Текст книги "She: Part 2"

Автор книги: Annabel Fanning

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7. Inside Out

Peering through the double doors, I see Logan’s parents standing in front of the red-metal shelving unit. Mary-Gene is staring at the pictures that Logan has displayed there, while Rupert stands next to her, bopping along to the music, clearly enjoying my Springsteen selection. Thank you very much, Mercy, I think gratefully. They’re exactly how they appeared when I saw them on Skype, the only surprise being that they’re both shorter than I assumed they’d be.

“Mom, dad…” Logan begins as we walk through the doors, “…meet Gemima in the flesh,” he finishes as we come to a stop in front of them.

Much like our call last weekend, Rupert is reserved while Mary-Gene effuses enthusiasm. They both smile at the sight of Logan and I, but Mary-Gene lights up completely, clapping her hands together and mouthing, “Oh my Lord!”

I don’t know why, but I do something halfway between a bow and a curtsy, before instantly regretting it. Be cool, I chastise myself. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. George,” I say, smiling at them in anticipation. Please be nice people, I inwardly plea.

“Gemima,” Mr. George holds out his hand to me, “it’s a pleasure to properly meet you, darlin’,” he says, oozing Southern Charm. So far, so nice.

Shaking his hand, I reply, “Thank you. It’s so wonderful to meet you both too.”

“But you must call us Rupert and Mary-Gene. Please, we insist,” he urges.

“Alright,” I smile.

Mary-Gene is beaming more broadly than I think I’ve ever seen anyone do before. Her obvious delight in being here really puts me at ease – a trait she shares with Logan. “You’re even more beautiful in real life!” she exclaims, bounding forward and pulling me into a warm embrace.

I let go of Logan’s hand to hug her, while insisting, “So are you.”

In person she carries an unmistakable presence. A playfulness, a likability, a warmth. And her husband, though more reserved in his approach, is very charismatic, exuding an effortless power that has a cool Kennedy-vibe to it. Logan is a perfect mix of them, with the addition of a few unique traits of his own.

“You look amazing after such a long flight,” I compliment. “How was your trip?” I press on, overly anxious about keeping the conversation flowing. Just keep putting one word after the other, I tell myself.

As I talk, Logan drapes a comforting arm over my shoulder and in a natural movement I reach my hand up to take ahold of his, interlacing our fingers. Instead of answering my question, his parents stare at our union.

After a prolonged moment of silence, his mother blurts out, “Y’all look adorable together.”

His father follows with, “She sure is pretty, son.”

I give a nervous giggle.

“Rupey, did we bring our camera?” Mary-Gene asks him.

“No, mom,” Logan laughs, putting a stop to her plans. “You’re not taking pictures to show all of your friends. And yes, dad, she is pretty. I’ve told you both that a million times,” he says, grinning at me and enjoying the flush of colour that comes to my face. I can’t help but smile back at him.

“Actually, darlin’, what you said to us was that Gemima is your reason for living and without her you’d curl up and die,” Mary-Gene reveals.

I start laughing and squeeze Logan’s hand affectionately.

Logan looks perplexed. “I don’t remember that particular conversation.”

“You were very dramatic about it,” she tells him.

“When?” Logan challenges.

“It was right after your surgery, Loges,” Rupert explains. “Only last week.”

I laugh even more, saying, “He was a little dopey after his surgery. He said all sorts of funny things.”

“Oh, yeah,” Logan breathes as realisation hits, “I remember now,” he nods at his mom. “I laid out very clearly how I feel about you,” he says to me. Then to his parents, he’s says, “And it’s all true; I love her.”

I can feel the blush rising in my cheeks, but I don’t care. I reach up and give him a quick peck on the lips. For a short but beautiful moment, our eyes pour into one another’s; they’re filled with affection. Then before my mind can process that I’ve just kissed Logan in front of his parents (which could lead to all manner of inappropriate comments) I simply tell them, “And I love him.”

Mary-Gene squeals excitedly, while Rupert laughs jovially.

