Page 39 of Penthouse Prince
The waiter turns to Mom. “Coffee for you as well, ma’am?”
“Oh, I wish I could, but coffee’s started giving me a stomachache lately. I’ll have iced tea, please, and the spinach eggs benedict.”
He takes our menus and departs just as Grier hits the end of her patience with being ignored and releases an earsplitting howl of “Dooooggiiiiiieeeee!”
The old man at the next table lets out a warm, gravelly laugh. “That’s a powerful set of pipes. Would your little princess like to meet Hamburger?” he asks me. “He’s very calm.”
Giving up, I lift Grier out of her seat and set her down. “I think she might explode if she doesn’t.”
She screams with glee and buries her chubby fingers deep in the dog’s plush coat. True to his owner’s word, the dog barely moves, except to lick her cheek—prompting another loud squeal.
“Gentle, love bug, you’ve got to be gentle with animals,” I say. “How would you feel if someone pulled your hair?”
Grier pauses to process this, then continues mauling the dog, only a little less fiercely. He doesn’t seem to mind, based on how his tail thumps a rapid beat on the concrete patio.
Gail asks the old man, “So, Hamburger?”
“My granddaughter named him. She’s thirteen now, but she was only . . . oh, about your little one’s age when he was born.”
“How darling,” Mom coos.
Hamburger is a good sport, but when the food arrives, Grier loses interest in tormenting him and toddles back to me. “Hungwy.”
“Now seems like the right time to get going. It was nice meeting you all.” The old man touches his hat and leaves, the dog matching his sedate pace.
“You too. Have a good day,” I reply as I lift Grier back into her high chair.
“This looks wonderful.” Mom takes a large bite and her face breaks out in a wide smile. “And it tastes even better.”
The conversation is as pleasant as the food and early summer weather. Lighthearted chatting about the TV shows we’ve seen lately, the cute or funny things Grier has done, the novel series Mom’s been working her way through. For a while, there’s no such thing as cancer or even my troubles with Corrigan.
“So I’m really looking forward to finding out what’s going to happen between the duchess and that one knight,” Mom says, sipping her tea. “Oh, but would you listen to me, going on and on. How has your work been?”
I shrug. “Pretty much the same as ever—crazy busy, but good. I’ve been riding hard on the New York guys, and things seem to be going fine up there. Some contractors are coming to work on the beach house starting tomorrow, and I think it’ll be ready to rent in less than a month. I’ve also been looking for a good place to buy downtown.”
“Wonderful. And how’s Corrigan? Did you two ever make up?”
I should have known this was coming. “Everything’s fine,” I say, not knowing or caring whether it’s a lie. Desperate for any way to steer the conversation in a different direction, I ask Grier, “You wanna tell Grandma about all the fun stuff you’ve done with Corrigan?”
Lighting up, she says, “We do sketti and ice scweam and paint big picture lotsa messy paint and make a castle ’n dig sand and water so big on feet and . . .”
She babbles on excitedly, her words coming faster and faster until even I, with all my practice at “Grier-ese,” can barely understand. Gail looks completely lost.
When Grier finishes, Mom says slowly, “All right, I think I got the parts about food and art.”
Laughing, I summarize. “The three of us have been to the beach a couple times, and she loved it.”
Mom’s brow furrows in confusion. “Three? You’re paying Corrigan to look after Grier, but you’re also looking after Grier yourself?”
Shit, I revealed too much. “That only happened once.” I’m aware that I sound ridiculously defensive, but I can’t turn it off. “And I think it was helpful to have an extra pair of hands there. The second time at the beach, we just ran into each other by chance.”
“Oh, I’m not criticizing you—far from it. I’m pleased as punch to hear you’re enjoying quality time with your two girls,” Mom says, beaming.
The hell? “What do you mean by that? Corrigan isn’t my girl.” No matter how much I wish that were the case. “She’s my employee.”
Mom gives me a look. She has many looks, and I know most of them pretty well, but this one is complex. A contradictory mix of you’re such a fool sometimes, and you’re smart enough to figure out what you need to do here.
I’m too tired to try to decode her meaning. If she has a point to make about Corrigan, she can say it. “What?” I ask tersely.
“Nothing at all.” Mom takes a delicate bite of her eggs benedict.
