The West Indies,” I murmur.

“Whatever. The natives were probably less bitchy.”

I refill my wineglass, and wonder whether I will survive until dessert.

• • •

Either my mother has a sixth sense or else she implanted a microchip in me at birth that allows her to know my comings and goings at all times. It’s the only way I can explain the fact that she times her phone calls for the very moment I walk in my front door, without fail.

Hi, Mom,” I say, pushing the speakerphone button without even bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Leo. Would it have killed you to be nice to that poor girl?”

“That poor girl is completely capable of landing on her feet. And she doesn’t need or want someone like me, anyway.”

You don’t know if you’re compatible after one lousy dinner,” my mother says.

“Mom. She thought the Bay of Pigs was a barbecue joint.”

“Not everyone had the educational opportunities you did, Leo.”

“You study that stuff in eleventh grade!” I say. “Besides, I was nice to her.”

There is a pause on the other end of the line. “Really. So you were being nice when you took a phone call and told her it was the office and you had to go because John Dillinger had been captured.”

“In my defense, dinner had lasted two hours already and our entrée plates hadn’t even been cleared.”

“Just because you’re a lawyer doesn’t mean you can twist the story around. I’m your mother, Leo. I could read your thoughts in utero.”

“Okay, (a) That’s creepy. And (b) Maybe you and Lucy should just let me find my own dates from now on.”

“Your sister and I want you to be happy, is that such a crime?” she says. “Plus, if we waited for you to find your own dates you’d be sending your wedding invitation to me at the Sons of Abraham.”

It’s the cemetery where my father is already buried. “Great,” I say. “Just make sure you leave your forwarding address.” I hold the keypad away from my ear and punch the pound button. “Got another call coming in,” I lie.

“At this hour?”

“It’s an escort service,” I joke. “I don’t like to keep Peaches waiting...”

You’re going to be the death of me, Leo,” my mother says with a sigh.

“Sons of Abraham Cemetery. Got it,” I say. “I love you, Ma.”

“I loved you first,” she replies. “So what am I supposed to tell my podiatrist about Irene?”

If she keeps wearing heels she’ll wind up with bunions,” I say, and I hang up.

My house is very GQ. The countertops are black granite, the couches covered in some kind of gray flannel. The furniture is spare and modern. There’s blue lighting under the cabinets in the kitchen that makes the place look like Mission Control at NASA. It looks like the kind of place where an NFL bachelor or a corporate attorney would be comfortable. My sister, Lucy, who does interior design, is responsible for the look. She did it to snap me out of my post-divorce funk, so I can’t really tell her that it seems sterile to me. Like I’m an organism in a petri dish, not a guy who feels guilty putting his feet up on the lacquered black coffee table.

I strip off my tie and unbutton my shirt, then carefully hang my suit up in the closet. Realization number one about single life: no one else is going to take your suits to the cleaners on your behalf. Which means if you leave them crumpled in a ball at the foot of the bed, and you work till ten every night, you’re screwed.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21