“Well? Talk to me!”
Anna hangs on to both my hands as she sits on the edge of the couch, her body twisted toward me.
“A little mishap at work.”
She pulls up a disbelieving eyebrow.
“That why my boy is carrying you around like precious cargo? A little mishap?”
Then, as if she just reminded herself, she drops my hands and surges up off the couch, flinging herself at Yanis, who braces himself, apparently used to this.
“Hey, Mom.”
The much shorter Anna reaches up and claps both her hands on his cheeks.
“How is my boy?”
“Good, Ma.”
“I can see that. Finally pulled your head outta your ass?”
“Anna, leave the kid alone,” Max, who has been keeping to the background pipes up.
I snicker at the look on Yanis’s face. The man is forty-six, for crying out loud, has been more of a parent to his parents in terms of responsibility than the other way around. Likely has for most of his life, that’s just who he is. What they give him in return, though, is as invaluable. Love, nurturing, acceptance. All of these with great generosity and completely unconditional.
That’s who Max and Anna are, they’re givers, albeit a little over the top.
“So are you finally together? Shacked up already? Why not in this beautiful house? I thought you built it for her?”
Anna, as usual, is not deterred by her husband’s admonishments and happily plows ahead. Her words bring me pause though.
Wait. He built this for me?
Probably just a fantasy of hers, but when I sneak a glance at Yanis I see a ruddy color appear along his jaw. Usually a tell he’s pissed or uncomfortable. It’s a toss-up which emotion to blame it on in this case. Could be either.
Notable is the way he avoids looking at me.
“Ma, I’m just crashing in Bree’s spare bedroom until she recovers enough to fend for herself.”
Poor Anna looks crestfallen. I had no idea she harbored hopes for her son and me.
He’s not lying. He’s still in the spare bedroom. I half expected him to shove his way into mine on Thursday, but he just made sure I did my bathroom routine and got me into bed.
I was actually grateful; the day had been challenging for me in more ways than one. Then yesterday he had to go into the office early, came back and brought me lunch, and then was off for an afternoon meeting at the new winery.
Hillary ended up popping in after her shift at the shelter and brought the dog—I’m sure as arranged by Yanis, since he was going to be later than he thought—and brought dinner with her. Radar was with Yanis at the vineyard discussing the installation of the upgraded security system.
I don’t know her that well, but I like Hillary. She’s very matter-of-fact—something I can appreciate—is warm, can be funny, and is fun to hang out with. I think of all the PASS wives, I feel most myself with her.
Don’t get me wrong, I like them all. Rosie, Hutch’s wife, is an absolute sweetheart, a nurturer. Willa, on the other hand, is so capable in all aspects of her life she intimidates me a little. I’ve never had a gaggle of female friends, lost touch with the few girls I’d sometimes hung out with in college, but since then I found myself mostly in the company of men.
It’s the line of work I’m in, I guess it makes me a bit of an oddball. Maybe less of a woman in the eyes of some, but Hillary has a manner about her that puts me at ease. Doesn’t make me feel like I’m lacking some essential component needed to be part of the sisterhood.
Among other things we talked about her pregnancy, which wasn’t exactly planned but very welcome, and even that felt good. Normal.
When I started yawning around nine thirty, she offered to give me a hand getting ready for bed. I didn’t even hear Yanis come in, I was already out, although I could swear I felt his lips brush my forehead at some point.
Then this morning he announced ‘we’ would have to let his parents in at his place.
This is maybe the third time I’ve been in his house. It’s nice, all one level with great views from the wall of windows on the back. Rather sparse in furnishings, but it gives the place an airy, uncluttered feel. Unlike his office back at PASS, which is a paper explosion.
“Boys,” Anna calls the men to attention. “Grab those bags from the car while I put on a pot of coffee.”
“Ma, grab the coffee from the freezer, please,” Yanis calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door.
“Brought my own!” she yells back.
“No mushroom crap, Ma. Just make regular.”
I grin as Anna winks at me. I think more often than not the woman is just yanking her sons’ chains with her weird concoctions. I swear she gets a kick out of perpetuating this image she puts out there of a somewhat ditzy, eccentric hippy. In a way it reminds me of my mom, who loved nothing more than to sing along to pop songs at the top of her lungs, with the windows of the car down, as she drove me to school. It used to mortify me, but now when I think back it puts a smile on my face.
“Do any baking, Anna?” I call out just as Yanis walks in with two large bags.
“Don’t encourage her,” he grumbles, making me laugh.
Following right behind him is Max, loaded up with coolers and containers he takes to his wife in the kitchen.
“I brought cardamom date and quinoa muffins. High in protein for the new mom.”
“Willa didn’t deliver, Ma,” Yanis feels compelled to remind her.
“Wanna try one?” Anna asks me with a wink, ignoring her son’s comments.
“Love to.”
The truth is, Anna’s baking tastes great, even if her ingredients tend to be on the weird side. Or maybe it’s the green butter she tends to use in her recipes.
Yanis.
It’s Saturday and I had plans.
Instead, I’m sitting at my kitchen island, watching my mother and Bree snickering about something on the couch, while Dad tells me about the new irrigation system he designed and installed on his farm. I use the term loosely, since it’s basically a pot grow-op. A highly illegal one, especially in Wyoming, which has some of the strictest cannabis laws in the country.
There have been plenty of times over the years I’ve had to drive up to get Dad out of some pickle he got himself into. But I think I’ve disavowed him of his dream to strike it rich selling illegal cannabis products. Thank God I still have a friend or two in local law enforcement and they’re willing to turn a blind eye as long as Dad keeps his pot to himself. But this new talk of an irrigation system sounds too much like those grandiose dreams of his have made a resurgence.
If only my parents weren’t so attached to the farm. They could move here, to Colorado, pick up a piece of land and Dad could get a license and grow to his heart’s content without the kind of repercussions he faces back in Encampment, where they live now.
“Dad,” I start, but he already has his hand up.
“I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’m just testing it out while we’re gone. Don’t want my plants to die before I get a chance to harvest them.”
“Been out in Palisade a few times, working with a new vineyard. Fertile ground around there, Dad. I can keep my eye out. Wouldn’t be such a bad spot.”