Page 4 of Afternoon Delight

Meg

I pulled into the driveway and parked beside my mother’s Toyota Camry.

Her first car had been a Camry that my father bought her.

Every four years since then, she had traded it in for the latest model.

Dad’s first car had been a used Pontiac Firebird—“Like Rockford used to drive.” He had always planned to restore it to its original glory, and it was still on one side of the garage, waiting for him.

The other side was packed with a metric crapton of homeowner detritus, so Mom and I parked outside, even on a blustery day like today.

Our house had been the fanciest in the cul-de-sac when I was growing up. Oak Bay was full of well-kept heritage homes and modern mansions with ocean views. Dad had been a family doctor, so we weren’t poor, but we weren’t “mansion with ocean view” money. That was Joel’s family.

No, we were “tear down a post-war bungalow for a custom-built eighties-colonial middle-class” money.

Mom had insisted on an Oak Bay address. She had wanted a bay window in the living room—our view was the street—an island in the kitchen, and a patio out back.

Dad had wanted to be close to his office and a good school for me.

He had also wanted a small lawn and a short driveway so he could golf and fish rather than do yardwork.

It was a very nice location with a short walk to the beach, but the neighborhood had grown up over time. New, twenty-first-century behemoths made our house look like what it was: dated and in desperate need of TLC.

Like me, haha.

Mom’s gardens were still in the barren stage, choked with moss and full of last year’s rotting stems. The concrete steps to the porch were cracked, the stucco stained, and the front door key needed an extra wiggle to make it open.

I kept threatening to call in a handyman to change it out for a button lock, but every small job was part of a bigger one.

The door actually needed leveling—replacing, if we took the warped panel into account.

If we changed one door, we’d have to change all of them.

If the doors were coming out, we should probably look at the windows.

The seals were shot on at least three of them.

The bigger the job got, the less prepared we were to tackle it. And so it goes.

“I’m home,” I called as I entered what had always felt like a claustrophobic foyer.

It was a postage stamp of tiles with a tiny closet next to the stairs that doubled back over the door to the basement.

On the left were double doors into the living and dining room.

Straight ahead was the door into the kitchen and family room.

Hang a right and you’d find the powder room and Mom’s bedroom.

As I toed off my boots and hung my jacket in the closet, my palms grew clammy. I was such a child.

“You bought more wine.” Vickie Crutcher came to the door of the family room, drying her hands on a tea towel.

Her white-blond hair was in the chin-length bob she’d worn all her life, framing a face that had accumulated a few lines over the years, but she mostly looked exactly as she always had—short, slim, and stylish. “Is Georgia not improving?”

Mom seemed to think my alcohol consumption was due to concern over Georgia and had nothing to do with the fact that she was stonewalling on selling this house.

I had a flash of Zak moving home to look after his father and reminded myself that I was lucky to have a parent whose only affliction was an obstinate belief that she was always right—along with a distressing ability to prove it.

“She’s worried about her shop.” I was laying the groundwork for my announcement. “Let me change, then I’ll help with dinner.” I handed her the wine before I started up the stairs.

“I bought a frozen lasagna,” she called after me. “It’s in the oven.”

I bit back a sigh. I understood Mom’s loss of interest in cooking, but I liked making food from scratch. My roasted chicken breasts and riced cauliflower pilaf always earned compliments. Would she let me touch so much as a carrot peeler in her kitchen? Hell, no.

The house was a three-bedroom, but after Mom had a string of miscarriages, she’d settled on raising an only child whom she had resolutely refused to spoil.

The spare bedroom became her craft room, and nowadays, you couldn’t get near the sewing machine without running an obstacle course of an open ironing board, two standing fans, and several tubs of craft supplies.

Down in the basement—what we had always called the rumpus room—Dad’s fly-fishing gear was littered amongst the furniture he’d brought home from his office when he retired. The hide-a-bed sofa was covered with his clothes, but that was as far as Mom was prepared to take them.

I already had a full-time job cleaning out this house, yet I had agreed to work for Georgia. What had I done?

