Page 10 of Afternoon Delight
“Stop it.” She aggressively cut rows and squares.
I smirked and set out the cutlery, then brought the salad to the table while she brought our filled plates to the placemats.
“I’m open-minded, if not particularly adventurous,” I said once we were seated. “Thanks to you, I’m also pathologically responsible. Georgia asked for my help, so I will help her.” Honestly, Georgia was doing me the favor—shoving me off the ledge. We both knew this would be good for me.
Mom huffed out a sigh. “What will you tell your children?”
“That I’m working for a friend.”
Mom’s brows went up in challenge.
“I’ll tell them as much as they need to know.” I might’ve watered down various details through the years—especially around the divorce and Dad’s illness—but I didn’t keep secrets from them. “I’m as entitled to a private life as they are.” Hint, hint.
Mom used the side of her fork to cut away a bite of lasagna. “What about the house? I thought you wanted me to sell it?”
“I do.” But throwing out expired cottage cheese got her back up. I didn’t expect her to change her attitude any time soon.
“You said you were going back to Toronto in two weeks. What about Roddie?”
“I’ll ask Roddie to come for spring break. Maybe he’ll want some of Dad’s things.” I highly doubted it, but the suggestion perked up Mom’s ears.
“He’ll need the sofa bed. I’ll take your father’s clothes to the thrift store the next time I go.” She had been saying that every day since I’d arrived. I had a feeling she dreaded seeing them on the racks—or worse, on someone in town—but she was too loyal to the Ladies Hospital Auxiliary to take them anywhere else.
“Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll help carry everything to the car,” I said, exactly as I had every other time. “Do you want more wine?”
“That would be nice, thank you.” She pushed her empty glass across the table.
Chapter 4
Meg
At five minutes to midnight Thursday night, I quit tinkering with my resignation letter and hit send.
My email to Cameron—oh yes, I sent it to him because I was that much of a passive-aggressive bitch—referenced “an unrelated opportunity that necessitates my leaving by the end of February.” That was almost three weeks of notice, two of which were the vacation time I was currently taking. I said I would continue to work remotely until then and expressed my gratitude for the experience I had gained at PLF. I provided a status report on my current workload, promised to tie up loose ends before I left, and offered suggestions for client reassignment. I even mentioned I’d be open to training my replacement, if that would assist the transition.
It was the most politely worded shove-it in the history of take-this-job-ands.
Starting at seven a.m.—nine Eastern time—texts and emails began flooding in, but I had set my phone to Do Not Disturb. I rose at ten to eight and climbed into the shower after only a glance at the number of unread messages.
I felt like such a badass ignoring them. Pathetic, I know, but I hummed a smug tune as I dried off and massaged body butter into my thighs, shins, and heels.
“Mr. Peterson wants you to call,” Mom called up the stairs when I came out of the bathroom in a towel.
I looked down to see she was wearing her chenille housecoat and had helped herself to the coffee I started brewing on my way to the shower.
“He called you?”
“On the landline. Are you in trouble?” Mom looked worried.
The strangest sensation came over me, one I had felt a few times during the divorce. At one point, Joel had insisted on keeping my grandfather’s pocket watch—even though he never wore it. Sentiment and a sense of stewardship had told me to dig deep for a second wind of battle fury, but something else in me had dried up and blown away. I had ceased to care that Joel was in the wrong. I had simply wanted out, no matter what it cost.
I’d been told women lost all their fucks at forty. I’d honestly believed that was a reference to sex, but in this moment, I understood it was broader than that. It was about priorities and who deserved my attention. As I contemplated what Mr. Peterson might be thinking of me or what he might say, I reached for my jar of fucks and found it empty. In fact, there was no jar.
It was disconcerting but incredibly freeing. I stood there in bare feet, hair dripping onto my shoulders, and was struck by how unafraid I felt. How light.
“I’ll call him back after I get dressed.”
But I didn’t.
