“Is it… is it Ralph?” I croak. “Oh no. Has Ralph died?”
A flood of guilt sweeps through me like a tidal wave, the thought of Ralph dying before I could make it back to Heartsboro filling me with pain.
“No, sweetie. It’s about George.”
“George?” Now I’m really confused.
“Yes. He asked me to call you. He’d really like for you to come back to Heartsboro. Ralph has taken a turn, and George needs you here.”
Concerned, I stand and walk over to the window. Staring out at the drab scenery, I shake my head. “I’m so sorry to hear about Ralph. But Jenny, I know George doesn’t want me there during this trying time. In fact, I’m the last person he probably wants around.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with him wanting you here. Heneedsyou here, sweetie. I think having a familiar face around would do him a world of good. Someone he can trust.”
The word “trust” is like a dagger to my heart. If Jenny only knew.
I look at my watch, knowing I have to see my mom first.
“Okay, Jenny. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll get back to you. I’m in Chicago on business and meeting my mom for dinner tonight. It will take me some time to rearrange my itinerary.”
I roll my eyes, listening to myself speak like a corporate idiot. Inhaling a deep breath, I tone it down. This is Jenny from Heartsboro, not some bigwig trying to arrange a deal.
“I’ll do my best to get there in the next day or two. Sound good?”
Her tone holds relief. “Yes. We need you here, Madison. George needs you here, now more than ever before.”
***
The bright-red awning in front of the entrance to Petterinos is easy to spot, located in the heart of Chicago’s theatre district. This Italian restaurant is the perfect place for me to treat my mom, where high-profile folks often dine.
Caricatures of famous politicians, celebrities, and influential Chicagoans decorate the walls, and many of them have probably eaten in the same booth I reserved. Being just steps away from famous Michigan Avenue will tickle my mom’s addiction to the rich and famous, much like her obsession for naming me and Bev after Beverly Hills and Madison Avenue.
Unfortunately, my mom is always late. I wait fifteen minutes before ordering a signature drink from the bar, a spiced limoncello martini, to take the edge off. My mind is swirling with thoughts of George and Jamison Farm. Ralph and his illness. And Jenny’s words:
George needs you here.
As I lift the perfectly poured cocktail to my lips, my eyes land on my mom as she enters the restaurant, chattering away with the hostess.
Viola Adler looks nothing like she did last spring. Gone is her graying brown hair, replaced with a strawberry blonde color teased into a classic Marilyn Monroe style. She’s wearing what looks like a vintage dress, her cleavage accentuated in the dramatic V-neck.
I watch, shocked by my mother’s friendly mannerisms with the hostess, her hips sashaying as she happily swings her shiny black pocketbook by her side, coming toward me. Her lips arepainted a fire-engine red, matching her fingernails. And are those fishnet stockings she’s wearing with her high heels?
“Mother?” I utter, standing.
“Madison!” my mother coos, air kissing both of my cheeks. She turns to the hostess and grins. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. And I’ll be sure to check out the show.”
“You do that.” Her voice still holds a tinge of a Southern twang that doesn’t align with her obvious makeover.
“Mom, what is all of this? Is this part of the show?”
She waves me off and scoots into the booth across the bench seat. “No, honey. This is the new me—the newViola Adler.”
I slowly sink into the soft leather and stare. “Wow. Well, I must say, you look…”
“Fabulous? Well, I feel fabulous. And I’m so happy to see my little girl.” She wrinkles her nose with an over-exaggerated grin.
Who is this woman, and what has she done with my mother?
