I burst out laughing and found Ham still smiling at me when I was done.

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to win Maybelle over. She’s feelin’ we’re goin’ a bit too fast,” I shared.

“She’ll learn otherwise,” Ham replied.

It was firm and I thought that was sweet.

I carried on.

“And Wanda’s overdue for gettin’ her some. Though, we’d just swung around to the topic of findin’ her a man, and if we manage that, you’re off the hook for the drugging and tying to a bed threat.”

“Good news,” he muttered.

“Do you really get a bonus if you sell a shitload of booze?” I asked.

“Last manager was lackadaisical. If the waitresses don’t work the floor, remindin’ them when their drinks are low, they don’t sell a lot of booze. I up the bar’s take, which I’ve done, keep it there six months, which I’m gonna do, they give me a bonus.”

I felt a smile curve my lips, leaned into him, and stated, “We are so on that.”

He gave me another smile in return and replied, “Then get that sweet ass on it, cookie. And, just sayin’, the way to do that is not leanin’ into me bein’ all cute so I want you to take a break so I can take you to my office and make you moan. It’s gettin’ on the floor and not yammerin’ with your girls.”

I kind of wanted him to take me to his office and make me moan but I was getting the sense Ham wanted me to sell booze now and make me moan later. Further, talking about it would make me want it more so I ignored that and focused on something else.

“I have to yammer with them. A lot is happening and it’s my sworn duty to the sisterhood, even if I’m workin’,” I shared.

“Well, sell some booze in between,” he shot back.

“That I can do,” I told him.

“So do it,” he returned.

I moved back, gave him a salute, and turned away. I lifted a one-minute finger to Maybelle and Wanda to share with them I’d be back and I got my sweet ass on selling booze.

My section included the left side of the bar, which included the recessed area that held the pool tables, the pool paraphernalia on the walls, and a few high tables and stools scattered around for people to rest their drinks and their asses during the taxing activity of playing pool.

I’d swung around to the dimly lit back corner when I stopped dead.

My mother, looking uncomfortable and even panicked, sat alone at the farthest table, her modestly expensive but classic handbag on the table in front of her, her hands resting on it like she was terrified someone was going to snatch it away.

My first thought was to hightail my ass back to the bar and ask Ham to make this go away.

My second thought was that would make me a sissy, and if Ham knew my mother was there, there was a possibility he’d blow his stack. I tried to tell myself I felt nothing for my mother, but even so, I didn’t think she could handle Ham blowing his stack. She could barely handle putting one foot in front of the other, so scared she’d do it wrong, Dad would lay into her.

So I kept my eyes on hers and she kept hers on mine as I walked to her table, taking her in.

She, too, was blonde but her blonde was lighter than Dad’s and mine.

Xenia got her hair.

She was also petite and had blue eyes.

Xenia got those, too.

In fact, if Xenia had had another twenty years or so, I figured she’d look a lot like Mom.

I made it to her table and asked, “Get you a drink?”

“Zara—” she started, but I pinned her to the stool with my eyes and she abruptly stopped.

I knew my face was hard and my eyes unfriendly.

I also didn’t care.

“Get you a drink?” I repeated.

She leaned into her hands on her purse and kept hold of my eyes. “Honey, please. I came here to talk to you and it’s real important you hear what I have to say.”

“Not to be a bitch,” I began, intending to be just that, “but, lookin’ back, I’m not sure you ever had anything to say that was real important.”

She closed her eyes through her flinch and I felt something I didn’t want to feel flow through me.

Guilt.

Guilt at hurting my mother and more guilt for doing it intentionally.

But she kept my nephew from me and I didn’t have it in me to let that slide.

Still, I hated doing it, so I needed to get out of there.

“Now, Mom, can I get you a drink?” I asked yet again.

She opened her eyes and I saw the effort it took her to straighten her shoulders before she announced, “Your father isn’t real happy you’re back together with that man.”

That man.

Dad had called Ham that back in the day, time and again, even though I’d corrected him dozens of times, telling him Ham’s name.

I hated it then and I hated it no less now.

“Lucky for me, just like back then, I’m of the age of consent and can choose who I spend my time with,” I told Mom. “Now, if you want to stay, you really need to order a drink. Ham’s the manager. His job is to sell booze and he frowns on people hanging out, taking up tables, and not spending money.”

“I… well, you know I don’t imbibe,” Mom told me and I did know that. I also never understood it. She wasn’t militant antibooze but I’d never seen her even take a sip of wine. And that was even before Xenia went off the rails. Truthfully, even knowing it was wrong to think, what with my sister being a junkie alcoholic, with the life Mom led with Dad, I figured she could use a drink or two to get her through.

“We have soft drinks,” I shared then I suggested, “Or the other option is you can leave.”

She leaned farther into me, taking a hand from her purse and stretching it across the table toward me, palm flat. I looked down at it like it was a snake about to strike but held my ground.

“Your father’s real worried about what you and that man have planned in regards to Zander,” she informed me, and I looked back to her. “Zander’s in a good place. He doesn’t need any upheaval.”

I felt my throat start burning with the effort to hold back the torrent of words that were getting caught in it.

“Are you kidding me?” I hissed and she leaned back, her hand sliding with her.

“Wilona never had kids,” Mom stated. “Couldn’t. She was over-the-moon happy she had her chance to raise a baby even if she did it later in life.”

“Aunt Wilona is a nasty bitch only one step down on the nasty level from Aunt Dahlia and you know that because she’s had not one nice thing to say about you in nearly forty years,” I reminded her. “You were never good enough for Dad and she let you know it every chance she got.”