Lincoln’s parting smile had been downright paternal, sending fight-or-flight messages to Zeph’s feet. His feet weren’t listening. They, like the rest of him, basked in afterglow from the picnic. He strolled down the street, happy satisfaction overflowing in a smile that spread across his face until he figured he looked like a real idiot. But who cared? He didn’t. Not until he turned into the café and came face to face with his mother. “There he is now,” Betty said, loudly and unnecessarily. “Zeph,” his mother cried, and threw her arms around him. “Oh, baby, it’s so good to see you.” “Mother? What the—what are you doing here?” “I came to spend Thanksgiving with you, of course. When I got your letter that you were working and couldn’t come home for the holiday I thought I’d just come up here and surprise you, even if it meant having dinner in a restaurant. But—” Arms akimbo, she gave him the laser stare that had always reduced him to mumbling apology.
