Page 71 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Georgie shook her head. “No, those aren’t places we usually hang out.”
“I drove by your country club the other day,” Jordan chimed.
Her mother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “How did it look? Did you see Gustavo? He always makes sure we have the best table for brunch. I hope he hasn’t allowed the Bradfords to sit there. Muffy Bradford has been eyeing our spot for months.”
“Sorry, Lorraine, I just drove by.”
“So, no Gustavo?” her mother asked with a slight pout.
“No.”
Her mother tapped her chin, seemingly lost in thought, which gave her the perfect opportunity to pull the plug on this video chat.
“All righty, then! If that’s all, say hi to Howard for us, Mom. Let him know we hope he’s doing well.”
She moved the cursor to the end call button but stilled when her mother gasped.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her mother leaned in. “I have to tell you about Howard! You’d never believe it. He’s completely enamored with the place. He’s like a different person. The man, who could barely play a set of tennis without checking his stock portfolio, meditated for four hours yesterday, and he says he wants to start teaching yoga. Yoga!” she exclaimed.
“Isn’t that what you guys are supposed to be doing—balancing your chi and centering your energy to bolster your spiritual prowess?” she asked, sharing a look with her husband, who gave herI’m-not-sure-what-the-hell-you-just-said-but-let’s go-with-iteyes.
Her mother seemed to chew on that before her gaze drifted downward. “Did you go and see Denise?”
“Who?”
“Denise, you know, my personal shopper and bra-fitter at Saks?” her mother explained.
Georgie glanced at her husband, who shrugged.
“Why would you ask that, Mom?”
“Your breasts, Georgiana.”
Her mother’s expression lost the psychic guru air and morphed into drinks-at-the-club Denver socialite, Mrs. Lorraine Vanderdinkle.
“My breasts?” Georgie threw back.
“Yes, they look amazing. For the first time in years, they’re quite perky. You hide your lovely figure in all those ill-fitting cardigans. Oh, and you should have Denise suggest some other pieces! A woman’s wardrobe isn’t complete without at least one Hermes scarf, a few Ferragamo wrap dresses, and, of course, a chic Chanel blazer to tie it together. You know, Denise was the one who suggested I send you that darling romper.”
The room went topsy-turvy. She’d grown used to the psychically empowered version of her mother. This whack in the face of the full-throttle socialite Lorraine was not what she was expecting to encounter. She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry, then reached for her glass of pineapple juice and took a swig.
“Pumpkin! No!” her mother cried, mortification written all over her face.
Georgie looked around the room wildly. “Is something wrong?”
Her mom stared at her, wide-eyed. “You drank from Jordan’s glass of urine.”
“I did?” she replied, giving her husbandSOSeyes.
The man swooped into the camera frame. “The nice thing about urine is that it’s sterile, so your daughter should be fine. But we need to go. There’s an urgent…blogging event we need to attend to,” he added, solidifying his title as the world’s worst liar.
“Wait! One more thing!” her mother chimed, not letting them off the call yet. “Have you been in contact with Nicolette?”
Georgie nodded, then positioned the cursor over the end call icon. “Yes, we sure have. We’re going to MC a literacy fundraiser in April for you.”
“Did they decide on the theme?” her mother asked.
