“The one and only.”
“Didn’t he just lay off an entire department, then buy a Tesla?”
“That’s him.” Dylan cringed as she said this. The infamous candy apple–red Founders Series custom Roadster wasn’t half as bad as his memo instructing all departments to give out T-shirts instead of holiday bonuses. Gunderson prided himself on being frugal when it came to business but was completely extravagant in his personal life. As a result, Technocore was hemorrhaging key employees who wanted to be paid well and treated to more than a doughnut at the annual Employee Appreciation Day.
“What are you doing for them?”
“For starters, getting rid of the Tesla.” Dylan’s smile was more of a flinch. Technocore was nothing short of a career death sentence. Four of the last consulting firms had either been fired or had quit within weeks of attempting to work with Gunderson. She just hoped she lasted long enough for a stay of execution.
“Hello? Mike? Whose shoes are these?” Patricia’s crisp voice floated down the hallway.
“In here,” Mike called over his shoulder.
Dylan suddenly became aware of her legs tucked under her, the wet hem of her wool pants soaking into the couch. Feeling guilty, she pulled her legs to the ground just as Patricia and Linda rounded the corner.
“Oh, hi, Dylan.” Patricia looked surprised the shoes belonged to her but recovered quickly enough. After walking over in her ultrawhite and well-pressed sweater set, she stood in front of Dylan with her arms open. It took a moment for her to realize that Patricia Robinson actually wanted to hug her. A Delacroix. Stooping to embrace the petite woman, she wondered what alternate universe she’d stumbled into. Since when did the Robinsons unlace enough to hug?
“You look so grown! I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I haven’t been home in a few years,” Dylan said as Patricia released her to Linda, who was equally well put together. Dylan spotted pearls under Linda’s black fleece jacket. Her hair was pulled into a tight bunand covered in enough hair spray to make sure each strand stayed in place into eternity. “How are you?”
“Same old, same old. Are you here about the lights?” Linda asked without preamble.
“I’m sorry. It’s killing my mother,” Dylan said with an uncomfortable shrug.
“I heard her tell Henry last night. I thought they would send Milo with a note again. You’re a pleasant surprise,” Linda said happily, holding up the take-out bag. “Join us in the kitchen?”
“Mom, if you knew it was bugging them, why didn’t you fix it?” Mike had the decency to look confused. Patricia wore the same contrite expression her father wore whenever her mother did something ridiculous.
Ignoring Mike’s question, Linda shook the bag of food at Dylan. “Stay for egg rolls?” she said, looking entirely unrepentant.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I was only stopping by to see if maybe you could angle the lights a little more toward your driveway?”
“Come have something to eat. You have to be starving,” Patricia answered, disregarding the stubborn set in Linda’s jaw. Whenever Dylan had been sent to negotiate peace as a kid, the Robinsons had fed her. Patricia and Linda were convinced that two people as strange as her parents could not possibly feed their children. This wasn’t true. In point of fact, Bernice was obsessed with family meals, just not at regular meal intervals. Dylan had never bothered to correct the Robinsons’ assumption, mostly because it got her a lot of cookies.
“No, really, it’s okay. I’m sure you want to eat with your son.” Dylan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble at the smell of fried vegetable goodness.
“You sure sound hungry,” Patricia added, her voice tight with disapproval.
“Nope, I’m leaving them all for you.”
“Let’s compromise. You take one for the road,” Linda said, her litigator skills showing. She popped open the container and held it out to Dylan. “Also, honey ... one of your shoes is dripping all over the hall. You may want to look into that.”
Dylan’s cheeks burned as she crossed the street in her dripping heels, munching on the last of her egg roll. When she shoved open the front door, she found her dad following along with an oldDarrin’s Dance Groovesvideo. At one time her father’s impromptu dance marathons might have seemed normal to her. She would just have to pretend she didn’t know better now.
Filling her lungs to drown out the tape, she called, “Mom, what’s this about sending Milo to the Robinsons?”
Her dad was so in the zone he didn’t notice her shouting over the tape. Bernice popped her head around the corner of the kitchen and grinned. “Genius, isn’t it? I usually flag down their son and make him deliver the message, but he was on vacation, and I really couldn’t wait, so I sent Milo. Damn dog nearly went to the wrong house.” Her mother appeared genuinely dismayed at the dog’s inability to deliver angry letters to the neighbors. “So was I right? Did they agree to remove the lights?”
“Not in so many words, but I think their son is going to work on it.”
“Ha. What did I tell you? And you were over here all,Mom, that won’t work because I am an adult. I’m above everything,” Bernice said in a terrible, nasal approximation of Dylan, complete with a robot voice and stiff movements that managed to be as inaccurate as they were patronizing.
“Good impression, Mom. You are a great actress.”
“What? You sound just like that,” Bernice said, waving off her complaint, then adding, “Since you’re here, we may as well push for another victory. I don’t want to stretch our luck, but maybe next week you can talk to them about the hideous speedboat they park in their driveway every summer.” Bernice turned back toward the kitchen. Her change in location made absolutely no difference to her speaking volume. “Talk about an eyesore. And they have the nerve to think the Tiger is tacky.”
“Right,” Dylan said, shaking her head and wandering up the stairs. When she opened her bedroom door, she found that Milo had pulled the blanket off her bed and was lounging on the floor with it. “Gross,” she mumbled, trying to pull her now-dirty comforter out from under his hulking frame. Begrudgingly, Milo rolled over, giving it up. Dylan stood in the middle of her room, debating what to do with it. On the one hand, she wanted her comforter. On the other, it smelled like Milo, whose bathing schedule was more than a little suspect. She decided to risk it and wash the thing in the morning with the rest of the sheets Milo had rolled in.
