“It’s a shame we won’t be working together, but Nick insists,” Simon said, spreading his hands wide in a helpless gesture. Which fooled no one—helpless he wasn’t.
Nick’s arm stiffened on my elbow. “If it were what I wanted, Simon, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Nick shot back. What the heck was going on? I felt like I had gotten stuck in the middle of a kung fu movie, and I was the wooden board.
“Uh, I’d love to stay,” and watch you two scrap over territory like wild dogs, “but I’ve got to get back. Mr. Harrison, thanks for the information and the coffee. I’ll see you next week. Simon, I mean, Mr. Baxter, it was nice to see you again.”
As I walked toward the subway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that both of them were watching me. Why? What the hell was going on?
And why did I feel as if I were stuck in the middle of a rock (that’d be Simon) and a hard place (that’d be Nick)?
Tom Jonesing for Cookies
Rich, sensual, unabashedly luscious . . . this cookie of undetermined origin will bring keeping-up-with-the-Joneses to a whole new level. English cream, country butter, hand-milled flour, and an excess of chocolate makes this cookie the most rambunctious lot in the bunch.
7
“MOMMY?”
“Mm?” I was poring over my cookbooks on the floor of the kitchen, searching for inspiration within the seldom-cracked pages. Aidan’s hand tugged at my sleeve.
“Mommy.” His tone was peremptory now.
“Yes, honey?” I lifted my eyes from Betty Crocker’s words of wisdom. Aidan was regarding me with a serious look in his brown eyes. I put the book down and gathered him into my arms. “What is it?”
“Mommy?”
I nuzzled his head. He had lost that baby smell a few years ago, but he still smelled delicious. It took concentrated effort not to bite him.
“Yes, honey, what is it?”
“Is Daddy ever coming back?”
My throat closed over. Hugh and I had sat down with Aidan when I felt I could without blubbering, and explained the situation, but six-year-olds being what they are, we knew he’d eventually need a refresher course on Why Mommy and Daddy Are Not Living in the Same Place Anymore.
I brushed my lips over the top of his head. “No, honey, he won’t be living with us again, but you’ll see him as much as you ever did.” More, now that Mr. Billable Hours had lost his job.
He twisted his head to look up at me, a sad little look on his face. “I don’t like going to his new house without you.”
Oh, boy.
“Why not, honey?”
“Daddy’s not fun. He just sits and watches TV. And not kids’ shows, either. Football,” he announced in a scornful voice.
Believe me, I had the same complaint when he was plopped down on the couch every Sunday afternoon.
“What do you do when you’re there?”
“That lady gives me cookies. That’s nice.” Ah, bribery. She hadn’t even borne a child—at least, not that I knew of—and she had already learned the sugar secret. What was a smart woman like her doing with a dumbass like Hugh?
“And what else?”
He shrugged. “Daddy takes me shopping sometimes. She always comes, too.”
I hope she pays, I thought. “Do you want me to talk to Daddy about it?” I’d rather eat fried lima beans, or engage in some exploratory dental surgery, but if it’d take that worried little look off his face, I’d do it.
“I want you to come next time. It’d be fun, then.”
He gave me a big, winsome smile, and I couldn’t help but smile back. My hero.
“I can’t come, honey. But I’ll talk to Daddy, promise.” I kissed him again. He snuggled more into my arms.
“Okay. And Mommy?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“When are we going to get Beast?”
“Maybe next weekend.” Hi, I’m Molly, and I lie through my teeth to my son.
“Goody. ’Cause no one at school believed we were going to get a hairless cat, and I wanna bring him to show-and-tell.”
“I’m not sure—Oh, never mind. Okay. We’ll start looking for him next weekend.”
“I’m hungry.”
That I could handle.
I rose from my position on the kitchen floor, tossed Ms. Crocker aside, and headed for the cupboard.
“Aidan, what do you think about Yam and Mozzarella Surprise?”
She took the paper from me with a look of surprise. “I didn’t ask you for a list this time, Molly, did I?”
I grinned at her. I liked ruffling Dr. Lowell’s feathers. “No, let’s just say I was inspired.”
She smiled back and unfolded the paper. She adjusted her glasses lower on the bridge of her nose, then cleared her throat.
THINGS EVERY NEWLY SINGLE WOMAN MUST DO
Take out a personals ad. One where you lie about your weight, your age, and your desperation.
Fantasize about having sex with every inappropriate man possible. Throw in a few appropriate ones just to prove you’re not completely hopeless.
Purchase inappropriate clothing (not necessarily just to wear during sex). Preferably in pastels. And florals. Hopefully both.
Scour the obituaries, counting how many single women died, and how old they were. Obsess about oncoming death. Wonder if they were wearing pastels when they croaked.
Make lists justifying why the single life is okay.
“Very nice.” She folded the paper back up and smoothed out the edges, schoolteacher-style. “May I keep this?”
“Sure.” I shrugged.
“Am I to presume you’ve done some of these items?”
“The personals ad. And the obituary thing, but that was only for a couple of days. Then I got skeeved out, so I stopped.”
“And . . . ?”
