She took a deep breath through her nose and focused on keeping her voice calm. “I know. I’m sorry about that. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” Hazel said, stabbing at her macaroni with her fork.
“Okay, then.” Margot scooped a bit of broccoli into her mouth, wincing at the bitter green. She didn’t care if it made her a giant child, she would never like the stuff.
“Is your mommy alive?” Hazel asked.
Trying to demonstrate good table manners, Margot dabbed at her mouth with a napkin before answering. “No, she isn’t. She passed away about three years ago.”
Hazel stared at her long and hard, as if she thought Margot was lying. When Margot didn’t blink, a tiny crack seemed to appear in Hazel’s icy exterior and she nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you miss her very much?”
Margot tried not to let too much of a conversational lapse go by, because that would be telling. “Sometimes I do.”
“Do you cry?” Hazel asked, sounding childlike for the first time since Margot had met her. “Sometimes I cry. And Dad says that’s okay.”
“Every once in a while,” Margot admitted. “And however you want to feel about it is okay.”
“And how do you feel?” Hazel asked.
Margot’s mouth dropped open, unable to find a child-appropriate answer to a very loaded question.
“Okay, you have mined all of the personal information I’m going to let you try to get out of our dinner guest,” Kyle interjected, his bearded cheeks flushing. “What’s next? Her Apple ID password? PIN numbers?”
“No one says PIN numbers, Dad!” Hazel cried. “Everything is done with PayPal now!”
“Kids grow up too fast,” Margot said, grateful for the break in the conversational tension.
Kyle muttered, “Preaching to the choir.”
AFTER DINNER, THERE was a nightly routine of baths and homework checks and complicated preventive tangle care to make hairstyles easier in the morning. Margot excused herself from this scene before she was asked to braid, a skill she’d never managed to pick up.
June was loath to let her go, attempting to cling to Margot’s leg as she walked into the living room. Hazel wasn’t quite as clingy, but her chilly reception had thawed just a little bit.
Kyle walked Margot to the door while his daughters scraped their plates into the garbage. “I’m sorry the girls brought up your mom. I’m sure that was awkward and painful. And I’m sorry about asking you to be . . . remote, but I don’t think any of us is ready for someone new to . . .”
“Oh, no, it was fine. Thank you for dinner.”
“If I’ve learned anything from all this, it’s that you don’t try to gloss over grief.”
“I wasn’t very close to my mom,” she said. “The more I find out about her from people here, the more I understand why we weren’t close.”
“Well, if you ever want to talk about it—”
“I can guarantee that I won’t,” she told him, edging toward the open front door. She stepped out into the still-warm evening air, grateful for the bit of breeze coming off the lake.
Kyle’s head cocked and his mouth opened, as if he was about to ask her an extremely personal question, but Hazel yelled from the kitchen. “Dad! June hid all of her broccoli in her napkin again!”
Margot burst out laughing, her nose bumping against Kyle’s chin. He groaned, his hands coming up to slide around her shoulders and press her close in a quick hug. “I’m sorry.”
“Duty calls,” she said, smiling. “Good night.”
“Duty calls,” he agreed, pressing his forehead against hers. He sniffed, separating from her and shouting, “June! Sit back down and prepare for a double helping of broccoli for your dessert!”
“Aw, Dad!”
“No sweets! We’re talking total ice cream lockdown!” Kyle called. “Don’t make me get the kale!”
“NOOOOOO!”
IN THE SPIRIT of cooperation, Margot had arrived at the Founders’ Festival Parents’ Workday (also known as Saturday morning at the elementary school gym) with her best smile and her brand-new glue gun. Alas, her enthusiasm to help the locals put together booths and handicrafts was not returned.
First, Jimmy Greenway met her at the door and tried to tell her that the PTA officers were holding an official closed meeting, but Sweet Johnnie waved her in cheerfully.
“Hey, shug!” Sweet Johnnie cried, throwing an arm around her. “I’m so glad you’re here, because we can’t seem to get the easels to stay upright without supergluing them. The flyers are printed on the wrong color paper. And Sara Lee called all of the information booth volunteers and told them that they’re not needed. And I’m havin’ to make a lot of apology phone calls.”
