Page 4 of No More Billionaires

TWO

Home Sweet Home

“I’m home.”

I stepped into the kitchen from the garage, inhaling the aroma of chicken and dumplings and homemade cornbread.

“Mmm. Dinner smells good.”

Momma didn’t look up from the pot she was stirring. “This is your father’s. I made a salad for you and Cadence.”

“Okay…” Clearly the calorie police were on duty tonight.

Maybe Ihadgotten a little too friendly with Ben and Jerry in the wake of my breakup, but I was far from overweight, and even if I was, it irked me to have my food intake supervised.

Just one of the many delights of moving back in with my parents as an adult.

My younger sister Cadence also lived at home while taking classes at Georgia Tech in the heart of Atlanta.

“Where is she? Is there a game tonight?” I asked, opening the fridge to pull out a pitcher of tea.

Blonde, blue-eyed, and medium-height, Cadence could’ve been my clone, except for the athletic gene that had missed my DNA and hit hers full force.

Oh and the killer-smart gene, too. I could never have gotten into Tech.

“Yes, she should be here directly.” Momma finally turned to look at me. “Oh the good Lord help us, Kenley—you didn’t go to work like that, did you?”

She’d been at her morning tennis match when I’d left the house today. Now she stared, her face the picture of dismay.

Stopping in place like a toddler caught in the middle of a naughty act, I looked down at my outfit—jeans, a loose sweater, flats. Perfectly ordinary.

I knew it was my bare face that troubled her more than my clothes, though I was sure she didn’t love them either.

“Well, since you can see I just came home from work, yes, this must be how I went to work.”

Forcing my stiff body back into motion, I went to the cabinet and taking out four glasses. I filled them with ice and sweet tea, trying to control the angry burn rising from my chest to my hairline. I should totally have gone out for drinks with the gang from work. I was rapidly getting in the mood for something stronger than tea.

“This is pretty typical of what producers wear there, Momma. It’s not like I’m on-air anymore.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean you have to go out dressed like someone’s housekeeper.”

“There’s my hardworking girl.” Daddy walked into the kitchen from the living room and kissed my cheek. “I think you look beautiful, baby girl. As always.”

I gave him a smile of silent thanks. “Hi Daddy.”

Momma’s knife slapped against the cutting board as she chopped a head of romaine.

“You’re not helping her, Kevin. You’re just enabling this little rebellion or pity party or whatever it is she’s got going on. How will she ever find a new boyfriend worth anything if she walks around town looking like a middle-aged housewife?”

“You’re a middle-aged housewife,” Daddy said, picking up a stack of plates and heading to the dining room.

She called back over her shoulder. “But I don’t look like one—and you should be glad I don’t. All I’m saying is men are visual creatures, and I just don’t understand this sudden aversion she has to fixing herself up.”

I let out an aggravated sigh. “I’m still right here, Momma.”

She turned her attention back to me. “You used to be beautiful—youarea beautiful girl… when you do your hair and makeup and you’re at your target weight. And you’ve got a hundred cute, expensive outfits in your closet. Why do you insist on leaving the house like… this?”

Extending an arm, she gestured up and down at my apparently offensive attire.

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