Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
She arches a doubtful brow. Yes, from several feet away and across the net, I can read her dubious stare. “Darling, did you let me win?”
“Please. I’d never do that. I’m so competitive.”
In business. Not in sports. I couldn’t wait to hang up my tennis racket when I was in high school. Just like I can’t wait to pack it into a bag today.
Mom grabs a towel from a bench and wipes her brow. “Up for a rematch this afternoon?”
Where does she get her energy from? She’s been like this for the last few years. Busy. I don’t know if it’s real or a new survival strategy. A distraction from pain tactic.
“I would, but I have to prep for seeing Geeta tomorrow,” I say.
“Where are you meeting her? In public?”
“At a tea shop, so yes,” I say, trying to hide the exasperation from my tone.
“Do you trust her still?”
“Of course, Mom.”
She arches a brow. “It’s not an unreasonable question when it comes to a business partner.”
“But I’ll never be able to give you an answer that’s satisfying.”
She huffs, perhaps knowing I’m right, but saying nothing.
“It’s all good with Geeta, Mom. It really is,” I reassure her. “And we have a lot to catch up on.”
“Right, of course. The Makeover app gets all your attention,” Mom says, shifting gears, and you can’t miss the dig in her voice.
Or the envy.
I ignore it as we stride off the members-only court on Randall’s Island, where the elite of New York play one of the most elite games. The membership roll call looks like descendants of the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers.
“So how was Miami? I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’m not that jealous of The Makeover,” she says, even though we both know she is. At least she’s being honest about it now.
But she wants what she wants—and that’s for me to ditch The Makeover app and come work for her, then to take over the company.
“It was great,” I say, then share all the safe-for-work details as we head inside. Once we turn into the ladies’ locker room, Mom gasps in excitement then wags a finger at a regal blonde with silver streaks in her hair. “Rose! You sneak. You didn’t tell me you were coming today.”
The tall, elegant woman shuts her locker and comes in for a cheek kiss, dusting Mom with one of her own. “Oh, it was a last-minute thing. My appointment with my stylist was canceled,” Rose says when she pulls back, pouting for emphasis.
“Whatever will you wear to the silent auction next weekend then?” my mother asks in concern because attire to charity functions is the height of concern in their world.
“I don’t have any idea. But Bertrand tells me he’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning so, crisis averted. He can still pick my emcee gown for the literacy gala.”
My mother wipes her brow dramatically. “Thank god.” Then, she squeezes my arm, inviting me into the conversation. “Layla and I are going to catch up over cobb salad on all our various charitable board endeavors,” she says, pride in her tone. “It’s our thing.”
Rose smiles approvingly. “I love your generosity.”
“Yours too,” Mom says to her, and even though there’s some typical one-upmanship between them, they both back it up with their pocketbooks. Mom taught me the value of charity a long time ago.
Rose turns to me. “And did your mother destroy you on the court like she does with everyone?”
“She always does.”
“Anna, do save a match for me,” Rose says. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Sounds lovely,” my mother says, then the woman leaves.
Once she’s out of earshot, Mom whispers, “I want her to be my doubles partner. She’s been through a lot too.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I simply say, “That’s great.”
Even though it’s probably not.
When we’re done showering and changing for lunch, we leave the locker room and head to the restaurant. As we walk down the hallway lined with photos of club members, Mom cups the side of her mouth. “Rose’s son David is still single. You two would be so good together. He’s very interested in charitable endeavors too.”
This is what it’s come to? I can’t believe she’s started recycling. With a straight face, I say, “Mom, I dated David Bancroft in college.”
She blinks. “You did?”
My throat burns with the threat of emotion. Those were the Xanax years for Mom. She spent a lot of my college years struggling with depression. Completely understandable. She’s only recently started to emerge from the fog of grief. So gently, I say, “I did. We’re still friends. I haven’t seen him in a few months since he went to Canada on a wilderness expedition.”
“And Rose says he’s returning this week. We’re both so grateful he’s finally done with that…Jersey bartender he met on the trails,” she says, her tongue sharp, rankling me.