An incredibly good lover? Now that I could see. He’d be thoughtful, unselfish, and get the job done—and done well—in as businesslike a manner as possible.
A far cry from Whimpering Hugh or Seductively Selfish Simon.
Nick tapped his pen against his thigh, and the movement startled me out of my reverie. Good thing, too, because I was starting to wonder just what was under that T-shirt. And jeans.
He gestured around the shop. “So to work. The basic framework of the shop is already decided, of course, and we won’t need you to weigh in on anything as out of your area as paint schemes or counter placement or anything.” He glanced at my notebook. “What we do want is something that is as visually clever as what you’ve written. A way to get across the whole literary-food-is-delicious schematic you’ve laid out in your prose.”
Those were a lot of fifty-cent words.
I drew a deep breath and hoped I could say enough of the right things to impress him. “Right. Well, the most obvious thing would be to make sure there were books, actual books, around—kind of the way Barnes and Noble has a café where you can eat and read, you’re turning it on its head by bringing the books into the café, and you don’t have to buy them.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “That’d be hard to maintain, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded. “It would be, it’s just one thought. I mean, if we could work out a deal with the library to take the books they’ve weeded out from the collection. That might be one way to keep a constant flow of books in.”
“Hm. Interesting thought. Maybe. And what else?”
This brainstorming thing was hard.
“Uh, well, we could also use pages from books as wallpaper. Print famous quotes on the shop’s bags.”
“Mm hm. Not bad.”
“So what is this place going to look like?” I surveyed the room, which in addition to the few tables and chairs was filled with construction materials of some sort.
It was already inviting, with big glass windows and high ceilings. I felt kind of a thrill to be in on something that had the potential to be so cool. Because, hello, a bookstore-bakery was my idea of heaven.
He followed my gaze. “From what I’ve seen, it’ll be a fairly basic design, just small tables, a big wooden counter, and a kitchen that the customers can see into.”
“That sounds perfect. As long as the lighting is good—nothing ruins a good design aesthetic more than bad lighting,” I said, thinking of the restaurants I’d gone to with Hugh for various corporate events.
He nodded and made a note on his Moleskine pad. “Good point. I’ll make sure to stress that to the designer.”
He glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s later than I thought,” he said, getting up out of the chair.
I looked at my watch and jumped up also, spilling my notebook and pen. The notebook splayed out on the floor, and we both reached down for it, bumping heads in the process.
He handed me the notebook and smiled, his eyes getting all crinkly in the corners. “I didn’t think we’d be butting heads so soon in our working relationship.”
I smiled back at him, and our eyes caught. For a moment, I felt his warmth surround me, hold me, respect me. I sucked my breath in and broke the gaze. It was painful, but necessary. Sort of like a root canal.
“Well.” I stuffed my notebook into my bag. “I have to go, Aidan doesn’t like it when I’m even five minutes late.”
“You’d better go, then,” he echoed, a dazed look in his eye.
I hopped off the chair and began to pull my coat on. “Okay. Well, see you Saturday. I’ll e-mail you the address and directions.” My left arm got stuck in the ripped lining. Damn vintage coat.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a dangerous grin as he rose from his chair. “Allow me,” he said, guiding my arm through the sleeve. He was so close I could smell his scent—a woodsy, masculine aroma I’d smelled before—and a very faint odor of toothpaste. Clean and sexy, that’s how I liked them.
I fumbled for my bag and threw it over one shoulder. A piece of hair had fallen in my face and I blew at it, but it merely lifted, then fell back on my nose again. He put his hand up and smoothed it back, resting his hand on my head for just a moment. I wanted to lean into him, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled, but I knew that would be a bad idea.
Not just because it would be unprofessional and far too forward, but also because I knew it would make him uncomfortable. He had made it clear we were to have a professional working relationship, no matter how blue his eyes were and how he looked at me every so often and how he made my heart race.
“Okay, thanks, well, good-bye then,” I stammered, heading for the door. I stifled a moan when the door stuck. In seconds, he was behind me, pulling it open. His arm slid alongside mine, and I had a mad urge to turn around so I’d be pressed against his chest.
Thankfully, the door opened, and I hurried outside before my id could do something my superego would regret. I turned to look at him. “Okay. Thanks. Okay, see you a week from Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
I felt his stare all the way down the street to the subway.
I’d dreamt of him that night. So I was almost ready for her question as I was seated in her big leather patient’s chair. “So you like this guy then, this Nick?” Dr. Lowell would have done well in the Spanish Inquisition.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” I admitted.
“What about Simon? You still seeing him?”
I shrugged. “Sort of? It’s complicated.” Great. Reducing my life to a Facebook status.
“And you think a relationship with Nick would mean something?”
I felt my ears turn red. “God, no, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, it’s just so . . . refreshing to be able to be with a man who’s honest and forthright and basic.” Not to mention handsome, smart, and nice to my son. And arrogant, intimidating, and totally determined to keep everything professional.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do? I can’t do anything.”