Margot sighed. The board had agreed to establish “Ask Me Anything” booths, staffed by volunteers, on every corner, to help tourists navigate the festival. Sara Lee hadn’t seen the point in them, since “everybody around here knows everybody anyway.”
“Okay, one thing at a time. How bad are the flyers? Could we use them even if they’re on the wrong color paper?”
Sweet Johnnie pulled an example out of her back pocket. It was printed on dark blue paper, so the black print was barely readable, even up close. Margot shook her head. “So, no.”
Sweet Jonnie muttered, “Sara Lee insisted that dark blue would show up best on bulletin boards. I bought some lighter blue paper at the Office Supply Warehouse.”
“Does Mr. Archer mind if we use the school’s copy room to make up some replacement flyers?”
Across the gym, Kyle was nailing together booths with some of the other dads. Between the beard, the white V-neck T-shirt, and the hammer in his hand, he looked like a commercial for extremely flattering jeans. As if he could hear her thinking dirty thoughts about his denim wear, Kyle turned and waved. She waggled her fingers.
“Yeah, Mr. Archer said we could use his copy code,” Sweet Johnnie said. “He was very sweet about it.”
“Great, I’ll just go get started,” Margot said.
“Oh, no need,” Mr. Greenway said, holding up a thick stack of light blue flyers advertising the festival. “I just made the copies. My old copy code still works, you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greenway,” Margot said through gritted teeth. She turned to Sweet Johnnie. “Okay, what about the easels? What can I do to help there?”
Sara Lee sidled up to Margot with a sly smirk on her face. “Don’t bother. My Robbie put them together. Some things just need a little force so they can find their place.”
Margot sneered at Sara Lee. “Gee, thanks, Sara Lee.”
She turned to Sweet Johnnie, who was watching the exchange with an alarmed expression. “If you give me the contact list for the Ask Me Anything volunteers, I’ll call them and explain that they are needed, despite some misguided claims to the contrary. I’m used to making professional-grade apologies for other people’s screw-ups.”
“Oh, we don’t need you for that,” a skinny brunette with a startling amount of red highlights piped up from behind Sara Lee. “I already took care of it.”
Margot’s mouth dropped open. Were these people seriously conspiring to keep her from helping with a community festival? Did they not have better uses for their time? Margot glanced at Mr. Greenway, who seemed to be lording his ability to make copies at will over Kyle. No, apparently they did not.
“How did you even know to do that, Katie Beth?” Sweet Johnnie asked. “I didn’t ask anybody to make those calls. How did you know what to say?”
“Sara Lee told me what was needed,” Katie Beth protested. “She’s in charge, isn’t she?”
“No, she’s not,” Sweet Johnnie cried. “Mr. Archer brought Margot in because nothing was getting done. Because we keep arguing over silly things, like a bunch of dang children.”
“Look, it really doesn’t matter who’s in charge,” Margot said. “I’m only here to help. We’re all here for the same reason, wh
ich is to make the festival as successful as possible and help bring visitors into the town.”
“Well, we don’t see the point in you being here,” Sara Lee shot back. “We don’t know you. You don’t know anything about this town. And you don’t even have kids at this school. You know, you really have to be a mother to help out around here. Otherwise you’re just in the way.”
“If you think childlessness is my soft underbelly, you are jabbing at the wrong spot,” Margot said with a snort. Sara Lee rolled her eyes. “And sending the dogcatcher to Aunt Tootie’s house? That’s bush league. I’m not scared of you. I’m not going to be intimidated away from helping just because it makes you unhappy. Look, you’re terrible at this. I’m not saying this to hurt you, you just are. Mr. Archer wouldn’t have called me in, otherwise. I don’t care who gets the credit. Take all the credit, as far as I’m concerned. But I refuse to let this thing fall flat because you’re too shortsighted to realize when you’re in over your head. There is one voice that matters here, one directive, and it’s mine, and if you have a problem with it, there’s the door.”
