Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder Read Free Page B

an idiot. I had always believed Neil when he used the long-hours-at-work excuse. He’d built Caruso and Oates Public Relations from the ground up and had been moderately successful. I held down the fort at home, and workaholic Neil took on the role of breadwinner. I honestly thought we had a great marriage until last month, when he came home long past midnight, threw some clothes into a suitcase, and declared he no longer loved me. His voluptuous business partner, Theda Oates, had replaced me as the object of his affection. Suddenly, I had become a cliché.
    “Honey, are you hungry?” my mother asked.
    I eyed the moist, butter-yellow pound cake, but shook my head. My heart said stuff the whole thing in your mouth . My nauseated gut said you’ve got to be kidding .
    “How about dry toast?” Bevin suggested.
    I nodded. Toast might be the only thing my stomach could handle.
    Bev reached for the bread in its usual place on top of the refrigerator. As always, I envied her height. My mother watched with a wistful expression. At five-one, working in a kitchen without a step stool handy was impossible for her.
    “Show off,” my mother said.
    Bevin flashed a toothy, eat-your-heart-out smile and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.
    “I don’t want you to worry about dinner tonight, Colleen,” my mother said. “You and the kids should eat with your father and me.”
    I cringed at the thought of another of my mother’s hearty, home-cooked meals. “Maybe just the kids, Mom. I think I might skip dinner.”
    “Skipping meals isn’t a good idea when you’re trying to lose weight. You’ll eat twice as much once you feel you can keep food down.”
    I gave her my very best scowl.
    Bevin set the toast on the table and winked. “Your mother can take over from here. Call me if you need anything.” She gave me quick peck on the cheek and scampered out the sliding door.
    “You don’t think she rushed out on my account?” my mother asked.
    “She has things to do,” I lied.
    My mother finished her tea and checked the wall clock. “Send the kids over when they get home from school. I think they should sleep over tonight. You need to relax.”
    “Good idea,” I said.
    “Was it bad, Colleen? The body, I mean.”
    I nodded and took a bite of toast.
    “Was it, you know, grotesque or anything?”
    I couldn’t take any more. “Don’t you have other things to do today?”
    My mother, miffed, stood to leave. “I’ll see you at supper, Miss Tactful. And leave the attitude at home when you come over.”

4
    Dinner at my parents’ house was always an adventure. My mother cooked enough food to feed the entire block, though in all honesty, the neighbors would have to be near starvation before eating her cooking. She put garlic in everything—vegetables, potatoes, rice, and, I suspected, fruit.
    My father forgot to put the leaf in the table, so there were nine of us crammed around a table meant to seat six. The large turnout for an ordinary Friday night meal was a gesture of support in light of my eventful day. My brother, appropriately named Dick, his wife Delia, their twins, Patty and Penny, my kids, my parents, and I jostled for position.
    I reached for my water glass and bumped Sara’s elbow. Salad flew off the end of her fork and landed on Bobby’s plate.
    “Gross!” Bobby said, flicking a piece of romaine onto the tablecloth.
    “It’s too crowded!” I complained.
    “Stop whining and have something to eat,” my mother said as she placed the main course in the center of the table.
    She made meatloaf, hideous even under the best of circumstances. I passed on it, as well as the mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans. Salad seemed to be the safer option.
    “Is that all you’re having?” my father asked. “Where’s that hearty appetite?”
    Sara giggled, a rarity ever since the day she had turned twelve.
    I played with the greens. Salads were always an afterthought at the old homestead. They were never