by TB Markinson
“Cori,” she said in her motherly tone. “The publishing world is rapidly changing. It won’t hurt you to beef up your street cred, as you so elegantly called it. A lot of writers have more than one job these days.”
“Or is your hesitancy the Adams connection?” Barb’s voice conveyed I shouldn’t turn down the opportunity based on that.
Mom dug the dagger in a bit more. “Sometimes, you take after your grandfather.”
I sucked in a breath. No one in the family liked being compared to him.
“She’s not that pretentious.” Barb came to my defense, but her lack of a zinger to put her younger sister in place was a pretty good indication she thought I was indeed being a scooch elitist.
Roger, Dad, and Annie jumped to their feet, cheering.
As a way of ending the conversation, I said, “I may be the first person on the planet to get a research gig because of a hullabaloo over bubble wrap.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mom said, meaning every word. “You have an appointment with Jake on Tuesday at two. Don’t be late.”
Barb laughed. “When has Cori ever been late for any appointment?”
Chapter Five
Sheila had to rearrange our dinner plans, and we hadn’t spoken since the night she reamed me about Annie. The restaurant where we were meeting was the exact opposite of where she bartended. The Hangout, despite the name, wasn’t a hotspot for the BC crowd. The depressing interior, with flickering fluorescent lights and plastic tables and chairs, didn’t promise good food.
Yet, I’d learned by happenstance many years ago they had the best falafels in a five-mile radius. I feared the news would eventually get out, ruining the quiet vibe, but so far it hadn’t.
I sat at a two-seater in the back, sawing into my meal with a plastic knife.
“You couldn’t wait?” Sheila slipped into the chair across from me, setting her purse on the linoleum floor.
Around a bite, I mumbled behind my hand, “Sorry. Starving.”
Mike, the owner, shouted, “Order up.”
I waved to the pickup counter. “That’s yours. I ordered your usual when I got the text you were on the way.”
Not many knew The Hangout, besides having yummy falafels, had the best pizza. Maybe that was part of their problem. Focusing on delicious meals and not branding.
“Ah, you do love me.” Sheila winked.
I dabbed at a drop of tahini sauce in the corner of my mouth and wiped my fingers clean with a napkin.
Sheila placed her paper plate on the table, immediately reaching for pepper flakes. “Why do you bother cleaning up after each bite? You’re going to get messy again.”
“My aunt whacked my knuckles with a ruler at the dinner table if I didn’t.”
“Really?” Sheila bit into a slice of meat lovers.
I laughed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’d make a terrible witness.”
“Why’s that?”
“Evasion is sloppy and easy pickings for someone like me. I thought you learned from our last chat?”
I wiped my mouth again. “And how are you exactly?”
“Ruthless.”
I laughed. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“What are the other things?”
“Hmmm… nothing’s coming to mind at the moment. I’ll get back to you.”
“Is this when you try to weasel a girl’s number from them?”
“Please.” I waved the idea away. “Girls give me their numbers without me asking.” I grinned, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.
“Yeah, right. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you have a famous mom. An uncle who’s made Forbes’s richest list. An aunt who owns the art gallery in Boston. And your dad—he’s a really nice accountant. Everyone needs a good accountant,” she said in her lawyerly tone.
“My dad makes the list of things I have going for me, but I don’t.”
“Refresh my memory again. What do you have going for you?” She slapped the tabletop. “You published a short story.”
“In The New Yorker,” I grumbled under my breath, shoving bits of lettuce that had fallen onto the back of my hand into my mouth.
“Is that a big deal?” Sheila fluttered her lashes. “Oh, I thought of something else. Your hot tub.”
I crumpled the empty paper wrapper and tossed it into the trash can behind Sheila.
“You still got game.”
“You’re just trying to finagle an invite to soak in my tub.”
“True.” She dug into her second slice. After swallowing, she said, “Schlepping drinks in a college bar takes a toll on my lower back. You’re lucky you aren’t working at the coffee shop this summer. Does writing really keep you busy all day?” She took another bite.
“It does, like a real job.” Even to me, my voice sounded overly sarcastic. Toning it down, I added, “But if you’re worried about my work ethic, my mom roped me into a job I don’t want but apparently need because I’m not as driven as Brandon Sanderson and haven’t completed five novels in two years.”
Sheila sat back in her seat, blotting her mouth with a napkin. “I struck a nerve, didn’t I?”
I rubbed my face with both hands. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” Not wanting to go there about my writing and not feeling good enough for my mother, I changed the subject. “Are you still mad at me?”
She crinkled her brow. “I wasn’t mad at you. It… just took me by surprise. That’s all.” Sheila pounced on her pizza with gusto, and we finished our meals in silence.
After disposing of our paper plates and other trash, she placed a hand on my leg under the table. “Let’s go for a dip. Hot water usually loosens your tongue.”
My house was only a ten-minute walk from the restaurant.
“Need a suit?” I asked Sheila when we walked in the front door.
“Nope.” She pulled a two-piece from her bag.
