Page 75 of The Surrogate Mother
We’re sitting in the bistro a block away from my apartment building, where my mother is treating me to lunch. The place is packed from the lunch rush, but my mother slipped the hostess a bill of some denomination, and we got a table pretty quick. I’m glad for the low buzz of conversation in the restaurant, because I don’t want anyone to overhear what we’re saying.
“Sam already got me a lawyer,” I say.
“Oh, did he?” she snorts. In her eyes, Sam is still thattwenty-six-year-old kid who backed into her mailbox with his clunky old Honda and knocked it over. I’ll never forget the crestfallen look on Sam’s face when he did that—it was as if he knew that single act had cemented her dislike of him forever.
“The lawyer is really good,” I say. And I add, because I know it will garner her respect: “He’s costing us a bundle.”
“You mean he’s costingyoua bundle,” she corrects me, peering at me over the rim of her water glass.
“Sam and I don’t think about our money that way.”
She laughs. “Well, that suits him, doesn’t it?”
“Stop it. YouknowSam doesn’t care about money.”
“Abby,everyonecares about money.”
I grit my teeth and scrunch up the napkin on my lap between my fingers. I’m not about to have a tantrum in this bistro, but it’s tempting.
“So,” my mother says, “tell me about this ‘wonderful’ lawyer Sam got for you.”
I pretend like I didn’t hear the scare quotes in her question. “He’s been a criminal lawyer for thirty years. He has an incredible trial record. Sam says he’s the best there is.”
My mother isn’t listening though. She’s distracted by something across the room. I follow her gaze to where an attractive man in a pin-striped business suit and red power tie is seated alone at a table for two, his eyes pinned on his smartphone.
“What do you think of him?” my mother asks.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”
The man straightens out the collar of his pin-striped jacket. Brioni, I believe. Pricy. He lifts his eyes and catches me staring, and my cheeks grow warm. Before I can look away, he winks at me.
“He winked at you!” my mother cries triumphantly.
“So?”
“So you should go talk to him.”
I gape at her. “I’m not going to do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’mmarried to another man?”
“Yes, well, it’s good to have a backup, isn’t it?”
I wish I could say this is the first time my mother has said something like that since Sam and I tied the knot. I don’t get it. And honestly, I’m sick of it.
“Why do you hate Sam so much?” I blurt out.
She blinks a few times, taken aback. “I don’t hate Sam.”
“Then why are you suggesting I date another man?”
My mother considers this question. She takes another sip from her water glass, still thinking it over. Finally, she says, “I always thought you could do better. You’re wealthy, you’re beautiful, and you have an amazing career. You could have had any man you wanted.”
“But I wanted him. And he’s been a great husband.”
“Has he?”
