My hair was a little too long, so I pulled it back into a low ponytail, careful to choose a black hair tie. I looked . . . fine. Polished, almost. As long as I didn’t forget and stuff an action figure into my pocket, I’d be okay.
Taking a deep breath, I stalked in unfamiliar heels to the bathroom where my makeup awaited me. Eyebrows, foundation, eyeliner, mascara. No lipstick, that seemed too coquettish.
“Ready, honey?” Aidan looked up at me and his eyes widened. “Are you going to a special dinner, Mommy? You look . . . funny.” I took that as a compliment.
“No, no special dinner, just a meeting while you’re in school. Let’s go, okay?”
I met Nick outside the store. He nodded at me as I walked up the street, checked his watch, and nodded toward the coffee shop we’d been to before.
Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Close-Mouthed.
The coffee shop’s windows were decorated with card-board hearts and heart-shaped doilies. A bulbous Cupid shot an arrow just under the BEST GYROS IN TOWN sign. A man was selling roses on the corner, ten dollars a rose.
He pushed the door open for me and I stepped in, the odor of coffee and hamburger grease greeting my nose. It was empty except for a single man sitting at the counter, so I directed a questioning look at Nick, who gestured toward the booth farthest from the door. I walked toward it, slipping my coat off—it was too warm inside—and trying to surreptitiously shake out the wrinkles in my suit jacket. I slid onto the padded bench and placed my bag next to me. Nick sat down and nodded again. I withdrew my notebook as the waitress—the same one from last time—bustled over and handed us menus. For once, I was too anxious to even think about eating.
I pushed the menu aside as I opened my notebook to my page of notes and handed it across the table. Nick put his menu aside and began reading.
There was a long silence.
Just when I was about to confess to being an idiot, he spoke.
“You think this is a sustainable marketing approach?”
Nick raised his eyes and gave me a skeptical look. I immediately started to sweat.
“What can I get you?” It was the waitress, her pencil poised at the ready.
“Coffee. Black. Oh, and a piece of pie, too,” he said.
“Cherry, lemon meringue, or chocolate cream?”
“Chocolate cream, definitely,” he said, smiling at her.
Apparently it was a deadly smile, judging by the waitress’s reaction. She looked at me, her mouth turned down a little. Guess I didn’t have such a nice smile. Whatever. “You?”
“Coffee, light with one sugar.”
“That it?”
“Yes.” She took our menus and left us. Alone.
“Hm.” He frowned, looking down at the list of names I’d presented. Then he chortled, which made me jump in my seat.
“I like this one: Bread Badge of Courage. I’m not sure how you’d be able to do Fry the Beloved Country, though.” He continued scanning the page, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. I took the opportunity to stare at him while he was directing his lasered focus on something besides me and my perceived inadequacies.
His harsh, angular features made him look dangerous, raffish almost. Like the hero of a romance novel where the heroine isn’t quite sure if the hero is a hero or a villain. At least not until he saves her from some horrid situation and gets all noble and stuff. The jury was still out in real life what he’d end up being.
He raised his head and trapped my eyes with his. “So. Sustainability? Clearly you’re creative and clever. Think about it.”
It should have been a compliment, but he delivered it as if it were an order.
“Oh, sure.” I let my mind wander. “Um . . .”
“Yes?” he said, raking a hand through his hair. It made him look vulnerable, at least more vulnerable than I had seen him before. Which was Not Vulnerable at All.
I shrugged. “I think as long as there are books and puns, you can keep the concept going forever. I mean, the star of the bakery isn’t going to be the marketing and clever catch-phrases anyway; that’s just the gimmick to get people into the store. The real draw is, of course, Simon’s baking, right?”
He nodded, as though surprised I’d had a good idea. Heck, I was surprised. “You’re right. And this”—he tapped the notebook with his hand—“is really a unique approach. Good work, Ms. Hagan.”
Hey, Mr. Frosty thaws!
I blinked at him again. He was going to think I had a twitch. “Thank you.”
