Southern Hearts by Katie P. Moore

who had known me for years were unable to read me, yet this woman had.
    How could she have...? Finally I blurted, “Regency.”
    “Sweet,” she said sarcastically. “Like the hotel, very original.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “The name implies more NutraSweet then sugar cane,” she said briskly. “ I bet she is a real looker.” She paused. “That was a rude comment, I apologize.”
    “It’s okay.” I was upset, but I kept my feelings inside of me. Lani had been scorned a time or two, that much was clear, and going to battle for a woman whom I barely knew seemed silly.
    “I’m guessing that now you’re thinking this day is going to be even more draining and uneventful than you had originally anticipated. Am I right?”
    “Do you always do that, or is there something about me that has fueled its appearance?”
    “What?”
    “Reading unspoken thoughts,” I said, “and faces. It’s annoying.”
    “Sorry. If it bothers you I’ll stop,” she said, her eyes catching mine.
    “I would appreciate it, and to be honest, I’m not sure what to think right now. Part of me feels like pulling over, opening the door, and letting you out.”
    “And the other part?” she asked smoothly.
    “Opening the door and letting you out without pulling over.”
    The reply brought a grin to Lani’s face. I looked at her slyly and then we broke into laughter.
    “I deserved that,” she said softly.
    “Yes, you did.” I nodded in an effort to drive home the point. “So what brought you back home?”
    “My mother thought it would be a good idea for me to return to the familiarity of my home for a few months...she’s a coddler!” Lani said dryly. “Seems like no matter how old I get or how positive the choices I feel I have made for myself, she’s always right there ready to snatch me back to her breasts as if I’m an infant.” Her voice was austere but resilient. “She’s like a pimple—you can pop it and pop it, but even after it goes away, the indentation never disappears. It’s always a reflection away from notifying you that it was right there.”
    “I guess it’s a Southern thing.” I knew how she felt. Her words mirrored my own on so many occasions where my mother was concerned.
    “I never wanted to be from the South, and I never asked for my mother’s intrusion,” she continued. “It was my choice.”
    “What was your choice?” I asked, hoping to find a clue to the answer, but she was not willing to give it.
    Lani slumped into the cloth of the bucket seats, her legs tucked neatly up to the seat’s bottom. She crossed one ankle over the other and put her palm flat to her forehead, resting her elbow on the rubber of the car’s handle.
    “It’s not important,” she said under her breath, the words barely audible. “I love my mom, she just did what she thought was best for me.” Her face became straight, vacant. Her lips drew inward and became sullen. Her strength appeared to be sapped from her, leaving only a vulnerable shadow. She became somber, then melancholy, and finally almost gloomy. Whatever it was, it was painful. It was enameled across her surface, but its effects were clearly deeper. As her eyes swelled with tears, I sighed to myself, then raised the volume of the car stereo.

    The sun had dropped behind the low clouds, scattering the blue and refracting it into pewter. It was seven thirty p.m., and Marney would be laying out the placemats on the veranda, polishing the glasses to remove any remaining spots from their trip through the dishwasher, and ladling generous portions of gumbo into the fancy handblown crown bowls my mother used every time my sister and I visited.
    The day with Lani had started a bit rocky, but we both loosened up as we strolled the narrow streets of the French Quarter, tossed back beer chasers, and gorged ourselves on clams and oyster shooters. Jazz called from every direction as we walked through the many quaint shops that spotted Bourbon Street. We