Page 8 of Third Time Lucky

LUCY

Mitzi sits in her favorite chair at the dining-room table, a purple laptop open in front of her. ‘Darling, what shall I search to hire a professional chef?’

‘Professional chef Portland, Oregon,’ I say, peeking through the fridge.

Cheese – many kinds. Bottled water. Strawberries. Lunch meats. Milk. Eh, I can see the need for her sudden interest in a chef.

‘You’re hiring a chef? Do I get to eat with you?’

It’s not that I can’t feed myself, but I moved in with her just after Vegas, and considering I’m not a chef, we don’t eat a lot of ‘meals’ together. We sort of just survive on whatever is easy, as the nearly empty fridge is proof of.

I didn’t plan to move in with my grandmother.

But shortly after the nightmare that was Vegas, Mitzi had a very minor TIA that I blame myself for.

Why? Oh, you know, loads of money was lost, and the police were called to a wedding with a guest list of 350 folks.

And there wasn’t just one fight. There were five.

We made the local nightly news – and were banned from the hotel for life.

Dad was right, the groom and his gang of idiots were slightly beyond drunk at the ceremony, and that didn’t help.

Mitzi was so stressed but played it off beautifully and kept me from completely losing it until we’d locked ourselves in the bridal suite with a table full of food.

After that I cried, laughed and mourned what I thought I had until we got the all-clear that every last guest (and everyone with the magazine) had gone, and we could escape without further issues.

When my father suggested that maybe she needed round-the-clock care, I volunteered.

No way was I allowing her to go into a retirement home.

She deserves so much more than that. And I couldn’t exactly go back home, to a place I was supposed to share with the douchiest man I’ve ever known, so why not take care of someone I actually love in a house I grew up loving and it’s hardly a hardship living here? Mitzi and I need each other.

If she hires a cook, I can finally see this over-the-top professional kitchen in action.

Trust me when I say this is a chef’s kitchen that’s never seen a chef – or anything resembling one.

If you’ve dreamed of it, it’s in this kitchen, and I don’t know how to use it.

Except the espresso machine. I finally resorted to watching a YouTube video on the brand, and now we have shop-style coffee every morning.

I can’t imagine what the rest of these appliances could cook up.

‘Of course, you get to eat with me, darling. I’m hoping they’ll rub off.’

I shut the fridge, shooting her a confused look. ‘You want them to what?’

She looks at me with a gray eyebrow cocked. ‘Influence you to learn how to cook, dear. Since you moved in, you’ve not once used the oven.’

I cross my arms over my chest, a little offended. ‘Mitzi, might I remind you that you are against a woman being confined to the kitchen.’

These are words she’s said to me a million times over my life. Also, never let a man steal your soul— er, identity. I may have misheard the word soul because I’m currently on a man-hating bender. Rightfully so.

‘That’s why I’ll hire a man.’

I should have known she’d have an answer for anything I threw her way. She always does.

‘Can I request an age and type, or is that taboo?’

‘Off-the-charts taboo,’ I say. ‘However…’ I tap my index finger to my bottom lip. ‘You are eighty. And you deserve to have some fun in life – we could play the elderly, nutty grandmother card?’

She laughs. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m an old woman who could die tomorrow.

I deserve some fun, you genius girl.’ She waves my way approvingly and then turns back to her laptop.

‘Twenty-five to thirty-five, male professional chef Portland, Oregon,’ she says as her fingers tap the keys.

‘Here we go.’ She scrolls the screen, nodding every so often.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she says, jotting names on a paper pad beside her.

‘On with your night, darling, I am setting a date with some men.’

‘And I am going on a date with one.’

Her gaze shoots over the top of the laptop and meets mine. ‘I thought you still wanted to kick love in the teeth?’

Not gonna lie; I said that. And a whole bunch of other things that I’m sure will come back to haunt me.

‘I do. And if one day, love proves to be true, which I doubt, he’ll probably screw me over, and I will. For tonight, I’ve set my expectations low. I’m not looking for love, just a piece of cake from the dessert menu with a cocktail for dinner. Is that wrong?’

She shakes her head, her eyes back on her laptop and her pen in motion. ‘It’s exactly why I’m hiring a chef, darling. Maybe you could bring Mitzi a piece?’

‘Of cake?’

