Best Staged Plans (16 page)

“It most certainly was not.” I put on my reading glasses so I could identify the tapas. “Ooh, ‘Artichoke rice cakes with Manchego, a tart melted cheese center made from sheep’s milk.’ ”

We ate for a while in silence.

“So, if it bothers you,” I said, “apologize to him.”

“It doesn’t bother me
that
much. He did plenty to me. He used to scare the shit out of me whenever you left us with a babysitter.”

“Yeah, all three times.”

“
What?
You guys went out all the time.”

“That’s ridiculous. We almost never went out. We were too busy chauffeuring you and Luke around.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Right. And you fed your brother rabbit poop.”

“You and Dad were the only parents I knew who even
wanted
to go out together. My friends used to think we were this freakishly perfect family.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You should have spoken up. We could have fought more or something.”

Shannon put her fork down on her plate. “A trial separation would have really helped me out. I was the only one in my third-grade class who always knew where I was sleeping that night. I had such a low drama quotient.”

We both reached for the last shrimp fritter.

“Take it,” Shannon said.

I cut the fritter down the middle and gave Shannon the bigger half.

“Dad and I will try to make it up to you,” I said.

Shannon speared her shrimp half with a fork and pointed it at me. “Don’t even joke about it. Chance and I talk about you guys all the time. You’re our model.”

“What about Chance’s parents?”

Shannon tucked her hair behind her ears and opened her eyes wide. “OMG, they hate each other. You know, that southern thing, where they’re nice as pie in front of everybody, but they haven’t slept in the same room for years. Chance thinks they just stay together because his dad’s girlfriend doesn’t cook, and his mom’s boyfriend has cats and she’s allergic.”

“Really?” I said. “They seemed so crazy about each other when we met them.”

Shannon dabbed her mouth, then put her napkin on the table. “Trust me, Mom, you’re it. You and Dad are the last real marriage standing.”

I twirled the straw around in my iced tea and tried to read my next move in the ice cubes. I took a deep breath.

I met my daughter’s clear green eyes. “Your father and I aren’t doing so great these days. I’m starting to think we might have reached our expiration date.”

Shannon held my gaze for a moment, considering.

She let out a quick laugh and turned to look for the waiter. “You’re just hormonal. Every relationship has its ups and downs. Come on, let’s get some shopping in before it’s too late.”

CHAPTER 23

S
HANNON WAS DRESSED
to travel in tight designer jeans, a crisp button-down blouse, and a pair of Ann Roth heels. If I ever tried that, someone would have to cut off my clothes at the end of the flight. If you’re past your first bloom, allow for the possibility of swelling when you travel. Think ballet flats or flip-flops you can kick off. And yoga pants, or a bohemian skirt, or at the very least some spandex threaded discreetly into the fabric of your jeans. No one will even notice the rest of your outfit if you wear nice earrings and throw a pashmina over your shoulders or knot it around your neck as camouflage, the added bonus being that you can use it as a travel blanket.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take your GPS with you?” I asked after we finished our good-bye hug. I’d offered to take Shannon to the airport, but Chance wouldn’t hear of it. So my plan was to make a quick getaway to give the newlyweds a few minutes alone together.

Shannon rolled her eyes like she was still thirteen. “Mom, I used to
live
there.”

I used to live there, too,
almost slipped out of my mouth, but I caught it just in time.

My daughter reached for the coffeepot. “If you want to return the rental, you can borrow my car.”

“Thanks, but I’d much rather bill Denise’s boyfriend than put wear and tear on your car.” I grabbed the rental keys from the back-of-the-door organizer. “Okay, well, have a safe trip and, uh—”

“I know, kick Dad and Luke’s butts for you.”

Shannon unplugged her iPhone and its charger from the sleek black charging station on the kitchen counter. She’d given me one just like it for Christmas, and every time I looked at hers a little wave of homesickness broke over me.

By the way, if you don’t have a charging station yet, you should get one. The design has come a long way, and you can even find them with stainless drawer pulls to match your appliances and a hidden surge protector power strip. Not only will its integrated drawers and slots help do away with clutter, but it will also eliminate the hassle of all the cords of your life getting tangled up like spaghetti.

