Body Language. Millie Criswell
Mrs. Greenlaw, dear. Mr. Deavers asked me to call and—” There was an uncomfortable pause, then, “He wanted me to tell you that gum chewing during translation isn’t acceptable work behavior, that it can distract the listener from hearing the nuances of the speaker’s conversation.”
“What?” Ellie nearly dropped the phone. “Mr. Deavers said that? He wants me to stop chewing gum while I work?”
The bastard!
“I’m afraid so, dear. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I realize, Mrs. Greenlaw, that you are only doing as instructed, but you can tell Mr. Deavers that he can go—”
“Was there something you wished to tell me, Ms. Peters?”
Eyes narrowing to slits, Ellie turned to face Michael. She was so pissed off she thought smoke must be pouring out of her nostrils. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the arrogant bastard just what she thought of his edicts and where he could shove them. But then, remembering that she needed her job, she said instead,
“I don’t have a thing to say to you, Mr. Deavers. Not one damn thing.”
WITHIN TWO DAYS of her arrival, Rosemary had gone through Ellie’s new apartment like a white-gloved tornado and had cleaned every inch of it, scrubbing down the floors with Lysol, putting shelf paper in the kitchen cupboards—the ugliest shelf paper Ellie had ever seen, by the way—waxing and polishing the hardwoods, and had annihilated the germs in the bathroom until you could have sipped gazpacho from the toilet bowl.
Even Barnaby had not escaped her clutches.
“Mom,” Ellie asked, “why is Barnaby’s tongue blue? The poor thing looks sick.” She knelt before the dog, and he whined pathetically, trying to lick her hand with his big fat blue tongue.
“He must have drunk water out of the toilet bowl. Disgusting habit! That should teach him a lesson.”
The bulldog obviously understood every word Rosemary had said, because he very uncharacteristically bared his teeth, which were also tinged blue.
Ellie now had food in her refrigerator, none of which looked particularly healthy or low-fat, soft drinks and bottled water, and a year’s supply of toilet paper, Kleenex, and paper towels in her cupboard, not to mention a hideous array of cleaning supplies. Believing an invasion of flesh-eating bacteria was imminent, Rosemary had purchased twenty cans of Lysol.
And as nice as it was to have dinner on the table when she walked in the door after work—relaxing with a glass of wine for five minutes might have been nice, too—and her furniture rearranged to suit her mother’s liking—NOT!—she wanted her sloppy, dirty, bacteria-ridden apartment back, and she wanted it back NOW!
Hell! It had only been two days. What would happen after an entire week of living with her mother?
Ellie didn’t want to go there; it was too depressing.
“Mom, thanks for washing my blouse, but I think you’ve ruined it.” She held up her favorite blue silk blouse, which had shrunk to half its size and was wrinkled beyond belief, and nearly wept. “You can’t put silk in the washing machine. It has to be dry cleaned.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll buy you a new one. We’ll go shopping this weekend and we’ll have a wonderful time spending your father’s money. I’ve already ordered several things over the Internet, the most expensive items I could find.” Smiling sweetly, she resumed washing the dishes that Ellie had left in the sink that morning.
“I don’t want you to buy me things, Mom, and I don’t want you doing my laundry. I use the dry cleaners down the street. The Wongsteins are very nice people, and they do a good job.”
Rosemary shrugged, not saying a word, and it was obvious that Ellie had hurt her feelings. Again.
“So I won’t touch your stuff. I was only trying to help.”
Heaving a sigh, Ellie sat down at the kitchen table to read the newspaper. “Have you heard from Dad?” she asked nonchalantly, holding her breath and praying for a positive answer.
“No, I haven’t. And you must stop asking me that every time we talk, Ellie. Your father is infatuated with someone else. No doubt she’s already moved into my house and they’re planning to get married.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “It’s only been two days. Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a bit?”
“Your father is a fast worker. I remember when we were dating. The man was impetuous. I was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.”
The woman was starting to sound like a bad romance novel.
“Dad was impetuous? I find that hard to believe.” Ted Peters thought out every move he made to the nth degree, like a rabid chess player. Her parents’ burial plots had been purchased over twenty-five years ago, so they could be prepared in case the worst happened.
Her father never did anything that could be considered spontaneous. At least, Ellie had never seen that side of him, and she had a really difficult time believing it existed.
Of course, she also had a difficult time believing he wore the big letter A, so what did she know?
A wistful smile crossed Rosemary’s lips. “Ted used to be quite the romantic before we were married. We did a lot of crazy things, like walking barefoot in the rain. I rode on the back of his motorcycle once, and he used to sing me silly songs he made up.”
“Dad had a motorcycle?” Ellie was in a total state of shock. This man her mother spoke of was totally alien to her.
“Yes, he was quite the catch back then. And boy, was he ever persuasive. I shouldn’t admit this, especially to my daughter, but I almost had sex with him before marriage. Of course, my sanity eventually returned and I waited.
“Women of today don’t put much store in that, I guess. But I was a virgin when I married your father. Of course, back then I thought our love would last forever. If I knew then what I know now, I would have been tempted to play around. I had opportunities. I wasn’t always an old lady.”
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