headed to Dane-Lieberman.
On the way, I tried Becky’s cell, but it went directly to voice mail. Same with Liv. Where were they?
A few minutes after nine, I was parked in front of my office. Leaving my jacket in the car since the temperature was already topping eighty-five, I grabbed my tote and went inside. Margaret was at her post, Bluetooth in place, hair teased and sprayed into a helmet shape. I wondered if she looked this disapproving and nasty at home, or if she just saved her scowly face for work. But wait…
Either my mind was playing tricks on me or she was actually smiling. No trick, she was definitely grinning. Not a “gee, I’m happy to see you” grin, more of a “you’re going to hate this and I get to watch” grin.
As soon as she lifted the express mail envelope, I saw it had been opened. I didn’t bother to hide my contempt for the nosy bitch. “You opened it? When it was sent to me?”
“It wasn’t,” Margaret said, her eyes practically shimmering with delight when I narrowed my gaze on her. “It was addressed to me with instructions to have your signature witnessed and notarized before giving you the check.”
It felt like steam was shooting out of my ears as my whole body heated with a blend of intense anger and utter humiliation. Of all people, why did my mother have to make Margaret the go-between?
“I’ll buzz Mary Beth,” Margaret said.
While waiting for the peppy litigation paralegal to come down from her third-floor office, I sensed movement in the doorway that led to the foyer vending machines. Ahh, I should have known. Three or four of the homely, miserable twits from the file room were taking turns peeking around the corner. Obviously Margaret had sent out an alert. “Come one, come all! F.A.T.’s mother won’t give her a loan without making her sign a note!”
Yesterday hadn’t been a great day and today wasn’t looking a whole lot better. Unless you were Margaret or one of the file room flunkies, all of whom seemed to be delighting in this awkward moment. I really, really wanted to turn around and yell, “Bite me!” I considered the rabies shot that would necessitate and kept my mouth shut. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth.
I’d known when I’d asked my mother for a loan that she’d get her pound of flesh. Until this morning, I hadn’t realized the depth of her need for control coupled with her nastiness. I should have known. There’s no free lunch with my mother.
This thing with Jane had clearly clouded my normally sharp mother radar.
Mary Beth, notary stamp and seal in hand, virtually danced out of the elevator. She was smart, kind, more organized than the Dewey decimal system, and more into entertaining than Martha Stewart. Mary Beth was so kind, in fact, that she’d accepted all my lame excuses for declining to attend her home parties with a bright smile, sometimes even apologizing for planning them on dates I was unavailable.
She was our office’s version of head cheerleader, baking birthday cakes, sending sympathy cards, and often bringing in home-baked goods to share. She was a crafty woman too, not in a snarky way, but literally. Give the woman a hot glue gun, a little time, and a lot of glue sticks, she could probably construct a scale version of the Eiffel Tower out of pretzel rods.
“Hi, Finley,” she said in a chipper voice I could only achieve under the influence of a triple-shot espresso drink.
“Hi. Sorry to take you away from your desk.”
“Not a problem,” Mary Beth said. “Just happy to help.”
“I don’t want to keep you.” When I turned to take the envelope from Margaret, I realized it was too late. A single typed page dangled from her fingers. Where, I wondered, annoyed, was the freaking check?
Snatching the paper, I skimmed the terms, swallowing the groan bubbling up in my throat. My mother, my flesh and blood, was charging me 17.9 percent interest. One-tenth of a point below the usury limits allowed in the state of
On the way, I tried Becky’s cell, but it went directly to voice mail. Same with Liv. Where were they?
A few minutes after nine, I was parked in front of my office. Leaving my jacket in the car since the temperature was already topping eighty-five, I grabbed my tote and went inside. Margaret was at her post, Bluetooth in place, hair teased and sprayed into a helmet shape. I wondered if she looked this disapproving and nasty at home, or if she just saved her scowly face for work. But wait…
Either my mind was playing tricks on me or she was actually smiling. No trick, she was definitely grinning. Not a “gee, I’m happy to see you” grin, more of a “you’re going to hate this and I get to watch” grin.
As soon as she lifted the express mail envelope, I saw it had been opened. I didn’t bother to hide my contempt for the nosy bitch. “You opened it? When it was sent to me?”
“It wasn’t,” Margaret said, her eyes practically shimmering with delight when I narrowed my gaze on her. “It was addressed to me with instructions to have your signature witnessed and notarized before giving you the check.”
It felt like steam was shooting out of my ears as my whole body heated with a blend of intense anger and utter humiliation. Of all people, why did my mother have to make Margaret the go-between?
“I’ll buzz Mary Beth,” Margaret said.
While waiting for the peppy litigation paralegal to come down from her third-floor office, I sensed movement in the doorway that led to the foyer vending machines. Ahh, I should have known. Three or four of the homely, miserable twits from the file room were taking turns peeking around the corner. Obviously Margaret had sent out an alert. “Come one, come all! F.A.T.’s mother won’t give her a loan without making her sign a note!”
Yesterday hadn’t been a great day and today wasn’t looking a whole lot better. Unless you were Margaret or one of the file room flunkies, all of whom seemed to be delighting in this awkward moment. I really, really wanted to turn around and yell, “Bite me!” I considered the rabies shot that would necessitate and kept my mouth shut. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth.
I’d known when I’d asked my mother for a loan that she’d get her pound of flesh. Until this morning, I hadn’t realized the depth of her need for control coupled with her nastiness. I should have known. There’s no free lunch with my mother.
This thing with Jane had clearly clouded my normally sharp mother radar.
Mary Beth, notary stamp and seal in hand, virtually danced out of the elevator. She was smart, kind, more organized than the Dewey decimal system, and more into entertaining than Martha Stewart. Mary Beth was so kind, in fact, that she’d accepted all my lame excuses for declining to attend her home parties with a bright smile, sometimes even apologizing for planning them on dates I was unavailable.
She was our office’s version of head cheerleader, baking birthday cakes, sending sympathy cards, and often bringing in home-baked goods to share. She was a crafty woman too, not in a snarky way, but literally. Give the woman a hot glue gun, a little time, and a lot of glue sticks, she could probably construct a scale version of the Eiffel Tower out of pretzel rods.
“Hi, Finley,” she said in a chipper voice I could only achieve under the influence of a triple-shot espresso drink.
“Hi. Sorry to take you away from your desk.”
“Not a problem,” Mary Beth said. “Just happy to help.”
“I don’t want to keep you.” When I turned to take the envelope from Margaret, I realized it was too late. A single typed page dangled from her fingers. Where, I wondered, annoyed, was the freaking check?
Snatching the paper, I skimmed the terms, swallowing the groan bubbling up in my throat. My mother, my flesh and blood, was charging me 17.9 percent interest. One-tenth of a point below the usury limits allowed in the state of
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