Neck & Neck by Elizabeth Bevarly

way her mother had, either. Something else Ginny had that her mother hadn’t was a love for her daughter that surpassed all else.
    “Everything go okay with Maisy tonight?” Ginny asked. Not that she didn’t already know the answer. Things were always okay with Maisy. It was Ginny’s proudest accomplishment, her daughter’s completely ordinary, uneventful existence.
    Hazel nodded. “As always. She did her homework—”
    “But it wasn’t even a school night,” Ginny interjected.
    “I know, but that’s the kind of responsible, self-motivated kid you’re raising, Ginny.” She patted her hand in mock sympathy. “You’re just going to have to accept the fact that Maisy is a good kid.”
    Ginny smiled, too. She knew that. But she couldn’t take complete credit for Maisy turning out as well as she had. Hazel’s influence counted for a lot, too. And not just with Maisy.
    “Then we watched some Johnny Depp thing,” Hazel continued, “then Maisy downloaded a couple of new tunes for her iPod, and then she went to bed with her earbuds in.” She smiled. “I can’t imagine how that girl can fall asleep listening to all that screaming, but damned if she doesn’t nod right off.”
    “Times change, Hazel,” Ginny said. “Music changes with it. We can’t expect Maisy to embrace *NSYNC with the same passion I once did.”
    “*NSYNC?” Hazel repeated, aghast. “I was thinking about Joni Mitchell. Now there’s music to put you to sleep.”
    Ginny chuckled. “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more.”
    “Wait, that’s not what I meant,” Hazel said, at the same time, mirroring Ginny’s laughter. “I just meant music should soothe, not incite.”
    “Hmm, I don’t know about that,” Ginny countered. “The music of your generation incited an awful lot of stuff.”
    “Something the music of your generation could benefit from,” the other woman said smugly, evidently not realizing—or, more likely, not caring—that she’d just done a complete turnabout.
    The two women chatted while Ginny started the coffee brewing and set out the accoutrements of Maisy’s breakfast. Since it was Sunday, she’d have time to make waffles, her daughter’s favorite. Ginny’s, too.
    It was only when Hazel excused herself to go shower—and while Maisy still slept—that Ginny removed her evening’s take from her purse. The stack of bills was even fatter than usual, thanks to Russell Mulholland and his entourage who had tipped very well. This in spite of her telling him to back off, and in spite of turning the table over to another waitress after she’d presented him with that first tab. He’d stayed at Minxxx for another hour after that, and every time Ginny had looked at him, even though she’d done her best not to look at him—to no avail, dammit—he’d been sipping his unbelievably expensive cognac and watching her. Every. Single. Time. Then, when she cashed out for the night, Marcus the bartender had presented her with a couple hundred dollars more than she usually made on a Saturday. When she’d questioned it, he’d shown her the tab she’d presented to Mulholland for the three, admittedly way overpriced, drinks she’d taken to the table, and there it was in black and white: he’d tipped her roughly two hundred percent of his bill.
    She’d halfway expected to turn the tab over and find some sexually suggestive message and the assurance that there was more where that came from, along with a phone number. But there had been nothing. In spite of his watching her all night, he hadn’t tried to get her attention again. He hadn’t approached her. Hadn’t sent any messages via one of the other waitresses or one of the bartenders. At one point, she’d felt almost disappointed by that . . . until she’d mentally smacked herself upside the head and told herself to snap out of it.
    She flipped through the stack of bills again, and for one insane moment, thought about how she could have made even more last night.