know better." He stopped walking and kissed her forehead. "I'm happy for you, Tris. I really am. Marriage is the right thing for you--and I'm sure it's the right thing for this guy."
"Laird."
"Laird. Yes. The future mister." He added, "Promise me you don't want me making the cake."
"No, no--I want you to be a guest. You will come, won't you?"
"Yeah. I will."
She hugged him. "Thank you, Benjie."
"I'll come to all your weddings, honey," he said, hugging her back, and only ducked a little when she swatted him.
He saw her to her car, with more hugs and promises to call more often, and then went back into the bakery. One of his cousins was at the register; his brother Chris was busy in the kitchen. Ben avoided both of them--there was only one person he wanted to talk to now.
His mother was still in the basement office, doing the books. She glanced up when he flopped into the worn armchair they kept for catnaps.
"So how is Tristan?" she asked, copying sums into the ledger.
He debated the best way to put it and decided on, "Engaged."
Moira put down her pen to look at him. "Is she?"
"Yes. And yes, I'm fine."
"I should think so. If you wanted her to stay your wife, you should have stayed married to her."
"Thank you, Mother," said Ben with a sigh.
"I'm only saying that jealousy is a bit silly at this stage."
"I'm not jealous. I'm not even envious. I just--my ex-wife is getting married. I'm allowed to feel weird about it."
"Yes, you are," she relented. "Does she want us to do the cake?"
"Nope. This is one wedding where we'll just be guests."
"We should still do the cake." She turned pages in her ledger with one hand, leafing through receipts with the other. "As a wedding gift."
"She's marrying a Nob Hill Marcus. They can afford a cake."
Moira looked up at him again for a moment, then smiled. "I wonder if anyone ever refers to us as the Mission Street Gallaghers."
"Only if they know the bakery, I'm sure."
"Mm." She went back to adding, then said, "Becky from PFLAG called earlier. She wanted to know if we'd do the rainbow cookies for the pride parade again this year. I told her we would."
"Okay. Variety again?"
"Mm--with an emphasis on the chocolate chip. Those went fastest last year."
"Okay," Ben repeated, his eyes closed, and then said, "Hey, Ma? Thanks."
"You're welcome, dear," she said.
"I mean it. It means a lot that you don't freak out over this."
She paused again. "I've had a few years to get used to it. I may adopt any children Tristan and the Nob Hill Marcuses have as my grandchildren, though."
"You have half a dozen grandkids already, Ma."
"And I'd love half a dozen more."
"Mikey's young yet."
"Mm." There was no sound but the scratching of Moira's pen for a few minutes. "Any plans for tomorrow?"
"Sleeping late. Lunch with Leo."
"Your neighbor Leo? Or is this a different Leo?"
"Neighbor Leo. I don't know too many other Leos." His mother had no need to know the extent of his social life, he reasoned. She'd only worry more. He got to his feet and kissed the top of her head. "I'm going home. See you Monday."
"Good night, dear."
On the drive home, he debated. Go home, go to bed, sleep his usual hours? Or go out, go dancing, meet someone? Do something to not spend tonight alone?
Going out, he felt, would be futile: he wouldn't meet anyone as interesting as the English guy at the wedding. He could kick himself. He'd been so eager to get his tongue in the guy's mouth he hadn't even asked his name.
***
Dinner was good: the chicken tender, the vegetables thoroughly cooked. The toasts were interminable: everybody in the wedding party, it seemed, was going to make a speech, and Carla had an enormous family. The cake, as Jamie knew it would be, was beautiful, bringing "Oohs!" and "Ahs!" from the guests, and Jim and Carla had the grace not to do the shoving-cake-in-the-face trick when they cut the first slice.
Finally, it was time to dance again, but while Dune went out onto the floor as soon as the
"Laird."
"Laird. Yes. The future mister." He added, "Promise me you don't want me making the cake."
"No, no--I want you to be a guest. You will come, won't you?"
"Yeah. I will."
She hugged him. "Thank you, Benjie."
"I'll come to all your weddings, honey," he said, hugging her back, and only ducked a little when she swatted him.
He saw her to her car, with more hugs and promises to call more often, and then went back into the bakery. One of his cousins was at the register; his brother Chris was busy in the kitchen. Ben avoided both of them--there was only one person he wanted to talk to now.
His mother was still in the basement office, doing the books. She glanced up when he flopped into the worn armchair they kept for catnaps.
"So how is Tristan?" she asked, copying sums into the ledger.
He debated the best way to put it and decided on, "Engaged."
Moira put down her pen to look at him. "Is she?"
"Yes. And yes, I'm fine."
"I should think so. If you wanted her to stay your wife, you should have stayed married to her."
"Thank you, Mother," said Ben with a sigh.
"I'm only saying that jealousy is a bit silly at this stage."
"I'm not jealous. I'm not even envious. I just--my ex-wife is getting married. I'm allowed to feel weird about it."
"Yes, you are," she relented. "Does she want us to do the cake?"
"Nope. This is one wedding where we'll just be guests."
"We should still do the cake." She turned pages in her ledger with one hand, leafing through receipts with the other. "As a wedding gift."
"She's marrying a Nob Hill Marcus. They can afford a cake."
Moira looked up at him again for a moment, then smiled. "I wonder if anyone ever refers to us as the Mission Street Gallaghers."
"Only if they know the bakery, I'm sure."
"Mm." She went back to adding, then said, "Becky from PFLAG called earlier. She wanted to know if we'd do the rainbow cookies for the pride parade again this year. I told her we would."
"Okay. Variety again?"
"Mm--with an emphasis on the chocolate chip. Those went fastest last year."
"Okay," Ben repeated, his eyes closed, and then said, "Hey, Ma? Thanks."
"You're welcome, dear," she said.
"I mean it. It means a lot that you don't freak out over this."
She paused again. "I've had a few years to get used to it. I may adopt any children Tristan and the Nob Hill Marcuses have as my grandchildren, though."
"You have half a dozen grandkids already, Ma."
"And I'd love half a dozen more."
"Mikey's young yet."
"Mm." There was no sound but the scratching of Moira's pen for a few minutes. "Any plans for tomorrow?"
"Sleeping late. Lunch with Leo."
"Your neighbor Leo? Or is this a different Leo?"
"Neighbor Leo. I don't know too many other Leos." His mother had no need to know the extent of his social life, he reasoned. She'd only worry more. He got to his feet and kissed the top of her head. "I'm going home. See you Monday."
"Good night, dear."
On the drive home, he debated. Go home, go to bed, sleep his usual hours? Or go out, go dancing, meet someone? Do something to not spend tonight alone?
Going out, he felt, would be futile: he wouldn't meet anyone as interesting as the English guy at the wedding. He could kick himself. He'd been so eager to get his tongue in the guy's mouth he hadn't even asked his name.
***
Dinner was good: the chicken tender, the vegetables thoroughly cooked. The toasts were interminable: everybody in the wedding party, it seemed, was going to make a speech, and Carla had an enormous family. The cake, as Jamie knew it would be, was beautiful, bringing "Oohs!" and "Ahs!" from the guests, and Jim and Carla had the grace not to do the shoving-cake-in-the-face trick when they cut the first slice.
Finally, it was time to dance again, but while Dune went out onto the floor as soon as the
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