Then all you’ll need to do is find a way to separate the tangled cords on the inside of your life, the ones that don’t show so much.

Chance strolled into the kitchen all dressed for work, with his damp hair freshly combed. If he harbored any resentment about the fact that Shannon wasn’t taking me with her, he hid it well.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

“Beautiful day,” I said.

“It sure is,” he said.

He looked up from pouring a cup of coffee. “What time were you thinking about for dinner, Mom?”

I had a sudden vision of myself all tied up in that goofy apron, cooking three squares a day for my son-in-law.

“I wasn’t,” I said. “I was thinking I’d try to survive the day first.” In case that sounded a bit prickly, I softened it with a smile.

“Love you,” I said to Shannon on my way out the door. If Chance wanted to think he was included in the sentiment,
whatever
.

A morning chill almost made me feel like I was still in New England. But the trajectory of the day’s heat was different here. At home, whatever warmth we’d get would hit its peak around noon. In Atlanta, the day would just keep getting warmer and warmer until the temperature reached its hottest point around 4:00
P.M.
I pictured myself buying a little brick ranch with a pool down the street so I could jump in to cool off at the end of a busy day.

I hummed that old
Mister Rogers
song about it being such a beautiful day in the neighborhood as I plugged in the GPS and rolled backward down the long driveway. Shannon and Luke had loved that show, and I was sure Mister Rogers was a nice guy and all that, but something about the way he took that cardigan of his out of the closet always gave me the creeps.
Sesame Street
felt safer to me somehow, but who knew what twisted things went on behind closed puppet doors at that show either.

“The world’s a tough place,” I said out loud.

The GPS squawked awake. “Turn left onto Interstate 85.”

“Not even close,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”

Why should I have to be the one to tell Denise her boyfriend was a two-timer, a snake in the grass, a sleaze bucket? In the code of female friendship, were you always honor bound to let your best friend know when you saw her significant other, or even her insignificant other, kissing another woman? And what if Denise already
knew
that this idiot saw other women? What if she accepted that as part of the dues of dating a cute, rich, hot, younger man? Maybe I should try to get an answer to that question before I jumped into the fray.
So
, I could say,
how’s the weather up there? Oh, by the way, do you and Josh see other people? Just curious. Not that I’m prying or anything.

No, wait. I’d make Josh tell Denise. That’s what I’d do. It was only fair. And if he wouldn’t tell her what a slimeball he was, I’d quit. And then I’d tell him exactly where he could put his stupid hotel. And then I’d . . .
what
? Go home? Put on that
Stepford Wives
apron and rustle up some grits for Chance? Tell Denise, so we could shoot Josh and run away together? Bali? Paris?

“You have reached your final destination,” the GPS said.

Amazingly, we were in front of the hotel. “Right on the money,” I said. “Good job.”

I figured there must be some hotel parking around here somewhere, but I certainly couldn’t find it. I should have thought to ask, but, I mean, the least Josh could have done was to let me in on something like that.

We pulled into a small lot down the street. I started to lock the GPS in the glove compartment but decided it would be safer to take her, I mean,
it
with me.

I stopped in at Starbucks for a nonfat latte. I wasn’t really stalling. I just wanted to make sure I was sufficiently caffeinated for confrontation.

As much as I loved Shannon’s lush suburban neighborhood, I could see myself living here in the city, too, in a town house or a midrise condo with a nice view of the Atlanta skyline. I wouldn’t even bother to buy pots and pans. I’d just wander the streets and graze. There were plenty of interesting restaurants, and I was pretty sure I’d passed a Trader Joe’s.

I’d find a gym and take some more Zumba classes. I reached up and felt my forehead. There was just a small knot where the swelling had been. Next time I’d be more careful on those turns. Maybe I’d even bring the GPS with me for navigational backup.
In eight beats, please turn right. At your first opportunity, reverse direction and execute a legal booty shake.

