“Parents’ association. Probably about the holiday fundraiser.”
“That’s right. She said for you to call her if you need any more information.”
I nodded and made a mental note. Typically, I was hit or miss on participating in these things, but after the small taste of a good time I had yesterday, I wanted to go out again. Anywhere was fine.
“What’s for dinner?” Priscilla asked, cutting into my inner monologue.
“Chicken tortilla soup,” I said, knowing this would get a reaction.
“My favorite. Yes!” She squealed, pumping her fist into the air, and went back to her phone.
A few minutes later, she looked up. “Did you make something else for Dad? He doesn’t like the soup.”
“Yep.” I tried to push Priscilla’s observation out of my mind, but it was hard. “Steak. I picked up a few steaks to grill too.”
“Oh, good.”
When we got home, she went to study for a test, and I finished up a few paragraphs in an upcoming article on makeup influencers.
My laptop closed, I chopped some veggies for a salad and roasted a few potatoes to go with Tommy’s steak. He’d be home early around six for us to eat dinner as a family. His secretary had texted me the details.
Swallowing my pride, I tried to think about how that must have made Mallory feel. I mean, she basically was tasked with texting me to jump, and she must know I immediately went into “how high” mode.
The oven beeped, bringing me back to the task at hand.
I popped in the potatoes and veggies and stirred the soup in the Crock-Pot, enjoying the scent of the fresh tomatoes and cilantro. The soup was damn good, but the one time I’d dared to serve it to Tommy, he got up from the table and went to the bar at Morton’s.
Checking the fridge, I noted the sour cream on the top shelf for Priscilla, and grated a little extra Monterey Jack for on top of mine. Slipping my grated cheese back in the fridge, I thought about a glass of wine but then reconsidered. It was best to have all my faculties when Tommy was home.
“Ouch,” I said under my breath as I clipped my hip on the back door as I went out to the deck to light the grill. I already had enough bumps and bruises; there was no need to add more.
Standing outside, I looked around and thought about how seldom Priscilla had friends over, and how much she loved going to her friends’ houses. Maybe I hadn’t protected her as much as I thought I had.
She poked her head outside the back door. “Mom?”
“Yes, my beautiful angel?” My heart ached as I answered.
“What was the first article you ever wrote?”
“Why?”
“I’m writing a paper on you, why else?”
“Me?”
“Yes, Mom, you. Now, what was the first article?” She stood poised with her phone, ready to tap in Notes. Long gone were the days of actually taking notes in a notebook.
“Walk with me while I get Dad’s steak,” I said, knowing we could get lost in conversation, which I also knew would be bad for me. “It was a total fluff-meets-history piece, but I was so proud of it.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me.
“Your dad and I were still living in Philadelphia, and I got a gig writing for the Philly Mag. It was mostly fancy pics of restaurants and shops, movie reviews, and sights to see around town. My first article was on the little shops of Rittenhouse Square and their legacies.”
“Oh, so did you interview people or visit the stores?”
I walked back toward the yard and grill, spraying some non-stick spray on the grates and slapping the steaks down. Glancing at my watch, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was on time.
“I did visit a number of stores and interviewed some of the apartment dwellers around there, asking where they shopped. I also noted if they mentioned if it had changed over the years.”
“Did you like it? Did you know right away you were happy?” Priscilla leaned into the back door, waiting for me to answer.
“I loved stringing words together and the connections I made. I’d hoped to write more news or current events, but as time went on and I started writing about lifestyle and different marketing tactics, I realized it was a sweet spot for me. Who knew all this social media would really hit, and I would be in the right niche?”
“So cool.”
“I don’t know about that, but things happen for a reason. I’m lucky to do what I like and have a chance to keep doing it.”
“Thanks.” She tapped away at her phone, presumably entering my quotes.
I flipped the steaks. “Go wash up. We’re going to eat in a few.”
As I ran in to check on everything else, I wondered what dinnertime was like at the other houses Priscilla visited. Was it calm? Easy? Fun?
I was in the middle of tossing a small salad and was about to drizzle some olive oil over asparagus when the front door opened.
“Hey, I’m home.” Tommy greeted me in the kitchen, expecting me to look up at the sound of his commanding voice.
“Successful trip?” I asked out of habit.
“Very. I think I’ll have a cigar later to celebrate.”
“Nice,” I said evenly, but inside I shuddered. Cigar meant booze, and booze always resulted in increased anger.
There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though, because Priscilla walked in.
“I’m starving,” she said before noticing Tommy. “Hi, Dad,” she said, and then started setting the table.
“It’s all ready.” I forced a smile as I grabbed the tongs. “I’ll go get your steak while you clean up.”
“I’m not a little boy.” Tommy side-eyed me before glancing at Priscilla. “Did you wash your hands before doing that?”
“Of course,” she said, and for the first time in forever, I worried for her safety. A curt answer that could be misconstrued as flippant would never fly with Tommy.
“Let’s all sit down and eat,” I said quickly, trying to smooth things over before slipping out to the grill, mourning the firepit we’d never have and the friends who would never come over to enjoy it with us.
With his steak and sides in front of him, Tommy focused on eating while saying very little. When he did speak, it was mostly bragging about his deposition skills. He did take a moment to ask Priscilla if she was starting in her upcoming soccer game. She was, and he said he would think about coming.
“I love this soup,” Priscilla told me, wearing a smile just for me, and at the moment it felt like enough. Then she cleared her plates and went to her room to FaceTime friends and do whatever middle-school girls do.
“Work is really picking up, which is a good thing,” Tommy said, clipping his cigar and after pouring himself a Dewar’s. “We have some major expenses at the firm, and of course, Priscilla’s tuition and all the mandatory donations that come along with it.”
Finished cleaning up, I set aside the kitchen towel and wrung my idle hands.
Tommy came close, his alcohol-laden breath ghosting my cheek when he whispered in my ear, “Don’t look stunned, Margaret. This fancy little stay-at-home writer thing doesn’t come for free.”
“I work,” I managed to croak out.
“You don’t really work. You type out some drivel, and they fill space with it.”