The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs

enjoy that, now,” she says.
    “We will,” I say.
    The waitress reappears, another beer and another 7UP on her tray, even though we didn’t ask for a second round.
    “The gentlemen over there sent them,” she explains, indicating with her thumb and a wink.
    “Oh, uh…” My cheeks catch fire. I can’t bring myself to look.
    The waitress sets down the drinks and leaves.
    “Get out of town,” Molly says. “Mom, those guys sent us drinks.”
    “Don’t make eye contact. And for heaven’s sake, don’t drink—”
    She takes a sip of her fresh 7UP. Watching her expertly made-up eyes over the rim of the glass, I see a whole world of things I haven’t told her, matters that need to be explained to someone who, in so many ways, is still only a child. I’ve had eighteen years to teach her not to accept gifts from strange men. I never got around to doing it. So much of this thing called parenting is a matter of waiting for a situation to arise and then addressing it. Just when you think you have all your bases covered, you—
    “They’re coming over,” she says in a scandalized whisper.
    I want to slither under the table. I’ve never been good in social situations, not with men, anyway. For Molly’s sake I need to get over the urge to slither. This is a teachable moment.
    “Thank you for the drinks,” I tell the older one. He’s maybe thirty, and the way he’s looking at me makes me glad I’m wearing the mom clothes. “We were just leaving, though.”
    “I bet you have time for one dance,” he says, smiling beneath a well-groomed mustache. He looks like the guy in that old TV series, Magnum PI. Magpie, Dan called it. I never did like that show.
    His friend is clean-shaven, late twenties, checking out Molly with an expression that makes me want to call 911.
    And here’s the thing. I can’t call 911. Nobody’s doing anything illegal. It just feels that way to me.
    “My mother and I really need to go,” Molly says, polite but firm as she stands up. She tugs her shirt down, probably hoping they don’t notice her midriff.
    “Just trying to be friendly,” the clean-shavenone said. His buddy seems to be having a delayed reaction to the word mother .
    On the way out, I hand the waitress $20 and don’t ask for change.
    “Okay, that was weird,” Molly says as we step out onto the street.
    “Honey, when a guy approaches you—”
    “I didn’t mean it was weird that they approached me,” she interrupts. “I’m just not too keen on guys hitting on my mom.”
    “Guys hit on women. It’s what they do. They don’t think about whether she’s somebody’s mother. Or daughter, or sister. And when we were in there, all I could think about was whether or not I’ve talked to you enough about staying safe around strange guys.”
    She laughs. “You’re killing me, Mom.”
    “Oh, that’s right. You know everything. Sorry, I forgot.” She doesn’t realize it now, but the older she gets, the wiser I get.
    Something I probably won’t share with her—the last time I met a man in a bar, I married him. Not right away, of course. But there are eerie similarities. The bar was dim, like the one we just left, and—in those days—smoky. Dan didn’t send awaitress to do his work for him. He strode right over to me and said, “Let me buy you a drink.”
    I was too startled to say no. By the time the drink arrived, it was too late. I had noticed his lanky height and merry eyes, the heft of his biceps and the humor in his voice and his mouth, even when he wasn’t smiling. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was love at first sight, but it was definitely something powerful and undeniable.
    He was a guy with clear potential and big plans, and I was a mediocre student at the state college. Less than half a year later, we found ourselves standing face-to-face at the altar, with nothing between us but dreams and candlelight. I still remember our first lowly, undemanding jobs and the way the days melted into a rhythm