Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,58

to push my luck. Maybe we can work toward that once we get past this hurdle.

“It wasn’t you I was trying to help,” my mother insists, carefully folding her handkerchief and putting it back in her bag. Apparently, the threat of more waterworks has passed. “Well, not only you. Our doorman is swamped with requests he can’t handle. I thought if he could refer tenants to you, or if they knew about your services so they could contact you directly, it would save everyone a lot of time and trouble. And Martin agrees. It was his idea to have you come to one of our meetings. I suggested putting your business cards in the lobby, but he thinks the personal approach will work better.”

Damn. I hadn’t considered the possibility she might be coming at this from a completely different angle. I just assumed she was looking out for me, not her neighbors.

“Like I said, we’re pretty busy, but tell Mr. Fletcher I’ll give him a call this week. Maybe we can set something up.” I make a mental note to start drafting that ZipRecruiter ad ASAP. We’re definitely going to need another body if this pans out.

“Thank you. He’ll be relieved to hear that.”

She stands and loops her purse over her arm, signaling that she’s reached her limit of mother/ daughter bonding for today. I follow her to the door, only mildly disappointed that she’s cutting our conversation short. We’ve made progress. More than we have in years. For now, that’s enough.

“How about we have lunch sometime next week,” I offer, figuring it couldn’t hurt to extend the olive branch a little further.

“I’d like that,” she says, and for the first time in a long time I believe her. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.”

I swallow a laugh. She sounds like she’s scheduling a dentist appointment, not lunch with her only child. But I remind myself that this is about progress, not perfection, and wrap my arms around her in an only semi-awkward hug that she returns slightly less stiffly than usual.

“But not Fig & Olive,” I add. “We should expand our horizons, try someplace different.”

Translation: less pretentious. I wonder how she’d feel about being waited on by a drag queen singing show tunes. The thought brings up memories of Jake with a boa around his neck and Marilyn Monroe crooning in his ear. Somehow, I doubt my mother would be as good a sport as he was. But then I remember why I walked out on him, and the bad memory sours the good.

“If that’s what you want,” she agrees somewhat reluctantly, pulling me back to the present. I’ll take it as a win. I open the door for her, and she steps through then turns back to me with an expression even more serious than her typical resting bitch face. “Can I give you one last piece of motherly advice?”

I doubt it will be the last, but I nod.

“Maintaining a balance between work and your personal life is a delicate thing, no matter what profession you’re in. I’ve watched your father do it for years. It’s like a seesaw. It won’t always be perfectly parallel. Sometimes it has to tilt one way or the other. The key is to make sure it’s not always to one side.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and click-clacks down the hall toward the elevator, leaving me with more questions than answers. If I was wrong about her, could I be wrong about Jake, too?

Or what if it’s not him that I’m wrong about? What if it’s me? Is it possible I’m the one with my seesaw stuck in one direction? In my quest for balance, have I swung too far to the opposite extreme?

I step back into the sanctuary of my apartment and close the door, my head pounding with the pressure of all the riddles my mother’s left in her wake. I need to solve them. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know just the person to help me.

Dickweed Dale.

A phone call’s out of the question. There’s no way I want to hear that douche canoe’s voice again. Besides, I blocked his number after he called to invite me to his goddamn wedding. To his secretary. I mean, administrative assistant. Like, who the hell does that? Invites their jilted fiancée to their fucking wedding?

But a carefully worded email trying to get to the bottom of our breakup? Was it really all work-related,