“We’re thrilled for the pair of you,” he says. “It’s good to see you so loved-up. We thought you were a lost cause,” Rupert teases his son.

“Never,” I laugh, gazing at Logan in reverence.

“I was just waiting for the one, dad,” Logan says, looking back at me, and I note that though his parents are only two feet away from us, their proximity doesn’t affect the sensual bubble that Logan and I seem to slip so effortlessly into whenever we’re together. I’m thrilled by this observation.

“Please, Logan,” Mary-Gene begs, “just one photo?”

Logan gives me a what-do-you-think kind of look.

“Of course,” I smile at his mother. I can’t think of another person that I’d rather be photographed with.

“Fine,” Logan concedes, “but let’s take it outside.”

“I’ll admit I was a little sidetracked by seeing you two canoodling, but I did notice that this is all new,” Rupert says about the roof terrace when we all step outside.

“To you and me both,” Logan tells him. “I saw it for the first time about twenty minutes ago.”

And what a breathtaking twenty minutes they were, I think.

“This is Gemima’s birthday present to me,” he announces happily. “I still can’t believe it,” he smiles.

“Gemima, this is magnificent,” Mary-Gene says, looking around in awe.

“You did all of this by yourself?” Rupert asks.

“I designed it myself, I picked everything out based on what I thought Logan would like. Then today Mercy and I had some hired help to get everything into place. They did a great job,” I say, giving credit where credit’s due.

“So did you. This is very impressive,” Rupert gives his approval.

“Absolutely,” his wife agrees.

Logan and I grin at each other before he says, “It’s abso-fucking-lutely, mom. Nobody says absolutely by itself anymore.”

“Duly noted, kid, now go and stand over there,” she points to the large ceramic pot with the somewhat-battered tree in it.

Logan and I obediently stand where we’re told and follow her further instructions.

“I feel like I’m going to Prom,” I mutter out of Mary-Gene’s earshot, feeling a little stiff. I shake my body out and attempt to look more casual.

“You look stunning, baby. You don’t take a bad photo, I know that for a fact. I was there when your company portrait was taken, remember?” he smiles.

“I’m glad you’re thinking about that right now,” I say, remembering the other presents that I have to give him tomorrow, one of them being a photo from that very shoot.

“Why?” he asks.

I shrug, playing nonchalant. “Just am,” I say, before giving him a cheeky grin, which totally gives away that I’m hiding something.

His eyes narrow and I laugh, enjoying the tease. Then in an attempt at distracting him, I tell him, “This is the first time we’ve posed together as a couple.”

“Lots of firsts tonight,” Logan chuckles.

“First quickie…” I begin.

“First time doing it outside…”

“First dinner with the in-laws,” we list them all, pausing between each one to smile for Mary-Gene’s camera. She must have enough by now, I think, her finger hasn’t lifted from the shutter since we’ve been standing here.

Logan’s arm tightens around my waist. “If they hear you call them that they might just combust with excitement,” he beams. “A bit like I am right now,” he laughs.

I watch him as he laughs, reveling in how happy my words have made him. “One day I’d like to call them that,” I tell him with a wink.

“Un jour vous le ferez,” he nods confidently. One day you will do.

And just like that, our guests disappear from my awareness as everything in me focusses on Logan and I. We’ve done it again: both admitted that, more than spending the rest of our lives together, we want to do so as husband and wife. Joy becomes me at the very thought of it.

Ignoring the fact that we’re supposed to be posing, Logan turns inwards to face me, his free hand cupping my face as he brings his lips to mine. “I’m so in love with you, Gemima,” he whispers.

It’s my turn to beam at him. “Ditto, baby.” I lean forward to kiss him, but our embrace is cut short by his mother’s next words.

“Oh, look at them,” Mary-Gene coos. “Rupert, how do I take videos on this thing?”

I smile against Logan’s lips. He pulls back, rolling his eyes playfully.

“And that’s enough with the camera,” he says, ending our photo shoot. Hand in hand we walk back across the terrace, before Logan asks, “Who would like a drink?”

