Read Online Arm Candy by Jill Kargman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Kargman
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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wouldn’t do it,” he pleaded.
“Do what you must,” Brooke said with a crisp, passive-aggressive shrug. “But if you smash into the dock and shatter both legs, don’t come running to me.”
Needless to say, Chase decided to skip it.
Sometimes Liesel was, in a far less manipulative way, similar to Brooke in her slight puppeteering.
“Really, you want to play golf today?” Liesel would say with a sad face. It was clear that little pout had worked with Daddy since babyhood. “Okay, fine. I was so hoping to play tennis together with Wills and Becky, but it’s fine, we’ll do that another time, sweetie. You go play golf.”
“No, no, no, you’re right,” related Chase. “I’d be psyched to play tennis, too. I’ll call Wills.”
But while Liesel gently floated one café over another or perhaps a different activity instead of the one Chase had envisioned, she found ever-so-annoyingly that forcing her boyfriend’s hand to take her hand was proving slightly more difficult.
“I’m so excited for Phoebe Nordstrom,” she said at La Goulue one night. “She and Roddy got engaged! She seems sooo happy.”
“She’s a nice girl,” Chase replied, not sensing the nudge-nudge. “Roddy’s fine, though all he wants to talk about is business. I’m not sure if he has any other interests.”
Liesel felt her face growing red. “Well, he’s interested in Phoebe, clearly .”
All of the pressures came to a head one cold January evening. Chase had just walked into his parents’ apartment for the weekly family dinner, when Brooke soberly took his arm and sat him down, relaying to him the sad news that Ruthie DuPree, his maternal grandmother, had just suffered a stroke. He was devastated. Chase was extremely close to Ruthie, a whip-smart firecracker of a woman with an old body but a young soul. She always inspired him, conspired with him, and made him laugh out loud.
“You know what keeps grandkids and grandparents so close?” Ruthie once asked him, rolling her eyes as Brooke prattled on to the staff about florists. “We have a common enemy.” Life with Ruthie was filled with winks and code speak. She and Chase had their own unique rhythm and bond, a close-knit connection that he cherished, especially now: After decades of political programming and social censorship, Ruthie’s edit button had started to jam, and she just said whatever the hell she wanted. Sometimes it enraged Brooke to hear her mother and son laughing hysterically at the dinner table, wielding swear words and whispered jibes. She felt left out of some wildly hilarious, and often dirty, joke.
“Your mother has to, what do you kids say? Chill the hell out! Why’s she so angry all the time? Always complaining, your mother. Never had a dish she didn’t send back to the chef. Twice.”
Once, at dinner at the now-shuttered La Caravelle, Chase reeled in embarrassment as his mother cruelly berated a waiter publicly over undercooked meat. Equally horrified, Ruthie leaned in to her favorite grandson and said under her breath: “Brookie’s karma’s so bad, when she was little and I gave her a bowl of alphabet soup, the noodles all swam together and spelled out FUCK YOU.”
Chase almost spat out his soup en croute.
“What’s so funny?” Brooke probed, aghast not only at her silly food issue but also more gravely over the generational conspiracy that repeatedly had her feeling like the left-out monkey in the middle. “You two are always thick as thieves.”
Chase loved it. While he remained ever respectful of his mother, that didn’t mean he didn’t love listening to his beloved grandma Ruthie slinging a little shit on occasion. No one had a grammy as cool as Ruthie. Sometimes Chase would laugh so hard he had stomach pains, which then morphed northward into his throat, forming a sad lump in recognition that his days with her would be numbered and he couldn’t imagine life without her clever barbs.
As Chase digested the shocking
“Do what you must,” Brooke said with a crisp, passive-aggressive shrug. “But if you smash into the dock and shatter both legs, don’t come running to me.”
Needless to say, Chase decided to skip it.
Sometimes Liesel was, in a far less manipulative way, similar to Brooke in her slight puppeteering.
“Really, you want to play golf today?” Liesel would say with a sad face. It was clear that little pout had worked with Daddy since babyhood. “Okay, fine. I was so hoping to play tennis together with Wills and Becky, but it’s fine, we’ll do that another time, sweetie. You go play golf.”
“No, no, no, you’re right,” related Chase. “I’d be psyched to play tennis, too. I’ll call Wills.”
But while Liesel gently floated one café over another or perhaps a different activity instead of the one Chase had envisioned, she found ever-so-annoyingly that forcing her boyfriend’s hand to take her hand was proving slightly more difficult.
“I’m so excited for Phoebe Nordstrom,” she said at La Goulue one night. “She and Roddy got engaged! She seems sooo happy.”
“She’s a nice girl,” Chase replied, not sensing the nudge-nudge. “Roddy’s fine, though all he wants to talk about is business. I’m not sure if he has any other interests.”
Liesel felt her face growing red. “Well, he’s interested in Phoebe, clearly .”
All of the pressures came to a head one cold January evening. Chase had just walked into his parents’ apartment for the weekly family dinner, when Brooke soberly took his arm and sat him down, relaying to him the sad news that Ruthie DuPree, his maternal grandmother, had just suffered a stroke. He was devastated. Chase was extremely close to Ruthie, a whip-smart firecracker of a woman with an old body but a young soul. She always inspired him, conspired with him, and made him laugh out loud.
“You know what keeps grandkids and grandparents so close?” Ruthie once asked him, rolling her eyes as Brooke prattled on to the staff about florists. “We have a common enemy.” Life with Ruthie was filled with winks and code speak. She and Chase had their own unique rhythm and bond, a close-knit connection that he cherished, especially now: After decades of political programming and social censorship, Ruthie’s edit button had started to jam, and she just said whatever the hell she wanted. Sometimes it enraged Brooke to hear her mother and son laughing hysterically at the dinner table, wielding swear words and whispered jibes. She felt left out of some wildly hilarious, and often dirty, joke.
“Your mother has to, what do you kids say? Chill the hell out! Why’s she so angry all the time? Always complaining, your mother. Never had a dish she didn’t send back to the chef. Twice.”
Once, at dinner at the now-shuttered La Caravelle, Chase reeled in embarrassment as his mother cruelly berated a waiter publicly over undercooked meat. Equally horrified, Ruthie leaned in to her favorite grandson and said under her breath: “Brookie’s karma’s so bad, when she was little and I gave her a bowl of alphabet soup, the noodles all swam together and spelled out FUCK YOU.”
Chase almost spat out his soup en croute.
“What’s so funny?” Brooke probed, aghast not only at her silly food issue but also more gravely over the generational conspiracy that repeatedly had her feeling like the left-out monkey in the middle. “You two are always thick as thieves.”
Chase loved it. While he remained ever respectful of his mother, that didn’t mean he didn’t love listening to his beloved grandma Ruthie slinging a little shit on occasion. No one had a grammy as cool as Ruthie. Sometimes Chase would laugh so hard he had stomach pains, which then morphed northward into his throat, forming a sad lump in recognition that his days with her would be numbered and he couldn’t imagine life without her clever barbs.
As Chase digested the shocking
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