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“Well, I can tell he’s a keeper,” she announces after a few minutes of peering at the screen. “It’s just like when I watch political candidates on the TV. There’s just something about seeing a person that lets you know. This Matt fellow is one of the good ones.”
“Mom, um—I should probably tell you something.” I try to get my phone back, but she’s holding it tight.
Also, she’s not listening to me.
She’s too darn excited that her baby girl has a ‘keeper’ on her hands. “You took this photo of Matt, didn’t you? This was with your phone, right?”
“Um, yeah.” And his name’s not Matt.
We didn’t meet at a coffee shop in Rhode Island five weeks ago. He’s not thirty-five. He doesn’t own a shoe store.
“Well, it’s all there. Written on his face. He’s positively enthralled by you, sweetie. Just look at the way he looks at the camera! He’s smitten, and that’s just what you want. Now, if he comes here for Easter, I’ll cook up a nice honey ham, the way your grandmother used to do it, basting every twenty minutes. It sure makes for a long day, but it’s necessary so that it comes out nice and juicy.”
“Mom, Matt isn’t coming here for Easter.”
She pulls off her reading glasses. “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re going there. What are your father and I going to do?”
“Mom…” I take a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you. I actually made up that story about Matt.”
“What on earth are you talking about? You mean, how you two met at the coffee shop? Oh, honey, phooey.” She waves her readers at me. “You don’t have to worry if you actually met him at a bar. I don’t drink these days, but I’ve got nothing against establishments that serve alcohol.”
My phone, still in her hands, starts to ring.
She looks at the screen. “Devina. Hrmph. Isn’t she your manager? Why is she calling so late?”
The cold chill of dread slithers down my spine.
Why is she calling so late?
My meeting with Fabian Lucien looms in my mind. I’m supposed to chat with him on Google Meets tomorrow morning.
I reach for the phone. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
I hold the thing like a ticking time bomb until it stops ringing. The nervousness turns to something more serious when I see she left a voicemail.
“Can you excuse me for a minute?” I ask my mom.
I feel bad. I haven’t seen her in a week, and now I’m that family member—the one who sneaks out on visits to take work calls.
If things weren’t so topsy-turvy at work, there is a chance I’d wait and listen to this voicemail twenty minutes from now when I’ve made it out to the privacy of my car.
But I don't think I can wait that long to hear what she has to say.
My nerves would eat away at me by the minute, so waiting’s out of the question.
I pace to the far side of the room, by the picture window, and pull up the message.
Ew. There’s a half-foot of snow piled on my car. I don’t even have gloves with me, so I’ll have to borrow a pair of mittens from Mom.
“Hello, Hazel,” Devina’s message begins. “I assume your flight landed despite this abysmal weather hitting New England. Please give me a call; I have something to discuss with you.”
She sounds pleased with herself.
Smug.
She’s delighted, and with Devina, that usually means something awful is happening to someone besides her. I’ve never met someone who loves seeing others fail as much as Devina.
What’s she so pleased about?