He looked back down at the list, then let out another bark of laughter.
“Far from the Fattening Crowd. For the Atkins crowd? Have you read Thomas Hardy?”
Blink, blink. Now I was beginning to think I had a twitch. “Yes, but honestly, I find him a little depressing.”
He caught my eye and frowned, as if he were lecturing me. “Aren’t most literary classics depressing? I mean, other than Dickens or Shakespeare or someone. And even in those, someone usually gets their just deserts.”
“Just Desserts would be a good name if the store were planning on selling . . .” I stopped for a dramatic pause.
“Just desserts,” he finished, chuckling. His expression returned to its normal stoic lines. “But unfortunately, it’s not.”
The waitress returned with our coffee, placing his gently in front of him and slapping mine down as if she’d like to slap me.
I took a sip and settled the cup back on the saucer. “Jane Eyre?” I offered. “That has a happy ending.”
He took a bite of pie. “Even in that, the hero has to go blind before they can be together again.”
He read Dickens? Shakespeare? Brontë? Be still, my heart. Next he’d be telling me he read Jane Austen. I would’ve guessed he’d only read Machiavelli’s The Prince, at least when he wasn’t perusing The Arrogant Guy’s Guide to Total Intimidation. Funny how impressions could change. At least a little bit.
“Did you major in English?” I asked him, stirring my coffee. I took a sip and leaned back in my seat.
“No. Philosophy,” he answered tersely, as if he regretted his brief moment of openness. Then he surprised me by continuing. “People just aren’t hiring philosophers these days,” he said with a wry smile, “so I ended up going to grad school for my MBA.”
He passed the notebook back to me. “I assume you’ll be fleshing these out for tomorrow’s meeting?” Again, it was not a suggestion.
“Of course.” I tucked the notebook back into my bag.
“And then, if Simon approves, we can work on the next stage of the work. We’ll have to coordinate the marketing with the actual design of the shop. So I’ll need you on retainer for a bit longer to make sure everything is as it should be.”
“Of course,” I repeated, trying hard not to bounce up and down in my chair. Maybe Aidan could get Beast after all. And we could afford food. Huzzah!
He lifted his fork to his mouth, then paused to meet my eyes. “This pie is amazing. You wouldn’t think so, because the coffee is awful—”
I took another sip from my cup. I felt guilty because I hadn’t noticed the coffee was kind of bitter. Oh, the irony.
“But you have to have a bite of this. Here—”
He hoisted his fork, a lumpy, gooey mess of pie balanced precariously on its tines. He held it toward me, nodding his head in an impatient way. I had no choice.
I leaned forward, opening my mouth as he slid the fork in. I closed my lips and savored the flavor. Deep, rich chocolate matched with equally rich whipped cream. Did I taste vanilla? I closed my eyes for a moment to concentrate on what I was tasting. I opened them only to see his intense gaze focused on my mouth.
He started, then pulled the fork back and rested it on his plate. He cleared his throat, as if he were unsure of what had happened, and I smiled a little. Inside. I didn’t want to make him bark at me or anything.
“You’re right,” I said, running my tongue over my lips, “delicious.”
Now that was
inappropriate. Hee. It felt good.
His eyes widened a little, then his face got a hard, closed look to it.
Another customer came into the store, holding a big bouquet of flowers. Not roses, but pink geraniums. They were still pretty, though.
He spotted our waitress and headed to her, holding the bouquet out with a big grin on his face.
Wow, and she was smiling back! She was actually nice-looking when she wasn’t despising my entire self.
And it struck me with a wash of what I had come to recognize was incredibly unhelpful self-pity: It was Valentine’s Day, and I was drinking crappy coffee in a Midtown coffee shop with a guy who probably didn’t register it was a romantic day, and would likely be appalled he was with me if he did. I tried to ignore the lump in my throat.
But incredibly unhelpful self-pity wasn’t going to do anything but make me sad.
“For the meeting tomorrow,” I said, trying hard to focus on what I was supposed to be doing as opposed to what I wanted to be doing, “is there anything else I should know or be doing besides just presenting?”
