Page 36 of Stealing Blinds

“Or one of his teammates. He knows where I live, and I’m sure they do, but …”

“Get rid of who?” she probes.

Could be Cash, but that really depends on who’s issuing the ultimatum.

I sit down at my desk to try to access the building’s security footage, even though I’m sure I’ll find it wiped. “I don’t know. Jesus, Mom, it’s coming at me from every side.”

“Not every side. Two sides,” she says in her never-ruffled air. “If you’re being squeezed from the left and right, you can always take a step back or choose to move forward.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie.”

“Fine. Don’t say I never tried to be prophetic. Some people find my metaphors insightful. Grab your bag, Sylvie. And stay on the phone with me unless you’re in the air or in my driveway.”

“I can do that,” I whisper, hating the weakness threading that vow. I’m so exhausted.

“Good. And don’t be hasty and forget anything important, like that elaborate assortment of vibrators.”

“You are the absolute worst,” I hiss, but she knows I mean the opposite.

Seven hours later, I’m on a couch in my mother’s screened lanai at her Key Largo beach house. I have all my essentials with me, so I never have to return to my New York loft. You’d think that would lend a sense of peace. It doesn’t.

But I don’t hate the magenta skies or the sun disappearing into the ocean or the sound of the waves lapping the shore, so for the second time today, I try to revel in simple liberties.

My mother pours me some wine, scrutinizing my propped-up feet. “Your ankle doesn’t look too swollen.”

“It’s fine.” I take the glass and help myself to a sip. “I barely twisted it.”

She studies me for a minute, her wild caramel curls framing her wise beauty and her green eyes discerning something in their perusal. “It’s not like you to fumble. What were you doing?”

“I told you, I saw the envelope. Isn’t that enough?”

“And you knew immediately that it was bad?”

“No.” I shrug. “But I suspected.”

“And you weren’t doing anything else?”

She’s going to pester me all night.

“I was FaceTiming someone.” When her lips pop open, I tack on, “Cash Noire.”

“You were video-chatting with Cash Noire,” she repeats in full-heckling mode.

And as luck would have it, my mother’s best friend, Luella, waltzes in like she owns the place, so my mom points to my ankle and spews her version of events. “She was on the phone with Cash and so distracted that my Olympic-worthy gymnast of a daughter sprained her ankle. Walking.”

“How do you manage to make everything so dramatic? Hi, Lou.”

“I was so excited to hear you were crashing, sweetie. It’s rare that I get to see you in May.” She leans in to give me a half hug before snatching my mother’s wine from her. “So good to have you here. Tell me about this Cash.”

I’m grateful she doesn’t delve into the reason I don’t usually visit this time of year, but I’m still not divulging anything.

“There is nothing to tell.” I let my voice carry with that because my mom vanishes into the house, but then I lower it in a plea to Luella. “He’s just a friend. Do not encourage her.”

“I would never.” She presses a hand to her chest, taking a seat near the built-in glass cabinet, full of souvenirs.

“Uh-huh.” I grant her my best mean mug above the rim of my glass, but all she does is laugh.

My mother blows back in like a dust storm, kicking up everything in sight. “What sorry explanation did she give you, Lou?”