It should have been a simple task, selecting where to have lunch. With Mrs. Tifton, it was a chore. There weren't any restaurants in Framley that were up to her standards, and Jeffrey wasn't in the mood to take an hour-long trip to the closest one. Besides, he'd be flying back to Germany in a week, and he wanted to spend his time in the town he came from.

Eventually, they reached a common ground. It was more of an upscale place, but not so much that Jeffrey would feel underdressed in his jeans. Mrs. Tifton believed she'd compromised more than he had.

Jeffrey had visited the restaurant a lot growing up, and he still knew many of the people who worked there. A couple employees waved at him as the hostess showed him and his mother to their table. Jeffrey could tell from his mother's critical stare that she already had complaints. He was proud of her though; she shared none of them with the hostess.

Once they were alone at the table, she said, "It's easy to judge the quality of a restaurant based on whether or not the napkins are cloth."

The utensils were wrapped in paper napkins. Jeffrey fought a laugh. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten with his mother and used paper napkins. Even at home, she used cloth. She truly was making big sacrifices for him today.

Mrs. Tifton perused her menu. "It's hardly possible to eat healthy here. Really, Jeffrey, take care of yourself."

"There's a salmon burger," Jeffrey pointed out, stifling his grin before it got him in trouble. "That's healthier. Sort of."

"Hmph." Mrs. Tifton set aside her menu, starting up a conversation rather than deciding on what to order. "By the way, dear, I have news about Marlene."

Jeffrey slapped down his menu. He wanted to be out with his mother – truly, he did, but not if lunch would be spent bearing more pressure to date, and later, propose to Marlene Robinette. He'd sat through many of Mrs. Tifton's sales pitches about her, and with every repetitive conversation, his tolerance for the subject shrank. Today, he couldn't take any of the badgering. It wasn't that he didn't like Marlene; she was alright. The problem was that she wasn't much else. Jeffrey had known her for most of his life, but had never been able to connect with her well enough to warrant a date, let alone a marriage. She was a perfectly fine acquaintance, not a wife. He had been beyond clear about that. As far as he knew, so had Marlene. It was really starting to piss him off that his mother wouldn't respect either of their wishes.

"What news?" he groaned.

"My goodness, you are short-tempered today."

"You're not exactly helping with that right now."

Mrs. Tifton didn't appear to notice. "Mimi told me that Marlene has met a young man whom she has high hopes—"

"Good for her," Jeffrey muttered.

"If you're not careful, you'll miss your chance. I took it upon myself to invite her out for dinner on Sunday night, and I expect you to be there."

"No thanks," said Jeffrey.

"You won't be able to properly win her over if you continue to stay away."

"That's the plan."

"Take her for drinks after dinner. I'm sure you will get along."

"You forget, I already know Marlene, and I mean it – I'm good."

"I don't understand why you are so resistant," said Mrs. Tifton. "She's a lovely girl, and you do need a wife, Jeffrey."

"I don't care. No to all of it. Dinner, drinks – anything with Marlene. No."

Mrs. Tifton retrieved her menu and shook it open with a sharp snap. Without taking her eyes from the pages, she said, "You never listen to word I say."

"Some words," he said. "But none about Marlene."

Mrs. Tifton only sighed. "It would serve you well to listen to those too."

A teenage boy approached their table to take their order.

"How's it going, guys? I'm Trevor, I'll be helping you out today. Can I put a drink order in for you?" he said cheerfully.

Jeffrey could already tell that the poor kid had not made a good first impression on his mother. He began to think he should have let her select the restaurant after all. Then he wouldn't have to dissuade her from terrorizing a sixteen year old making minimum wage.

He asked for an iced tea and hoped they would at least make it a while longer before his mother started to pick the waiter apart. He'd almost forgotten how draining it could be to go out with her.

"What's your best vintage red?" Mrs. Tifton asked as she scanned the wine list.

"Oh, um…let me check on that for you really quick. I don't actually know off the top of my head," the waiter, Trevor, replied.

Mrs. Tifton arched an unimpressed eyebrow. "Isn't it your job to know?"

The kid was flustered. "Well, I can't, um… I'm not legally allowed to serve alcohol yet, so—"

"And yet, you take the orders." Mrs. Tifton did not think his excuse was valid. "You should be prepared for questions."

"Uh…" Trevor nervously stuffed his hands into the pockets of his apron. "Sorry. True. Sorry. I'll get the bartender for you."

"Do that," said Mrs. Tifton, nodding and waving him away.

Once the kid had fled from earshot, Jeffrey said, "Give him a break, he's not even eighteen." For that was the age one had to be to serve alcohol in Massachusetts.