“That’s a great idea, Loges,” his dad pats him on the back.

“Yes, and I’ll get dinner heating through,” I add. “You sit and relax,” I say to them all, “I’ll bring the wine out.”

“I’ll join you,” Mary-Gene says at once.

She links her arm with my free one and I’m tugged from Logan’s hand as she pulls me away from him and Rupert into the apartment, towards the kitchen.

“Your dress is to die for, Gemima. You and Logey match so perfectly, and y’all make such a handsome couple,” she says very quickly and I can’t keep the smile from my face. She’s so exuberant and bubbly. “Are y’all fixing to come to Charleston anytime soon?” she asks, though before I can answer, she adds, “I don’t care what Logan says, I can’t wait to show you off!”

I laugh, and then reply, “We, uh, haven’t talked about visiting, but I’d love to see where he grew up. Your home is near the ocean, isn’t it?” I remember.

Mary-Gene reluctantly lets me leave her side to attend to the pan on the stove.

“That’s right,” she smiles at me as I peer over my shoulder at her. “It’s a beautiful home, we’ve had it north of forty years. I’d love to have you come and stay. This summer, maybe?”

I’m not quick enough to hide my surprise at her eagerness.

Noticing that she’s bombarded, she says, “Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’, I know I can be a little pushy sometimes. You’ve probably already got plans for the summer. Doesn’t matter,” she continues, not letting me get a word in edgeways, “whenever you’re able to visit, we’d love to have you.”

“Thank you,” I say hastily, when she takes a breath. “I’m looking forward to it, whenever it comes about, though, not so much the flight. I’m not the biggest fan of flying,” I admit.

“Me either, sweetheart,” she shakes her head. “You just need to take full advantage of those little liquor bottles that they give you. Knock ’em all back,” she winks at me, “you’ll be right as rain.”

And there I have it – my first piece of advice from Logan’s mother: get drunk. Instantly I warm to her even more.

Grinning, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back to her for a moment to stir Mercy’s pot of deliciousness once more. When I turn around again, I’m startled to find Mary-Gene standing right beside me. Instead of laughing off the fact that she made me jump – which would be the normal thing to do – I attempt to disguise my shock by turning my jump into an awkward little dance move. Really, Gem? Mercifully, Mary-Gene is staring into the pot on the stove, meaning that she doesn’t see my awkwardness in full bloom. Either that, or she chooses to ignore it. Be cool, I tell myself again.

“So, Gemima, has Logan had you over to his apartment often?” his mother asks me. “You seem to be familiar with it,” she says, gesturing to me and the stove.

I look at her and falter slightly. I suddenly wonder how much I’m allowed to tell her, though given that Logan admitted that he loves me in front of her, I presume my next sentence to be an acceptable amount of sharing.

“Yes, he’s been very hospitable,” I tell her. As I continue, my sharing grows exponentially, “If we’re not here, then we sleep at mine.” I become unstoppable. “We basically live together,” I blurt out.

Her eyes widen in surprise, though she looks thrilled by the news. “So soon?” she says immediately.

I give her the simplest answer that I can think of. “When you know, you know,” I smile, feeling a what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son talk coming on.

Sure enough, Mary-Gene presses, “And you have this knowingness about Logan?”

The expression is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” I blanch: I just swore! Suddenly my calm resolve crumbles and I enter dangerous American Mouth territory. My automatic babble-mode takes over, and I say at high speed, “We’re not shy about our feelings for one another. And, well, to be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. G – can I call you that? – I have a terrible proclivity for speaking my mind at all times, even inappropriate times – Logan and I call it my American Mouth – so if you want to do the whole what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son thing, then ask away.”

She looks comically alarmed by how many words I managed to get out without taking a breath. “You can talk as good as I can; I like that, dear,” she compliments. “No one has ever asked to call me Mrs. G before,” she grins, “I think I’d prefer Mary-Gene or MG. It’s more personal.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I nod my understanding. Dammit! “Shit, sorry, I mean: yes, Mary-Gene.” I swore again! I need to get some control of myself; it’s time to start channeling my inner Southern Belle.

