Odd Mom Out

“I’m surprised you didn’t settle on the other side of the lake. You don’t strike me as an Eastsider.”

“A Bellevueite?” I mock, shaking my head. “No, I don’t fit in here, but I did some research before we moved, and the schools in Clyde Hill and Medina were outstanding. Mercer Island, too. But it was the house itself that sold me. My house on Ninety-second Avenue has a separate studio office at the back. It’s perfect for my company—not that I knew I’d have my own company when I moved, but having space for an art studio seemed like a great idea at the time.”

“Why an art studio?”

“I paint.”

He looks intrigued. “Are you good?”

Shrugging, I tear off a chunk of the naan flatbread and pop a smaller piece in my mouth. “I’m not bad,” I answer after I’ve swallowed. “I’ve sold pieces before, but right now it’s my outlet more than anything. I love to do it. I’m kind of passionate about art, but at the moment I channel most of my energy into my business. I have to. I need to pay bills, make sure Eva’s okay.”

He smiles at me, fine creases fanning from his eyes, and something in my middle turns over as he continues to smile.

“I like you, Marta Zinsser,” he says after a moment. “And maybe it’s because I haven’t met a lot of women like you. You’re honest. Very smart. And you shoot straight from the hip.” He pauses. “Or maybe it’s because you’re sexier than hell and you’re making me work very hard—”

“I’m not!” I protest.

His eyebrows lift. “Either way, it’s good. This is fun. I’m having fun, and I hope we can have dinner again when I get back from San Francisco.”

His eyes meet mine and hold. I blush even as I smile. How can anyone be so intense and so outwardly relaxed? He’s a study in contradictions.

“Dinner would be fun,” I finally agree.

Luke Flynn, I silently chant his name as I swing by the Bellevue Post Office on my way home to drop off Eva’s party invitations.

Did Luke really go to Harvard? And did he really just get back from China? Or is he a gorgeous con artist trying to blow smoke up my a——?

Pulling into my driveway, I vow to check out his credentials as soon as I have time. I probably should have Googled him earlier, but it didn’t seem like such a big deal. Now, with me falling hard for this guy, I think I better do some sleuthing to see just who, and what, I’m dealing with.

Chris is waiting for me as I walk into the office. “We’ve got a problem,” he says before I even step through the doorway. “We need to talk now.”

Chris, Robert, and I pull chairs to the conference table, and Chris wastes no time dropping the bad news: Our Walla Walla winery client hates the new advertising campaign and wants something different, something brilliant, yet something cheap. “And they want it turned around fast.”

I just stare at Chris. “But they signed off on the new ad campaign. They approved all the artwork—”

“They changed their mind.”

I shake my head. “They can’t change their mind at this stage of the game. The ad space is purchased, the artwork has been delivered, everything’s done.”

“That’s what I told them.” Chris exchanges glances with Robert. “They’re going to walk, though, if we don’t accommodate them.”

“Then let them walk. They’ve already been billed. They’ve paid up. I saw the check come in last week.”

“They canceled the check. They’ve paid nothing for the work done other than the initial retainer fee.” Chris rubs his head. “And that was just two thousand.”

I’m barely hanging on to my temper. “But the ad space alone is ten thousand.”

Robert looks miserable. “I’m sorry. It was my idea, my design—”

“Rubbish,” I interrupt. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You gave them exactly what they asked for.” I clamp my jaw tight to keep from saying more. I’m livid, really livid. “Get Pauline—no, make that Ray—on the phone,” I say, referring to the husband-and-wife team that owns the Walla Walla winery. “We’re going to talk. Now.”

Susan has just managed to get Ray on his cell when Eva crashes through the studio doors in tears.

“What did you say to Mrs. Young?” she cries, throwing her backpack at my feet. “What did you say to make Jemma hate me so much?”

I cover the phone’s mouthpiece. “What?”

