we could use the help.” He paused. “You’re fresh and new and—” He ripped his gaze from her chest— “Anyway…” A crafty look came over his face. “On the other hand, why bother? You’d never be able to get around Bernie. He’s completely set in his ways.”
“All you have to do is draw him into the planning. Lean on his expertise. Made sure he knows he’s respected and valued.”
“Good point,” he said, and she could see he was fighting a grin. “But still. I think it would be virtually impossible.”
“I could talk to him,” she said. “Just to keep busy.”
“Of course. Might as well use your time well.” He couldn’t hold back his smile. Okay, he’d manipulated her. But if she helped boost business, that would boost Nathan’s enthusiasm.
She could always goof up later. Or in between times.
WHEN SHE GOT HOME that night, Mariah’s mother met her at the door. “Tada!” she said and waved her arm to indicate the sofa on which she’d laid out three business suits with matching handbags and shoes. “Look what I got for you!”
“Mom, you shouldn’t have.”
“Sure I should. You’re a businesswoman. A tiger has to change his spots.”
“Tigers have stripes, Mom, and they don’t change them. That’s the point of the saying.” She went to finger one of the suits—gray and tailored. It was something a funeral director might wear. “This isn’t me, Mom.”
Then she caught sight of her mother’s crestfallen face. She hated that look. She’d caused it so many times as a teen. Since she’d been here, there had already been difficult moments. Her mother had pointed out her bad posture, bad eating habits— “you’ll give yourself cancer”—her colorful language and how loud she played the stereo.
“All right. I’ll wear them.” Dressing like a flight attendant for the few weeks of her visit wouldn’t kill her. She’d spice up the suits somehow. She knew her mother meant well. Mariah was her only child, after all. Why not give her this small pleasure? Clothes weren’t permanent at least.
“Terrific. You can model them for the girls when they come for pinochle.”
Before she could object, the doorbell rang. Her mother bustled to the door. “Why, Sergei, what brings you here?” she said, faking surprise.
“A hair emergency, you told me it was,” he said, sounding gay, Russian and worried at the same time. He looked past her mother at Mariah. “And you were correct, I can see.”
Before Mariah knew it, Sergei had her by the hair, tsking and huffing. She relaxed and let herself be styled to her mother’s satisfaction. No matter what, though, she was not joining the church choir.
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