My mom and I only chatted on the phone about once a week, but we texted constantly. Both of us hated talking on the phone, but we made an exception for each other. And then we’d spend all day catching up, telling each other everything going on—except when she was headed to France for months at a time.
Okay, we told each other everything we could remember. I usually remembered more than she did.
Cynthia Troy had been flighty her entire life and she was only getting worse. I loved her easy-going personality and ability to laugh at herself. But her forgetfulness was only getting worse the older she got.
At least she had Tony now. They’d married three years ago after dating for the same length of time, both second marriages with grown children. Mom only had me, but Tony had four kids that lived all over the country.
They’d known each other almost my entire life. Tony had been one of my dad’s investment partners. But it wasn’t until after Dad died that the sparks had flown—they’d accidentally reconnected at a little wine shop where they were both bottle of the month members. He was a very successful investment banker and my mom loved money. It was a match made in heaven.
Luckily, Tony had turned out to be a great guy, even after working with my dad for so long, and I was thrilled my mom had finally met a man that loved her so completely.
I’d grown up watching her put up with my dad’s shit. Once he’d died, she’d gone into a tragic cycle of meeting, dating, and dumping countless losers. For a short period of time, I’d followed in her footsteps. We’d both broken free around the same time. But for different reasons.
She’d gone on to find her happily ever after. I’d spent six years avoiding men completely and wishing they’d feel the same way about me. Now I just prayed I wouldn’t have to wait until I was fifty-seven to meet my soulmate.
“Please, please, please don’t make me wait another thirty years,” I whispered to the ceiling, hoping the powers that be could hear my plea.
I knew I wouldn’t be as fortunate as my mom if I had to wait that long. I was barely getting out of my twenties without Botox. In another three decades, I might be a cautionary tale of plastic surgery gone wrong.
The kitchen was not a kind place of employment for people like me, who preferred clear skin over the alternative, and clean hair over greasy and straggly. Cooking in a hot kitchen was not conducive for those things.
“I’m glad to hear you’re safe in Paris,” I told her. I could hear Tony in the background, reminding her about reservations.
“I guess I have to go,” she pouted. “The slave driver is summoning me.”
“Have a good time. And keep in mind I’m ridiculously jealous and now I won’t be able to enjoy my day at all.”
She laughed and I pictured her tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder so she could tug on her earring like she did when she thought something was truly funny. “Yeah, right, Ms. Head Chef. I’m sure your life is so terrible right now.”
I groaned in response. I’d texted her last night to share the news, somewhere between being excited for the position and absolutely terrified.
“Oh, stop that. This is a dream come true. Your brother spoils you rotten.”
That was true. “It’s already given me a headache and I haven’t started yet.”
“Take some medicine before it turns into a migraine,” she instructed. “And then drink a glass of champagne. You’ll feel better.”
It was pointless suggesting I shouldn’t drink alcohol this early in the morning with a handful of pills. But I let it go. She knew that. She just wasn’t thinking about her words.
“Love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, Dilly Bar. I’ll call you later.”
We both knew that was a lie, but she probably meant it at the moment.
After hanging up my phone, I stumbled to the kitchen, following her advice. At least to search for the ibuprofen.
I skipped the champagne.
For now.
I chased the drugs with a full glass of water and a few crackers to keep from getting nauseous. Then I dragged myself to the shower and turned it on as hot as I could stand it.
The heavy stream of water washed away some of the tightness in my shoulder blades and across the back of my neck. I worked through my daily shower routine and then stood under the pelting water until my fingers were prunes and the medicine kicked in.
By the time I’d finished dealing with my thick head of blonde beachy waves and applied some eyeliner and mascara, my phone had really woken up.
I’d missed texts from friends in the industry, congratulating me on my new gig. News traveled super-fast between kitchens. We loved gossip as much as we loved cooking.