She storms over to me at my desk. “You said something to her on the phone last week, and Jemma said her mom was so upset she couldn’t eat or sleep all weekend.”

I’m even more confused than before, and still covering the phone, I demand, “When?”

Eva balls her hands into fists. “Last week. Tuesday or Wednesday. I don’t know. Whenever you talked to her.”

“But I haven’t—”

Yet as soon as I open my mouth, I realize I did talk to her. Last week. She called me Tuesday night about the field trip. The same night Eva was sick. The same day I’d cut short my meeting with Freedom Bikes. “Just a minute.” I uncover the phone, say hello to Ray, and ask him if I can call him back in five minutes.

Ray’s curt but agrees.

I hang up and turn my full attention on Eva. “Now start over. From the top. What happened? What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” Eva flashes hotly. “Because Jemma’s told everyone at school that you’re so mean and you made her mom cry.”

“But I didn’t.”

“So why did Jemma tell everyone that?”

I’m on an episode of The Twilight Zone, and pretty soon I’ll know the plot and figure out what the hell is happening in this story. “I don’t know. But yes, Mrs. Young and I talked. I didn’t say anything to hurt her. She called to talk to me about the field trip.”

“Then why did she cry? And why did Jemma tell me you ruined everything?”

God, little girls gossip, and they never get the story straight, and I honestly don’t want to be doing this right now. I’m furious with Ray and Pauline. They approved artwork months ago, and the fact that they canceled a check they’d cut us infuriates me—and panics me a bit, as I’ve cut a number of checks against that deposit.

“Eva, you’ve got the story wrong. Mrs. Young wanted me to not chaperone the field trip to the Science Center so another mother could go, Andrea someone.”

“Brooke’s mom.”

“Right. Great. The point is, I told her no, that I’d already made plans to go, and I was going to go.”

My words aren’t soothing Eva, though. She’s just getting more upset, and I’m getting more impatient. The staff is listening, too, and I know from Chris’s expression that he’s getting tired of my family life intruding into the professional life.

“Eva, let’s take this to the house,” I say, standing.

But she refuses. “No.” She takes a step back and folds her arms across her thin chest. “I don’t want to take this to the house. I don’t want to talk to you. Why couldn’t you do what Mrs. Young asked? Why are you so selfish?”

I flinch at Eva’s accusation. Selfish. Is that what I am? Is that how she really perceives me? As selfish?

I’m hurt, angry, and stunned, so stunned that I can’t speak and don’t even try to defend myself.

When did everything change? When did I become the bad guy? And why am I the bad guy all the time?

“They say you’re weird,” Eva continues hotly. “They say you’re a freak. Jemma’s been telling everyone that you have a tattoo and you got kicked out of regular school and went to a special school for delinquent kids.”

“What?”

“She said her mom knows someone who knew you from high school and you had problems and that’s why I have problems.” Eva’s cheeks burn dusky red. “But I don’t have problems. My only problem is you. You turned me into a freak—”

“You’re not a freak.”

“You did this to me, and I hate it, and I hate you.” With that she runs to the house, slamming the studio door shut behind her.

>   The entire door frame shakes with the violence of Eva’s slam, and the office is dead silent for a moment after she’s gone. The silence is heavy, too, one of those stifling things that feels oppressive, as though it’s New York City in the middle of July.

“Um, Marta,” Susan says, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “Sorry to bother you, but your dad is on the line. Something about you taking your mom to the doctor today?”

Oh, Jesus.

I forgot. I completely forgot. It’s Tuesday. Mom was supposed to see her specialist today, and I’m late, very late, and this isn’t an appointment that’s easily rescheduled. We’re going to be late, but better late than a no-show.

I swivel around in my desk chair, stare sickly at the others. “I’m supposed to go—I’ve got to go.”

“Then go. I’ll call Ray back and tell him you’ll call him later,” Robert says, shooing me with his hand. “And don’t worry about Eva. We’re good with Eva.”