Playing Dirty. Susan Andersen
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theme okay?”
“Yes, that would be lovely. And engraved invitations, of course, with the RSVP to you, no gifts. I’ll get you the guest list.”
Ava made a note to contact the calligrapher she used as soon as she had that in hand. “What do you have in mind for food? The guest list strikes me as too large for a sit-down unless you want me to rent a tent for the back lawn.”
“Not in late February—the weather’s too iffy for that.”
“My thoughts exactly. Were you thinking circulating waiters with hors d’oeuvres? Or a buffet?”
“I thought an open bar and hearty hors d’oeuvres, served by, yes, the wait staff. Then a dessert buffet with, of course, a spectacular cake as its centerpiece. Tiered, not sheet. Champagne fountains at either end.”
“I will need to hire one of my caterers, because I don’t have time for that part and I know you want the best for Father’s party.”
A sigh came down the line, but her mother restrained herself to a stern, “I expect you to supervise them carefully.”
“Uh-huh.” Didn’t she always? “An eight to midnight timeframe, then?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” She made note of that as well, added additional reminders for a few things she’d have to follow through on, then shut down her app. “That will get me started. I’ll send you an email to confirm what we just talked about, but I need to hang up now, Mom, or I’m going to be late for my real job.”
“Mother,” Jacqueline Spencer corrected her automatically. “And really, dear, you’re a businesswoman in high demand—must you sound as though you’re off to flip hamburgers on the weekend shift?”
Ava laughed. “Sometimes I think that would be more relaxing.”
“What am I to do with you?” Jacqueline said, and Ava could envision her mother shaking her head. “Well, I shall let you go, I suppose. But do keep an eye on the mail—I’m going to send you an appropriate dress to wear to your father’s party.”
Ava’s smile dropped from her lips as ice rimed her veins. “I’m not twelve anymore. I can find my own dress, thank you.”
“You’ll like what I select,” Jacqueline said serenely, ignoring, as she always did, Ava’s wishes on the matter.
“No, Mom, I won’t. You constantly buy me things that I don’t have a prayer of fitting into and I never wear them. Save your money.”
“You simply need to lose a few pounds and my money won’t be wasted.”
She tried counting to ten again but only got as far as six. “How I handle my weight is not your decision to make. I have curves. I’m always going to have curves and will never be rail-thin like you. Deal with it.”
“I don’t believe I like your tone, Ava.”
“And I don’t like being treated like an incompetent child.”
“I don’t do that!” Jacqueline sounded both shocked and affronted. A heartbeat of silence passed before she added stiffly, “I was merely trying to help.”
God save me from your help, Ava thought in despair, but only said, “I appreciate that. But I’m thirty-one years old. Allow me to dress myself.”
The pleasantries they exchanged after that were few, awkward and doubtless left her mother feeling, as they did her, not so pleasant. It was a relief to finally ring off, and Ava carefully reseated the receiver in its stand on the kitchen counter.
All the while painfully aware that her first inclination was to hurl it across the kitchen.
God, she was tired of this. She knew her mother loved her, in her own self-absorbed way. But wouldn’t it be nice, just once, to get through a conversation that didn’t leave her achingly aware of the conditions Jacqueline placed upon that love? That didn’t raise the issue of her damn weight?
Instead, their conversations generally left her feeling anywhere from vaguely to DEFCON Alert–level dissatisfied. Not to mention not all that great about herself.
She knew it was ridiculous—that only her opinion ought to count. It didn’t change the fact that when she swiveled on her stool and caught a glimpse of herself in the sound-facing bank of windows that the interior lights and stormy weather darkness outside had turned into a mirror, she saw herself through her mother’s eyes and thought, Cow. Didn’t change that—
“No, dammit.” She wasn’t going down that road again. She had things to do—even more things, given the addition of her father’s party, than she’d had fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t have time for this inadequacy crap.
Turning back to the counter, she tossed her cell phone into her purse and plucked her black draped cardigan from the back of the stool to pull it on over her wrapfront beach-blue dress. She stepped into her heels and crossed to the closet for her coat.
Then, picking up her Kate Spade purse as she sailed past the tiny entry table, she let herself out of the condo and, bypassing the elevator, headed down the stairs to the parking garage.
SINCE AVA was the last person Cade wanted to see, naturally she was the first one he clapped eyes on when he let himself into the Wolcott kitchen. She was bent over a table she’d set up against the wall, putting what looked to be finishing touches on the spread she’d set out.
It looked like something out of a magazine—a considerable step up from the usual food services arrangement—and he wondered if he’d congratulated himself too soon regarding the anticipated money he’d save by having her take over the job.
It was a hard thought to hang on to, however, when her butt was bumping in tune with some bluesy, jazzy song about not treating a dog the way the singer thought a woman had treated him, which purled out of an MP3 player on the counter. She’d always been a kick-ass dancer—even back in their prepubescent days when they’d had to learn all that formal stuff in cotillion class. Nor had she ever been the least bit self-conscious about dancing down the hallway at Country Day.
Except for those last few weeks of their senior year.
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize you were here. I didn’t see your Beemer in the drive.”
Her hips ceased swiveling as she looked at him over her shoulder. “I drove a client’s car today.”
“The Audi A6?”
“Yes. I’m taking it to be detailed on my lunch hour.”
“You’re working other jobs?”
“On my own time, yes.” Turning slowly to face him, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, plumping up the creamy cleavage in her blue V-neck dress from what had been a mere hint to an impressive flash of the real deal. “You didn’t seriously expect me to blow off my clients who’ve been with me through the good times and lean for six weeks of working for you, did you?”
Yeah, he supposed he had. But when she put it that way…
Kyle walked into the kitchen before he could respond, which was probably just as well. The soundman gave Ava’s cleavage an appreciative glance. But even before her arms dropped to her sides, restoring the generous swell back to its original hint, his focus had switched to the food she’d laid out. His brows furrowing as he crossed the room to pour himself a cup of coffee from the industrial coffeemaker at the end of the table, he scrutinized the offerings.
And turned accusing eyes on her. “No bear claws?” he demanded.
“Sorry, no.” Ava picked up a plate and grabbed a pair of tongs that she left suspended above a plate of long rectangles of lightly sugared pastries as she glanced over at Kyle. “Try a galette. Are you an apple or a blackberry man?”
“Blackberry,