Page 15 of Afternoon Delight
“No,” she admitted sullenly. “They’re hoping they can use a different procedure that’ll be less invasive. They say I’ll recover faster, but my paranoid brain is convinced I shouldn’t buy any green bananas.”
My chin crinkled under a pained smile. I loved that she always kept her sense of humor, but my heart had sunk into my churning stomach. I resisted the urge to tell her not to worry. Everything about what she was going through was terrifying.
“You’re trying to brace for all possibilities. I get that,” I said gently.
“Yeah. And I don’t have the bandwidth to care about what happens at the store, which makes me so sad. I read the posts you sent me. They’re fine. I won’t rewrite anything.” She took another shaky breath. “Make it clear that you’re running things—and run it. Is that okay?”
“Of course. But...” I wished I could do more for her. “Do you want me to keep sending photos and updates? Or is that too much for you right now?”
“You can send stuff. I’ll answer when I can, but don’t expect too much. I need to let go of the store for now.”
“Okay.” The weight of my role settled crushingly on my shoulders, even as I promised, “Don’t worry at all. Focus on yourself. The shop will be here when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Meg.” I heard her swallow.
“Thank you. I’m having fun with it.” I sipped the wine I’d brought to my room after dinner. It burned behind my aching heart.
“Which one was it?” she asked, her voice a little steadier.
“Which what?”
“The clit stimulator.”
“Oh.” I told her the brand.
“That’s a popular one. It’s good, too. Reliable.”
“Is it creepy that I asked her to report back on whether it works for her?” I hadn’t, but I’d wanted to.
“Yes,” Georgia sputtered. “Respect a customer’s privacy, Meg! But also tell me what she says.”
We both laughed.
Chapter 8
Meg
Like any true artist, Mom didn’t let censorship impede her vision.
The next morning, she handled all the products like cans of soup, focused on their color and shape, not where they’d end up. I was proud of her—patronizing, I know—but I’d always thought of her as a killjoy. Even though Mom had gotten pregnant with me while Dad was married to someone else.
Yeah. Mom had her own history of not keeping it in her pants. I was the unplanned result of her affair with her boss.
That had made me philosophical fourteen years ago, when I had realized Joel was screwing his dental hygienist. I understood how that happened. I’d had a rough pregnancy with Roddie so, in some respects, Stacy had done me a favor. I wasn’t in the mood for sex, and she assured me it was consensual. I had to ask, since I was Joel’s HR manager. We’d just moved to Toronto, where Joel opened his practice. We were deep in debt. Shelby was at a new school. I didn’t want to lose my home, job, and husband while nursing a newborn, so we went to counseling. I forgave him and wrote a nice reference letter for Stacy that Joel signed.
He didn’t do it again. Until two years ago. That I know of.
Last May, however, he admitted he’d been screwing the woman from the car dealership’s service counter while I was helping Mom hospice Dad. Best part? He told me when Wanda was in labor with his son, Freddie.
Once again, I was more inconvenienced than outraged. Wanda had fucked a married man, sure, but a married man had fucked her. I knew who the real culprit was when it came to the infidelity.
Besides, Wanda had also done me a favor. I was genuinely glad to be out of my marriage. I’d felt trapped since the first time Joel cheated. Since we married, if I was super honest about it. For twenty years, I’d been a hamster on a wheel—running myself to death but stuck in place.
No. I’d been the wheel. Joel had been the hamster. He got a lot of use out of me; I was there for him, never the other way around.
Being the wronged party gave me a high seat on the horse, but it wasn’t like that for Mom. If anyone suggested she’d broken up Dad’s marriage, she’d correct them and say that Dad had always been married to his practice. That’s why his first marriage failed. She was third or fourth fiddle after his patients, me, and probably fishing.
They loved each other, though. I saw it. Maybe she made sure I saw it. She always made clear Dad wasn’t a cheater who’d taken up with a tart—something I was happy to say about Wanda if my kids weren’t around.
