Mistletoe Over Manhattan. Barbara Daly
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it should be and would be, unless she drifted unknowingly into senility—still living in this apartment.
A grim resignation came over her as that thought went through her mind, but this wasn’t the time to attack and disarm it. She put her black leather briefcase on the desk in her home office off the kitchen, lining it up precisely beside the desk pad. Today’s mail went beneath the mail that had arrived while she was stoically enduring her vacation. First in, first out. That was the rule.
Go through mail.
Pay bills. Respond to invitations and requests.
Read and throw away or file everything else.
This list, an excerpt from one of her mother’s books, popped into her mind. No wonder the surprise encounter with Carter had thrown her completely off balance. She’d gotten in too late the night before—and had been too traumatized by warmth, sand and the mandate to relax—to follow her customary mail routine. A happy life, her mother asserted in every book, was a series of learned habits, or routines. And if you ever veered from one of your routines, it was the first step toward a downward slide into chaos and misery.
As always, her mother was right. She’d veered, her mental state was in chaos and she was miserable. So the mail would be her top priority after she finished her homecoming routine. No more veering.
As she slid a black leather glove into each pocket of her black cashmere coat, her gaze fell to the rectangular box on top of the stack. It was a complimentary copy of the latest Ellen Trent book. Just what she needed at the moment—a quick refresher course.
She hung the coat in the foyer closet, her black cashmere scarf tucked under the collar, and centered her black hat on the shelf directly above it. With her snow boots drying in a special snow-boot box just outside the front door of the apartment, she carried the black flannel bag that held her still-gleaming Soft ‘N’ Comfy pumps to her bedroom.
The pumps were black, too, as were the snow boots. Why didn’t she have anything—red?
It’s always best to stick to basic black in cold-weather climates and beige for warmer environments.
Another quote from a book of her mother’s. That explained it. It didn’t explain a peculiar knot of rebellion that rolled through Mallory from her scalp to her toes. She did have something red. Wine. She went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a glass, then went back to the office to start her mail routine.
She swished the wine around in the glass, admiring its color and examining its rim, sniffed it, analyzing its bouquet, then took a totally undiscriminating gulp. The warmth cascaded down her throat, startling her into staring at the glass in her hand, unable to imagine how it had gotten there. Wine and paperwork didn’t go together. Everybody knew that, at least everybody who preferred a balanced checkbook. See what she’d done? She’d veered again! What was wrong with her, anyway? Nothing a dose of her mother’s wisdom couldn’t cure. She ripped open the box that held the new book.
Efficient Travel From A to Z was its predictable title, and clipped to the front was a sheet of notepaper with her mother’s letterhead. The message was typed: Compliments of Ellen Trent.
None too warm and motherly. Inside was a letter, also typed, but a little more warm and motherly.
Dearest daughter:
This one’s a compilation of all my travel tips plus a few exciting new ideas! Hope they help you remember Ellen’s Golden Rule: Efficiency is the key to a happy life.
Mother
Not finding a hug anywhere in the message, unless “dearest” was meant to be one, Mallory scanned the table of contents: “Beauty in a Baggie,” “Carry On,” “Delete, That’s the Key”—these chapter titles sounded familiar and had probably appeared as articles in women’s magazines. But “Returning to Serenity,” which cleverly filled two alphabet slots, was new. Mallory opened to that chapter.
Leave your paperwork in order.
That was already tops on Mallory’s to-do list.
Don’t leave any dirty laundry behind.
Well, of course not. Her dry cleaner opened at seven. She’d drop off her resort clothes on the way to the plane tomorrow morning. The dry cleaner would charge an exhorbitant rate for washing and pressing her clothes, but she didn’t have time to do laundry in the basement of the apartment building, and rules were rules.
Clean your refrigerator thoroughly, and pay special attention to the crisper. A rotten vegetable will spoil your return to hearth and home.
No problem there. She hadn’t been home long enough to put anything in the crisper.
Check the expiration date of your perishables—boxed, canned, frozen and refrigerated foods and over-the-counter drugs—and throw away those items that will expire while you’re away.
Mallory stared at the page, briefly considering the possibility that her mother had at long last gone over the edge. But millions of women bought these books, women who pursued the same kind of happiness her mother enjoyed, that Mallory relied upon and took comfort from.
Give your itinerary to a close friend or family member.
This brought her up short. If she called her parents, the conversation would take hours. Her mother would put her through a verbal checklist, and they might get into a fight over the expiration date thing. She had friends. Close friends. The friends with whom she’d taken the St. John’s trip, for example, who’d stared at her in disbelief when she’d announced her intention to come home early. They’d tease her mercilessly if she told them she’d traded sun and sand for sin and sex with Carter Compton.
Her head jolted up from the book with a snap that almost left her with whiplash. She was going to New York on business, not to engage in sin and sex.
She suddenly remembered she had a brother in New York she could send her itinerary.
It wasn’t surprising she was just now remembering that Macon was in New York. Macon was the sort of person whose location was vague, not so much a brother as a cyber-brother. He communicated with the family by e-mail. He sent Internet birthday cards and gifts he’d ordered online. Occasionally he came home for Christmas, but more often, he spent the holiday monitoring some public or private computer system. Macon was a computer ace. He lived and breathed computers, had since he met a keyboard and experienced love at first byte.
From time to time, their parents took a notion to make sure he still existed in the flesh. After their last trip to New York, Mallory’s mother had reported that he was dressing better these days. But then, it was hard to believe he could be dressing any worse.
She dialed his number. Predictably, the phone rang once and a message came on. “Trent Computer Consultants,” Macon’s familiar voice droned. “I’m not here. E-mail me at macontrent, all one word, at trent dot com.”
“My brother the robot,” Mallory muttered.
Whose sister isn’t a woman, she’s a lawyer.
The similarity was too great. Getting up from the computer after e-mailing Macon to tell him they should get together in New York, she felt exhausted. She’d better pack before she found herself checking the expiration dates on the box of crackers and tin of smoked oysters she kept on hand as an emergency hors d’oeuvre. She turned to the chapter entitled “Carry On.” She didn’t really need to look at it. This chapter she knew by heart.
CARTER COMPTON WRAPPED his fingers around his most recent cup of coffee, took a sip and made a face. It was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted—okay, except for the last cup he’d made for himself. He’d had to resort to the vending machine in the basement, since the staff in the firm’s lounge had gone home hours ago.
He put down the cup and picked up his pen, flipping it back and forth between his fingers. He figured if he worked until nine, he could pick up a pizza on the way home, eat it while he packed and be in bed by ten. His secretary had ordered a car service to pick him up at six-thirty