Totally ignoring my swearing – an action that reminds me that she has seen and heard a lot worse from her son when he was a teenager, which perhaps has desensitised her – Mary-Gene says, “As for the intentions-talk? It’s not necessary. It’s abundantly clear to me that the pair of you are besotted with each other. And frankly, darlin’, I’m ecstatic that you’re so gorgeous,” she exclaims. “You’re boast-worthy. So is Logan; together you’re a perfect match,” she smiles, satisfactorily.

Oh, wow! “I…uh…thank you,” I stammer, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks once more. “So I have your approval, then?”

“Top marks, kid,” she says, giving me two thumbs up.

“Good,” I giggle, smiling broadly. Not too bad for our first dialogue, I say to myself. Leaving the food to warm through, I pick up the two bottles of wine that I put on the kitchen island earlier this evening and I walk with Mary-Gene back outside, to join Logan and Rupert around the table. I naturally head straight for the empty seat beside Logan, and fall into it feeling very gratified about how the evening has progressed so far.

A moment later Logan has the first bottle open and once we’ve each got our glass in hand, we raise a toast.

Speaking before anyone else can, I say to Logan’s parents, “Bienvenue à Paris de nouveau. Je vous souhaite une merveilleuse visite.” Welcome back to Paris. I wish you a wonderful visit. I immediately surmise from their blank facial expressions that they don’t understand a word of French, and so hurriedly repeat the sentiment in English.

“Merci,” they say together, making Logan and I laugh. OK, so they understand one word.

After taking a sip, Rupert says, “Gemima, tell us about yourself…”

Speak clearly and be poised, I give myself a pep talk. I begin talking, and for the next ten minutes we chat back and forth about my youth in Florida, my family, and my reasons for coming to Paris eight years ago. Internally I celebrate how easy they are to talk to; the conversation flows effortlessly with everyone partaking, and fortunately I make zero inappropriate comments. So far, anyway.

“What does your father do back in Florida, Gemima?” Rupert asks me.

“Uh, nothing. My father was killed when I was four,” I tell them.

“He was killed?” Logan says, looking shocked.

I nod innocently. “I told you that, didn’t I?” I’m sure we spoke about him during our first lunch date.

“Baby, you told me that he died not that he was killed,” he says, looking concerned.

“Well, he did die,” I shrug, wanting to lighten the suddenly gloomy mood. This mood-change is the exact reason why I don’t talk about his passing; because it seems to instantly bring everybody down. I know my father wouldn’t like that, which is why I usually use the word died instead of killed. This choice of word has saved my mother and I a lot of questions over the years, but Logan, I suddenly realise, might be the only person that I disclose all of the details to. “It was a wrong-place, wrong-time kind of thing,” I tell everyone. “So, it’s been mom and I since then,” I say, moving things along. “When her second marriage broke up she joined me here in Paris, and as you know, Mary-Gene, she set up her salon and the rest is history.”

“I’ve been on every visit since it opened,” she tells me, excitedly. “Friday six o’clock,” she recites her upcoming appointment. Picking up my mobile phone which I left sitting on the table, Mary-Gene hands it to me, saying, “Do you have a photo of your mother? I might recognise her.”

I start hastily flicking through my photos, bypassing the most recent one hundred which are all of Logan from our recent French Riviera retreat, and then the next hundred which are all of the nineteen-twenties decor.

Rupert asks Logan, “What’s this?”

Glancing up from the screen, I see him indicate the small forty-nine plaque, and Logan and I immediately smile at each other, before I tell his parents, “Your son is a real romantic.”

“Me?” he chuckles. “You’re the one who stuck it there.”

“Yes, but you are the reason why,” I laugh. “Tell them how sweet you are,” I say, returning my attention to my phone while Logan fills his parents in on his grand romantic gesture. After I find a charming image of my mom and I, I look up just in time to see Rupert and Mary-Gene’s startled expressions. Deer in headlights. Yup, that’s how I must’ve looked when Logan told me.

