Author: Kristan Higgins

I go into the dining room and check out the bouquet. Very expensive. All the thorns have been taken off the roses, and the lilies are as pink and sexual as Georgia O’Keefe believed. I glance at the card: To an amazing woman who deserves to be celebrated on this special day. XOX Harry

“Bleechh,” I say, wondering what Dad would think. I make a face, then go into the living room where my sisters-in-law sit like empresses. Lucky is serving them Bloody Marys, as he should.

“Hi, Tara,” I say, handing my sister-in-law a card. “You’re a fabulous mother.”

“Oh, Chastity! This is so sweet of you!” Tara opens her card as I hand Sarah hers.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Sarah. You’re a wonderful mom,” I tell her with dutiful honesty.

“Thanks, Chas!” Sarah cries. I move on.

“I hope you brought me more than a card,” Elaina says, accepting her envelope.

“Vodka. In the car. Didn’t want to make the others jealous,” I stage-whisper. “And you’re a wonderful mom, too, blah blah bleeping blah.”

Elaina smacks me affectionately. “Don’t worry, chiquita,” she says as I flop on the couch next to her. “You’ll have your turn, okay? And then you’ll long for these days when you have no little asses to wipe, no spit-up permanently glued to your neck. Am I right, girls?”

The Starahs nod wisely.

“I made Tara breakfast in bed today,” Lucky says. “She has the whole day off. No housework, no kid care.”

“So what are you doing here? Time’s a’ wastin’,” I comment.

Tara laughs and leans her head against Lucky’s shoulder. “Where else would I want to be?” she asks.

“Oh, gack,” I answer, pretending to vomit. “What about you, Sarah? Did Jack honor you in some way, preferably by spending lots of money?”

“Yes, he did,” she answers. “Like the well-trained husband he is. See my new earrings?” She pushes her hair behind her ears.

“Beautiful,” I say. I turn to Elaina. “And Mark? Anything from him?”

“Well, actually, you know, the bastard did come through,” Elaina admits, toying with her hair. “Dylan had a card and some nice bath stuff for me this morning, and he said Daddy told him to give it to me.” Her dark eyes soften. “So that was nice, you know?”

I really am surrounded by women who are wonderful, caring, selfless mothers. Smart, wise, funny, loving, patient. And my uterus is begging for the chance to join the crowd.

As if reading my mind, Elaina turns to me. “I’m thinking a girl, first, you know? With blond hair like her daddy, okay? And then a boy. Dr. Darling Junior.”

“Why can’t the girl be Dr. Darling Junior?” I ask, trying to picture Ryan next to me in the delivery room.

“Oh, that’s right!” Sarah squeals. “We heard you had a new boyfriend! Tell all, Chastity!”

At that moment, Trevor sticks his head in the living room. “Hi, girls,” he grins. “Happy Mother’s Day, you gorgeous creatures.” And then he looks at me. “Hey, Chas.”

“Bite me, Trev,” I answer agreeably. “I note that I’m not lumped in with the gorgeous creatures.”

“You know I think you’re beautiful. Striking.” He winks and my insides give an unwilling twist. Then he comes in, several bouquets in his arms, and goes first to Sarah. “Thank you for sharing your kids with me,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. He repeats the gesture and the words with Tara, then Elaina. Each of my sisters-in-law hugs him, exclaims over his thoughtfulness, wipes away a tear.

“Kiss-ass,” I murmur as he approaches me. I’m hoping he won’t notice that my eyes are wet, too.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘prince among men,’” he answers. He holds out the last bouquet to me. “For you, Chas. Just so you don’t have a tantrum.”

My heart aches with, um, let’s see…affection. Yes. “Consolation prize, huh?”

“Not exactly,” he murmurs.

The image of him and Perfect Hayden leaps unbidden to my mind, and just in the nick of time. I wonder if he did something sweet for Hayden. Or Angela. Or any of the other women he may or may not be seeing.

“Trev, thank you, sweetie,” Elaina says. “Your ass looks great in those jeans, by the way. Carhartt, mm-mm!” The Starahs murmur in agreement. Lucky rolls his eyes. “But we were talking about Chastity’s love life,” Elaina continues, giving me a sharp glance. “So, Chas? Have you done it yet?”

“We’ve been on just two dates,” I say demurely.

“Answer the question,” Tara instructs.

“I’ll just bow out here,” Trevor murmurs.

“You do that,” Elaina says, making a shooing gesture with her hand. “We want to talk sex, okay? You too, Lucky. Out.”

I shoot her a look that could cut metal, but she’s undeterred. Trevor and Lucky obey, as do most men when Elaina gives an order.

“Yes to the sex,” I answer. My sisters-in-law shriek and I grin, pleased to be the center of all this feminine attention for once.

LATER THAT DAY, IN ORDER TO counter the effects of too many cheese danishes at Mom’s, I pull on my running shoes and clip the leash to Buttercup’s collar. “We’re going for a run, you harlot,” I tell her.

“Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she answers.

“No sex with anything under fifty pounds, you hear?” She wags agreeably. “Let’s go, then.”

Then I see the light blinking on the answering machine. “Hello, Chastity, it’s Ryan Darling,” comes Ryan Darling’s voice. “Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be on Long Island to visit my mother today, but I hope to get together soon. I had a really nice time the other night. Tell Buttercup I said hello. Speak to you soon.”

