Risky Business

“John bought a new chef’s knife. Something about steel quality and handle grip?” Mom shrugs, which is understandable because when John starts talking about his work tools, I glaze over too. A recipe you want to try out? Bring it on. A restaurant you want to visit? I’ll go with you. But discussing the differences pan temperature has on meat, or blade thickness variations, is not exciting dinner conversation. “Sarah and the boys are doing well, mostly focusing on school and lacrosse.”

“Jordan’s waiting on his bar results. They should be in any day now, but I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Mom says proudly. She brags on all of us, though, not just those of us with fancy degrees. “He’s continuing his clerkship in the meantime, and Drew got a promotion to lead architect.”

“And then there’s you . . .” Mom trails off, tilting her head in question. Guess it’s my turn to fill her in on what I’ve been so busy with.

“After the music festival, we went over all the stats, and it was a total success. So much so that they actually offered me a job,” I tell her with a laugh. “Obviously, I didn’t take it.”

“Of course not. You’ve worked hard to get where you are at Compass,” she agrees. After a moment, she pries a bit more. “What about the Carson fella you mentioned?”

I smile into my coffee cup. “We’re seeing each other.”

“Oh!” Mom exclaims happily, clasping her hands. Or she would have if her coffee cup weren’t in her way. Instead, she ends up slapping it so hard that the ice rattles wildly. “Oh,” she says again, though in a totally different tone. She sets the mostly empty cup on the coaster on my coffee table. “Tell me everything.”

It takes me a while to go through it all, from our tumultuous first meeting to the fun day riding coasters. As I do, bits and pieces come back to me, creating fresh smiles with every memory.

“You look happy,” Mom summarizes.

“I am.” We grin like giggly schoolgirls bonding over a cute boy asking me to the homecoming dance. Actually . . .

“Hey, Mom, you want to help me pick out a dress for a charity event?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen. “Did you really just ask me that?” And in a flash, she’s up and heading for the door. I laugh, not moving, and she prods, “Come on, let’s go!”

“I have dresses, Mom. I don’t need to go shopping. I meant for you to help me pick from my closet.”

She throws me a look of faux-disappointment. “Are you sure you’re even my daughter?” she questions dryly. “Not shopping?”

I head to my bedroom, knowing she’ll be right behind me. “I’m not sure,” I joke. “There’s not much of a resemblance.”

“You look just like me and you know it,” she huffs, pushing me out of the way to get at my closet first. By the time I catch up to her, she’s already lifting the dry-cleaning bags off my special occasion dresses. I have quite a few from recent years, including one that I wore to the Oscars with a client, though I didn’t walk the red carpet. It was strictly behind-the-scenes.

“What about this one?” Holding up the pale lavender gown, I pose for her consideration.

She shakes her head.

“Hmm, what’s the event for? That’ll help us narrow it down,” she asks.

“The local children’s hospital. It’ll be in the Great Garden at Americana Land, so sort of a garden party?” I flip through a few more dresses, looking for a particular one. “What about a floral one? As a nod to the garden location.”

Mom tilts her head back and forth, considering. “Try it on so we can see.”

I step out into the bedroom and slip on the dress. It’s Wedgwood blue flowers over a cream background, with a hint of a ruffle along the strapless bodice. “I think this might be it. What do you think?”

Mom comes out of the closet holding a garment bag, which she lays on the bed. She twirls her finger in the air, and I spin as instructed. “Good option. Try that one too.”

She points at the bag she laid down and then disappears back into the closet. I predict that I’ll have to try on every formal dress I own before we narrow this down. Even then, Mom is likely to try to talk me into shopping anyway.

The next option is covered in bronze sequins, and while it’s more body consciously fitted, it’s also knee-length with cap sleeves. “Option two,” I call to Mom.

She doesn’t even make it out of the closet doorway before she starts laughing. “Absolutely not. You look like you’re going to a political fundraising party and have to dress matronly.” She squints her eyes as if that’ll help her see me better, though I’m only six feet away. “Uhm, is that a mother of the bride dress, honey? It really looks like it.”