“You don’t do things by halves, do you, son?” Rupert utters.

“It’s not in my nature,” Logan grins.

* * *

A short while later the elevator pings, delivering Buddy to the penthouse and we all hurry inside to greet him.

Like Logan, Buddy is still in his work clothes, but I suspect that his reasons for being so are quite different to Logan’s. He’s holding a small child, maybe two or three years old, in one arm and a baby bag in the other. He dumps the latter by the elevator door, as he bounds forward to embrace Mary-Gene.

“MG,” he smiles, hugging her tightly, before naturally handing the smiley toddler over to her. She goes all gooey-eyes over him immediately. Then Buddy shakes Rupert’s hand, kisses me on each cheek – very French – and he greets Logan by patting him on the backside like men in sports teams do. “‘Sup?” he says to his best friend. Then he asks Mary-Gene and Rupert, “How are my favourite seventy year olds?”

“Peachy, kid,” Rupert tells him and Mary-Gene nods in agreement.

“You’re looking well, have you finally settled down?” she asks him, assuming his apparent health to be caused by a woman.

Buddy rolls his eyes. “Women are the bane of my life,” he tells her.

“Speaking of…how is that little problem of yours?” Logan asks him, trying not to laugh.

“Please tell me that you do not have another infection, Buddy,” Mary-Gene scolds.

“No, Ma’am. Clean as a whistle,” he says proudly.

“Uh, could someone explain the baby…” I pipe up.

“This is Noah. My son,” Buddy explains, while Logan looks at me in surprise, evidently having thought that I already knew that.

“You have a son?” I exclaim. I study the toddler; he’s got a thick head of dark hair, plump, squeezable cheeks, an adorable toothy smile, and a stylish green outfit on.

“But…but he’s so cute, how can he be yours?” I tease Buddy and make everyone else laugh. “Who’s his mom? Is she in the industry, do I know her?” I berate him with questions before a sudden notion occurs to me. “Oh my god! Is he Amélie’s?”

This time Buddy laughs. “Not in a million fucking years. You won’t know his mom. Three years ago I referred to her as the girl in the red dress,” he tells me.

“Charming, dear,” Mary-Gene looks reproving.

“Now I call her Olivia. She’s a dancer.”

“Of the exotic kind?” I assume.

“Do I strike you as that kind of man?” Buddy asks me.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “You cruise for hookups during your lunch break,” I remind him, while everyone chuckles again.

“Oh, you’re good,” Mary-Gene beams at me. “A straight talker; I like that.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to dash your assumptions of me, Gem. Olivia works with the Paris Opera Ballet,” he informs me.

Jeez, they’re the oldest ballet company in the world! She must be good, I note.

“Speaking of dancing,” Buddy continues, “tomorrow night I will be your chaperone to the Moulin Rouge,” he says to his pseudo-parents. “That is to say I will be escorting you there, but I cannot confirm that I will be leaving with you, if you know what I mean,” he winks at Rupert. “Now, there was something else that I had to tell you guys,” he thinks for a moment. “Oh, yes!” His face lights up in mischief. “I’ve been waiting to tell you that I caught Logan and Gemima having sex on that sofa,” he points to the offending sofa, “so stay well clear.”

I choke on air; I actually choke on thin air. Buddy, you shit! “That is not—” I splutter.

Buddy starts silently laughing, he’s gotten exactly what he wanted: me, flustered. I give him a prepare-to-die look which results in him laughing even more.

“Not true,” Logan finishes for me, looking cool, calm and collected.

“So not true!” I impress.

“Don’t worry,” Rupert says to me, “we take everything that he says with a grain of salt. Especially after he told us that he was going to marry this one’s mother,” he says, taking ahold of Noah’s hand and going all coochey-coo.

“I’ve never seen Buddy so pale as when he told me he was going to be a father,” Logan reminisces with a laugh. “He asked me to come over and he just sat on the couch, speechless,” he tells me. “He didn’t say a thing except, I’ve just come back from the doctor. I thought he was fucking dying!”