Well! That’s pretty damn sweet, isn’t it? I smile. There was also an attempt at humor at the end. Good job, Ryan. Granted, he didn’t need to use his last name—we were having sex two nights ago, so yes, I do remember him. I wince a little. Very enjoyable sex. Pleasant. Reliably satisfying. Meat loaf.

“I’ll shut up now,” I tell my dog, who is snuffling at the door. “Let’s go for that run.”

Buttercup lopes at my side, surprising me with her energy level. Next week, we have an appointment to get her spayed, so she may well return to her prepubescent level of malaise. But for now, her ears flop and her jowls undulate. We head for the cemetery. My ulterior motive is firmly in place, and my timing is perfect.

Trevor’s pickup truck is there. He’s kneeling in the dirt next to his sister’s grave and looks up in surprise when he hears Buttercup’s tags jingling.

“Hi,” he says, rising. His jeans are muddy at the knees. “What are you doing here?”

My dog and I slow to a walk, then stop. “Well, now that I know Buttercup is capable of forward movement, I thought I’d take her with me when I run. She could use some exercise. I saw your truck and here we are.”

If he doesn’t buy my story, he also doesn’t let on. Blushing, I unclip Buttercup and let her go snuffling amid the gravestones, her tail slicing audibly through the air, nose glued to the ground like her bloodhound ancestors. She woofs softly and continues, happy as the proverbial clam. Trevor watches her go.

I glance down at his sister’s grave, the girl who was briefly my friend. As is typical on the graves of children, there is an ocean of pain expressed. Michelle Anne Meade, our beautiful girl, forever in our broken hearts. We miss you, little angel. My eyes fill. Had she had the chance to grow up, we might still have been friends. She might have made Trevor an official uncle, instead of having that title be honorary. Her parents might not have divorced, and Trevor might not have been so alone.

I knew he’d be here. Michelle died on Mother’s Day. I can’t imagine the pain her mother must have felt, must still feel. What an awful holiday for someone who’s lost a child!

“Want some help?” I ask huskily. There are still six or eight plants left in the tray.

“Sure,” he answers. “You can loosen the roots, okay?”

“Loosening the roots, roger that,” I answer, kneeling next to him. “And thanks for the flowers, Trevor. You didn’t have to.”

“My pleasure,” he says, digging into the dirt with his trowel.

We work in silence—well, he works, I hand—until the plants are in the ground. In another month, they’ll be beautiful, but right now, they look a little forlorn, small and far-spaced in the brown soil.

“How’s your mom?” I ask.

He sighs and sits back on his heels, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans. “She’s okay,” he answers.

“Do you talk to her much?”

“About once a month,” he answers.

It’s hard to imagine—Trevor, the perfect son to both my mother and father, phoning his own mom only once a month. He sees Dad probably five days a week, drops in on Mom frequently, helped Jack put on a new roof on her house last month, went camping with Lucky and Matt last fall…but his own family is like bits of milkweed, blown to the wind.

“Where’s your father these days?” I ask.

“Last I heard from him, he was in Sacramento,” Trevor answers. “You got any more questions?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You can ask whatever you want, Chastity,” he says. He sticks out his hand to help me rise, and I take it, the dirt on both our hands mingling for a brief, warm moment.

“Do you still miss her?” I whisper. Those pesky tears are back. For such a tough guy, you’d think I’d cry less.

“Yes,” he answers, brushing some stray bits of dirt from her gravestone. “Every day.” He pauses, then looks off across the other headstones. Somewhere, wind chimes clink and clang. “Every day, I imagine if she was here, grown up, maybe married. How we’d have dinner at each other’s houses. Stuff like that.” His eyes are sad and soft.

I swallow the fist-size lump in my throat. “She’d have been crazy about you, Trev.”

Trevor smiles. “Thanks.”

“And you’re like our real brother, you know,” I say. I regret the words immediately.

The smile falters. “Thanks again.” He puts the tray in his truck. “You want a ride home?”

“Sure. That’d be great.” I whistle for Buttercup, who comes bounding back, her ears flopping joyfully.

“Do you want to ride in Trevor’s truck?” I ask her. She barks once.

“Genius,” Trevor says, hoisting her into the back of the truck. Buttercup collapses like her legs were shot out from underneath her. His laugh is soft, practically edible, like a river of chocolate.

I climb into the passenger’s seat, noting that my legs are now streaked with dirt. Also, I really should shave more often. And my T-shirt is damp with sweat, gluing Aragorn’s face to my left breast, God bless him. The words None But The King Of Gondor May Command Me are faded with age.

“Did I tell you someone hacked into the Gazette’s Web site?” I ask as Trevor gets in behind the wheel.

“No,” he answers, turning the key. “What happened?”

I fill him in and tell him about the feeling that this was something done to me personally. “Yesterday when I came into work, my little—um, never mind.”

Trevor glances at me as he turns out of the cemetery. “What, Chas?”

I sigh and look out the window. “Well, I have these little figurines on my desk, you know? From…well, from Lord of the Rings, okay, and don’t say anything about it because I already know I’m a hopeless nerd and don’t need you to point that out.”