Not Quite as Advertised. Tanya Michaels
“I don’t think ‘sitting’ is an option for the water heater. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I haven’t finished my room because I just haven’t seen anything truly perfect yet. And then there’s that hideous kitchen…”
Joss was in the middle of painstakingly stripping the current wallpaper. Current only in the sense that it happened to be on the wall, not that it bore any resemblance to something presently fashionable. She’d been pleased with how easy it was to peel off the busy vertigo-inducing pattern, but then discovered the reason she’d been able to remove the paper so quickly was because it hadn’t actually been attached to the wall. Instead, there was a second print—less busy, just as ugly—beneath.
She’d now uncovered three strata left by previous generations. My kitchen, the suburban archeological dig. Joss was investigating interesting sociological issues, such as how the hell had avocado and gold become so popular in the first place?
Mercifully, the third layer of paper, a lovely shade of bordello red, appeared to be the last. Joss didn’t expect any more prints to pop up like never-ending clowns out of one of those little circus cars. The bad news, however, was that older wallpapers were considerably more difficult to remove than what was being manufactured these days, especially if the paper turned out to be “nonporous,” as her call-girl crimson was.
Now that Joss was back in town after her unsuccessful meeting with Neely-Richards, she needed to buy a puncturing roller and rent a wallpaper steamer. Probably not today, though. She already had a list of errands that might well take her into middle age, including Dulcie’s annual vaccinations this afternoon. The fact that the veterinarian was a great-looking guy helped compensate for the Siamese’s weeklong grudges after clinic visits. Joss glanced at her watch with a sigh.
“Lunch was great,” she said, “but I’m afraid I need to run. I’ve got to take Dulcie to see the cute vet at three, and I should get around to looking at tile samples for that downstairs bathroom. You don’t, by any chance, want to come with me and help narrow down a color scheme, do you?”
“Actually, I have to get going, too.” Emily stood. “I’ve got some work to do before Simon picks me up. We’re having an early dinner and catching a movie at that art house he likes.”
“He likes?”
“I like it, too.” Emily’s mumbled response didn’t change the fact that she went to most of the movies on her “must-see” list with Joss, then reportedly spent her dates with Simon squinting at foreign-film subtitles. “And he’s right about me—my horizons could use some broadening.”
All right, that did it! There was nothing wrong with Emily. Or her horizons. If Simon couldn’t appreciate her, Joss just might have to help her find someone who would.
Hmm, come to think of it, Dan Morris, the cute vet, was single. Joss would have dated him herself, but Dan was a dog person. She was allergic.
“Joss?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Should I be worried?” Emily asked as they turned toward the sidewalk that would lead them back to their respective cars. “For a second there, you had that same look of psychotic determination as when you peeled off the second layer of wallpaper and we found the third. Everything okay?”
Joss smiled, thinking what adorable kids Em and Dr. Dan could have. “Absolutely perfect.”
3
AFTER DISCOVERING Dr. Dan had recently started seeing someone and then spending a fruitless hour studying color samples, Joss arrived home Saturday evening with a taupe-tan-rosy-beige migraine and a hissing Siamese who harbored plans to lacerate her while she slept.
Despite the imminent kitty threat, she retired to bed early after a salad and a TV movie. It had been an exhausting week, and she needed rest before she tackled any of the formidable redecorating. She snuggled under the duvet and crashed hard, waking Sunday to a feeling of invigorated well-being…that lasted three and a half seconds.
Then she winced in uncomfortable realization. Damn, she thought as she reached in her nightstand drawer for the plastic aspirin bottle, it was that time of the month.
Brunch with her mother.
Amazing how quickly headache threatened at the thought of seeing Vivian. Joss was tempted to cancel, saying she was under the weather, but mothers didn’t fall for that sort of thing—a lesson she’d learned when she’d claimed appendicitis in a fifth-grade attempt to gain more study time for a math test. Of course, she might’ve been more convincing if she’d been clutching her right side.
She stomped toward the shower, wondering what kind of mood the schizophrenic water heater would be in today, and ignored Dulcie’s feline smirk from the foot of the bed. The vengeful Siamese, a Christmas present from Vivian three years ago, obviously sensed that Joss’s day would be an experience comparable to yesterday’s shots. Though Joss and her mother lived in the same urban area, they only saw each other on the first Sunday of each month, meeting for strained brunches. Maybe it was an odd tradition, considering their busy schedules and the lack of effusive affection between them, but they were each all the family the other had.
Today was likely to be even less pleasant than usual, Joss thought as she washed her hair. Vivian had made her mark in the city as a high-end real estate agent, and she hadn’t been amused when her only daughter bought a house without once picking up the phone to consult her. You’d think she would applaud my self-sufficiency. After all, it was Vivian who had always endorsed striving for excellence and relying only on yourself. Viv’s motto was an adjusted version of the army’s—Be All You Can Be…because you can’t depend on anyone else. A cynical creed, perhaps, but one that had helped her raise a child by herself, while not only holding a job, but becoming something of a local expert in her field. Vivian never accepted anything short of excellence.
Still, Joss thought as she went to her closet and debated what to wear, just once, it might be nice if she and her mother went somewhere casual, where they could relax and catch up and…wait, she must be thinking of someone else’s mom. Normally, their monthly brunches were held at a French bistro near Vivian’s condominium, but there had recently been a change in chefs. Joss’s mother refused to set foot in the place until “culinary integrity” was restored.
Instead, Vivian had picked out the Well-Fed Waif, a place downtown that consistently garnered rave reviews. Joss could attest to the excellent service and food, but these days, she rarely visited the restaurant where she’d once been a regular. Located around the corner from where the Mitman offices had been, the Waif had been a favorite of hers and Hugh’s.
It would be heavenly to enjoy the restaurant’s eggs Florentine again, she thought as she pulled on a lightweight turtleneck. Of course, since it had been a place she and Hugh had visited often and since she’d seen him so recently, he was bound to cross her mind. But that just made today the perfect opportunity for an emotional exorcism. What better way to drive out lingering memories of intimate working dinners and shared glances over morning mimosas than a few hours with her mother?
“IF I’VE DONE SOMETHING to offend you,” Joss muttered, “just turn me into a dung beetle and get it over with.”
Vivian paused in her small talk with the Versace-clad hostess standing behind a stained-wood podium. “Who are you talking to, Jocelyn?”
The universe. “Nobody.”
“Mumbling isn’t very well-bred,” her mother reprimanded.
Neither was the four-letter word that had sprung to Joss’s mind when she’d entered the Well-Fed Waif and spotted Hugh Brannon. He sat at a corner table near the decorative fireplace, across from a gentleman who looked about Vivian’s age. Obviously the cosmos was having a little joke at Joss’s expense.
Hugh. He’s everywhere you don’t want him to be.
At least he wasn’t with a woman. Joss