Page 37 of The Do-Over

But when I turned around, Mimi was standing there, beer can in hand, squinting at the refrigerator like she expected it to propose.

“Mimi?”

“Sugar, what’s this here?” She pointed with the can to the list of resolutions hanging there.

Cheeks warming, I tried to grab it. “Oh, that’s nothing.”

Mimi put a hand on my wrist and stopped me. “What are you doing? I was reading.”

She took a long pull of her beer and cocked her head. All her hair was scraped back into a high ponytail, a black bedazzled hair clip and a lot of hairspray holding it in place. Her eyes moved across the list once and then again, muttering a word now and then.

“It’s not a big deal.” I tugged on her arm. “Come on. This cobbler isn’t going to make itself.”

“We’ll get to that. I want to know about these resolutions of yours.”

I hesitated. “It’s something Mathias came up with.”

An eyebrow arched with interest. But instead of pushing me for answers, she turned to the island where all our baking items were spread out. She pulled the pot of peaches from the stove and set it in the sink, where she flushed out the boiling water and added ice. “We need music.”

I produced the radio I kept for her from under the sink and plugged it in.

“You start peeling the peaches when they cool, and I’ll find us something to listen to. Good music makes—”

“—good food,” I said. Classic Mimi-ism.

Mimi fussed with the dial before settling on a George Strait song. We worked together for the next ten minutes, me following Mimi’s instructions, Mimi breaking into the occasional dance routine when the spirit moved her.

“I like those resolutions of yours,” she announced once the cobbler was in the oven.

I scoffed. “I’m not taking them seriously.”

“You sure about that?” Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed me. “Is this why you quit?”

“No? Yes? Maybe? It’s not like that.” And then I told her all of it, about the lunch with Mom and how New Perci had lied through her teeth about having another job, and about how I was not going back to work at Mayfield. I thought. Probably.

“Good.”

“Good?”

She took my hand and squeezed it. “You’ve been dressing like a widow and acting like you’re dead. Just lying around and letting people walk all over your grave.”

I imagined my black-clad body draped on the floor with one of those chalk outlines drawn around me. Mimi did have a way with painting the word pictures. “I guess I don’t know how to act any other way.”

“Sure, you do. You got a backbone—you just need to remember how to use it.”

The oven timer went off and Mimi took the cobbler out and set it on the island to cool.

“I hardly think a bunch of resolutions is going to make that happen.” Nevertheless, I turned and stared at the list.

Mimi patted me on the cheek. “Maybe not. Or maybe Mathias is smarter than you’re giving him credit for. Seems to me, he knew exactly what he was doing when he wrote these.”

On Monday, I set my alarm, weighed myself, winced at the number, showered and dressed. I spent the next hour updating my résumé, then pulled on my tall black boots and trekked the four blocks to Miss Marge’s Preschool and Daycare.

My steps were lighter as I made my way to the little house on the corner. The HELP WANTED sign still hung in the window. I pulled out my phone and punched in the phone number before I could second-guess myself.

Someone answered after the fourth ring, sounding breathless and as warbled as a warped record. “Miss Marge’s Preschool and Daycare, how can I help you?” In the window, I could make out a squat, round form edging around the desk.

“Yes, hi. I saw your ‘help wanted’ sign.”