My 3 Rockstar Bosses

So I sigh. And just for show, she swoops me into another hug, announcing again how happy she is that I’m home. When I offer to help with food, she clucks, shaking her head.

“You go on outside,” she says, shooing me towards the backyard. “Besides, I expect the Morgans to arrive anytime now. You remember the Morgans, honey? They have seven sons. Seven boys! If I were Maddy Morgan, I’d probably be in a mental facility by now, run ragged with no space to breathe. But Maddy is fantastic, so calm all the time.”

I nod. I do, in fact, remember the Morgans. Somewhat. Vaguely. We never interacted because the boys were so much older than me. But it was always a joke around the house because what family has seven sons? The level of testosterone over there must have been enough to kill an elephant.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember much more than a couple lanky teenage boys zooming around the neighborhood on skateboards. So I shrug nonchalantly.

“Sure,” is my comment. “Let me know when they arrive.”

And fortunately, my bikini manages to stay put as I arrange myself on a lounge chair, stretching out in the sun. Maybe I can just greet people from here, like a queen. I’ll say I have an ankle injury. It’s for the better because if I move, there’s definitely going to be an accident. This is all for the public interest, I tell myself, lying back, sunglasses on top of my head.

But then I hear my mom’s voice again.

“Hello there!” Marsha squeals, throwing her arms around a tall, fit blonde. Even though they’re about the same age, the two women look completely different. My mom is short and pudgy. She

hides it well behind professional clothes, but there’s no doubt that Marsha’s wider than she is tall.

By contrast, this woman is long and lean with toned arms and legs, perky breasts, and a great tan. She’s got a short, blonde bob and wears designer sunglasses and a bright blue beach cover-up. She could be a tennis instructor at a fancy country club, or a professional golf player.

“Macy,” my mom calls, gesturing to me. “Come and meet Mrs. Morgan. You remember Mrs. Morgan from next door?”

Slowly, I get up and make my way over. Up close, the blonde is even more tanned and athletic, bursting with health. This is Mrs. Morgan? How in the world does she have seven kids? There’s no hint of pooch on her belly, her abs tight and firm. Damn, I’m always fighting my gut, and I haven’t even been pregnant once.

But Mrs. Morgan smiles widely.

“Hi there Macy,” she says. “Long time no see.”

“Hi,” I say, head down, holding out my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

I figure we’ll shake, but instead Mrs. Morgan takes my hand and pulls me in for a hug. Then she holds me away, her hands on my shoulders, giving me the once over.

“Look at you,” she burbles. “Looking healthy after your first year away.”

What? How come these middle aged ladies get to say whatever they want about my appearance? First my mom, and now this?

“I, um,” I start to say, glancing down and flushing.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she interrupts. “The boys like a little meat on a woman’s bones. You’re just gorgeous. I’ll probably have to cage my boys to keep them from bothering you all summer.”

She’s always been kind, but it doesn’t make me feel better as I consider that she’s probably double my age, but half my weight. God.

But Mrs. Morgan is real nice, and there’s nothing scary about the woman. So I manage a reply.

“Oh thanks,” I say, trying to appear confident. “Where are your boys?”

I feel weird saying boys because by my count, they’re not boys at all. I think the youngest is probably nearing thirty and the oldest is probably in his forties. Not boys at all, nope.

“All on their way home, actually,” she says, stepping over to claim a lounge chair. She tosses her towel and bag down and slips fancy sandals off. “Unfortunately, Ted had a stroke recently.”

Oh no. Immediately, I feel terrible. Here I was worrying about inconsequential stuff while her husband’s gravely ill?

“I’m sorry,” is my sincere reply, sitting next to her on the deck. “I think my mom did tell me that. How’s he doing?”

But instead of replying right away, the blonde turns to my mom, arranging platters of food along a table near the house, and yells, “Marsha, do you need any help, honey?”

My mom waves a dismissive hand at her. “No, dear, you and Macy go ahead and catch up.”

Mrs. Morgan turns back to me. “Sorry, sweetie, what were we talking about?”