“Always prepared.”
“I can’t remember a time when we didn’t go for a dip after dinner. Although, we used to have dinner once a week, not once a month. You’re still predictable on some fronts.”
“Because you aren’t?”
“I don’t pretend not to be.” Sheila strutted down the hallway to the bathroom.
“And I do?” I shouted after her only to receive a yeah, yeah hand gesture.
I changed in the bedroom and met Sheila outside.
Slipping into the water, I held my beer bottle aloft to keep it from getting wet.
Sheila rested her head against the lip of the tub. After a lustful tug of Sam Adams she’d helped herself to, she said, “Have you noticed Annie’s been acting weirder than normal?”
“I thought you said you weren’t mad about the Annie thing? Now you’re implying she’s acting out by sleeping with me.”
She laughed. “You are feeling low if you think that’s what I meant.”
“How was I supposed to take that?”
Sheila rested the bottle against her cheek. “I’m sorry I gave you shit last week. You were right. It’s none of my business. And, I’m not talking about that situation.” She squirmed and made a face. “I’m worried about her. Legitimately.”
“Go on.”
“I think she’s freaking out. She finished her MBA last year, but with the economy in the toilet, no one is hiring aside from the preschool where she’s working, and I don’t need to mention how overqualified she is. Annie hasn’t had a date in”—Sheila blew her bangs out of her eyes—“forever. She’s getting closer to thirty, and quite frankly, I think she’s about to implode. Not to mention she’s desperate.”
“Roger’s serious about hiring her. He and Annie’s mom go way back.”
“I think that’s part of the problem. Annie doesn’t want to use her connections to get a job.”
I snorted. “That’s how it is in corporate America. Hell, that’s how it is in th
e world. I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said my mom got me a job of sorts that I really don’t want.”
Sheila pointed her beer at me. “You know that.” She tapped the bottle against her chest. “And I know that. But Annie is different. Not only is she wicked smart—”
I laughed. “A Coloradoan saying wicked.”
She glared at me as if asking whether I’d let her finish. “She also believes in right and wrong, such as landing a job based on her qualifications.”
“She is qualified! Has the MBA to prove it.”
Sheila sniffed. “You’re preaching to the wrong person.”
“You listen to me, sometimes. Annie doesn’t, ever.”
“She doesn’t listen to anyone.” Sheila scrunched down in the water, her chin skimming the surface. “Does Roger need a brilliant law student?”
“What happened to wanting to be a public defender?”
“Student loans. Lately, every morning, the first thing I think is Good God, how am I going to pay it off? Hand on heart, I’m starting to have full-blown panic attacks. I’m not like you—no family to bail me out.” She flinched. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know. It’s not fair. I’d never work for Roger, though. I hate Excel.”
She laughed. “I’ll write law briefs in Excel if that’ll get Roger to hire me.”
“Can you format drop-down boxes for potential objections?”
She splashed water in my face.
“I’ll talk to him, but think hard about it. Corporate law is a different animal from defending criminals.”
“Alleged criminals. And you say corporate law like its dirty.”
“Don’t talk crazy. Everyone right now loves and respects big business. Just watch the documentary Inside Job, and you’ll see how much.” I grinned.
“I’ll invest in Purell to cleanse my soul each night.” She hopped onto the side of the tub, swishing her legs back and forth. “What about you? Annie is freaking out. I’m concocting a backup plan. What’s in store for you after completing your masters? Getting an agent? Publishing deal? Which comes first?”
I puffed out my cheeks, slowly letting the air escape. “Good question.”
“That doesn’t elicit much confidence for your career path.”
I squirted a mouthful of water in her direction. “Aside from basketball, I’ve always known I wanted to write. But wanting to and being able to don’t always go hand in hand. There’s always the teaching option.” I swigged more beer. “I’m waiting to hear about some short stories I submitted. If one or more is accepted, in addition to the one previously published in The New Yorker, it’ll help me convince an agent to give me a chance based on my merit and not my mom’s name. Start there. That’s how a lot of writers do it. One tiny publishing credit after another.” I walked two fingers over the surface of the water.
“Does that mean no teaching?”
“Oh, that’s probably still in my future.”
She laughed. “Hopefully, you take to it more than Annie.”
“Gawd, I can’t imagine managing a dozen three-year-olds. Herding feral kittens seems easier. No wonder Annie is pulling her hair out. She’s never wanted kids.”
She studied the darkness overhead. “Do you think you’ll settle down? Not on the professional front but with someone?”
“It’s hard to picture. I like girls, but…”
“There are so many throwing themselves at you. Even our Red.”
“Stop.” I gritted my teeth.
“Annie filled me in about the chick at Fenway.”
“A rare instance, trust me. I wasn’t super popular, not even when playing ball. That never bothered me. But since the recent spate of interviews with Mom and my family connections… I wonder if there’s someone out there who will notice me for the right reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Not simply adding my name to their sexual conquests.”
“Since when don’t you like sex? I seem to remember you saying you enjoy the messy aspect.”
