Page 13 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERFOUR

RACHEL

Monday morning arrived to the tune of UB40’s “Red Red Wine,” the soundtrack to my downfall. Ignoring the subliminal message trilling from my alarm, I spent the morning reorganizing. My wardrobe consisted of blocks of order—nine-piece ensembles that could carry me from day to night to day again with the switch of an accessory. After I arranged each outfit by season, I polished the glasses on my open shelves and set them in perfect lines. Then I made my bed, tucking my lilac sheets snug enough to please a sergeant.

My goal: If I kept my visible life in order, the underlying mess may go unnoticed.

With those tasks completed, I scrolled the internet for possible jobs: Professional butter sculptor? Dog behaviorist? Pornography historian? Maybe I’d start a national walk-a-thon, all proceeds donated to Unemployed Girls with Bad Judgment.

Every few minutes, I’d dirty-look my wine fridge. Nope. Never drinking again. But the bottles prompted me to search winemaking careers. The notion of selecting grapes, overseeing the crushing and fermentation process, of bringing joy to people through each glass, was tempting. Wine also reminded me of my father, nights uncorking bottles the most vivid memories I had. The more I learned about wine, the closer I felt to him. Sometimes I’d pour a glass of a delicious new discovery by his gravestone.

My throat burned, a familiar sadness engulfing me. He’d missed another birthday. Another year of family dinners and baseball games. Some things never got easier.

Including the prospect of returning to school.

Two to three years of full-time studies, followed by an apprenticeship, when most of my endeavors had lasted but a few months, didn’t make sense. Piling school loans on top of my rent and bills wasn’t feasible, either. Not when I was determined to support myself. Frustrated with my fruitless searching, I plunked my forehead on my desk.

My cell rang.

The sight of my mother’s name dampened my mood further. If I answered her, I’d have to admit I’d gotten fired again. Or had I quit? I didn’t even know the truth of it. But delaying the inevitable seemed like more headache than it was worth. And I’d ignored her call last night…

Steeling my nerves, I pressed Talk. “Hey, Ma.”

“I might be late for lunch today. If you get to Andros first, get us a table outside.”

Crap. Lunch. I squeezed my eyes shut. So overwrought, I’d forgotten my mother wanted to treat me to a belated birthday outing. “Not sure I can make it.”

Or deal with her crazy.

“Nonsense. We planned this weeks ago. I’ll see you later.”

She hung up. I stared at nothing and cursed my life.

An hour later, I waited at Andros, dressed in my gray skirt, heels, and white blouse, as though I’d come from the job I no longer had. My mother breezed in, oblivious to my deception.

She slung her massive purse over the back of her chair with a sigh. Her blond hair was sprayed into a solid block, her painted-on eyebrows and pink lipstick likely to melt in the heat. “I wouldn’t have been late, but the cleaning lady came today. Last time she made my bed, she put the pillows backward, so I had to show her again how I like it. I swear, I should just do it myself.”

Lydia Kates majored in melodrama. “Why don’t you?”

She raised one eyebrow, a skill I could never master. “You know how busy I am with the Healing Hearts luncheon. I’m not Superwoman. I’ve had to spend time with Alyssa, too. Things have been tough for her at home.”

I could mention five to ten hours of volunteering a week shouldn’t limit her from making beds and mopping the floor, but I’d pushed her to get involved. Helping raise money for the heart disease that took my father’s life had been her first step to regaining hers, and she’d met women like Alyssa through the foundation. Other women who’d suffered loss. I’d never belittle the effort.

“And did I tell you,” she went on, “that your aunt Sarah’s sister-in-law, Dahlia, just got diagnosed with liver cancer? Not even fifty, and The Cancer? If life were fair, those reality stars with their skimpy clothes and sex videos would get The Cancer, not poor Dahlia.”

I winced as others glanced our way, judgment in their pinched faces. My mother only had one volume—loud nasal—and on a scale from one to Mel Gibson, the woman’s inappropriateness hovered at Charlie Sheen. “I wouldn’t go wishing cancer on people, Ma.”

“Anyway,” she said, talking over me, “I’ve just been a wreck and need to drop off some soup this week, so I’ll make extra. You’re looking thin, Rachel. Have you been cooking? I bet you’re eating nothing but takeout.”

The waiter arrived in time to save me the agony of listening to her concerns—yourarms are too thin, your skin looks pale, are you sleeping all right? She’d tutted around my brother and me growing up, but this anxiety, this worry someone would get sick or hurt or worse, had developed since we lost my dad. I always let her fuss. Unless she took a page from Ainsley and commented on my boring clothes. I’d take “plain Jane” any day over wearing my mother’s fuchsia blazer, complete with shoulder pads and a brooch the size of my face.

Our waiter smiled, clueless to his approaching doom. “Ready to order?”

He proceeded to write a novel on his order pad, ensuring my mother got her dressing on the side, roasted red peppers instead of red onion, green olives instead of black, no salt or feta, and an addition of chicken—poached, not seared—in her salad.

I smiled and said, “The regular Greek is fine for me.”

“Modifications are not a problem.” He gave me a wink. “I aim to please.”