shove my credit card in the machine. Not sure I would classify hers or mine as living the good life, but it didn’t hurt to keep a positive outlook, I supposed.
“You really ought to call this Pam lady. You’d be so great in sales. You got the . . . you know.” Mom gestured to her chest like there were huge imaginary watermelons there.
“Mom!”
The young kid handed me the receipt with a smothered laugh. I grabbed the handle of the cart and pushed it away, having to then stop and wait for Mom to shuffle over at half speed.
“What’s got your panties in a wad?” she huffed out once she caught up to me.
I shook my head. This happened every time. I should be used to her loud, unfiltered mouth by now. “I don’t know what you think sales is all about, but it isn’t swindling people and it isn’t about having big boobs,” I whisper-yelled.
She swung her arms out to the side, one of her splints catching me on the shoulder and nearly knocking me down. Her voice came out at a decibel equal to a rocket taking off in Florida. “It’s always about the boobs!”
Heads swiveled and I was done. I pushed the cart out of the store, studiously ignoring her like I wasn’t with the crazy lady shouting about boobs. She would catch up eventually. Probably.
The only mercy was that in all the conversation throughout the store, I hadn’t told Mom about Chad. Or the fact that I’d actually texted him last night in a moment of weakness. Ashley had been hounding me all afternoon to text him just to see what would happen. At twenty-eight, you’d think peer pressure wouldn’t be a thing anymore, but I was alive and well to tell you that it is. And it got me. I texted Chad and he’d texted me back and now the ball was in my court. Me and sports didn’t get along, so I knew nothing about what to do with this flirt ball or where my court even was. And also, metaphorically, would the phone be my racquet?
“You going to put the groceries in the car, or should we peruse the parking lot a little longer?” Mom asked from right beside me.
I jumped, having spaced out. “Wow. You’re fast today.”
She frowned and then thumped me in the chest. “Get it together, girlie. You’re too young to lose your marbles. At least call Pam before you lose the capacity for speech.”
I rubbed the spot. “Okay, already. No need for abuse.”
Mom cackled and I got busy helping with the groceries while she coughed it out. See? Totally normal Sunday in my life.
***
I paced my kitchen, debating the merits of calling someone for business purposes on a Sunday night. Honestly, it was probably the best time for me to call. Pam wouldn’t be at the winery and I could just leave a message. And then the ball would be in her court. I couldn’t have all the balls in my life in my court. That was a recipe for disaster.
“Okay, I’m doing it!” I fist pumped the air for courage and hit the bright green button that called the number I’d typed out ten minutes ago. I flipped Pam’s business card through my fingers while the call connected.
I held my breath of relief until it hit the fourth ring. Everybody knew it went to voicemail after the fourth ring. I’d made it to the safety of voicemail.
“Hello, this is Pam,” came a voice.
A live voice.
Oh crap. Pam answered. Not voicemail Pam. Real, live Pam, who probably expected actual words.
“Oh, hi there. This is El, er, Isabel? We met at the winery festival yesterday?” I cringed. Confidence, El! I couldn’t end all my sentences in question marks.
“Yes, hi Isabel. Or do you prefer El?” came her sweet voice.
“All my friends call me El,” I said, plunking down onto a stool at the tiny bar in a preemptive move. My armpits were already sweating, and I knew the shaky legs would be next. My anxiety came in predictable patterns.
“Then El it is. I was really hoping you’d call,” Pam said.
“Oh yeah?” I grinned, despite realizing my poor conversational skills could tank any chance of getting a job.
“I really need someone in the tasting room. Would you be able to come in tomorrow after work? Maybe you could start immediately? I just need someone weekends and a few evenings a week. Would that work while you gave your two weeks’ notice?”
My