Page 42 of Hat Trick

The timid mouse just earned hisclaws.

Stephen swipes at his longish brown hair. “Babe, you’re fine. It’s just a littlewine.”

Nope, wrong words. Totally wrongwords.

My mother’s chin jerks back. “Just alittlewine? This dress isBurberry.”

Stephen’s dark eyes swing in my direction, wide and confused. “Did she meanblueberry?”

“Burberry.” Adaline snaps a white hand napkin off the table and dabs at the skirt of her dress. “I saidBurberry.”

“Right.” Stephen pauses, and for the length of time it takes him to exhale, I swear that my heart stops beating. Then, “Gwen, would you be a doll and cut me some of that blueberrypie?”

Do you remember those cartoons where the steam billows out from their ears? Just before shit goes down and everyone takes cover from an out-of-nowhere explosion? That’s how I feel when my mother drops her palms to the table and rises to herfeet.

“This dinner is over.” She points an accusing finger at me. “FireManuel.”

What?My stomach twists with instant guilt. This is all my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t thought this stupid dinner was a good idea . . . if I hadn’t thought for one single second that my mother needed me, that I could make her feel better . . . Nausea throws my belly intotipsy-topsycentral, and the lasagna threatens to pull a SecondComing.

Deep breath.Inhale.

“Mom, it was an accident. Everyone has them. You, me,everyone.”

Her shoulders draw up indignantly. “Fire him. I’ll have him replacedtomorrow.”

How in the world did one dinner go so wrong? I look down at the wine bottle gripped to my chest, and then meet Carli’s gaze. She twists her chin away, cutting eye contact, leaving me to deal with all of thisalone.

Likealways.

Bitterness rises to the forefront, and my fingers tighten on the glass bottle. “Manuel has been with us since I was a kid. Youcan’t—”

Adaline’s mouth firms. “I can and I will. Everyone is replaceable, Gwen. We’ve discussed this. Your employees, your men, your friends.Everyone.”

Including me?I almost voice the words that have lingered in my head for longer than I’d like toadmit.

Stephen beats me toit.

“Um, hey there? Babe?” He holds up a finger, twirling it in ayoo-hoomotion. “Not replaceable overhere.”

My mother stares at him. “I met youyesterday.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, well, it was quite the meeting, if you know what I mean.” When he winks again, the urge to vomit returnstenfold.

Beside me, Carli makes a gagging sound and then steals the wine from my grasp. She doesn’t bother with a glass this time. Pushing away from the table, she salutes me, tells my mother good night, and then promptly strolls from the room—all the while bringing the wine bottle to her mouth and tossing back the dryred.

My mother is not amused. Blue eyes flashing with barely concealed fury, she grinds out, “You don’t know Burberry,” as though the biggest deal breaker of the night is the fact that her date is ignorant to the world of British fashiondesigners.

Apparently, even my mother has limits when it comes to what she’ll put upwith.

Stephen drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “Nah, I don’t. You got me there.” He turns to me. “But Iwouldlove a slice of that blueberry pie. Whaddaya say, Gwen? Get an old man aslice?”

I’d like to pretend that I had the foresight to see my mother reaching for her plate of “overcooked” lasagna. But I don’t—Adaline might be dramatic, but I never once thought she was certifiablyinsane.

Not until the plate goes flying and the lasagna collides with a nastysplat!against Stephen’s shirt. Red sauce splatters everywhere. It coats the white tablecloth like oozing blood. It sails through the air, sharing its meat love with the area rug, the original hardwood floors, the pale greenwalls.

If classical music were playing—and the lasagna had made its last descent in slow motion—the whole scene would be like something out of amovie.

But if this was a movie, Stephen would stand up like a normal human being, call my mother a crazy bitch, and storm the hell out ofhere.

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