These Girls Read Free Page B

stopped being a mother; it was equal parts comforting and annoying.
    “No, no, just a note from Naomi. She’s—” Cate cut herself off, as abruptly as if she’d snatched up a knife from the butcher block and sliced away the end of her own sentence. A terrible thought flashed through her mind: What if her mother offered to take Naomi’s place? She could almost hear the conversation unfolding. Her mother had gotten plenty of money in the divorce settlement, and her house was already paid off. The rent wouldn’t pose any problem for her; then she could pop up to New York all the time, split her time between the city and Philly—she wouldn’t be imposing on Cate’s roommates, and she’d love the chance to see more museums, to stroll through the busy streets. To cook dinner, and wait for Cate to come home.
    It was worse than the air being forced from her lungs during the final sprint of her run; Cate was suffocating. Her mother wouldn’t really suggest something like that, would she?
    She just might.
    “Naomi’s just complaining about the mess we left in the kitchen. No big deal,” Cate lied, crumpling up the note in her hand. “Typical roommate stuff.”
    “I see.”
    Was it her imagination, or did her mother know she wasn’t telling the truth?
    “Mom? Can I call you back later? I need to hop in the shower.”
    “Of course, honey.” The musical voice brought back a million memories: a cool washcloth on her forehead whenever she’d had a fever; the way her mother changed out of jeans and into a nice dress for her school conferences; homemade yellow cakes with chocolate icing served for breakfast on birthdays.
    “Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear the Johnsons sold their house and are going to assisted living?” her mother said. “They got a really nice unit. Two bedrooms.”
    This is an old-person conversation and you’re not old! Cate wanted to shout. At sixty-one, you should take salsa classes! Travel to Portugal with a girlfriend! Learn to play poker!
    Guilt and frustration and love: Those were the steady bass notes in her dance with her mother.
    Cate wound down the conversation and stripped off her T-shirt as she headed for the shower. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to get clean, to wash away her sweat and grime. Reading the paper no longer held appeal; she’d head into the office and try to make a dent in her workload.
    Cate forced herself to stop thinking about the lonely day stretching ahead of her mother and concentrate on work. The polygamy piece, for example. Cate had envisioned one woman’s story about what it was like to be in such an unorthodox relationship, but Sam, the writer, had bloated it with statistics and facts. It was informative, which was good. But it wasn’t compelling, which would be its death knell.
    The problem was, Sam was a senior staff member. He’d penned many cover stories for the magazine. Critiquing his work would be delicate. Maybe Cate should leave in some statistics. After all, he had far more experience than she did.
    Did other editors question themselves this way?
    Cate turned on the cold water tap and shivered as she forced herself to endure the icy spray, hoping it would wash away her turbulent feelings.
    Who knew apple martinis had so many calories? Renee thought as she rolled over in bed and burrowed deeper under the covers.
    Renee had been about to order her favorite drink at the bar they’d gone to the previous night to celebrate Bonnie’s new job—but then she noticed the menus had been changed; they now, somewhat sadistically, listed calorie contents. Which meant her usual Friday night fare—a few appletinis, a handful of chips and guac, maybe a fried wonton or a nibble of whatever appetizer was being passed around the table—added up to thirteen hundred calories. Ignorance wasn’t just bliss; it also had a second job as cellulite’s partner in crime.
    What she’d regularly consumed, without even really tasting, between 7:00 P.M. and midnight was now