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“My treat.”
I walked him out.
I didn’t have money to treat him to lunch, either, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
* * *
I setDad up in a cheap motel and he acted like I put him in the Bellagio. I paid two nights in advance and I gave him five hundred dollars because a man had to have money in his pocket.
This left me fifty dollars in the bank, groceries to buy and my car needed gas.
Dad and I planned to meet up at Fortnum’s the next morning with me bringing the donuts. Luckily, I’d have my tips from Smithie’s in my pocket by tomorrow morning so I could probably afford the donuts.
I went to the grocery store, got necessities, hit the gas station and arrived home later than usual. I needed a nap, but probably wouldn’t have time. There was laundry to be done.
Mom tried to help, but she got tired quickly. She was trying to get back to doing things around the house and cooking for herself, but was finding it frustrating, so I’d have to hang with her in the kitchen and help when she needed it. We’d need to do some exercises too, because she had PT tomorrow and they didn’t like it when you didn’t exercise in between appointments. Then I had to cake on the makeup for Smithie’s and roll back out the door.
The minute I walked into the living room, lugging the groceries, Mom took one look at me and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She freaked me out sometimes.
“Nothing.”
I had no intention of telling her Dad was in town. Un-unh, no way.
I went into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. She rolled into the doorway and blocked me in.
“Something’s wrong,” she declared.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Henrietta Louise,” she said.
She always used my real name when she was ticked at me. Either that or “Missy.” I didn’t know where “Missy” came from, but that name came out when she was super angry.
Mom had bright green eyes and great, thick blonde hair. Blonde because Trixie came to the apartment and gave her a cut and color every six weeks—Trixie also gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks. Trixie had been my mom’s best friend since high school, she loved her to death and she was an absolute gem.
Mom also had a great smile, before the stroke. Now it was still good, but kind of lopsided. She was a baton twirler in high school and she said they taught you how to smile when you were a baton twirler.
They did a good job. She had a world-class smile. Even Dad said that.
She wasn’t smiling now. She was frowning. “You look worried.”
I always looked worried. How she could decipher that I wasmoreworried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instilled with the Mom Ability to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.
I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent. In other words, I kind of lied.
“Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”
She gasped. “What?”
I shrugged.
“What would make him think that?” she asked.
I put away the milk. “It’s a misunderstanding.”
“I’ll say. Do you want me to call him?”
