Page 3 of The Grumpy Billionaire
Working to control the frustration in my voice, I explained, “She says Evelyn and the boys need her. I mean, you know she works there, but they're also friends, and Evelyn isn't in the greatest shape these days apparently. My mom's more of a companion now than a maid. As far as I can tell, she plans to work there as long as she's physically able to.”
I had more than one reason for wanting my mother to move out of the tiny cottage on the outskirts of the Neely estate.
First, it was far too small and modest for her with the means she now had available to her, thanks to my business successes.
As far as I was concerned, she deserved to live in a palace and be waited on hand and foot. But she'd steadily refused my offers, saying they were unnecessary and that she couldn't leave Evelyn and her twin sons.
The other reason (the primary one) was that I found it impossible to visit her there at the little cottage I'd grown up in, mere steps away from the extravagant mansion where Mara had grown up.
These days when Mom and I got together, she drove over to one of my houses or we met at a restaurant for lunch or dinner.
“Well, you tell Miss Cheryl that I asked about her. In fact, let me box up a slice of pie for her to go. She hasn't been in here for a while, and I bet she's missing it. Her favorite’s the double fudge if I remember right.”
“Yes, that’s right. Thank you. She’ll love that,” I said.
“And what kind will you have today, hun?”
I looked over the tempting assortment displayed behind the sparkling clear glass. Nooky’s had at least ten varieties of pie available at all times, and the selection changed daily. I made my choice and ordered Tuck’s and Hunter’s slices, asking Pam to put them all on my ticket.
When I had them in hand, I turned to head back to the table. Motion on the television screen mounted above the bar caught my eye, and I glanced up.
And dropped all three plates.
White porcelain and pie entrails exploded across the checkerboard tile floor, decorating the base of the counter as well as the shoes of a couple of patrons seated nearby.
The worst part? I couldn't even apologize because I was barely aware of the fallout of Pie-mageddon. I couldn’t pry my eyes from the TV screen.
“Oh my,” Pam declared. “Don't you worry about that, honey. Jordan will clean it up.”
She turned and called for a young waitress who emerged from the kitchen with a dish towel in hand.
“Jordan, darlin’, can you get a bussing tray and a mop? We’ve had a little accident out here.”
Apparently noticing my catatonic stare, Pam picked up the remote and turned up the volume on the TV overhead. “Is there some kind of emergency on the news or something?”
After a few seconds, her worried expression relaxed. “Oh yeah, I noticed her the other day. That's your little girlfriend you used to come in here with, isn't it? Pearson and Evelyn Neely’s daughter. Mary, was it?"
“Mara,” I corrected in a husk of a whisper. My throat had gone so dry it was a wonder any sound came out at all.
Now not only was I seeing her face again for the first time in a decade, but I was also hearing her voice.
Other than listening to her voicemail message an embarrassing number of times before the number had been changed and disconnected, I hadn't heard her speak since the night of our high school graduation.
She was doing a report about an upcoming Breast Cancer Awareness Month event, standing in downtown Providence only about a block away from my company's headquarters beneath an enormous pink balloon arch.
Finally managing to rip my eyes away from the screen, I mumbled an apology to Pam and Jordan and the customers who’d been in the splash zone.
“I’ll be happy to pay for any damage,” I said to one and all.
Pam smirked and handed me three replacement plates of pie. “If we cried over spilled milk—or pie—around this place, we’d never stop blubbering. It happens. How long’s Mara been back in Rhode Island?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
Pam’s face changed, growing less amused and more compassionate. “Oh. I guess you two didn't keep in touch.”
I almost snorted at the massive understatement. “No. We didn’t.”
When I got back to the table, I noticed my friends were all wearing expressions that matched Pam’s concerned frown.
