Amy cringed at the thought of her mother marrying the smarmy Rusty Jacobs. He claimed he was related to the wealthy Jacobs family, who owned the Adecco Group in Switzerland. And Switzerland being the tight-lipped country of secret bank accounts, there was no way anyone could verify his claim. Amy thought it odd that he lived in a modest cottage and, to her recollection, had never once picked up the check for dinner. Amy sensed he was a gigolo, but there was no talking to her mother when it came to Rusty. According to Dorothy, “He’s attentive and always by my side.” Yeah, because he’s attached to your purse strings. Amy shivered.
“Oh, darling, can’t you spare a few days for your dear mother?” Her mother was just short of begging.
Amy rolled her eyes. And there it is. The guilt trip. “Oh, Mother, as much as I would love to share the holidays with you, I have to be in Miami the next day, and I can’t take off any more days at work,” she lied. The offices were closed the week before and after Christmas. But Amy knew that it would require more than a seven-day cruise to recover from the stress of two days with her mother and smarmy Rusty. Amy had been away from home now for over a decade, and her relationship with her mother was basically cordial. Not all mushy like Frankie and her mom. She wished she could have a mother-daughter conversation about life, men, work, anything.
“I’m happy for you, Mother. Congratulations. I hope you have the marriage you always dreamed of.” Amy’s stomach was churning.
“I’m sure your father will be delighted. He won’t have to pay alimony anymore,” Dorothy huffed.
“Mother, you always had your own money from Grandpa.”
“Yes, but it didn’t belong to your father. I was entitled to spousal support.” She paused. “According to the courts.”
Amy thought to herself, then she asked, “What was the name of your divorce attorney? Was it Lloyd Luttrell?”
“Why on earth do you ask?” Dorothy asked.
“Rachael Newmark. Her dad fixed her up with someone he described as the best in the state. I thought it might have been the same one. You know, all coming from the same town and country club.” Amy waited for a response.
“Yes, it was Lloyd Luttrell,” Dorothy said, a rather snotty tone creeping into her voice. “But why does it matter?”
“Don’t get all defensive on me, Mother. I was simply asking because my friends and I had a conversation about it. No biggie.”
Her mother gave another huff. “So when will I see my brilliant daughter?”
Amy winced again. “I’ll have to check my schedule when I’m in the office. There are a lot of new projects coming up in January.”
Heaving an overly robust sigh, Dorothy broke the silence. “Well, I do hope you’ll find time to make it to the wedding.”
Amy thought she was going to puke. “When is it, Mother?” “April. We’re going to honeymoon in Paris.” Dorothy sighed with delight.
“I’ll be there.” Amy cringed again.
Of course you are, and I am sure you’re paying for it. Amy’s thoughts veered toward her suspicions of Rusty being a gigolo. She couldn’t help it. Something in her gut was letting her know. “That’s nice, Mother. It will give me time to plan things. You know how the lab can get when we’re under a deadline.”
Dorothy sighed again. “I know you are doing important work. Well, dear, I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving. We’ll be missing you.”
Yeah right. Amy knew Rusty wasn’t keen on her. She felt he knew that she knew what he was all about. “I’ll be at the shelter fixing a special dinner for the purrs and pooches.”
Amy didn’t mind helping to keep the critters safe, clean, and fed. She thought she heard her mother groan. “OK, Mother, I’ve gotta run. Take care and have a lovely Thanksgiving.” She ended the call before having to hear another word about the amazing Rusty.
Amy let out a big sigh. She needed to switch gears after speaking to her mother. She went into the spare bedroom to survey her wardrobe and accessories. Even though the cruise was a month away, Amy was delighted with her purchases and had laid out all her outfits on the futon in the spare bedroom. Blinky had already beaten her to the suitcase, which was lying open, and he was snoozing comfortably on top of a new pashmina.
“Hey, you. You don’t have a passport. You can’t go.” He lifted his head, opened his one good eye, then rolled over. “You big goofball.” Hop-Along hobbled into the room to see what the fuss was about. He looked around and saw something new to explore. Amy’s suitcase. Even with one clubfoot, that rascal could jump, and he made himself comfortable on the far side of the open suitcase.
“Oh, come on, you guys. You’re going to get kitty fur all over my new stuff. You have your own beds.” Amy was almost whining. But after being around cats, she had discovered that no matter how many toys, beds, or scratching posts they have, they will choose a rock from a potted plant to slide on the floor at two o’clock in the morning, or pick the sweater you planned to wear, as their bed. There was no way around it unless you wanted to lock them in a separate room, but for Amy that made no sense and seemed cruel. Why have a pet? She thought about that question for a moment. Having worked at the shelter, she knew the answer. Some people had pets as an accessory, others had pets to torment. She was glad she was on the adoption committee. They would meet once a week and go over the applications, then do a home inspection. It was surprising how many people were turned down. She never approved an application where it indicated they wanted a “working animal.” The stupidity of checking off that box was indication enough that the potential owner had a few dim bulbs in his personal chandelier.
Amy lifted Blinky out of the suitcase and put him on the floor. When she picked up Hop-Along, Blinky was right back in the suitcase. She knew she was fighting a losing battle. “OK. Fine. Stay there. But you guys are going to have a lot of ironing to do.” She shook her finger at both of them. Neither seemed to care. They were too busy enjoying their new beds.
Amy was still having a hard time shaking off the disturbing conversation she had had with her mother. She wondered if Dorothy would have Rusty sign a prenuptial agreement. She looked at her watch. It was seven on the West Coast and ten back East. She sent a text to Rachael:
Can you talk?
A few minutes later, her phone pinged.
Sure. Call me.
Amy dialed Rachael’s number.
“What’s shakin’, chica?” Rachael asked brightly.
“My mother is getting married,” Amy responded glumly.
“To that creepy guy?”
“Yep.”
“Is she happy?” Rachael asked.
“She sounds happy. But I’m concerned that Rusty is using her for her money.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be a first,” Rachael said wryly.
“That’s why I called you. Turns out her divorce lawyer was the same as yours. Lloyd Luttrell.”
“It’s a small community,” Rachael noted.
“I need to find out if she is going to have Rusty sign a prenup.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Have you met my mother?” Amy replied sardonically. “She would freak out if I asked her.”