"If he's old enough to work, he's old enough to do it properly," said Mrs. Tifton.

Jeffrey didn't press the matter. They could argue over this – again – but he didn't have the energy.

Mrs. Tifton sipped from the glass of water that their waiter had set in front of her.

"So tell me," she said. "Was that Skye's fiancé I saw you with?"

Jeffrey tapped his finger against the table. "Uh huh."

"He suits her, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess," said Jeffrey. He fiddled with his straw, watching the ice bounce to the bottom of the glass and rise up again.

"Nice man?" Mrs. Tifton asked.

Well, not to Jeffrey he hadn't been. He didn't want to get into that. The last thing his mother needed was another reason to dislike Skye.

He said, "I'm sure he is." It sounded bitter – not very, but enough to be noticed.

Mrs. Tifton regarded him with a contemplative eye. "You don't approve."

"I do." He didn't.

Mrs. Tifton took another sip from her glass.

Jeffrey sighed and admitted, "He was a little snippy with me is all."

"Was he? Interesting," said Mrs. Tifton.

"Why's that?"

Mrs. Tifton cocked her head. She studied Jeffrey in a way that made him feel judged. "I can't imagine why he would be."

She could join Jeffrey in that department. Sure, he hadn't been enthusiastic about meeting Dušek, but he was certain he'd hidden that well. Dušek had come at him without cause. He muttered, "Yeah, well. Me neither."

"You offered up your home for his wedding – on quite the short notice," said Mrs. Tifton. "I would have thought he'd feel indebted to you."

"Maybe he associates me with you. All of your gold digger comments can't have made him too happy," Jeffrey suggested. It was possible. There was no way Dušek hadn't heard about Mrs. Tifton's unfounded accusation that one (or all) of the Penderwick sisters intended to exploit him of his net worth.

"That was before I knew Skye would also be getting married," Mrs. Tifton reminded him, as if that made all the difference. "Do you think I should get her a wedding gift? Her and Rosalind both."

Jeffrey snorted, trying to picture them opening a gift she'd sent to them. He could appreciate the joke. Sometimes, rarely, his mother could be funny.

She smiled. "I'm certainly grateful they are marrying men other than you, so perhaps I should demonstrate my appreciation."

Jeffrey cracked a smile of his own, determined not to dwell on the 'men other than you' bit. He said, "Sure. Why don't you do that?"

That was when the bartender arrived.

"I should have known it would be your table causing all the trouble," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Tifton was affronted.

"Relax, he's talking to me," said Jeffrey. The same guy had worked the bar since before Jeffrey had been old enough to drink. They knew each other well.

The bartender – his name was Aaron – spun around one of their extra chairs and straddled it, resting his elbows over the backrest. Startled, Mrs. Tifton flinched away.

"You got a problem with my waiter, Jeffrey?" asked Aaron.

"Not particularly," said Jeffrey.

Aaron rolled his eyes. "I didn't know you were in town."

"Just for another week. I've got some friends getting married." He managed to say that without the slightest hint of negativity. His poor mood was improving.

"If you get the chance before you go, we should grab some drinks and catch up," said Aaron. "My wife just had our baby and I'd like to brag."

"You don't work Mondays, right?" said Jeffrey.

"Right."

"I'll call you," Jeffrey promised.

"Great. I could get into it now – I have about a million pictures that you'll be seeing – but I am on the clock, so…" Aaron pointed a finger at Mrs. Tifton. "You've got to be the mom. What can I help you with, Brenda?"

"Mrs. Tifton," she corrected.

A small smile pulled at his mouth. He saluted her with two fingers. "Yes ma'am."

Jeffrey waited for her to lay into Aaron for flippancy, but she held her tongue.

"Which red wine would you recommend?" she asked tartly.

"Depends on what you're eating," he said.

"I'm capable of pairing a meal with a drink myself," she said. "Which would you recommend?"

Aaron cast a sideways look at Jeffrey, who kept a carefully straight face. Aaron had heard many stories about Mrs. Tifton (more from the townspeople than from Jeffrey), but he'd never had the pleasure of serving her himself.

"Do you like it sweet or dry?"

"Dry," said Mrs. Tifton.

Aaron reached over the table to point out a couple of suggestions. After much back and forth between him and Mrs. Tifton, she settled on a selection.

Aaron stood to retrieve a glass for her, but he briefly stopped next to Jeffrey.

"Okay, just one. I can't help it." He took out his phone to show Jeffrey a picture of his baby.

"You are allowed to carry your phone on you while you work?" Mrs. Tifton said disapprovingly.