A homeless woman was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall with a black garbage bag for a pillow and a handle-less ceramic mug with a pittance of change inside. I averted my eyes, but not before I saw that the mug said
WORLD’S BEST MOM.

I kept walking. She might not even have any kids. She might even use the money she panhandled to buy drugs. I’d seen an episode like that on
Addicted
. Or maybe it was
Intervention
. If I gave her money, I’d probably just be enabling her.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. My problem was that once I started caring I didn’t know how to turn it off. There was so much pain and suffering in the world that sometimes it felt like if I stopped to let it in, the floodgates would open, and I’d be swept out to sea. I was the kind of person who couldn’t just write a check to a disaster relief fund without wanting to jump on a plane and save the whole country. We’d adopted our family pets from animal shelters, and yet I could still see the faces of the ones we didn’t take home with us.

It wasn’t my job to mother the whole world. Every crying baby wasn’t really calling out to me, and every homeless woman sitting on the sidewalk didn’t have my name on her forehead. I’d paid my dues. It was my time now.

I’d given. I gave at the office, and I gave on the home front. I was always giving. Give, give, give. I’d spent the last two decades at it. I mean, did anyone in my family ever have a need I didn’t meet? Was there ever a car pool I didn’t drive, a committee I didn’t serve on, a crisis I didn’t try to solve?

It wasn’t just our immediate family I’d mothered. I’d collected food for the local food pantry, shopped and wrapped for the Christmas toy drive, driven into Boston to drop off donations at Rosie’s Place and Dress for Success, dragged two eye-rolling teenagers and one husband who would have rather been playing tennis to help build a Habitat for Humanity house.

Back when Luke was in elementary school, not one but two of his friends had spent a long string of overnights with us while their mothers had chemo. We’d registered and paid for one of Shannon’s friends to take the SATs and helped her apply to colleges because her parents were embroiled in the first stages of a bitter divorce and refused to take responsibility for anything.

Done. Finished. Over it. If there were a pill for selfishness, I’d totally take it. I wanted to be one of those women who spent the whole day thinking
me, me, me
. I’d fill my days with massages, manicures, shopping, maybe even some minor plastic surgery.

I finished my latte and lobbed the cup into a barrel. I walked back to Starbucks and ordered a bacon, gouda cheese, and egg white frittata on an artisan roll, and a Grande Caffè Mocha.

When I handed the homeless woman the bag and the take-out coffee cup, I couldn’t quite look at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She put the hot cup on the ground and kept one hand on the bag, as if I might change my mind and try to take it back.

“You’re welcome,” I said as I walked away.

I wasn’t going to think about her anymore.

CHAPTER 24

I
REVERSED DIRECTION
and walked past the hotel. I picked up my pace and started swinging my arms as I practiced reading Josh the riot act in my head. Then I made a U-turn and marched straight to the hotel.

I turned the key in the lock and karate kicked the door open.

The lobby was empty.

Somehow I thought Josh would be standing there, that I’d catch him red-handed with the other woman in his arms.

Maybe they were still in bed. I pictured myself going from room to room, kicking open each door until I found them naked and quivering in fear. But I didn’t know where the guest room keys were, and even at a glance I could tell the doors were too high quality to kick in on my own.

I perused the immediate area, looking for clues. Two snifters still perched on the bar, one dotted with sticky brown Kahlúa residue, and the other with about an inch of liquid in the bottom. Judging by the make of the glasses and their position on the bar, they appeared to be Josh’s and mine from Friday.

But perhaps this was simply the spot where Josh lured all his women:
Hey, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? Can I buy you a drink, baby? What sign are you? Would you like to come upstairs and see my etchings?

I held the glass that may or may not have been mine up to what little light there was in the dark bar. I wasn’t sure what telltale signs I was looking for. A shade of lipstick that only a home-wrecking, boyfriend-stealing slut would wear? That wasn’t fair. The poor woman probably thought he was unattached. I mean, Tiger Woods, Jesse James, or Josh, who’s really at fault here? So what if the women aren’t perfect—porn stars can be victims, too.