Jules just listened, refilling her tea and occasionally moving to deal with a new customer.

“If he tries anything, you’ll win. You’re the primary parent. You’ve done well by Miles. That boy adores you. No amount of mansions with home studios are going to change that. You have to trust the job you’ve done with him. None of us would allow them to hurt you or Miles. You have to know that. Mary would drive her truck right into that pretty face of his if he even tried. You know how we had to hold her back when you came home from that meeting.”

“I must be remembering it wrong then. I was under the impression it was you we had to hold back.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” Jules winked. “Anyhoo, I think you underestimate how much that boy adores his mom.” She shrugged. “However, I’m so glad you’re telling me all this.” Jules moved to slide onto the stool next to Gillian. She put her head on Gillian’s shoulder.

It had been hard, especially at first, to share her doubts. Her flaws and all the small, not-so-nice stuff in the corners of Gillian’s mind. She’d lived with a mask on so long it was hard to let to go long enough to be vulnerable with someone.

But Jules wouldn’t allow it. In her own way, of course. She pushed and poked and was just there until Gillian took a risk and shared. Just a little those first few years. But she’d never judged.

In the years since, Gillian had come to trust Jules Lamprey more than anyone else on the planet.

“I know you. You’re trying to think about this in the way that makes you look the worst. Stop it. Let yourself enjoy this thing with him. Of course he wants you. Good gracious, he’d be an idiot or g*y to not. You said he’s a star in bed. Is he nice to you when he’s not putting his penis in your hoo-hoo?”

Gillian laughed until tears ran from her eyes. “My what?”

“Your fertile fields. Your pink garden of delight. Your po-po. Cooter. Cootchie. To get British—your fanny. Your cunt, pu**y. Dare I say, your vagina. Do I need to have the talk with you? Last I remember, you had a few things to teach me, so stop pretending you don’t know what I mean.”

“I knew what you meant, you git. Though you know how much I love the term cooter. So very romantic, you Americans.”

“That’s us. Candlelight and soft music. All the best love words ever. Also you’re an American too.”

“Half, anyway.” She laughed. “Yes. Yes, he’s nice to me when we are not engaged in carnal relations. He’s fascinating. Creative. Magnetic. He excites me sometimes with how he sees the world. I love to hear him talk about his music. I like him. A lot. And I don’t know if it’s that he’s got this thing about him, this whatever it is that makes someone a celebrity or star. You want to look at him when he comes into a room. He has this voice, well, you heard it. That drawl thing and he sounds like sex on legs. Did you notice? Wait, no, don’t tell me that. I don’t want to know.”

Jules took her hand and squeezed it before she hopped off the stool and wandered off. “I’ve never seen you so nervous and fluttery. You totally go gooey for this guy. I like that.”

“I suppose I am. Which makes me distrust it. I’m not one for fluttery and gooey. I like being in charge of all my parts. He sort of takes several of them over.”

Gillian ducked her head, blushing as Jules hooted laughter. “That is awesome! You deserve this, Gillian. Don’t second-guess it. Let yourself be happy. Let yourself fall a little crazy in love with someone. Go a little wild.”

“I’m someone’s mother! I can’t go wild.”

Jules only rolled her eyes. “Oh, for poodle’s sake, of course you can. For you wild is how other people stay sane. Eh? I mean Gillian wild, not Daisy wild.” Daisy was another friend, a total wild-child artist. Gillian absolutely adored her, but they were very different.

“Well. Maybe. He”—she licked her lips, trying to find a way to say it—“I feel like I can let go with him.”

Jules moved closer, though the place was nearly empty at the moment. “Then do it. Baby, how often do you let go? Really? If he rings your bell and he’s doing it in a way that is not hurting you or Miles, ring it like it’s dinnertime.”

“I’ve got to go before you talk me into those strip-aerobics classes or something. I have a lesson in an hour and a thousand e-mails to deal with. I shall be taking this pear tart with me.” She grabbed the pink box on the counter. “And give you proper credit with Miles, though he’ll know everything baked and sweet comes from you, as I am such a disaster with a baking sheet.”

“I’ll see you both Thursday, if not before. And Friday night is club night. I know Mary told you to bring Adrian, so be sure you invite him or I will pester you until you do anyway.”

Gillian tossed some money on the counter just as she turned to go and headed to the door, not stopping when she heard Jules exclaim when she saw the money.

“Bye, Juliet Lamprey, goddess of pastry. I will see you anon.”

Miles had gone to bed, and as had been their little ritual, Gillian and Adrian headed outside. Her back deck had become one of his favorite places, he had to admit. Even as winter approached, it was still lush and the fire pit kept them both comfortably warm, but they still used a blanket as an excuse to sit close.

She’d taken the time to let him know Miles’s jazz band was having a performance and he’d rushed back from a quick trip to San Francisco so he wouldn’t miss it.