V’s version of house music, which was strictly rap and hip-hop, was inspiring all kind of aerobics, and she was proud to note that her hubs was Channing all over his Tatum out here, shaking what his mama gave him with the best of them. Bits was right with him, learning the moves, laughing, eating and drinking soda.
Funny how sometimes the best time could be had just sitting back and watching your kid have a good time.
Through the crowd, Rhage motioned for her to come over, and when she fanned herself and shook her head, he gyrated across with Bitty. “Mary!”
“I just need a minute’s rest!” she shouted back. Because that was the only chance of being heard.
“Bitty, can you get your mahm—” Rhage caught himself. “Can you get your, ah, Mary, to join us?”
The small bite of pain in the middle of her chest was no big deal, especially when Mary thought about how much the little girl’s real mahmen would have loved to be a part of all this. And then she didn’t think anything more about it as Bitty dived in, grabbed her hand, and pulled her up.
So there was even more dancing.
And more food, and more drink, and more laughter, and more cheering . . . until two in the afternoon, and then three . . .
By four o’clock, even Lassiter had decided it was a wrap, and people started to scatter up and around to various beds.
Naturally, that meant that she and Rhage and Bitty ended up in the kitchen.
“So, Bits, this is my pride and joy,” he said as he led the little girl over to a hallway just outside the pantry. “This is my ice cream freezer.”
Leaving them to it, Mary made quick work getting out three bowls, three spoons, and three napkins, and she just had to sit back and smile at the setup after she’d put them out on the oak table. Humming to herself, she waited to see what came in from the cold, so to speak, and felt grateful that with Fritz’s anal-retentive sense of organization, all the food for the ribbon ceremony had been cleaned up hours ago—
“Okay, wow,” she said with a smile. “That is a load.”
Four gallons, no, wait, five.
“We have chosen wisely,” Rhage said with great gravity. “I present to you this afternoon . . .”
Bit took over from there in the same pseudo-deep voice. “Rocky road, coffee, mint chocolate-chip, raspberry chip, and your favorite, chocolate chocolate-chip.”
As the two of them bowed at the waist to her, Mary clapped. “Very well chosen, very, very well chosen.”
“And now,” Rhage Darth Vadered, “I shall commence the dispensing.”
Bitty parked it next to Mary, and the pair of them watched the show, Rhage doing all kinds of tricks, throwing scoops of oh-God-please-catch-that in the air and, in fact, catching them in the bowls. When everybody had what they wanted, they dug in.
Or rather, Rhage and Mary dug in.
As she noticed that Bitty wasn’t eating, Mary frowned. “You okay? You have too much of the cakes that were put out?”
It was a while before the girl spoke. “What do humans call their mahmen? What is their name for a mahmen?”
Mary flicked her eyes over to Rhage’s as he froze. Then she cleared her throat. “Ah . . . we call them Mother. Or Mom.”
“Mother.” Bitty stared into her ice cream. “Mom.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
After a moment, the little girl looked right into Mary’s eyes. “May I please call you Mom?”
Abruptly, Mary found herself not able to breathe, her throat tightening up to an unbearable extent. Leaning in, she cradled that face between her palms and looked over the features that she suddenly knew, without a doubt, that she would watch grow and change into maturity.
“Yes,” she whispered roughly. “I would like that. I would like you to call me that.”
Bitty smiled. “Okay, Mom.”
Andjustlikethat, the girl went in for one of her hugs, wrapping those skinny, but oh, so strong arms around Mary and holding on tight.
Mary blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, especially as she held Bitty’s head to her chest and met Rhage’s own watery eyes.
Her hellren gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed, Way to go, Mom.
Laughing and crying, Mary took a deep breath and thought, Yes, indeed, miracles most certainly did happen . . .
And she could just thank God, the Scribe Virgin, whoever you liked, for that.
She . . . was a mom.