“I also thought a part of me would die,” Buddy says dramatically. “I thought my love-life was over, but it turns out that Noah is the best wingman I could have ever asked for. The amount of numbers that he’s gotten me is staggering.”

“You do know it’s not a competition, don’t you, Bud?” Rupert asks him.

“He’s a quintessential man-whore,” Mary-Gene tells her husband, giving Buddy a new nickname.

And with that comment, we seem to naturally separate, Logan and I finishing up dinner, while the others wander outside, catching up.

As I stand at the stove, I can feel Logan’s gaze on me. I know those pale-green eyes of his are adoring me, and sure enough, when I turn to look at him, he’s wearing a broad, dimple-inducing smile. He looks so sexy, so alluring, so in love. The sight of him distracts me completely.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I grin at him. “Otherwise I’ll drag you into your dressing room for a repeat of what we did before your parents arrived,” I threaten.

Logan raises his eyebrows at me. “That’s hardly an incentive for me to stop looking at you like this.”

True, I think. I stare at him, feeling fully affected by his strong presence, and a part of me wants very much to enact my threat. I shake my head at my own lustful thoughts. No, Gem, not while his parents are here. Logan continues to gaze at me.

“What’s got you so ecstatic?” I ask him.

“You, Gemima. Everything about you – the terrace; my parents love you, like I knew they would; the way you are with Buddy. Everything about you has got me ecstatic.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Leary,” I smile.

“Good, baby. Maybe later I can flatten you. On the bed,” he laughs, and my eyes grow wide at his pun.

“That sounds like something I would say!”

“You must be rubbing off on me,” he says, before we both laugh.

I say the obvious. “Maybe later, I will.”

* * *

The next hour passes in a flurry of food, good conversation, and lots of laughter.

When it’s time for cake, we migrate inside.

Buddy puts Noah to sleep on the sofa in the man’s den, where he won’t be woken by us talking. In the living room, whether consciously or not, I can’t help noticing that Buddy and Logan’s parents choose not to sit on the sex-sofa, leaving it free for Logan and I to snuggle up on, while the cake and a third bottle of wine sits on the coffee table in the centre of us all. Neither Logan nor I elected to tell Buddy that the chair he sat in over dinner outside was the one we had our fun in earlier this evening. Serves him right, I think cheekily.

I’m feeling wholly relaxed and relieved with how smoothly things have gone tonight. I come to the conclusion that, despite Buddy’s efforts to verbally trip me up, it’s impossible to feel uncomfortable around Rupert and Mary-Gene. They’re so open and accepting, so chatty and engaging, that every moment is filled with words, and each passing minute I learn more about Logan’s family and his life before me.

As we devour the cake, his parents move onto my favourite topic yet: Logan’s childhood.

“Tell me everything,” I request, merrily, washing a bite of cake down with the last gulp of my third glass. Or is it my fourth glass? “The more embarrassing, the better,” I add, teasing Logan.

“He was afraid of the dark until he was ten,” Rupert recalls.

“He had an imaginary friend ’til he was six,” Buddy offers up.

“Both true,” Logan confirms.

“I had an imaginary friend, too,” I smile at him. “She was called Fiona. What was yours called?”

“Magic Mike,” Buddy tells me hastily.

I look from him back to Logan. “Seriously?” I ask.

Reluctantly, and trying hard not to laugh, Logan nods.

“Uh…as in the stripper movie?” I check.

“Yes,” Mary-Gene says, adding, “Oh, that film was most enjoyable.”

I laugh heartily at this revelation, while simultaneously thinking that Mary-Gene and Amber would get along like a house on fire.

“You can imagine the amount of teasing that happened when the film came out,” Logan laughs.

“He’s always been a keen swimmer,” his mom then tells me. “Everyday in summer he would wade out into the ocean and swim until his front was pink from exertion and his back was pink from sunburn. And he always did like architecture,” she smiles. “Even during his wayward years.”

