No Returns by Rhonda Pollero Page A

ago. I know it’s stupid but part of me wanted some praise for the way the place had turned out.
    She glanced around the kitchen, living room and dining room area, her expression never wavered. Finally, she asked, “I’ve never seen a house decorated entirely with furnishings from that Swedish mega store. It’s very . . . interesting.”
    I felt a tad deflated. “Would you like to see the bedrooms?” I asked just to be courteous.
    “Perhaps later,” she said as she ran her hand over her perfectly coiffed hair. “Do you have any wine?”
    “White Zin,” I answered as I moved into the kitchen. “Will that do?”
    “If that’s all you have.”
    What I have is a date. I checked my watch again and said a few choice words to myself. I poured the wine and handed it to her.
    Once I made myself a cosmo, my mother had moved into the living room and was seated very properly on the edge of the white sofa, her legs crossed at the ankles. She took a sip of wine, holding the satchel close to her hip.
    “I have a problem,” she said after three more fortifying sips.
    “And you came to me?” Color me stunned.
    “You are my daughter.”
    But not the right daughter. My mother always sought the counsel of my younger, successful, married sister, Lisa. Lisa was a pediatric oncologist who had married another doctor from one of Atlanta’s better families. I was happy for Lisa and happy for me. As a maid of honor gift, Lisa gave me a pair of much coveted Jimmy Choos.
    I sat across from my mother and it was my turn to grab a gulp of alcohol. “What do you need?”
    My mother stiffened her already rigid spine. She looked very regal, except for the odd expression in her eyes. Cassidy Presley Tanner Browning Rossi was every inch the diva she’d aspired to be before she accidentally got pregnant with me. The fact that she’s developed throat nodules that actually ended her career as an opera singer got lost in translation. Somewhere down inside I know she blames me for stealing her spotlight. This makes no sense if you think about my name.
    Until the age of thirteen, I thought Jonathan Tanner was my father. And in every sense of the word, he was. Only I was thumbing through my mother’s sacred La Perla drawer and found my adoption papers. Jonathan had become my father when I was three. I’d always been told that Finley and Anderson were family names. Technically they were. The surnames of the two men my mother was sleeping with when she got pregnant with me. Who knows? Maybe naming me Finley Anderson Presley – later Tanner – was a mistake. Maybe it just reminded her too much of her past. All I know is that I can’t take a breath to please the woman, which is why her request came straight out of left field.
    “Do you have contact with that man you brought to your sister’s wedding?”
    “Liam?”
    “Yes, him. The one you practically mauled on the dance floor.”
    An answer, a dig, and a dagger glare. A Cassidy trifecta.
    “I may need his services.”
    “For what?” I asked. “Someone stealing your newspaper at the penthouse?”
    That earned me a tilt of the head and pursed lips.
    “It’s a confidential matter.” She tugged at the hem of her skirt.
    I looked at my watch. So much for date night. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. The last thing I needed was her commentary on my choice of Liam as the man in my life. Maybe if I got him over here, she could explain her confidential problem and then leave. It was worth a try. “I’ll send him a text.”
    “You don’t communicate by phone?” my mother asked with censure.
    “The text goes to the phone.” I stood up and grabbed my cell and dashed off a quick but urgent text to Liam. He responded in seconds. He was on his way and was stopping to get Chinese take-out. I texted back and reluctantly told him to make it for three. Just in case.
    Then the awkwardness set in. There we sat, across from one another and the best we could do was surface chitchat. The