“Oh, I like it. Crave it, actually. But I want more.”
Sheila slid back into the water. “Define more.”
I skimmed my hand along the surface of the water. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“So, you’re searching for something you can’t define?” She slanted her head to the side. “I don’t see you finding it, whatever it is, without having an objective in mind. You’re a thinker and need quantifiable goals. Like writing two short stories this summer.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Just keeping it real, but Cori, if you do luck out and stumble upon it, latch on. You deserve it. And if you want some unsolicited advice, although you aren’t stoked about the opportunity with your mom’s buddy, give it a chance. Closing doors will get you nowhere.”
“Are you speaking as a lawyer?”
“As a friend. Otherwise, I’d have to charge you. I won’t turn down another beer, though.”
I started to climb out. “On it.”
She whistled. “You may not know what to do with your life, but you have a great ass.”
“Maybe modeling is in my future.”
Mom and I had standing appointments to get mani-pedis twice a month. Per usual, I arrived several minutes early. Mom was two minutes and twenty-eight seconds late, but who was counting?
“Just once, I’d love for you to be late.” She wore a lilac chambray top that tied at the shoulders, white linen cropped catamaran pants, and a pastel silk scarf as a belt.
We were taken to our usual stations in the salon.
Mom sighed as her tiny frame sank into the black leather chair. “I need this today.” She placed her feet into the footbath.
“Everything okay?” A staff member handed me a cucumber-infused water, with large ice cubes crammed on top of the slices at the bottom of the glass.
“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand dismissing the subject. “Barb wants us over for dinner tonight. Roger is off on one of his trips.”
“Business or…?”
“I think golfing in Scotland. Or Ireland.” Mom stared at me in the mirror.
Ignoring the meaning of the look, I said, “Let’s go out to dinner.”
Mom smiled. “Ah, you want to eat.”
“Play nice.”
She spoke behind her fingers. “It’s no secret Barb can’t cook.”
“And I don’t feel like doing dishes. It works out for all involved.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want you to do any work of any kind. Not during your summer of freedom.”
I glared at her in the mirror. “I take the summer months off to focus on writing, which is your occupation as well, and all I get from everyone is shit.”
Mom’s tech gripped the hand she was working on in expectation of Mom’s typical flamboyant hand gestures. “It’s weird, really. You’ve had a packed day planner ever since preschool. All the dance classes I ferried you to. And then there was basketball…” Her voice drifted off as her eyes followed mine in the mirror.
A beautiful brunette with sun-kissed skin took the seat next to my mother.
Mom jacked up an eyebrow.
I blinked several times as a way to throw her off the scent, but it was fruitless. Mom had that glint in her eye.
She turned her head to the woman. “Hello. I’m Nell. This is my beautiful daughter, Cori.” Mom pointed to me.
The woman offered a thin, polite but unfriendly smile. “Mary.”
Undaunted, Mom continued. “Cori’s a college basketball star.”
Mary’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “What team?”
“Harvard, but—”
“She’s also a published author. You’re gay, right? Or more than likely bi—most young people are these days.” Before Mary had a chance to answer, Mom plowed on. “Of course, Cori gets the writing gene from me.”
Mary licked her lips, resembling a tiger ready to go
in for the kill.
That seemed promising. Mom had this way of inserting herself into every situation, and I prayed Mary would tell Mom to buzz off.
“Are you Nell Tisdale?” Mary asked.
“Oh, have you heard of me?” Mom tittered, carefully placing the hand with a fresh layer of polish on her chest.
Mary reached into her Gucci tote on the counter and whipped out Mom’s latest. “Would you sign this?”
“Of course, dear. Once my nails dry.” Mom blew on her fingertips.
“I can’t believe this. I had to read one of your books in my American lit course last year, and I fell in love with your writing.” Something caught her attention. “Mom, Mom! Come here.”
A platinum blonde with a fresh coat of fake suntan floated across the salon as if on wheels.
“Mom, this is Nell Tisdale. You just bought one of her books for me. And that’s her daughter, Dori.”
I started to correct her, but Mom waved me not to interrupt.
I glanced at the tech who was drying my right foot and shrugged.
Only Nell Tisdale would toss her own flesh and blood to the side in order to listen to some airhead bluster about how much she loved her novels. Of course, I was used to this, so I relaxed in my seat.
Chapter Six
A little after noon, I left Professor Brown’s office feeling a lot better about the situation. While he’d mentioned what type of research he wanted me to focus on, we’d spent most of the hour discussing my writing, resulting with him agreeing to critique some stories. A you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours type of scenario. While he wasn’t as successful as mom, he was a respected author and professor. Getting his advice and a potential blurb from him could be a boon for my career. Maybe Sheila was right; I needed to keep my options open.
I held my canvas satchel by its handle, making my way to Harvard to have lunch with Annie, who had the day off. Exiting the subway station, I caught sight of the woman from the grocery store and stopped dead in my tracks. She had her eyes glued to her phone and rammed right into me.