She frowned in that “you’ve regressed” way. “You most certainly can, Molly Hagan.” I’d have said she was talking to me as if she were my mother, but my mother never talked to me that way. “If you like this Nick, then you should tell him. If you want to just have a sexual relationship with this Simon, do it. And Aidan—”
“I don’t suppose I could just tell him I want to sleep late on Saturdays, could I?” I asked.
“No, but you will have to talk more to him about his father and you and the changes in your relationship.”
I thought about how upset he got when Simon mentioned leaving without him. “I will. More, at least, I mean. He has noticed Hugh isn’t living there any longer.”
She regarded me over the tops of her glasses. “Of course, Molly, but Aidan is young. You forget that sometimes because his vocabulary is so large. But his emotional age is still six, and it’s important to keep his concerns in mind and try to address them before they become an issue.”
I heaved a breath of exhaustion. “But what if I just want to crawl into a hole and pull the covers over my head? What then?”
“Why then, my dear,” she replied drily, “you will miss out on the joy of watching your son grow and thrive, seeing yourself grow and thrive, and completing next week’s assignment.”
“Which is?”
“Do something you would never do in a million years.”
“Fly a plane, try out for American Idol, wear white after Labor Day—”
“Or before,” I muttered.
“—read Proust, perm your hair, get a suntan—there are any number of things you could do,” Keisha chirped.
“Right. How about ‘wipe the memory of Hugh from my mind’ while you’re listing impossible things?” I asked in a whine.
“Ah, Molly?”
“Mmm?”
“Take me off the invitation list to your pity party, I’m not coming.”
I laughed d
espite myself. “Well, I do have to admit I looked pretty good today.”
“What’d you do?”
“Met with Nick.”
“Nick—Tall, Dark, and Intimidating?”
“That’s the one.”
“So what did you wear?”
“Those black tailored pants, a scoop-neck black long-sleeve, and a black beaded sweater.”
“Did you have a meeting with the Future Nuns of America or something? Geez, how about a little color sometime?”
“I had my cherry earrings on, the ones that look almost real? And by the way, Ms. Pot, aren’t you usually dressed in black, too?”
“Not since moving back here, Mrs. Kettle. You would not believe what I am wearing today.”
“Try me.”
“A pink Old Navy T-shirt and khakis.”
“You are kidding me.”
“I said you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Is that because of the new guy? Because if it is, I take back every nice thing I’ve said about him.”
“No, it started when I got back. People in California just don’t wear black like New Yorkers.”
“More fools them.”
“You say that now, but do you know what people pay for rent out here?”
I groaned. “You people always play the rent card.”
“All right, I gotta go. Let me know when you do something completely unlike you.”
“Maybe dress in pink and tan?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Love you, too, honey. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and padded into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee left in the pot from the morning. Armed with half a cup of coffee and about as much milk, I wandered into the living room, where Aidan was building some sort of menagerie with Lincoln Logs and Mom was watching.
It was a nice, cozy, domestic scene. It was also as fragile as my finances. I pulled out the stack of bills and began sorting through them: must pay now, pay in a few days, wait another billing cycle. The first pile was way larger than the other two, and I sighed, thinking of how much money Hugh and I had wasted when he had gotten his first cushy legal job. Dinners at Union Square Café, Betsey Johnson sample sales, Chinese takeout, trade paperbacks at retail prices.
We had lived a good life, full of lovely clothes and good food. At least until Aidan arrived.
I knew Hugh adored Aidan, and he definitely loved him, but I had to wonder if Aidan’s arrival meant Hugh had to face being an adult. And he wasn’t very good at being an adult. Is that why he ran?
I just wish we’d been more responsible with our finances back when it didn’t matter so much. I’d still have to figure out What to Do with My Life, but the looming decision wouldn’t be fraught with so much worry.
And my mother’s finances were now my burden, too. She’d always had more than enough money, the benefit of being the descendant of some clever investors back at the turn of the twentieth century. Now over a hundred years of careful financial planning was residing on Wall Street’s trading floor.
I knew I wouldn’t hear from the Teaching Fellows until at least early summer, so I pulled out the New York Times’s classified section and headed for the marketing section. The freelance work would help, but I should probably try to find something full-time. Let’s see. I could:
Market for an MRI facility in Queens
Become the Marketing Director of Wealth Management
Market to take the company “to the next level”
Manage a supermarket’s marketing efforts
How could everything be both boring and intimidating? I was too picky, and also way too underqualified. If I could find a job where it was important to be able to juggle appointments (playdates, doctors’ visits, afterschool activities), utilize diplomatic skills (getting someone to eat peanut butter and jelly when they really, really wanted to go to McDonald’s), multitask (play superheroes while doing the dishes/ cooking dinner/putting on makeup), balance budgets (allowances are not elastic), and operate on a very small amount of sleep, I’d be set. Of course, I already had that job, and it paid nothing. In fact, it cost me money to work there.
Not that I’d trade it for anything in the world. I looked over at Aidan’s head, bent over the floor. Just as I did, he looked up and gave me one of his sweet smiles. To paraphrase a refrigerator magnet I saw once, A BAD DAY BEING A MOTHER IS BETTER THAN A GOOD DAY AT WORK. I waved at him as he bent his head down to the important task of building a log cabin for some plastic frogs.