I smile, finding it entertaining that that period of Logan’s life now has a title. It sounds like a name of a book – Logan Leary: the wayward years.

Mary-Gene continues, “I remember hauling your ass out of the oldest police precinct in Charleston and when I asked you if you had anything to say for yourself, your eyes glazed over and you told me: that is an attractive building,” she says to Logan.

Logan laughs again, “I remember that night.”

“Do you remember the tantrum that you had when we got you home? I learnt the word cunt that night,” Mary-Gene says casually.

“Mom!” Logan scolds.

Buddy and I are lost in a fit of hysterics.

“Your children teach you so much,” his mother says, reminiscently.

“That they do,” Rupert agrees, and they both look at Logan so affectionately that I have to stop myself from calling out how cute this moment is.

“You had a good childhood, I think. Until you turned thirteen, anyway,” Rupert says.

“Those five unhappy years won’t ever detract from the thirteen brilliant years that proceeded them,” Logan tells his parents. “I lost my way for a little while, but you two helped me to get it back.”

“I can’t believe that you’re thirty-five,” Mary-Gene blurts out. “There was a time when we weren’t sure that you’d make it to your eighteenth birthday. And look at you now: beautiful woman,” she indicates me, “beautiful home, and a friendship that has lasted longer than a lot of marriages do,” she smiles, referring to Logan and Buddy. “And this weekend we get to attend an event all about how marvellous you are, darlin’. I couldn’t be prouder.” She looks at her husband, “Our baby…thirty-five, Roo.”

“I know,” Rupert sighs, and I grin at Mary-Gene’s nickname for him. “Seems like yesterday that you arrived into this world, full head of jet black hair…”

Black? “Really?” I ask, my hand automatically going to Logan’s blonde locks.

His parents both nod at me, but Buddy steals my attention by saying, “Uh, Gemima, I don’t know what he’s told you, but Logan’s not a natural blonde. He dyes his hair.”

Logan picks up a cushion and hurls it at him.

“You lie, Buddy Jackson,” I accuse.

“You tell us, then…does his carpet match his curtains?” Buddy grins, enjoying the red flush that comes across my face.

“I’m not answering that,” I say in a small voice, avoiding the gaze of Logan’s parents, though I can hear Rupert educating Mary-Gene as to the meaning of Buddy’s words.

“Oh!” she exclaims in understanding, before smiling at Buddy, and saying, “My carpet has never matched my curtains.”

Buddy slams his fist on the sofa as he bursts into laughter. I stifle a laugh, very much enjoying the look on Logan’s face. He’s staring at his parents with a look of contempt. I revel in how fast the tone of our conversation changed. From sweet and endearing to pubic hair in under a minute. Again I think that Amber would feel right at home with my present company.

“TMI, mom!” Logan tells her.

“That’s something I’ve always found endearing about you, dear,” Rupert responds to his wife’s comment.

Logan quickly buries his face in his hands, and while the rest of us laugh, he mutters, “Oh my god!”

“You should be pleased that your mother and I are still sexually adventurous, Logan,” Rupert says to his son, and Logan’s head darts up to look at his father incredulously, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. His eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. He is mortified, much to my amusement. My body is silently shaking next to his as laughter rolls through me.

“Exactly,” Mary-Gene exclaims. “It’s inspiring. And if your stamina is anything like your father’s, then I don’t mind telling you that you’ll be in for a very happy life together,” she tells us both.

“No! No! No!” Logan says loudly, trying to stop their words from perforating his mind.

Buddy and I are in tears.

I admit, I never expected to know Logan’s parents so intimately, but their unabashed sharing makes me like them even more. They start giggling between themselves, pleased to have fulfilled their parental duty of embarrassing their child.

“I thought I was in danger of over-sharing,” I whisper to Logan in between giggle-hiccups. “When you told me that they weren’t shy, I never expected this.”

“I never expected this either,” he says exasperatedly, and I laugh even more. “I’d forgotten how overly candid they can be when there’s wine involved. Enough with the embarrassment, OK?” Logan pleads desperately with his parents.