He gestured to the waitress to bring our check. “Just make sure you stress the connection to the community. Simon loves that. And make sure to present some of the titles you know won’t work—”
“—Like The Bread and the Black or The Sword and the Scone?”
He nodded. “Just so Simon can shoot them down and feel superior. He loves that, too.”
The check came and the waitress had apparently been softened up enough by her Valentine’s bouquet not to glare at me. Yay.
Nick pulled a wad of cash held by a silver money clip from his pocket. I was impressed all over again. I’d never met anyone who actually used a money clip.
I gathered my bag and started to drag my coat from the pile in the corner of the seat. He stood up and took the coat from me, waiting as I turned around to help me into it.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, wishing it hadn’t felt so right to tease him, not to mention taking a bite of his pie. “And thanks for the tip about the presentation.”
He strode ahead of me and pushed the door open, waiting as I went through it. I caught a whiff of a strong, masculine scent, the kind that probably advertised it smelled of rustic oaks, leather, and . . . manliness. It did. He did. Good thing he’d made it clear what he thought about me, or my mind would be venturing into very dangerous territory. Inappropriate, even.
“Mom?”
She stood on my stoop, fumbling through her pocket-book, as if looking for keys. Keys she did not have. She looked up, and I was startled to see just how old she looked. Tired, too. Her hair was scraped back into a haphazard ponytail, and her coat was unbuttoned, revealing a sweatshirt I knew she had painted the deck in.
“Hi, honey.”
“Mom, what are you doing here?” I grabbed my keys from my bag and opened the first door wide, holding it as she stepped in with a very un–Mom-like hesitancy. I hadn’t noticed it before, but she was dragging a large duffel bag that looked stuffed to the gills.
“Would it be totally disingenuous of me to say I was in the neighborhood?” I relaxed a little when she gave a display of her normal wit.
“Yes, it would, especially since your neighborhood is a couple of hours from mine. Come on over, I don’t have to pick up Aidan for another half an hour.”
We started up the stairs to my apartment, me leading the way, her following.
“You look nice, dear,” she said in surprise. “Did you have a meeting or something?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to tell her about the copywriting, not yet.
“What kind of meeting?” She was panting a little from the exertion of the stairs, but that didn’t dissuade her from asking prying questions.
“A meeting for work. For money, Mom,” I said pointedly. I didn’t want to be nasty, but she was the one who hadn’t explained why she couldn’t lend me any.
“Oh. I thought you might’ve had a date.” Her voice was disappointed, almost lost.
“No, no date.” I exhaled. “I did see Hugh and his girlfriend the other night, though.” We’d arrived at my front door, and I unlocked it, holding my breath as I saw the apartment through my mother’s eyes. Messy. I dumped my bag on the chair near the door and headed for the dining room table, beginning to make neat piles of all the clutter I’d allowed to accumulate while I went through my mourning period.
Which was over, goddamnit, even though I was still wearing black.
Mom walked in behind me, dumping her bag with a loud thump on the floor. She pulled out one of the dining room chairs and sat down, sighing a little. “Don’t worry about that, dear, I just want to sit for a moment. It is cold outside.”
“Especially if you don’t button your coat,” I said pointedly, feeling like I had suddenly become the mother.
“I was distracted.”
I sat down in another chair after turning it to face her. “Why, Mom? What’s going on?”
She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Oh, God, it was worse than I’d even imagined.
“I’m in trouble, Molly.”
“What kind of trouble, Mom? You’re not pregnant, are you?” She looked up and giggled a little.
“No, honey, not pregnant. That’s not trouble, that would be a miracle.”
“So? What is it?”
She placed her hands on her knees, as if to brace herself. She leaned against the back of the chair and exhaled a long, gusty sigh.
“I’m broke, Molly.” She closed her eyes. “I might lose the house, my credit cards are maxed out, and I’m just barely affording to feed myself. God, Molly, how did I get into this mess?”
My question exactly.