I just had to figure out how to be a mom and afford to feed us. I hadn’t gotten a check from John yet. The next thing I knew, Dr. Lowell’s voice rang in my head as clearly as if she were speaking to me. “Yeah, yeah, something I would never do,” I muttered, getting up and reaching for the phone.
“Corning and Associates. How may I direct your call?” John’s Redhead Receptionist, I was pleased to hear, had a nasal tone to her voice. There was some justice in the world.
“Hi, this is Molly Hagan. Is John in?”
“Let me check. Hold on, please.”
I straightened a pile of books my mom must’ve gotten into while I waited for John. If I concentrated hard enough on them, maybe I wouldn’t have this panicky “going-to-ask-for-money” feeling in my stomach.
“Molly?”
Rats. Even Voltaire couldn’t save me. “Hi, John.”
“I was just going to call you. How’s it going?”
“Fine.” Especially since I hadn’t worked on anything since the last time we talked.
“Great, because the Cooking Channel wants to get a taste—ha-ha, get it?—a taste of what Simon’s new venture will be like.”
“Uh . . . when is this presentation scheduled for?” I asked. My voice rose at least an octave. A television network?
“Probably in a week and a half,” John replied, not realizing he was making my heart jump out of my throat.
“Oh.”
“What were you calling about, anyway?”
“Right. Um, I was wondering when you’d be sending—”
“The consulting fees. Of course, I totally forgot. I’ll have Ida send the first payment out tomorrow.”
“Okay, thanks. And—do I have to be there for the presentation?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Of course, Molly. You’re presenting the concept,” John replied, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth. “Simon will field questions afterward, but you’re the details person.”
I imitated his Big Corporate Guy tone. “Right, of course, I knew that, I was just checking.”
“We’ll have time to go over the presentation—say next Tuesday?”
“I’m busy on Tuesday.” Tuesdays With Scary were, sadly, the brightest part of my week.
“Wednesday, then.” Now he sounded annoyed. I refused to allow his Business Male Voice to intimidate me.
“Right. Wednesday. Will Simon and Nick be there also?”
“No, just us.”
“Okay, see you then. Good-bye.”
“Bye, Molly.”
I hung up, a little bit in shock, but also ridiculously pleased with myself: I had called John, something I did not want to do, to ask about my money, something I really did not want to do. And I had done it. Dr. Lowell would be proud.
I stuck my head out the doorway to make sure Aidan and Mom were still busy, then I did a little end zone victory dance. Midshimmy, I thought about things I would never do.
And I got a really good, really scary idea.
Bite in August
Mere words—no matter how many you use—cannot describe this rich, dense masterpiece. A chocolate truffle for the plebeian; a drama in white and dark chocolate for the cognoscenti. Don’t wait for Christmas to celebrate.
16
“I STILL DON’T HAVE A POWER RANGER FOR JASON’S PARTY,” Aidan wailed. I kneeled in front of him, struggling to get his sneakers on. He was too busy bemoaning our lack of finances to help.
“Aidan, could y
ou just push a little?” I asked, brushing my hair out of my eyes. He glared at me and jammed down hard, smashing my finger. I stifled a word Aidan should not hear. “Not that hard. Look, Aidan, I’m sorry I can’t get you a Power Ranger Alien Thingie—”
“Alien Planet,” Aidan replied in a sullen voice. “But we just don’t have the money. Right now,” I added, so he wouldn’t start thinking we had no money whatsoever. Only one of us needed to have that worry.
He gave me a hurt puppy look, pushing his lip as far out as it could go.
I sighed, straightened the hem of his shirt, and looked in his eyes, resting my hands on his legs. “Honey, I promise, if I could afford to get you the toy, I would. But I just can’t.”
His lower lip receded, just a bit. “Okay, Mommy. I can ask Jason if he has any extra.” He stuck his finger in his nose, and I just as quickly removed it. “Are you coming with me?”
I glanced around, making sure Mom wasn’t hiding behind the enormous log cabin/judo stadium/Dipsy Doodles theme park Aidan had completed last night. I lowered my voice, just in case. “I’ll be there, but do you remember that man Nick we saw at the coffee shop that day?”
He nodded. “The one who liked the Justice League?”
“Yeah. Well, he said he’d go to the party, too, and he said he’d help you with some of the contests.”
His face brightened. Maybe almost as much as if he were clutching a brand-new Power Ranger Alien Thingie. Sorry, Planet. “Cool!”
“I hope so,” I muttered. Aidan leapt off the chair and ate the judo players’ dressing room.
My mother bustled in, her coat tucked under her arm. “Well, I’m going out for a bit,” she said cheerily like she wasn’t facing financial disaster.
My mouth gaped. “Mom, did you forget?”
“Forget what, sweetie?”
“Forget,” I said in an exaggeratedly patient tone, “that my . . . friend is coming here this morning to talk to you about the financial stuff? Remember?”
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