Page 18 of Third Time Lucky

I laugh, sort of hysterically, unsure of what’s funnier: killing him or having my grandmother and lawyer of a father help with the body?

Our steps echo in the long hallway as we make our way toward the elevators that will take us back to the bridal suite. The light casts long shadows around us, each one a mirror of the doubts and insecurities swirling within like a growing hurricane. How did this turn into the second worst day of my life so unexpectedly?

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

5

LUCY

Mitzi sits in her favorite chair at the dining-room table, a purple laptop open in front of her. ‘Darling, what shall I search to hire a professional chef?’

‘Professional chef Portland, Oregon,’ I say, peeking through the fridge.

Cheese – many kinds. Bottled water. Strawberries. Lunch meats. Milk. Eh, I can see the need for her sudden interest in a chef.

‘You’re hiring a chef? Do I get to eat with you?’

It’s not that I can’t feed myself, but I moved in with her just after Vegas, and considering I’m not a chef, we don’t eat a lot of ‘meals’ together. We sort of just survive on whatever is easy, as the nearly empty fridge is proof of.

I didn’t plan to move in with my grandmother. But shortly after the nightmare that was Vegas, Mitzi had a very minor TIA that I blame myself for. Why? Oh, you know, loads of money was lost, and the police were called to a wedding with a guest list of 350 folks. And there wasn’t just one fight. There were five. We made the local nightly news – and were banned from the hotel for life. Dad was right, the groom and his gang of idiots were slightly beyond drunk at the ceremony, and that didn’t help.

Mitzi was so stressed but played it off beautifully and kept me from completely losing it until we’d locked ourselves in the bridal suite with a table full of food. After that I cried, laughed and mourned what I thought I had until we got the all-clear that every last guest (and everyone with the magazine) had gone, and we could escape without further issues.

When my father suggested that maybe she needed round-the-clock care, I volunteered. No way was I allowing her to go into a retirement home. She deserves so much more than that. And I couldn’t exactly go back home, to a place I was supposed to share with the douchiest man I’ve ever known, so why not take care of someone I actually love in a house I grew up loving and it’s hardly a hardship living here? Mitzi and I need each other.

If she hires a cook, I can finally see this over-the-top professional kitchen in action. Trust me when I say this is a chef’s kitchen that’s never seen a chef – or anything resembling one. If you’ve dreamed of it, it’s in this kitchen, and I don’t know how to use it. Except the espresso machine. I finally resorted to watching a YouTube video on the brand, and now we have shop-style coffee every morning. I can’t imagine what the rest of these appliances could cook up.

‘Of course, you get to eat with me, darling. I’m hoping they’ll rub off.’

I shut the fridge, shooting her a confused look. ‘You want them to what?’

She looks at me with a gray eyebrow cocked. ‘Influence you to learn how to cook, dear. Since you moved in, you’ve not once used the oven.’

I cross my arms over my chest, a little offended. ‘Mitzi, might I remind you that you are against a woman being confined to the kitchen.’

These are words she’s said to me a million times over my life. Also, never let a man steal your soul— er, identity. I may have misheard the word soul because I’m currently on a man-hating bender. Rightfully so.

‘That’s why I’ll hire a man.’

I should have known she’d have an answer for anything I threw her way. She always does.

‘Can I request an age and type, or is that taboo?’

‘Off-the-charts taboo,’ I say. ‘However…’ I tap my index finger to my bottom lip. ‘You are eighty. And you deserve to have some fun in life – we could play the elderly, nutty grandmother card?’

She laughs. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m an old woman who could die tomorrow. I deserve some fun, you genius girl.’ She waves my way approvingly and then turns back to her laptop. ‘Twenty-five to thirty-five, male professional chef Portland, Oregon,’ she says as her fingers tap the keys. ‘Here we go.’ She scrolls the screen, nodding every so often. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she says, jotting names on a paper pad beside her. ‘On with your night, darling, I am setting a date with some men.’

‘And I am goingon a date with one.’

Her gaze shoots over the top of the laptop and meets mine. ‘I thought you still wanted to kick love in the teeth?’

Not gonna lie; I said that. And a whole bunch of other things that I’m sure will come back to haunt me.

‘I do. And if one day, love proves to be true, which I doubt, he’ll probably screw me over, and I will. For tonight, I’ve set my expectations low. I’m not looking for love, just a piece of cake from the dessert menu with a cocktail for dinner. Is that wrong?’

She shakes her head, her eyes back on her laptop and her pen in motion. ‘It’s exactly why I’m hiring a chef, darling. Maybe you could bring Mitzi a piece?’

‘Of cake?’

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