Sisters Like Us. Сьюзен Мэллери
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one had talked to her like that in forever. Becca was both thrilled and annoyed, which felt really good.
“You’re not the boss of me,” she said automatically.
“In this case, I am. It’s my time so it’s my rules. If you want my help, then you will get Bs or better in all your classes.”
“No problem.”
“I want proof.”
“What? You don’t trust me?”
“There’s an old saying. Trust but verify. From now until you get your license, you will show me all your test scores. Understood?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Good. Now let’s go home.”
Becca made the return trip in half the time. She stayed at the speed limit, stopped at the stop signs for a quick count of one-two, then pulled up in front of her house just as her mom drove into the driveway.
They all got out at the same time. Harper turned toward them, then nearly dropped her purse. “What are you doing? Did you drive that car? You didn’t. Oh my God! Becca, no. Do you know what a car like that costs? Lucas, I swear, what were you thinking? No one asked me. Where’s your father? Weren’t you supposed to be practicing with him? I feel sick.”
Lucas shook his head. “She gets real wound up.”
“She does. I worry about her.”
“You should.” Lucas walked toward the SUV. “It’s fine, Harper. Terence couldn’t make it so I took Becca out for a practice session. Everything was fine and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to help her get in her practice hours.”
“Not in that car. There is absolutely no way.”
“I have insurance.”
“And a deductible!”
She started to say something else, but her phone rang. She touched her Bluetooth earpiece and said brightly, “This is Harper.”
Becca sighed. There was no talking to her mother now. Not when she was on with a client—and she was always on with a client.
HARPER POURED ANOTHER cup of coffee. It was only seven in the morning and she was already exhausted. Of course a lot of that could be because she hadn’t slept much the previous night. She’d been up finishing the gift bags. Honest to God, she needed to grow a pair and stand up to that woman.
“Mom, we have to talk about my driving lessons.”
Harper drank more coffee as she turned to look at her daughter. Becca sat at the table, a faithful Jazz at her side. The dog had sure figured out who loved her the most. If Becca was home, Jazz was right there with her.
Driving! How was that possible? Becca was supposed to still be seven. Only she wasn’t. She was turning seventeen in the summer and talking about college. Harper swore silently. Her daughter was going to be heading off to college in less than eighteen months and she was making what, two dollars an hour on stupid gift bags?
The weight of failure threatened to make her topple over. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to have it all together. Had going into business for herself been a mistake? She didn’t think so, but if it wasn’t the job, then she was the problem and she sure didn’t want to hear that.
“Mom?”
Harper did her best to keep her tone even. “I know we do, honey. And we will. This weekend, okay? We’ll sit down and come up with a plan.”
Her daughter sighed. “Sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“You always say we’ll talk about something, but then we never do. You’re too busy with work.”
Harper didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t. We will talk this weekend. You’ll see.”
Before she could think of a more convincing argument, the back door opened and Bunny walked in. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup in place and her clothes looked freshly laundered.
Harper was instantly aware of the fact that she hadn’t showered in maybe two days and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d put on makeup. She’d always worn her wavy hair in layers, but who had the time or money for that kind of maintenance? Lately she’d taken to simply pulling her hair back in a ponytail, which looked great on her beautiful sister but made her look like what she was—a woman of a certain age who had obviously given up.
“Morning,” she said as cheerfully as she could.
“Morning.” Her mother smiled at Becca, then frowned. “What are you eating?”
“Cereal.”
Harper reached for more coffee.
“Cereal?” Bunny shrieked. “Where’s your hot breakfast?” She turned to her daughter. “Harper Wray Szymanski, what is wrong with you? Your only child deserves a hot breakfast. As her mother, it’s the least you can do.”
“Grandma, cereal is fine. It’s a nice change.”
Bunny ignored that. “What’s next? Store-bought cookies? Fast food for dinner? Taking care of your family is your most important job.”
“You’re right, Mom,” Harper snapped. “Right now that means keeping food on the table. To pay for that, I have to work, so forgive me if I don’t have time to make waffles from scratch every single morning.”
“I always found the time.”
“You didn’t have a job.”
Becca quickly finished her cereal, then put the bowl on the floor for Jazz to lap up the milk. When the dog was done, she set the bowl in the sink and escaped. Harper wished she could run off with her.
“I didn’t have a job because I managed to keep my husband happy,” Bunny said in a huff. “Perhaps if you’d treated Terence a little better, he wouldn’t have left.”
The low blow connected right in her stomach.
“Mom, you don’t know anything about what went wrong in my marriage. It’s my business and you don’t have the right to judge me.”
“I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that if you—”
Harper’s cell phone rang. She grabbed it gratefully. “Mom, this is a client.”
“But it’s barely seven.”
“Yes, I know.” She pushed the button to accept the call. “This is Harper.”
“It’s Cathy. How are the bags coming?”
“They’ll be ready on time.” No way Harper was going to tell her they were already finished. Cathy would assume Harper had been exaggerating the time needed. Explaining she’d literally stayed up all night to finish them wouldn’t help, either.
“I’m glad to hear that. I have another job for you.”
“I was talking to you,” Bunny said between clenched teeth. “Tell her you’ll call her back.”
Harper turned her back on her mother, something she knew she was going to pay for. And speaking of paying. “Cathy, I’m happy to talk to you about more work, but I want to be clear. My rate is twenty-five dollars an hour, plus the cost of supplies. That is the price.”
“That’s ridiculous. My clients aren’t going to pay that.”
“Then I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”
“But you’ve always been willing to drop your price for me.” Her