place in life. She had no reason to be dissatisfied, and even less to keep teetering on the edge of tears.
At her parents’ she fussed over her father then joined her mother, who was writing thank-you notes at the kitchen table.
“Betty Halpren finally switched florists, thank God. Did you see the flowers she had sent from Raphael?”
“Uh, no.” Judy’s visits to the hospital had been too fraught with anxiety to contemplate the relative merits of the floral arrangements filling her father’s room.
“The roses never even opened. And it had mums in it! I hate to think what Betty spent on that puny arrangement.”
Judy just nodded. “Do you feel OK about Daddy’s progress?”
“As OK as I can.” Her mother laid down her pen. “The doctor says as long as he rests and takes care of himself the prognosis is very good.”
She straightened the pile of note cards and her eyes got . . . dreamy?
“We’re going to stop putting things off for the future. In fact, your father and I are going back to Europe this year.”
Her mother’s voice sounded almost girlish. This was getting very weird indeed.
“We went to Paris on our honeymoon, you know.” Judy’s mother smiled. “And I’ve always wanted to go back. Harvey can be very romantic when he puts his mind to it.”
In thirty-nine years, Judy couldn’t remember more than a handful of compliments coming out of her mother’s mouth. It was always a complaint or a suggestion as to how things could be better. And here her mother was blushing over a trip to Europe with the man she’d been married to for forty years.
“Daddy? Romantic?” Part of her wanted to file this news in the “way more than she wanted to know” category. The other part was totally fascinated and dying to ask questions. Because right now, forty years sounded like a life sentence. Given how little she and Craig spoke to each other now, in twenty-five years they’d probably be communicating via sign language.
Her father was romantic and her mother, HER MOTHER, was blushing.
Which meant they probably still had sex. And
enjoyed
it.
Judy listened to the rest of her mother’s chatter with only half an ear, because she was completely stuck on the fact that her parents’ marriage sounded markedly better than hers.
Which made her own life even more pitiful than she had realized.
chapter 8
O n Monday morning Shelley bounded out of bed and into the shower. Eager to get to the office to show Ross Morgan whom he was fooling with, she smoothed her hair into a French twist, selected a nubby turquoise suit, and stepped into matching mid-heeled pumps. After downing a low-carb breakfast bar, she drove the twenty-five minutes to the midtown warehouse, which had been so skillfully converted into the offices of Schwartz and Associates, in ten.
The receptionist’s mouth dropped open when Shelley stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby. She turned to look at the clock on the wall, looked down quickly at her watch, then back up at Shelley.
“Good morning, Sandra. Did you have a good weekend?”
“Yes,” the other woman managed. “It was, um, fine.” She held her wrist up, shook it, and tapped the watch face. “Aren’t you in a little early?”
Shelley glanced up at the clock. It read 8:55. “Doesn’t the day still start at nine o’clock?”
“Um, yes. Yes, it does.”
“Then I guess I’m right on time.” Shelley moved past reception and walked briskly down the hallway toward her office, her heels tapping on the scored and glazed concrete floors. As she passed the glass-fronted offices along the way, her coworkers looked up in surprise. Some hung up their phones, others shut their drawers or dropped their pens. As if unable to stop themselves, they left their offices and came out into the hall to silently watch her progress.
By the time Shelley reached her own door, a sizable crowd had formed. When she turned and looked back over her shoulder, a line of fascinated faces stared
At her parents’ she fussed over her father then joined her mother, who was writing thank-you notes at the kitchen table.
“Betty Halpren finally switched florists, thank God. Did you see the flowers she had sent from Raphael?”
“Uh, no.” Judy’s visits to the hospital had been too fraught with anxiety to contemplate the relative merits of the floral arrangements filling her father’s room.
“The roses never even opened. And it had mums in it! I hate to think what Betty spent on that puny arrangement.”
Judy just nodded. “Do you feel OK about Daddy’s progress?”
“As OK as I can.” Her mother laid down her pen. “The doctor says as long as he rests and takes care of himself the prognosis is very good.”
She straightened the pile of note cards and her eyes got . . . dreamy?
“We’re going to stop putting things off for the future. In fact, your father and I are going back to Europe this year.”
Her mother’s voice sounded almost girlish. This was getting very weird indeed.
“We went to Paris on our honeymoon, you know.” Judy’s mother smiled. “And I’ve always wanted to go back. Harvey can be very romantic when he puts his mind to it.”
In thirty-nine years, Judy couldn’t remember more than a handful of compliments coming out of her mother’s mouth. It was always a complaint or a suggestion as to how things could be better. And here her mother was blushing over a trip to Europe with the man she’d been married to for forty years.
“Daddy? Romantic?” Part of her wanted to file this news in the “way more than she wanted to know” category. The other part was totally fascinated and dying to ask questions. Because right now, forty years sounded like a life sentence. Given how little she and Craig spoke to each other now, in twenty-five years they’d probably be communicating via sign language.
Her father was romantic and her mother, HER MOTHER, was blushing.
Which meant they probably still had sex. And
enjoyed
it.
Judy listened to the rest of her mother’s chatter with only half an ear, because she was completely stuck on the fact that her parents’ marriage sounded markedly better than hers.
Which made her own life even more pitiful than she had realized.
chapter 8
O n Monday morning Shelley bounded out of bed and into the shower. Eager to get to the office to show Ross Morgan whom he was fooling with, she smoothed her hair into a French twist, selected a nubby turquoise suit, and stepped into matching mid-heeled pumps. After downing a low-carb breakfast bar, she drove the twenty-five minutes to the midtown warehouse, which had been so skillfully converted into the offices of Schwartz and Associates, in ten.
The receptionist’s mouth dropped open when Shelley stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby. She turned to look at the clock on the wall, looked down quickly at her watch, then back up at Shelley.
“Good morning, Sandra. Did you have a good weekend?”
“Yes,” the other woman managed. “It was, um, fine.” She held her wrist up, shook it, and tapped the watch face. “Aren’t you in a little early?”
Shelley glanced up at the clock. It read 8:55. “Doesn’t the day still start at nine o’clock?”
“Um, yes. Yes, it does.”
“Then I guess I’m right on time.” Shelley moved past reception and walked briskly down the hallway toward her office, her heels tapping on the scored and glazed concrete floors. As she passed the glass-fronted offices along the way, her coworkers looked up in surprise. Some hung up their phones, others shut their drawers or dropped their pens. As if unable to stop themselves, they left their offices and came out into the hall to silently watch her progress.
By the time Shelley reached her own door, a sizable crowd had formed. When she turned and looked back over her shoulder, a line of fascinated faces stared
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