Rosita scowled at the cake she was pulling out the oven, muttering under her breath. Of all the times for her mother to come down to Charleston and bother a body! Didn’t the woman understand she couldn’t tell Ulrich anything because she didn’t know where the hell he was? And even if she did, this wasn’t something you told a man over the phone or in an e-mail—especially a man with whom your relationship was undefined! Ulrich wasn’t her husband—he wasn’t even her boyfriend! The most she could do was take care of herself and the baby she carried until Ulrich returned. And he would…he promised he’d do his best. “Rosita!” “¡Sí, Mama, sí, yo sé!” Rosita insisted, putting the pan on a wire rack and pulling off the oven mitts. Her mother’s sable hand closed around hers and Rosita let her head drop slightly. The older woman kissed her cheek and Rosita smiled. “My baby’s to be a mother,” Milagros murmured in English, patting her daughter’s hand. “¡Que bueno!”