"I'm sure not," said Aaron. He turned his screen so Jeffrey could see the photograph. "Look how cute she is."

"What's her name?" asked Jeffrey.

"Charlotte, but we're calling her Charlie."

"Like Good Luck Charlie?" Jeffrey said with a smile.

"Yeah, but don't let Lena hear you say that. It's a touchy subject," said Aaron as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

He left to fetch Mrs. Tifton her wine, and returned shortly with the bottle in hand. He poured her glass and set the bottle in the center of the table.

"Have the rest, on me," he said. He hit Jeffrey with the back of his hand. "Monday. Don't forget." He gave his shoulder a squeeze as he headed for the bar. "Good to see you, man."

Once he was gone, Mrs. Tifton said, "You must come here often."

"I used to," said Jeffrey. It was hard to frequent the place now that he lived on the other side of the world.

Mrs. Tifton swirled her wine in its glass. "And you thought you'd befriend the staff?"

Jeffrey wished her were surprised by this turn in the conversation. "He's a cool guy. We have a lot in common."

"I can't imagine how that's true."

"We do work in related industries," Jeffrey reminded her. Sure, he participated in the music side of things, but he played at clubs, always surrounded by bartenders.

"A fact I choose to overlook," Mrs. Tifton muttered, skimming her menu for the third time.

He ignored the usual spark of defensiveness. It was no secret that she didn't approve of his work. That wasn't going to change, and he wasn't going to change his career either. It was senseless to argue about. Again.

"He doesn't have a trust fund to fall back on," said Mrs. Tifton. "I pity the family he's trying to support on a bartender's salary."

"They'll be alright," said Jeffrey.

"It's a lot to take on," she said. "Thank heavens Papa was around to help me when you were a baby – and willing, after all I did to foolishly snub him. I don't know what I would have done if he had turned me away."

Jeffrey had many questions about what exactly she had done to snub her father. Marry Alec, he knew that, but there was more. Of course, he had voiced these questions numerous times, but neither of his parents were willing to supply him with anything but vague and unfulfilling answers. The mystery would forever go unsolved.

"Would you turn me away?" he asked. He thought that if he ever played the part of prodigal son, he would be equally surprised if she did, or if she didn't.

"Of course not," she said. "Naturally, there would be some form of consequence, but no. I wouldn't turn you away, Jeffrey. How can you ask me that?"

Jeffrey thought that, over the years, she'd said more than a few things to justify his question, but he smiled behind his glass of tea. She might be offended, but her answer had made his day a little better.

"Perhaps this is a fitting question," said Mrs. Tifton. "What is Jane up to these days?"

Jeffrey's smile faded as quickly as it had come. She thought it fitting because she expected him to run off and marry someone she didn't approve of, who would hang him out to dry. She was so sure of it, in fact, that she had confronted Jane to elicit her promise that it would never, ever happen – even threatening to disinherit him if he ever found himself at the altar with a Penderwick. Now that Skye was engaged and no longer the lead suspect of Mrs. Tifton's allegations, it would of course be Jane who she next accused of plotting to marry his money. Batty was still too young, but Jeffrey didn't doubt that in a couple years, his mother would point the finger at her too.

"She's writing, mostly," said Jeffrey.

"I see. Any men in her life?"

"She's not after me." Jeffrey cut right to the quick of it. They'd been over this, but he could repeat it again if she needed. It often took more than a single conversation to convince her of anything. "Actually, she's not interested in a relationship at all right now."

"Okay, Jeffrey," said Mrs. Tifton, dismissively.

He sighed. "Look, if you don't want to believe me, you don't have to, but please don't harass Jane anymore."

"Harass? I think that's an overstatement." said Mrs. Tifton. "All I did was warn her that marrying you wouldn't come with the financial benefits they might expect. It's not a crime that I don't want to see my son taken advantage of. I know what that feels like, and I want better for you."

Her last husband had sold everything in Arundel's attic and abandoned her, fleeing with the substantial amount of money he'd gained from his theft. It had killed his mother. When Jeffrey remembered that, it kind of made sense she was so worried about him. If only she hadn't picked the Penderwicks to bother about it.

"Jane isn't like Tim," he said. "She didn't deserve that warning."

"I was only looking out for you."

"I know you think so," said Jeffrey, careful to sound patient, despite his ever dwindling patience. "But I promise, none of them are trying to marry me."

"Evidently, no one is," she said.

Ouch. He had a comeback, a good one – he'd rather no one want to marry him than everyone want to, but quickly regret it. His mother was only in her forties. Six ex-husbands at her age was a lot more embarrassing than being single at twenty-five. He kept the thought to himself.

