Worried about him now, I punch my mother’s autodial number. “Mia, oh good,” she breathes out as she answers.
“What’s wrong with Dad?”
“I’m headed out of town in the morning. I was hoping you might come by and bring your dad dinner. It would really make him happy.”
My brows dip. “Since when do you travel for business?”
“Moving to the private sector in pharmaceuticals pays better than academia did, and it’s also a new way of life,” she says. “My boss wantsme to deliver the statistical findings on several new drugs at a convention in Texas. I’m flying out tomorrow, delivering my little speech on Thursday, and then flying home that night. Your father will only be alone one night.”
She’s speaking of him as if he’s a pet that needs a sitter, but then I’ve found mathematicians to be almost as clinical as scientists. Also, I frown with another thought. “Who is your new boss?”
“Dirk Michaels. He’s the head of statistical findings for North America.”
“And he wants you to deliver the findings? Why not himself?”
“I guess it’s beneath him. You know how these stuffed shirts are.” She cackles a familiar cackle, the same one she always lets out when the story of me being left in the store is told. She’s uncomfortable and quickly shifts topics. “How are things with you?”
I open my mouth to tell her about my project but then press my lips together. She doesn’t care how I am. She wants to escape, so I offer her an escape. “Actually, covering for my boss, so I’m super busy. Have a safe flight, and tell Dad I’ll be by tomorrow night.”
“You’re a good daughter,” she says, relief in her voice. “I’ll tell him. Talk to you soon.” She disconnects, escaping into the oblivion of a dead phone line.
I’m a good daughter?My brows dip. When has she ever, in all my life, said those words to me? What is going on? I sit there with each silent second ticking with heavy thuds as an uncomfortable thought lights up my mind and then crashes hard in my gut, where it screams to remain alive.
I quickly google “Dirk Michaels” and “Rochel Pharmaceuticals” before clicking on images. A photo of a man I guess to be in his midforties, with dark hair, a goatee, and chiseled facial features, appears on my screen. Oh Lord, my mom’s new boss is good looking. Surely she’s not—I mean—she would never have an affair. Would she?
Chapter Eight
By my estimate, I’m still more than an hour from finishing the proposal when the library closes. Jack pokes his head into my little workroom and says, “I hate leaving you, but tonight is Paige’s dinner.”
Paige would be his older, and only, sister. They aren’t close, but since their parents are both passed now, they try to stay in touch. They lost their mother two years ago to cancer. Their father, before I ever knew Jack, to a work accident. He was a firefighter. They were divorced, a bitter divorce from what Jack has shared. Paige is a family law attorney, ironically married twice and divorced, and it seems she is always seeing a new man.
“Try to enjoy it,” I urge, knowing all too well the way Paige pushes him to date more, calling him one step from being the guy’s version of a cat lady, since he has three cats. She might be right, but Daisy, Doodle, and Donna are adorable.
“Don’t say yes to a date with anyone I don’t approve of,” he counters.
“You don’t approve of anyone.”
“True,” he says. “Because I may have to tell my sister we’re dating. It would shut her up, and she already knows you.”
“Dating I can fake, but I’m not marrying you to please Paige.”
“Maybe we should make one of those pacts that if we’re both not married at forty, we marry each other.”
“That would be a great idea if I wasn’t pretty sure we’ll both be single at forty. And how does that affect us now? I’m too sober and busy to even think about screwing us up right now. Plus, your sister will never let us be fake engaged for that many years.”
He grimaces. “My sister will be twice more divorced by then.”
“Then maybe you should stop letting her pressure you to be her.”
“If only you were as confident as your advice, Mia.”
He’s not wrong. If only.
He glances at his watch. “You leaving soon?”
“About an hour. You know I love this place when it’s just me and the books.”
“A little too much sometimes,” he murmurs, but I don’t even try to read between those blurry lines. I’ve been single too long to kid myself I would like his meaning.
