A Self-Made Man by Kathleen O`Brien

leaned down with a grin. “But remember, Mr. Kendall. When you’re ready for a ride on something a little wilder and warmer, let me know.”
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    B Y ELEVEN THE NEXT morning, Lacy had been on the telephone so long her ear was starting to hurt. But it had been worth it. She had lined up two new corporate donors for the neonatal wing; she had discussed details with Kara Karlin, who was organizing the volunteers for next week’s gourmet dinner fund-raiser; and she had locked in a rate from the printer for the direct mail campaign brochure.
    Best of all, she had avoided spending any one-on-one time with Gwen.
    To her surprise, Gwen had risen early this morning. Lacy assumed that must be a new habit formed during Gwen’s year as an au pair—the girl’s previous routine had always been to stumble out of bed around noon, squinting tragically at the sun as if it were a poisonous death ray from an alien spacecraft.
    Today, though, Gwen had been up at eight, showered and dressed in tight black leather pants and a flamingo-colored tube top by nine. By ten, Teddy Kilgore had arrived, and the two of them were in Gwen’s room now, giggling and strumming Gwen’s guitar rather badly along with the stereo.
    Some absurd ember of maternal protectiveness hadflared slightly as Gwen closed and locked her door, but Lacy had smothered it quickly. Gwen was twenty-three years old—it was a little late to be laying down rules about entertaining boys in her bedroom.
    So Lacy merely took a deep breath and dialed the newspaper’s society columnist and tried not to listen as Gwen and Teddy laughed and strummed and played ever-wilder CDs on the stereo. She tried not to evaluate the sounds—tried not to think about how as long as Teddy was playing the guitar, Gwen couldn’t be making any serious life mistakes.
    It was ridiculous, she knew that. Lacy wasn’t Gwen’s mother. She wasn’t even really her stepmother. She was merely, as Gwen had once put it, a profound pain in the ass. But, still…how could Lacy help wishing she could prevent Gwen from making some of the same mistakes she herself had made? Especially when she knew how devastating the effects of such recklessness could be.
    No one was answering at the newspaper. Realizing she must have dialed the wrong number, Lacy hung up. Before she could start again, the telephone rang.
    It was Jennifer Lansing. Lacy stifled a groan—she couldn’t afford to antagonize Jennifer. It had been difficult enough to talk to her into helping with the hospital fund-raiser. Usually Jennifer reserved her energy for her own causes. But Lacy needed Jennifer’s chilled chicken breasts to make her progressive dinner a success. Pringle Island society was divided on almost every subject, except on the subject of Jennifer’s chicken. It was unanimously considered the best dish in town.
    â€œJennifer!” Somehow she pumped enthusiasm into her voice. “I was going to call you in a just few minutes. You know, I’ve still got you pencilled in for the dinner next week. Have you decided whether you’ll be able to help us out? You know the evening just won’t be the same without your chicken breasts.”
    â€œWell, darling, that’s why I’m calling.” Jennifer’s voice was syrupy, and Lacy knew immediately that she wanted something. She should have predicted this. Jennifer never did anything without bargaining for a favor in return. That was what made her such a formidable fund-raiser—she always had a pot full of golden IOUs she could call in at a moment’s notice. “I was hoping we could talk about that.”
    But Lacy had played this game a hundred times, and she was ready. “Great,” she said pleasantly. “Let’s talk.”
    â€œWell, you know I’m in charge of the lighthouse day Saturday.”
    Lacy did know. As the director of the historical society, Jennifer was