My One and Only(77)
When my schoolmates voiced their hatred, disgust, despair over their mothers, I listened in disbelief and horror. Seriously? They weren’t allowed to see Pretty Woman? Why? So what if the main character was a ho? They still had bedtimes? Heck, my mother let me stay up as late as I wanted, and we’d watch TV and eat junk food and do each other’s nails. Their mothers didn’t let them wear makeup? Huh. Imagine that.
My mother wasn’t like that. She was miles cooler than those other, frumpy, aging women with short bobs held back by pink plaid hairbands or, even worse, those “I give up” types who carried fifty extra pounds, had gray roots and wore baggy, sagging jeans and voluminous sweatshirts. Yawn. No, Linda—I’d been calling her that since I was nine—Linda was special. She taught me how to dress, was always coming home with classy little outfits…no Madonna-style fishnets for me, uh-uh. Linda and I had class. Though we were far from rich, we looked rich, and being mistaken for summer people was a special point of pride for my mother. She coached me on how to diss boys and then make them like me, how to flirt, how to be popular and powerful with both genders. And God knew, she taught me how to make the most of my good looks because, “let’s face it, Harper. We’re knockouts.” As other girls my age sulked through adolescence, I stood out. Prettier. More confident. Better dressed. More fun. All because of my mother, who taught me everything she knew.
And so, the night before my thirteenth birthday, I came downstairs in my strapless blue minidress and three-inch pumps, smoky eyes and just a touch of clear gloss to my lips. My hair was Grecian tonight, loose curls piled on my head to better show my long, graceful neck. My father choked on the beer he was sipping.
“Linda!” he barked, turning away from me. “She’s thirteen, for God’s sake!”
My mother came out of the bedroom. “And she’s gorgeous! Look at you, Harper! Oh, my God! We look like sisters!” It was true. She wore a silver dress with pearl jewelry, killer pumps encrusted with faux pearls. Her makeup focused on her red, red lips—so daring, so Hollywood.
“It’s a little…sophisticated, don’t you think, Lin?” my father tried again. “She looks…twenty.”
“Did you hear that? Your father thinks you look twenty! And you do! You should order a martini tonight, just to see what the waiter says,” Mom said, adjusting my necklace. “Linda!”
“Jimmy, I wouldn’t let her drink one,” my mother sighed, rolling her own beautifully made-up eyes. “Maybe just a tiny sip,” she added in a low voice, winking at me. I grinned in happy conspiracy against dopey old Dad. Sweet but…you know. So provincial.
Dad was quiet all the way to the airport and during the short flight to Boston. Linda and I ignored him, cooing and clutching hands as our cab neared the restaurant. “Okay, we’re here. Be cool, and Jimmy, try not to act like a bumpkin.” Linda and I giggled, united as always against my dad, though I did give him a pat on the cheek.
Looking back on that night, I would see things differently. My father, a general contractor, made a decent living out on the island, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch. Spending all that money—the designer dresses bought at full price (“We deserve it,” Linda had said), the shoes, the jewelry, the mani-pedis at the uberluxe day spa, the cab to and from the airport, the flight, and my God, the meal…it probably cost him more than a month’s pay. Quite possibly more than two months’ pay.
But on that night, it was all about Linda and me. We acted blasé as we got out of the taxi, though secretly both of us were darting looks to take it all in…the sleek decor, the legion of restaurant staff—the captain, the waiters, the busboys, the sommelier—the soft clink of crystal and murmur of voices. And yes, heads turned as our party of three was led through the restaurant to the best table in the place, up on the second level, overlooking the rest of the diners. We were a gorgeous family, it couldn’t be denied.
“Too bad we couldn’t afford New York,” Linda said as we sat down. “Better yet, L.A. Harper, you’d be a star right this minute if we lived in L.A.” She shook out her napkin with authority. After all, she’d grown up in California. She knew about these things.
We ordered drinks…tonic and lime for me, which tasted weird but which my mother had told me would look way cooler than a Shirley Temple or ginger ale. Dad had a Sam Adams, causing Linda to sigh patiently before ordering a grapefruit martini, dry, for herself.
Then Dad looked at the menu and tried not to blanch, but holy crap, the prices! Forty-five dollars for a piece of fish? Seriously? Fifteen dollars for a salad?
“Order whatever you want, Harper,” Linda said, gazing blandly at the menu. “It’s your special night. Mine too, since I did all the work.” She gave me a wink and proceeded to order a lobster and avocado appetizer, a caesar salad and filet mignon. She always could eat. Never needed to diet.
Dinner was…well, it was fine. The truth was, my feet hurt in my new shoes, and I was kind of cold in my strapless gown. Food-wise, I’d have secretly preferred Sharky’s Super Nachos back on the island. But I pretended it was the best meal of my life as my mother regaled Dad and me with stories of her life in California, making us laugh, charming us with her tinkling laugh, even flirting with my father, laying her hand on his arm and talking in her animated, talk-show host way.