“Nothing yet. I don’t think I’m being too picky, but I don’t want to rush into anything. I’m still married, after all.”
“Of course, but it is a good thing to dive back into the dating pool. You don’t know how long the divorce process is going to take.”
Did everyone have to associate dating with water? Because I felt like I was going to drown.
“And the fantasizing?”
Was now the time to mention Simon, the Beauteous Brit? “Um . . . a little bit.”
She gave me an approving smile. “Excellent. Did you speak to your mother?”
“Yes. She said she couldn’t lend me anything,” I bit out.
Dr. Lowell frowned. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t ask her to clarify when she turned me down. Although I would’ve liked to ask her why she said no.”
“You didn’t.” It was a statement. Dr. Lowell knew me—and my issues with my mother—well.
“Nope.”
“So what are your other options?”
Suddenly I was mad. “Why do there always have to be other options? What if there aren’t any? What if Aidan and I have to move to Idaho or somewhere and grow potatoes? What if I can’t do it?”
“Why are you so angry, Molly? Not that it’s bad to be angry,” she continued in her mellifluous therapist tone.
I flung my arms up in frustration. “I’m angry because Hugh’s a fuck who left me, and now he’s taking away my means of support, and I have no money, and Aidan wants a freaking cat, and the only cat we can get is that hairless hypoallergenic kind, which are expensive. And I can’t let Aidan down. Not that I can afford to do anything.” My words came out in a rush, running together toward the end. I gave a little hiccupy cry.
“So what are your other options?” she repeated, handing me a tissue. I blew my nose and glared at her. She smiled back.
“I found out a little more about the teaching thing. I’ve got to get my paperwork together.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” I replied with a sniff.
“Yes, it is,” she returned in a complacent tone. Sometimes I wanted her
to explode in a mystical spontaneous combustion thing. Sometimes I wanted to pull her up off her leather-padded chair and do the samba with her. Guess which time this was.
“Your assignment for next week is to find out exactly what you need to apply to this program. And, just for fun, how about doing something . . . inappropriate?”
Who knew my therapist could be so naughty?
“I’ve had worse homework,” I replied grudgingly, getting up off the couch.
“This is like homework,” I wailed into the phone later that night.
“That’s because it is,” Keisha replied. She was clearly not putting up with any of my crap.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “And I should just do what I used to do when I had a big assignment in college—”
“Eat a bag of cookies and whine?”
Ouch. “No,” I replied in an exaggeratedly patient tone, “break it down, piece by piece. Which is, actually, what Dr. Lowell is always pushing me to do.”
“And me, too! I tell you, honey, you should just send me the money you pay her.”
“What money? If I don’t figure out something soon, I’m going to have to stop seeing her. And paying for electricity, cable, eyebrow pencil, books—” I heard my voice escalate in a rising panic.
“Calm down. You’ll figure it out. You’re smart.”
“Yeah, that and three dollars and seventy-nine cents gets me a small cup of coffee at Starbucks.”
“And it’s that kind of attitude that will defeat you.”
I plucked at the throw on top of me, pulling out a piece of yarn. “I know that, I do, it’s just that it’s so hard for me to get over it. To get over myself.”
The truth of it hit me like a slammed door. My hand stilled.
She knew it, too. Her voice was softer when she spoke. “You can do it. I have confidence in you.”
I paused a second, then continued. “I am sorry to be so lame.”
“Don’t forget whiny.”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” I knew she could hear the smile in my voice. “And maybe I’ll have this all figured out by the time Aidan has traded in his Pokémon comics for The Catcher in the Rye.” I contemplated the thought of a grown-up Aidan, at least one old enough to read Salinger.
And then it hit me.
“Bread.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me,” Keisha replied. “Are you talking 1960s hippie talk again? Because you know I can’t hang with that.”
“Catcher in the Rye Bread! It’s genius!”
“What is? Your ability to make weird puns?”
“The bakery assignment. The bakery’s right near the New York Public Library. Simon wants something that will tie the bakery and the library together. And what ties things together better than bad puns?”
Keisha giggled. “Isn’t it just like you. In the pit of despair, completely insecure, and you come up with exactly what you need.”
“Yeast of Eden!” I shouted. She laughed again, that big belly laugh I loved hearing.
“How about ‘To Have and Have Donut’?” Keisha asked.
“Flour Mill on the Floss.”
“Bread Badge of Courage.”
“Buns and Lovers.”
By now, we were both laughing so hard our words came out in little gasping puffs.
“Okay, I’ve got to go write these down. Thanks, Keisha. I love you.”
“Me, too, honey.”
Once I’d replaced the receiver on the hook and drunk my now-cold coffee, I found my notebook and started scribbling. Boy, was Simon the Stunning going to be impressed with me. I wasn’t so sure about Nick the Unnerving, otherwise known as Mr. Supercilious, but I was damn sure going to try to—what was it I said?—knock his socks off. And then I would try to do something . . . inappropriate.
It was my homework, after all.
A Raisin in the Bun
It’s the quintessential American conundrum: what to do when unexpected riches arise. Here, super-succulent whiskey-soaked raisins are embedded within the framework of a traditional sticky bun, a gastronomic largesse that surprises and delights. Cinnamon, brown sugar, honey, pecans, and butter. And raisins. Amazing.
