I follow Mom’s laughter through the hall and find her smiling like rainbows and sunshine just walked through the door. Her man bait has arrived, and he doesn’t disappoint. Jim’s with him, which makes Lindsey all smiley and giggly, too. She knows I’m not going to fire her, but I wonder if she’s informed Jim of the baby on board.
“I’m glad you called, and I guarantee you’ll love the new finish on those stairs.”
I can’t really blame Mom for her crush on Dr. Simon. I’ve always been attracted to a man in a sharp suit and tie, polished shoes, and hair cut to razor perfection, but lately I’ve come to appreciate a man in tight T-shirts and old-school Levi’s with seams worn in interesting places. A man with finger-combed hair and scuffed work boots and a languid ease about him that misses nothing.
“It’s cheaper and easier to do it before we put the railing up,” he adds.
I’m sure he’s right, but cheaper and easier are relative. “Easy for you,” I point out. “You won’t be living in a construction zone with my mother, sucking up dust.”
“I don’t mind,” Mom says, one of her front teeth marked with red lipstick. She must have been in a real hurry to get out here and chat with the doctor.
“No dust. All our electrical sanders have dust filters, and we bring in the cyclone to clean the air. We’ll be in and out in a couple of days.”
“We have to be able to use the stairs while you work.”
“Use the back stairs. I’ll have two guys clear all that stuff out.”
“That’s a problem. The attic is full as it is, and I don’t know where else to put all that mess.”
“Landfill. Unless that’s a problem.”
“Not for me, but Mom’s going to have a problem with it.”
“No problem,” Mom says to spite me.
She wouldn’t agree with the plan if she understood he was talking about disposing of Sutton treasures. “I don’t even want to imagine what you’ll charge me for a dump run.”
“I’d waive the debris removal charge.”
“Wow. Generous.” I look at all those wooden steps. That’s a lot of sanding. “Do you charge by the stair?”
His gaze lowers past my mouth and chin, down my throat to the front of my tank top. He chuckles and folds his arms across his chest. “By the hour.”
“How many hours?”
He rocks back on his heels and looks up as if the answer is written on the ceiling. “Best guess… soup to nuts…”
“Hard to say,” I finish for him.
“You’re learnin’.”
Mom coaxes both men to stay for lunch, and she puts me at the head of the table so she can sit closer to Simon. We eat roasted chicken breasts and coconut brussels sprouts off gilded Limoges china, and I feel like a third wheel.
Lindsey and Jim talk between themselves while Mom chats nonstop about herself and squeezes Simon’s arm. It’s embarrassing, but I remind myself that this was my big plan. Only it’s not working like I’d hoped. Mom is still ignoring me and rambling on about her “wonderful paintings” and “sexy swimsuit.”
“That’s where we bought our ‘Who Dat’ boots,” I add when Mom comes up for air.
She gives me the side eye, then returns her attention to Simon. “It has little holes in the back.”
I am invisible. My scheme is a bust, but more than anything, I hate brussels sprouts. You can sauté them in butter, smother them in cheese sauce, or sprinkle them with coconut, but they still taste like fucking brussels sprouts, and I flick one off my plate. It leaves a trail of shredded coconut as it rolls to the center of the table. No one notices but Simon, and he raises a brow and gives me half a smile.
“I always wanted to marry a doctor.” A piece of coconut is stuck to one corner of Mom’s red-lipsticked mouth, and if I wasn’t invisible, I’d help her take care of that. I’d give her a subtle hint, but I push my plate to the side and rest my chin in my hands instead. Lindsey asks if I’m okay. “Peachy,” I answer without looking up. I tune Mom out and pay closer attention to Lindsey and Jim’s conversation. The more I listen, the more I can pick out a few words here and there, or here and dere, rather.
A brussels sprout rolls into view, and I glance at Simon out of the corner of my eyes. Apparently, I’m not the only one who hates