled the space, and any knot in my body vanished.

My cell rang, and I picked it up, frowning at the caller ID. “Hey,” I answered flatly.

“Honey!” Carole’s voice came clear. “Darling, you have no idea what a marvelous flight we had.” She laughed, evidently delighted. “First class. The only way to fly. Don’t you ever dare fly coach again, Beverly.”

“Sure. Will do that next time I fly overseas in, I don’t know, my next life, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t be such a bore! Don’t you want me to spill the tea, girlfriend?”

She giggled. Giggled.

“Are you drunk, Mother?”

She sobered up. Nothing like reminding Carole of the maternity role she’d never wanted.

“Sweetheart, you are such a bore.”

I put her on speaker and placed one of my unopened boxes on the counter while Carole talked nonstop about her marvelous, fantastic flight and the wonderful five-star hotel in Madrid.

My Lladró figurine lay wrapped in newspaper. Carefully, I unwrapped it and placed it on the counter. Crap, one of the fruits had broken off.

“Bobby and I are okay,” I managed to say when she took a small pause. “The house’s too old, though. I don’t know if this is a good place for me.”

The wind moaned, and the noisy branch thumped above.

“You haven’t asked me a thing about Madrid,” Carole complained. “Make sure to check the pictures I posted because they are a-ma-zing. I already have more than one-hundred likes!”

“Thank heavens for the social media gods.”

“Don’t give me that snarky tone of yours. You need more good energy in your life, girlfriend. You need a man.”

“Ugh, please.”

“You do. And not that silly cowboy—”

“Gary’s a friend. One of my best friends, actually. Since you’re my girlfriend, then you certainly remember I’ve known him since the seventh grade.”