Page 51 of The Do-Over

“Isn’t he a priest?”

“Priests can be hotties.” With a grin, she mashed the end of her cigarette on the brick ledge and chucked it in the yard before closing the window. From her purse, she pulled out a miniature bottle of perfume which she spritzed liberally, then mouthwash, and gave her mouth a swish.

I clambered to my feet, wincing as the Spanx cut into my waist. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mimi linked arms with me. “That’s my girl.”

We marched into the dining room where only two seats remained—one next to Joel Allen, the other next to Brent. I turned to Mimi in horror. In the end, I sat next to Brent. Better the devil you’ve kissed and lived to tell about, I guess.

I made it through most of the dinner with no cause for alarm. If I pretended Brent didn’t exist, he almost didn’t. Well, except his right elbow, which bumped into my arm over and over. And if I faced forward, I was met with the fake-smiling face of Joel Allen.

So, I stared at the tiny watermelons on my shirtsleeve and counted the minutes until I could leave.

“How are things?” Brent nudged me again with his elbow as he cut up his meatloaf—my favorite childhood meal. Except Mom had made a healthy version with low-fat ground turkey to “cut the calories.” And the taste.

I shrugged. “Fine. How’s Candy?”

“Oh, good. We’re keeping things easy.”

“What does that mean?” I tipped my face toward him. A small spot of gravy dotted his tie, which was a ghastly shade of grayish-brown. I stared at it.

“We aren’t exclusive, you know?”

“So, you’re seeing other people?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. What about you? You seeing anyone?”

An image of Nate, that small smile on his face, popped into my head. Where had that come from?

“Brent,” my mother said, from her reign of terror at the head of the table. “It’s so nice you could make it. How’s work?”

“It’s good. Thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Mayfield.” He smiled.

“You know you’re like a member of the family.” Mom’s eyes cut to me. “Isn’t that right, Persephone?”

Brent settled his arm around my shoulders with a laugh. “It sure feels that way.”

I tried to shrug him off, but he didn’t take the hint. Mom beamed at us. “Such a lovely couple.”

“Mom, we aren’t a couple,” I said.

Her laugh tinkled like a bell and my teeth gnashed in response. “You never know, dear.” She turned to my sister. “Honey, have you two set a date for the wedding yet?”

Joel Allen stopped shoveling food in his mouth long enough to answer. “We’re thinking next March.”

“Wonderful. That gives us plenty of time to plan.” Mom set her fork down. “We’ve got to find a venue. What do you think about Daddy’s club? Or maybe that place your cousin got married a few years ago. What was it called?”

No one answered. I stuffed a spoonful of what Mom called “cauliflower mashed potatoes” in my mouth. (Only sixty-six calories per serving.)

“Well, no mind, we’ll figure it out. It’ll need to be big enough to accommodate a large wedding, of course. How many guests, do you think?” Mom paused for a sip of wine and plowed on. “At least three hundred? Oh, we must go dress shopping immediately. Won’t that be fun?”

Phee straightened, her expression uncertain. “I’m thinking something small and intimate.”

“Of course, for the ceremony. But the reception needs to be huge,” Mom said, excitement in her eyes as if it were her wedding. “Two local celebrities marrying? We’ll have quite the guest list, I’m sure.”

“Mom,” Phee said, a note of resignation in her voice.

My mother pushed her plate aside and went to her happy place—meddling in her children’s lives. “Let’s go dress shopping soon. We’ll make a day of it—all us girls. Your sister will be a bridesmaid, of course. What colors are you thinking? Perci looks best in black, which won’t do for a wedding.” Her gaze locked on me like a missile with a target in sight. “You know, honey, you have a year. We’ll get you on a diet and—”