I nodded and made a mental note. Typically, I was hit or miss on participating in these things, but after the small taste of a good time I had yesterday, I wanted to go out again. Anywhere was fine.
“What’s for dinner?” Priscilla asked, cutting into my inner monologue.
“Chicken tortilla soup,” I said, knowing this would get a reaction.
“My favorite. Yes!” She squealed, pumping her fist into the air, and went back to her phone.
A few minutes later, she looked up. “Did you make something else for Dad? He doesn’t like the soup.”
“Yep.” I tried to push Priscilla’s observation out of my mind, but it was hard. “Steak. I picked up a few steaks to grill too.”
“Oh, good.”
When we got home, she went to study for a test, and I finished up a few paragraphs in an upcoming article on makeup influencers.
My laptop closed, I chopped some veggies for a salad and roasted a few potatoes to go with Tommy’s steak. He’d be home early around six for us to eat dinner as a family. His secretary had texted me the details.
Swallowing my pride, I tried to think about how that must have made Mallory feel. I mean, she basically was tasked with texting me to jump, and she must know I immediately went into “how high” mode.
The oven beeped, bringing me back to the task at hand.
I popped in the potatoes and veggies and stirred the soup in the Crock-Pot, enjoying the scent of the fresh tomatoes and cilantro. The soup was damn good, but the one time I’d dared to serve it to Tommy, he got up from the table and went to the bar at Morton’s.
Checking the fridge, I noted the sour cream on the top shelf for Priscilla, and grated a little extra Monterey Jack for on top of mine. Slipping my grated cheese back in the fridge, I thought about a glass of wine but then reconsidered. It was best to have all my faculties when Tommy was home.
“Ouch,” I said under my breath as I clipped my hip on the back door as I went out to the deck to light the grill. I already had enough bumps and bruises; there was no need to add more.
Standing outside, I looked around and thought about how seldom Priscilla had friends over, and how much she loved going to her friends’ houses. Maybe I hadn’t protected her as much as I thought I had.
She poked her head outside the back door. “Mom?”
“Yes, my beautiful angel?” My heart ached as I answered.
“What was the first article you ever wrote?”
“Why?”
“I’m writing a paper on you, why else?”
“Me?”
“Yes, Mom, you. Now, what was the first article?” She stood poised with her phone, ready to tap in Notes. Long gone were the days of actually taking notes in a notebook.
“Walk with me while I get Dad’s steak,” I said, knowing we could get lost in conversation, which I also knew would be bad for me. “It was a total fluff-meets-history piece, but I was so proud of it.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me.
“Your dad and I were still living in Philadelphia, and I got a gig writing for thePhilly Mag. It was mostly fancy pics of restaurants and shops, movie reviews, and sights to see around town. My first article was on the little shops of Rittenhouse Square and their legacies.”
“Oh, so did you interview people or visit the stores?”
I walked back toward the yard and grill, spraying some non-stick spray on the grates and slapping the steaks down. Glancing at my watch, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was on time.
“I did visit a number of stores and interviewed some of the apartment dwellers around there, asking where they shopped. I also noted if they mentioned if it had changed over the years.”
“Did you like it? Did you know right away you were happy?” Priscilla leaned into the back door, waiting for me to answer.
“I loved stringing words together and the connections I made. I’d hoped to write more news or current events, but as time went on and I started writing about lifestyle and different marketing tactics, I realized it was a sweet spot for me. Who knew all this social media would really hit, and I would be in the right niche?”