8
WHAT WAS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE THING I’D EVER DONE, anyway? It was hard to think of anything. Did that make me a good person, or just unbelievably boring?
I sorta thought it might be the latter. But this was my moment, right? I mean, if not now, when? I wouldn’t do anything dangerous, nothing that would risk my self-esteem—the amount I’d managed to build back up since Hugh left. That meant getting crazy-drunk and tearing down the street naked wasn’t an option. Not that it sounded appealing anyway—I was likely to be cold and worry what parts were jiggling too much.
But inappropriate could be exploring things I’d been too scared of, not to mention too married, to do before. Maybe I could—and should—flirt back with Simon. I mean, it wasn’t like he was permanent material or anything; even I could tell his suave persona was just one aspect of his general arrogance.
Of course, if I had his looks and his baking ability, I’d be pretty damned arrogant, too.
But I could, perhaps, bask in that arrogance, have fun with it. With him. It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.
I was wrapping my head around possible other inappropriate measures when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Molly. It’s John.”
“John, what the hell is going on? What happened to Natalie?”
There was a brief pause, and I thought I heard him exhale. “Just what I wanted to talk to you about. Can you come in today?”
I checked my watch. “Just barely. I’m not likely to meet anyone there, am I? I don’t have time to change.”
He chuckled. “No, just me. As long as you’re not wearing pajamas, you should be okay.”
Good thing I’d changed. “See you in forty-five minutes.”
I grabbed my purse and threw Wuthering Heights into a side pocket. That, I knew, at least had a romance, albeit a twisted one.
The subway came blessedly quickly, and within moments I was engrossed in Emily Brontë’s obsessively bleak story. Dr. Lowell would have a field day with her.
“Hey, John.” I poked my head into his office. He was on the phone but gestured for me to come in. I sat in the chair Simon had been in before. It gave me a prepubescent kind of thrill to park my ass in the same spot his had occupied. That was inappropriate, for sure.
“Right. Wednesday morning. We’ll be there. I’ll make sure Molly is free.”
He looked at me and nodded, as if to confirm the appointment. I nodded back.
“Okay. See you then. Bye.”
He hung up the phone, then rose and walked to the front of the desk, perching on it with one ultracasual leg swinging back and forth. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Molly.”
I laughed. Probably more ruefully than I liked. “It’s not like I had a lot of other things to do. I’m all done sticking pins in my Hugh voodoo doll.”
John gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Right. Well. You’ve spoken to Simon? And Nick?”
“Yes, both of them. What happened?”
He waved his hand. “Something between Natalie and Simon. The good news is, he’s agreed to keep his account here.”
I knew that already, I wanted to say, but I wasn’t sure how John would feel about me meeting Simon off the clock, so to speak. “And Natalie?” I had to ask. I wanted to know what happened, just in case she reappeared in all her Prada glory.
He cleared his throat. “She’s setting up her own firm. It’ll probably take her a month or so to get going, and Simon just didn’t have the time to wait—not that he wanted to wait for her anyway.”
“Were they an item or something?” I knew they were, Natalie had said as much, I just wanted John’s confirmation. Why, I couldn’t answer.
“Mm. Which never mixes,” he said, almost dashing my hopes of boinking my new boss. Almost.
“Men always leave, don’t they?” I asked John with a wry grin. Hey, I was recovering if I could joke about it. Wait’ll I tell Dr. Lowell!
“I never thought you and Hugh were a good couple, actually. I always thought you were too good for him. Too smart. And I was right.”
I had a hard time meeting his eyes. Compliments always threw me, made me feel as though I was undeserving, or afraid. “Thanks for the nice words, and all, but remember, he left me. It’s not like he up and left because he suddenly realized he was stupider than I was.”
John cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’ve met Sylvia, his . . . well, you know”—he gave a helpless gesture—“and she can’t hold a candle to you.”
Part of my brain wanted to pump him for information about her: Was she nice? Was she funny? What kind of shoes did she wear?
And part of me wanted to clasp my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear anything about her.
And the other part of me—how many parts did that make, anyway?—wanted to ask John why he was telling me this in the first place.
All my parts united to keep my mouth shut. “Thank you,” I said, folding my hands and placing them in my lap. Could we please make that the end of the discussion?
“Anyway,” he said, hoisting himself off the desk and sitting in the chair next to mine, “I was just on the phone with Simon, and he wanted to make sure we were ready to go for next Wednesday. Do you think you’ll have a presentation by then?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve come up with the most am—”
He held up his hand. “Save it for Wednesday. That’s not why I asked you to come in today. I’ve got some more work for you, if you’re interested.”
“Sure.” All thoughts of Simon, and Natalie, and Hugh, and his Better Model vanished from my head. This was money. “That’s great. More copywriting, or copyediting?”
He leaned forward and picked up a stack of rubber band– bound papers on his desk. “Copyediting. It’s a new client, and I wanted to turn this around quickly, and my usual guy is up to his eyeballs in work, so—”
I reached for the papers.
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