I tapped my laptop to wake up the screen while I peeled off my damp jeans and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. I glanced at my email as I took off my bra without removing my top.

Peterson, Londale, and Funk had a policy that you weren’t expected to check email while on vacation—but it was absolutely expected. I had nine from Cameron, most of them shoving work onto me that was now in his purview like scheduling and reports.

I’d gone in to work Monday, on my first day of vacation, to be told “Maybe next time,” about the promotion I’d applied for.

I was still trying to see the silver lining in not having the extra responsibility of managing a team when I had so much to do for Mom, but there was no silver lining to sexism.

That’s what my being passed over was, and I’d said so.

HR hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

“Cameron is seen as a team player, Meg. He’s seen . You’ve worked remotely a lot in the last three years.”

Only because my father had been dying and I’d been going through a divorce, but I had never missed a meeting or a tax filing.

For the last eight months, I’d performed the death march known as commuting into downtown so I could be in my cubicle full-time, trying to earn that stupid promotion—but what- ever .

In other ways, Monday had been the happiest day of my life.

I had handed Joel the certified paperwork on our divorce.

It had been my last act as his unpaid personal assistant.

Then I’d hopped a plane, planning to spend two weeks getting this house emptied and ready to list. Instead, I was taking on managing an adult toy store.

I stared at stupid Cameron’s stupid emails. It was the story of my life that I put other people’s needs before my own. I was the daughter of a doctor. A teen mom. I married too young. After Joel cheated the first time, I stayed for the kids.

I couldn’t change the way Peterson, Londale, and Funk were treating me, but I could change myself and how I reacted to their decision.

That’s what Georgia was really giving me a chance to do. Georgia had always lived on her own terms. I wanted to live my life the way she did—even if it was only for a few weeks. That thought had been burning like gasoline in my stomach since she’d made her outrageous suggestion.

Did I feel bad about pulling the rug out from under Cameron? Sure. He seemed like a nice enough dude. He had a wife and kids and probably a dog, and a boat he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t my fault he’d been promoted above his level of competency, though.

As for the partners who had promoted him over me? They would soon have to decide what I was worth to them—as tax season loomed.

Mom was right. Georgia did ignite my rebellious streak.

But I wasn’t quite ready to pull that pin. I went down to the kitchen.

“I’m letting it rest,” Mom said of the steaming lasagna on the stovetop. She set out the wine glasses, then went back to tossing the bag of salad into a bowl. She was quick to judge me for having a drink every evening but always willing to join me.

“How was the thrift store?” I asked as I twisted off the bottle’s cap.

“I found a cute top that would suit you. It’s in the wash.”

“Thanks.” Much as I bristled at Mom treating me like a teenager who needed a curfew, she had great taste, and second-hand didn’t bother me—especially from the thrift store she worked in. It was full of upscale cast-offs.

“Mom, I have something I have to tell you.” It was the same way I had opened my announcements that I was pregnant and that I was getting a divorce. I tore that bandage right off. “I’m quitting my job. I told Georgia I would run her store while she’s off for her surgery.”

Mom froze with her glass halfway to her mouth. Her hand tightened on the edge of the counter. She stood straighter and looked down her nose at me, even though I was actually an inch taller.

“You’re not serious, Margaret.”

Oof. I was pretty sure that was exactly what she’d said those other times, too.

“It’s a good job ,” she pressed.

“I can freelance.” I sat down at the table. “It’s a thing women do these days.” So I’d heard. “They quit their corporate jobs and work on contract for twice the compensation and more favorable terms.”

“In this economy? Good luck.” Mom raked out her chair and sat down. “I don’t know how they let you work from home as much as you have. Is this because of that man who was promoted over you?”

“Yes, among other things. They don’t appreciate me.”

“Mm-hmmph.” Mom put on her buttoned-lip look and cast her gaze out the window, where dusk had thrown the backyard into heavy gloom.

“Tell me again that I didn’t appreciate Joel. That I expected too much from him,” I dared her. “Should I have stayed in Toronto the whole time Dad was sick, instead of being here with you?”

“You’re looking for a fight, aren’t you?”