as this sunny spring Thursday—a huge change from the hollow, red-rimmed look she’d sported a few months back.
It had been hard as hell, sending my broken daughter away. But seeing her so happy now recharged my own spirits. I was proud of the way she’d pulled herself together and dug into the demanding job she’d secured (with a little help from her grandmother’s connections). Working as a line cook in any restaurant had its challenges: long hours, low pay, difficult bosses. Joy was apprenticing under a demanding boss now, and the chef de cuisine and his executive staff weren’t cutting her any breaks. On her third beer last night she recited for us the long list of French obscenities she’d learned courtesy of her superiors on the Michelin-starred kitchen staff.
“I learned so much from my mom,” Joy told Breanne (which I certainly hoped didn’t include a long list of obscenities—in French or any other language). She glanced at me then and raised her glass once more. “And I owe her a lot, too.”
I almost pinched myself. Given the rough ride I’d endured with my child over the past few years (which mainly consisted of Joy telling me—with a great deal of attitude—to butt out of her business), I often wondered whether we’d ever again be as close as we were when she’d been a little girl. Her maturing outlook gave me hope.
“Despite what your lovely daughter implied,” Breanne told me in private a few minutes later, “I don’t feel that I owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me,” I said. “That’s true.” We were standing alone at one end of the bar. Matt had taken Joy by the arm to proudly introduce her around the room, leaving Breanne and me to talk alone. “What I did, I did for the father of my child, as a wedding gift. And I hope you know the only reason Matt thanked me was because I saved the thing he most wanted in his life right now: you.”
“Right now.” Bree rolled her eyes. “You’re so transparent, Clare.”
“I am?”
“You want him back.”
I nearly choked on my sparkling water. After last night’s beers, I’d declined any alcohol. I suddenly changed my mind.
“Pisco Sour,” I told the bartender.
Hoping to shake Breanne’s interrogation, I gave her my back, turning my attention instead to the bartender. With swift, efficient movements the young man mixed the Pisco (a brandy made from grapes grown in Peru’s coastal valley) with lemon juice, sugar, and ice, garnished it with Angostura bitters, and handed me the tumbler. (It was Matt who’d introduced me to the cocktail. He’d sampled it in Lima during one of his Andes buying trips.)
“Answer me, Clare,” Breanne hissed in my ear. “You won’t deny it? You want him back?”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Can’t this woman take a hint? I turned to face Breanne (since she gave me no choice) and took a nice long, unhealthy hit of my cocktail. The flavor was sweet yet tart; and though the drink itself seemed mild at first, the ninety-proof Pisco carried a kick you had to respect. I main-lined it into my quiet reply: “All right, Breanne, listen to me, and listen good. You’ve got the Tiffany’s engagement ring and the big, lavish wedding. On Saturday, you’re even acquiring the optional accessory to your grand event—a worthy groom. So why don’t you focus on that instead of what I do or don’t want in my life because, frankly, I’m sick to death of your superior attitude.”
“And I’m sick to death of your meddling.”
Meddling?! Unbelievable! I risk my life for this woman, and this is what I get?
“You know what, Bree? You’re a big girl. I think it’s time you heard the unvarnished truth: I don’t want Matt back, and do you know how I can prove that to you for once and for all? If I had wanted him back, you wouldn’t be planning this wedding.”
Breanne’s royal-blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare imply that I’m sloppy seconds,” she hissed, her ivory cheeks turning the color of her lipstick.
“I’m not implying anything that crass. I’m trying to get you to remember that Matt’s going to put Nunzio’s ring on your finger a few days from now. Not mine.”
“Hey, kids . . .” Matt walked over, a big, clueless grin on his handsome face. “How are two of my best girls doing?”
Breanne turned on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man’s puppy-dog smile fell.
Congratulations, Matt, you finally picked up on your bride’s mood. What did it