“You can’t throw me out of a volunteer work day,” Sara Lee shot back.
Margot smiled brightly. “Watch me.”
Sara Lee hissed, her asymmetrical hair clinging to her left cheek. “You’re crazy, just like your daddy.”
Margot’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s going on here?” Kyle asked.
Sara Lee’s expression turned all peaches and cream. “Just a little debate about who does what.”
“That’s right, just a little difference of opinion,” Margot said. Her hand had twitched around her glue gun like Clint Eastwood’s in a spaghetti Western. Sara Lee flinched. But Margot merely smirked at her.
“I’ll just go see if Robbie needs any help,” Sara Lee simpered as she tottered off toward a man who looked like a jock gone to seed. Sara Lee’s supporters peeled away, leaving Margot with Sweet Johnnie and Kyle.
“Why do I feel like I missed something important?” Kyle asked.
“I’ve never seen anyone talk to Sara Lee that way, not even when we were kids,” Sweet Johnnie whispered.
“She’s not nearly as scary as she thinks she is,” Margot assured her. “I just can’t believe she’s putting this much energy into excluding me from the Founders’ Festival. It’s hardly the Field Museum Gala.”
“Well, I don’t know what that is, but you need to watch Sara Lee. She’s mean as hell when you cross her.” Sweet Johnnie cast an apologetic glance at Kyle. “Sorry, I know you have to work with her for the PTA. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”
“Oh, no, she’s awful,” Kyle agreed. “And Sweet Johnnie’s right, she fights dirty. You saw what she did with Tootie’s dogs. Last year, Ike’s wife demanded to see the reports for the school’s Christmas wrap fund-raiser and the Rise and Shine got ten health department complaints called in on them in the next week.”
Margot frowned. “Did Sara Lee ever turn the fund-raiser reports over?”
Kyle shrugged. “I had to make my own breakfast for more than a week until Ike got the mess straightened out. That whole time is one big blur.”
SEVERAL DAYS LATER—after Margot had removed most of the poster-board glitter out of her hair—she shuffled down the dock toward the Snack Shack in a distinct funk. Not even the sparkle of the early-autumn sun on the lake could cheer her. She slumped into the shack, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter, and balanced her chin on her hand. The Snack Shack was a cozy little space, decorated in red vinyl and early Coca-Cola memorabilia. The chalkboard behind the counter listed the deep-fried specials of the day. Margot had come to worship at this altar to cholesterol, hoping it would keep her from falling into some sort of vocational depression.
Leslie was standing at an enormous bubbling cauldron of oil, deftly turning some golden-brown lumps over with a pair of chopsticks. Donna was sitting at the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. “Hey, Aunt Leslie. Aunt Donna.”
“Hey there,” Donna said. “You look like a freshly smacked ass.”
“What is wrong with you?” Margot asked, shaking her head.
“Why the long face, shug?” Leslie asked gently, plucking the lumps from their fry bath and popping them onto a plate.
“Well, I got a callback on one of the résumés I sent out,” Margot said, watching as Leslie sprinkled powdered sugar on the plate and slid it in front of her.
“But that should be good news, right? It gets you out of town, and that’s what you want,” said Stan as he slid onto the stool at her right. Margot could hear the intentional gentling of his tone, as if he was struggling not to sound judgmental. “I need a refill for the coffee vats, Les. The Brooks visitation is starting up in twenty minutes.”
Margot’s lips pinched together. Damn it, why hadn’t she heard Stan following her out on the deck? He wasn’t exactly stealthy. And while she hadn’t wandered to the Snack Shack looking for a sympathetic ear, she would rather lean on Leslie’s shoulder without Stan around to hear about her latest round of humiliation. His knowing what had just happened would somehow make it that much worse.
“No problem,” Donna said as Leslie set about making her specialty sludge in an industrial-size coffee brewer. “Margot was about to tell me why she looks like somebody just gave her socks for secret Santa.”
“I did that one time, woman,” Stan said. “Bob told me you were running low on socks.”
