Page 50 of Dirty Work

“Yes, this again. Although I wish you wouldn’t swear. It’s not ladylike.”

Shit.I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But now that I have, maybe it’s the perfect time to get this out in the open. Maybe that’s what my subconscious was after all along.

I take another sip of coffee, wishing I’d thought to spike it with a shot of something stronger, and dive right in. “The truth is, Mom, I haven’t called Martin—Mr. Fletcher—because I don’t want to come speak at any tenants’ meeting. I’m not looking for pity clients.”

She frowns, creasing her Botoxed forehead. “Who said anything about pity clients?”

“Why else would you be trying to throw business my way?” I down the rest of my coffee then deposit the mug on the floor next to me, earning me another disapproving glare. I ignore it and plow on. Now that the floodgates are opened, there’s no stopping the tsunami of truth spilling out of me. “It’s obvious you think I’m struggling.”

“I don’t know where you get these ideas.” My mother shakes her head. Her impeccably coiffed signature bob barely sways gently then falls back into place, not a hair out of line.

“Hmm, let’s see.” I tap my chin like I’m deep in thought. “Could it be the countless times you’ve mentioned that it’s a good thing I have my legal degree to fall back on? Or maybe it’s how you call Odds & Errands my ‘little gopher business.’ You’ve always treated it like it’s some sort of hobby, a passing fancy I’m dabbling in until I get bored and go back to practicing law. News flash, Mom. I don’t need anything to fall back on, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be anything even remotely connected to the law. I am not getting sucked into that live-at-the-office, eat-breathe-and-sleep-work world again.”

Now that the words are finally free and out in the ether, I feel lighter somehow. More at peace. Whether it’s with myself or with my mother, I’m not sure. But I’m not sure it matters, either.

I risk a glance at her. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of a reaction to my outburst of verbal vomit. My mother doesn’t do emotions. With her it’s all logic and reason and careful control.

So when I see her wiping away what can only be a tear with the back of her hand, it’s an understatement to say I’m shocked.

“I know I’m not the best at showing emotion,” she says, making me wonder for not the first time whether the woman can read minds. Then again, if she could, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. She would have known what I was thinking ages ago. “Saying how I feel isn’t easy for me.”

Her voice wavers, the careful control she prides herself on slipping a notch. I’m tempted to jump in. To do what I’ve done in the past when we’ve come close to this reckoning. Lie, tell her it’s okay, relieve her of any guilt she might have over our strained relationship.

But I don’t. Instead, I bite my lip and sit back, ears—and heart—open to what she has to say. Because maybe, like me, she needs to get something off her chest. And maybe this time it will be what I need to hear.

She takes a handkerchief from her vintage Hermès alligator bag—seriously, who carries a handkerchief anymore except stuck-up suits and elderly grandmothers? Or an alligator bag for that matter?—dabs at her eyes and continues. “I understand that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. But I’m a mother. Mothers worry. Even the worst of us.”

Okay, it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. But it’s close. And I’ve got to give the woman credit for trying.

“I appreciate that. But I don’t need your help.” Emotional support would be nice. But I don’t want to push my luck. Maybe we can work toward that once we get past this hurdle.

“It wasn’t you I was trying to help,” my mother insists, carefully folding her handkerchief and putting it back in her bag. Apparently, the threat of more waterworks has passed. “Well, not only you. Our doorman is swamped with requests he can’t handle. I thought if he could refer tenants to you, or if they knew about your services so they could contact you directly, it would save everyone a lot of time and trouble. And Martin agrees. It was his idea to have you come to one of our meetings. I suggested putting your business cards in the lobby, but he thinks the personal approach will work better.”

Damn. I hadn’t considered the possibility she might be coming at this from a completely different angle. I just assumed she was looking out for me, not her neighbors.

“Like I said, we’re pretty busy, but tell Mr. Fletcher I’ll give him a call this week. Maybe we can set something up.” I make a mental note to start drafting that ZipRecruiter ad ASAP. We’re definitely going to need another body if this pans out.

“Thank you. He’ll be relieved to hear that.”

She stands and loops her purse over her arm, signaling that she’s reached her limit of mother/ daughter bonding for today. I follow her to the door, only mildly disappointed that she’s cutting our conversation short. We’ve made progress. More than we have in years. For now, that’s enough.

“How about we have lunch sometime next week,” I offer, figuring it couldn’t hurt to extend the olive branch a little further.

“I’d like that,” she says, and for the first time in a long time I believe her. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.”

I swallow a laugh. She sounds like she’s scheduling a dentist appointment, not lunch with her only child. But I remind myself that this is about progress, not perfection, and wrap my arms around her in an only semi-awkward hug that she returns slightly less stiffly than usual.

“But not Fig & Olive,” I add. “We should expand our horizons, try someplace different.”

Translation: less pretentious. I wonder how she’d feel about being waited on by a drag queen singing show tunes. The thought brings up memories of Jake with a boa around his neck and Marilyn Monroe crooning in his ear. Somehow, I doubt my mother would be as good a sport as he was. But then I remember why I walked out on him, and the bad memory sours the good.

“If that’s what you want,” she agrees somewhat reluctantly, pulling me back to the present. I’ll take it as a win. I open the door for her, and she steps through then turns back to me with an expression even more serious than her typical resting bitch face. “Can I give you one last piece of motherly advice?”

I doubt it will be the last, but I nod.

“Maintaining a balance between work and your personal life is a delicate thing, no matter what profession you’re in. I’ve watched your father do it for years. It’s like a seesaw. It won’t always be perfectly parallel. Sometimes it has to tilt one way or the other. The key is to make sure it’s not always to one side.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and click-clacks down the hall toward the elevator, leaving me with more questions than answers. If I was wrong about her, could I be wrong about Jake, too?