Play Dates by Leslie Carroll

too, of course she’d need to find another nanny job, although a good reference from her most recent employer might have been a tough ticket. I have immediate visions of Robert bringing his holy terror of a son along for the holiday, followed by nightmares of an enraged Nina showing up on my parents’
    landmarked doorstep, then proceeding to hack us all to death with my father’s beloved Hoffritz carving knife. “Ummmm, Mommy?”
    “Yes, sweetheart?”
    “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. I’ve met the former Mrs. Osborne. She’s a force of nature.”
    My mother emits a musical little sigh. I can just picture her repeatedly running her hand through her still naturally dark hair, streaked with one equally natural slash of white. This is her customary reaction when faced with a dilemma. “Well, you know your father and I have always let you girls forge your own paths in this world. We’ve never told you when we thought something might be a wrong turn and have always trusted that you both will figure out when something isn’t working. You and Mia have a strong center.
    Sooner or later, if you decide the detour isn’t worth it, you’ll return to that center and head off in a different direction.” My mother should be writing map text for the American Automobile Associa-tion. “So, maybe Mia will break up with Robert in the next twenty-one days or so. And if she doesn’t, I’ll just make sure not to set out the good crystal and we’ll all have an adventure.”
    No wonder I’m a confused parent.
    “Is Daddy around?” I ask.
    “He’s working on your birthday poem. You know how he can get when he’s deep inside his head.”

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    Leslie Carroll
    “Yeah. You need to send spelunkers after him. It’s okay. I’ll call him later to say hi.” I smile, maybe a bit smugly, thinking how lucky I am. How many people grow up with a poet laureate penning a special creation for each of their birthdays? Brendan has promised that by the time Mia and I hit forty-four and forty, respectively, he’ll have enough to publish an anthology.
    We girls aren’t too sure how we feel about that.
    I say goodbye to my mother and dial Mia. “Before I head off to give my movies-made-in-Manhattan tour for Go Native! we need to talk,” I tell her.
    “So talk.”
    “What’s going on between you and Robert Osborne, and why didn’t you feel it was important enough to share with me?” I ask, miffed and still incredulous.
    Conspicuously omitting a full response to either question, she says, “I met him at Zoë’s class Halloween party.”
    “Thanks to which she is only eating orange food,” I mutter.
    This is true. Ever since the party, she has refused to eat anything that isn’t orange in color. Thank God it’s fall, because at least orange things are somewhat seasonal. We’re okay with carrots, yams, oranges, of course, and mac and cheese, as long as I add a bit of paprika to make the pasta an acceptable color. Otherwise, it’s “too yellow.” Most vegetables and all meats are an obstacle I haven’t been creative enough to overcome. Tomato sauce has been deemed “too red,” and convincing her to eat a chicken breast coated with an apricot glaze turned into negotiations worthy of the King David Accord.
    “Don’t blame me for the orange food,” Mia says. “Robert?
    Okay, I do take responsibility for that. I don’t know how long it will last, though. Do you know he sends his dog out to the Hamptons on a special bus? It’s called the Petney . Swear to God, I am not making this up. Seventy-five bucks one way. The Jitney for humans costs half that. His terrier doesn’t like too much open air and Robert likes to drive out to East Hampton in his PLAY DATES
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    two-seater Jag convertible. When he’s not saying how ‘different’
    he finds me, all he does is talk about himself. I have to come up with new ways to make him shut up.”
    “I’m sure you’ll think of something. If you live that long. Mia, do you know