‘Yes, dear. Life is short. Eat the cake. I like all kinds. Surprise me.’

‘OK.’ I nod, opening the lid on the bottle of water I’d grabbed. ‘I’ll leave it in the fridge for breakfast.’

‘Perfect,’ she says with a smile, still occupied by young hot local chefs.

Yikes, that sounds like an X-rated site that might actually exist. I hope she doesn’t stumble across any. If I have to rid her laptop of porn (again – it’s a long story – computers are hard when you’re elderly – the first time was horrifying enough), I will die.

The last time I had to see a dirty movie, I was wearing a ten-thousand-dollar gown while watching it in front of an audience of hundreds, next to the male lead.

That asshole. Thanks to him, every second of that film is burned into my brain in a way that makes me want to stab out my own eyes with a dull pencil each time it crosses my mind.

But that is a terrible idea, so instead, I curse him internally and continue smiling outside.

That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

Fake it ’til you make it? I wonder how long that takes to work.

The honk echoing through the living room jolts me from my thoughts.

‘That’s my Uber,’ I say, grabbing my purse and heading out the front door.

‘Make him work for it!’ Mitzi calls after me.

‘Will do!’ I say before closing the door behind me.

I’m such a liar. If she knew it was just me and Madi indulging in an exorbitant amount of alcohol, calories, and gossip, she’d be so upset.

Mostly because ever since Vegas (that’s what we call it now, so we don’t say the devil’s name out loud), she’s been insistent that the love of my life is still out there – he has to be because I’m such a sweet girl and I deserve it – her words.

I don’t think I’m as lovely as my family acts like I am.

A man defiled my trust and let me believe he was good until the truth was forced out of him in front of everyone we know – that doesn’t happen to sweet girls.

Or maybe it only happens to sweet girls?

Crap. There’s one more thing for me to worry about.

Truthfully, at this point, I’ll probably die a childless cat-lady, and I’m OK with it.

Anyway, Madi and I have plans (and possibly reservations) at Papa Haydn for raspberry lemon drops and the most to-die-for desserts.

Their regular food is good too, don’t get me wrong, but the bourbon ball – a tiny chocolate cake soaked in bourbon, glazed with dark chocolate ganache – for real, I’d sell my soul for a dozen.

* * *

‘How are you?’ Madi asks as I approach the table she’s sat at in Papa Haydn.

The building sits on a corner lot, with seating inside and out. People are buzzing around the city streets, soaking up the summer evening at the different restaurants and bars along 23rd Avenue – one of my favorite Portland streets.

Fun fact, it’s also known as the Knob Hill neighborhood, and considering I’m meeting a woman who reminds me of my ex, that’s perfect.

Knob Hill has almost everything you could ever need.

Bed sheets worn? There’s a Pottery Barn.

Wanna sing karaoke? They’ve got a bar for that.

Looking for whatever McMenamins is trending?

Check out Ram’s Head. Spill a little sauce on your shirt?

Hop into the Urban Outfitters for a new one.

Need to replace a lock to keep out an ex?

There’s a hardware store. Looking for the best Chinese food in the city (in my opinion)? It’s on 23rd.

‘Just trying to survive my own mind. How about you?’ I ask, sitting across the small bistro table from her.

‘Already ordered our drinks, so I’m about to be great. Any topic off the table tonight?’

‘Just the usual.’

‘Will not mention the dickweed.’ Madi nods, her curly blonde hair bouncing with her movement.

She’s adorable, a total reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe on the outside.

It’s uncanny. She has been hired as a Marilyn impersonator at a couple of local piano bars, and I went to see her perform once.

If I didn’t know, and Marilyn wasn’t dead, I’d think she was her.

She was that convincing, with her wispy voice and gestures.

Madi and I met in college. We had exactly one class together the entire time we were there, and somehow, the friendship stuck.

She’s breezy, beautiful, loyal, and when necessary, a complete badass.

If I’d have ordered that hit on Brandon like she suggested in Vegas, I don’t doubt she’d have followed through.

She’s a great person to be friends with because her attitude is very c’est la vie .

What happens, happens. Everything is fixable.

Things will work out. Live life like today is your last day.

The opposites attract thing is true for us.

After the wedding, she was so terrified that I was going to dump her, too, just for sharing blood with the dickweed.

I couldn’t have done that; she didn’t choose her family.