Margot snorted.
“What’s wrong, girl?” Stan asked, in a tone far gentler than he’d ever used in her presence. “Ya are looking pretty down in the mouth for someone who just got a job offer.”
Margot pressed her fingertips between her scrunched brows. “I didn’t get a job offer.”
“Then why did they call back?” Donna asked.
Margot shoved her hands through her loose blond hair. She would not cry in front of her father. She might cry later, in her bathtub, drinking off-brand pinot noir from a Solo cup, but she would not cry now. Even if it meant staring at the ceiling and pretending that her contacts were dry.
“I got a callback from Soiree, a really great company in New York. I mean, one of my pie-in-the-sky dream jobs that I didn’t think I had a shot at, but I applied for because I had nothing to lose. They sent me an e-mail yesterday and asked me to set up a Skype session this afternoon. I cleared it with E.J.J., and I set up the webcam at my desk so I could look all professional and impressive. And when I opened up the chat window, I thought it was sort of strange that there were six people sitting in the room, staring at the monitor. I mean, sometimes you have panel interviews when you’re applying at some of the larger firms, but none of the people on the screen looked old enough to be managers or partners. Bethenny, the recruiter who e-mailed me, wasn’t on camera, but she started asking me questions. They were normal interview questions at first, my educational background, my internships, early work history.”
Margot pressed her forehead into her hands. “And then Bethenny started asking about the greenhouse gala, asking me what I thought led to the ‘crisis’ and what I would do differently now to prevent the same thing from happening. I thought it was normal for her to ask about it. I mean, I wasn’t surprised they’d heard about the flamingo incident. And I didn’t blame them for wanting to know whether I’d learned from it, if they were going to hire me. But then the off-camera woman started asking the people sitting in front of the camera where they thought I’d gone wrong, how they would have handled it differently, and what sort of office policies could be written to prevent a ‘disaster’ like this in the future. She was using me as a teaching tool for her underlings! I was giving a TED Talk without even realizing it.”
“Aw, honey, that’s awful,” Leslie said.
“I interrupted their brutal postmortem of my every decision and asked whether this was standard interview procedure, and Bethenny laughed. She said she thought my application was a joke, that there was no way I really thought I would be hi
red on to their company after what I’d done. And she thought I understood that this was a ‘learning opportunity’ for her employees.”
Donna frowned. “Tell you what. If anyone asks where me and Duffy are tomorrow, tell them we’re on an all-day charter and don’t offer any extra details.”
“Why?” Margot asked.
“So we have an alibi when that snotty bitch’s office burns down,” Donna said with a shrug.
“As much as I appreciate the offer of carefully orchestrated arson, that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, that’s okay, we can downgrade to filling their office with bees. Rubbing every toilet seat with poison ivy. Hiding a dead bass under a couch cushion in what’s-her-face’s office so it will stink for weeks and she won’t be able to figure out why.”
Margot glanced at Stan and Leslie, neither of whom seemed fazed by Donna’s speedy list of disturbing revenge tactics. “Again, thank you, but no. I went back and checked my e-mails with Bethenny and realized she hadn’t called it an interview. She’d called it a ‘session.’ So I can’t even get upset with them.”
“Well, sure you can,” Stan said, frowning. “They acted like assholes. You can get mad at assholes. Even Tootie ‘Turn the Other Cheek’ McCready accepts that.”
Margot groaned. “I think I was more embarrassed than anything else. No, wait, I’m angry, too. You know what really makes me angry? I’m angry because those snot-nosed little interns were picking apart my work and my decisions, like they could have done any better under the circumstances. Like I could have psychically detected the chef’s intention to serve the mayor’s wife an allergen and then incinerated the shrimp tower with the power of my mind.” Margot sighed. “No, that’s not it. I’m angry because I let my guard down. I walked right into a humiliating trap and didn’t even realize it. I used to be much more cynical. I had the detachment that would have protected my feelings in a case like this. I wouldn’t have fallen for vague, misleading language. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have let it bother me so much. I think living out in the country is making me soft.”