“And?” I asked, almost not wanting to hear her answer. “I . . . I’ve been investing. Day-trading. Me, self-appointed moral critic of Wayshorn Lane has disregarded her own best advice and taken risks on the stock market. And I thought I was being so smart.”
I breathed. “How bad is it?”
“I’ve lost everything.” Her voice was devoid of hope. Like mine six months ago.
The thought invigorated me. If I could get through it—and I was—my mother could, too. She’d raised me, after all.
“Not everything, surely, Mom. You’ve got your health, right?” She nodded. “Your books, your opinions, your daughter, your grandson, a full head of hair—we’ll figure it out. And a whole bunch of useless stocks, right?” I exhaled again, another deep, cleansing breath. “Do you need a place to stay?”
She nodded again.
“Tonight?” I asked, gesturing toward the bag.
Nod.
“Okay. Well, we can borrow my friend Mary’s car to bring your stuff over this weekend; tonight you can sleep on the Aerobed in the living room. Aidan will love having you here.”
“Dante’s over to Mrs. Simpkins’s house. She said she’d watch him.” Right, Dante, the mean-spirited cat. She began to cry, softly, rocking back and forth in her chair.
“Mom.” I went over to her and knelt on the floor, gathering her into my arms.
She leaned her head against my shoulder. “God, Molly, I’m such a fool. Such a failure.”
“Ssshh. No, you’re not. You produced me, didn’t you?” She lifted her tear-stained face and looked me in the eyes. “And look at me: a poor, sarcastic, undereducated about-to-be-divorced mother. Couldn’t be better.”
She laughed, as I’d hoped she would. “You’re very well educated, dear, a degree from Brown is nothing to sneeze at.” She didn’t say it, but I knew by the expression on her face what she was thinking: but not as good as Harvard. My mother the snob. Even broke, the woman was an education wonk.
I uncurled myself from around her, then checked my watch. Five minutes to pick-up time. “I’ve got to go get Aidan. Will you be all right here until I get home?” I grabbed The Ambassadors from the shortest pile on the table. “If you get bored, read this and tell me what you think.” Her face brightened as she took
it from me.
“I didn’t know you liked Henry James, dear,” she said in approval. As I locked the door behind me, leaving my broke-ass parent reading about nineteenth-century dilettantes wasting their lives, I reflected that at last I had been able to impress my mother.
After I’d found something for dinner and seen Aidan through his homework and bath, I went to the bedroom and changed into what I liked to think of as my real working clothes: sweatpants and a thousand-year-old Soundgarden tour T-shirt. I found my notebook and walked back to the living room, where Aidan was serenading Mom with his rendition of the Pokémon theme song. His hair was damp, and he was wearing his camouflage pajamas. My little rock star.
“Gotta catch ’em all!” he finished, giving a triumphant wave of his hand. She clapped with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since I walked down the aisle with Hugh.
“Aidan? Time for bed, sweet pea.” He groaned.
“Mommy, just five more minutes? Pleeeeaaaaassseee?”
Mom looked at me and smiled. “He promised he’d sing the Teen Titans theme next, Molly,” she said.
I knew when I was beaten. “Okay. Five minutes. Then night-night books and bed. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I went to the table and cleared off a space for my notebook and computer. I stacked a bunch of bills in the corner to deal with later. Much later. I wondered, briefly, when John would be able to give me a check for the most recent batch of copyediting. For our rent’s sake, I hoped it was soon.
“Molly, Aidan wants me to read his books tonight.” My mother preened a little.
“Sure, no problem. I just need a smooch before you go to bed, sweetheart.”
Aidan turned his little cheek up to my face. I kissed it lightly, relishing his soft skin, still warm from the bath. Man, did I love him. I patted him on the back, then gestured toward his bedroom.
“Okay, honey, two books, then bathroom and teeth.”
They trooped off, Aidan reaching up to take my mother’s hand.
Now I had another mouth to feed. Another body to house. Responsibility, thy name is Molly.
At least it was better than “loser.”
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