"I have time," he said. He just had to get over Skye first.

Mrs. Tifton shrugged a single shoulder and topped off her glass of wine before she'd finished even half of it.

"Aaron knows what he's talking about, doesn't he?" said Jeffrey as he watched her.

"Who?"

"The bartender."

"Oh." Mrs. Tifton set the wine bottle back on the table. "It's alright, I suppose."

"You're impressed. I can tell," said Jeffrey.

Mrs. Tifton raised her glass to her lips. "Don't tell him."

Jeffrey swore he would never.

"Remember, I did mention I was pleasantly surprised by the little Penderwick. Lydia, I believe?" Mrs. Tifton closed her menu, having finally decided on something she was willing to eat. "I was perfectly polite to her. You should give me some credit for that."

"I would," said Jeffrey. "But she's the one after my money."

"Jeffrey, please."

"That was a joke," he promised. "Can we laugh about it?"

"Everything I do is to protect you, dear. I'm not vindictive. I'm concerned you'll set yourself up to be miserable."

Jeffrey exhaled through his nose. He'd already done that by falling for Skye. His misery was about as inevitable as her wedding, a short two days away. He was glad that his mother didn't know how he felt about that. He'd hate to see her gloat.

"Is that why you've been hovering?" Jeffrey asked. "So you can keep an eye on them while they're here?"

Mrs. Tifton's mouth stretched into an annoyed smile. "I'm hovering because my son lives in Germany, and he's home right now. I do enjoy seeing him."

"I'd like to believe that's why," said Jeffrey, just as their waiter hesitantly reapproached their table.

Mrs. Tifton was quick to criticize him. "You disappeared for quite a while, young man."

Jeffrey didn't blame him for that. It was obvious that he was afraid of their table.

"I'm sorry, I got caught up with some other guests," he said. "I won't let it happen again."

"Be sure you don't," said Mrs. Tifton.

Jeffrey offered the waiter a friendly smile, which he returned appreciatively. He took their order and hurried off.

"God, he's terrible at his job. Someone tell him," said Mrs. Tifton.

"You pretty much did," said Jeffrey. "I think he's going to spit in your food."

"That is exactly why I don't eat at places like this." Mrs. Tifton's nose crinkled in disgust. "People forget their manners."

Jeffrey shrugged. He thought the waiter had perfectly fine manners.

The party behind them stood up from their table. One woman (who Jeffrey identified as Susanna, the barista from a café down the street) swung her purse over her shoulder and it knocked into his mother's chair.

"Mrs. Tifton!" she said, recognizing them at once. "Goodness, I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Tifton's mouth opened in a retort, but Jeffrey spoke first.

"It happens to all of us," he said. "No problem."

His mother shot a scathing look at him as Susanna walked away. "Jeffrey, I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Undermine me," she snapped. "It's disrespectful."

"Okay, I'm sorry," he said. "But it embarrasses me when you're rude to people."

He should have left that last part out. His mother would probably deem that disrespectful too.

"You've spent enough time here. I'm sure most of these people have heard all about your contempt for me. I might as well live up to their expectations," she said.

"That is not true," said Jeffrey. He harbored no contempt, and honestly, he very rarely talked shit. She was his mother after all.

"I hope it's not," said Mrs. Tifton.

When the waiter set their plates in front of them, Mrs. Tifton sent her food back to the kitchen twice before she was satisfied with it. Jeffrey had a headache. Maybe this outing hadn't been a good idea. What he really wanted was to take a nap. If he was lucky, he might wake up in a cheerier mood. The chances of that happening were slim, but even a slim chance was worth the try.

He couldn't escape the rest of lunch now, though. Bummer.

He ate his meal without ever saying much. He didn't have to. He listened to his mother gab on about her life in New York, only throwing in the occasional "unbelievable" or "you're absolutely right". That encouraged her to keep talking. He didn't mind that. Mrs. Tifton had a talent for making slight inconveniences seem like a tragedy. It took some of Jeffrey's attention off of the true tragedy that was his love life, or rather, lack thereof.

They received their check, which Mrs. Tifton reached for before Jeffrey could. The waiter ran her card, suffered one last criticism of his service, and then disappeared, never to be seen again.

Mrs. Tifton excused herself to run to the bathroom, and Jeffrey took a peek inside the billfold. He had a feeling she had neglected to tip the poor kid, and upon his inspection of the receipt, he found that he was right.

So Jeffrey took out his wallet and leafed through his cash. He tucked two hundred dollars into the billfold and scribbled a quick compliment on the bottom of the receipt.

He hoped that would brighten the kid's day. His own was about to get much, much worse.