Page 48 of The Frog Prince
“I remember.”
“You loved it, Holly.”
I did. But I was eight.
“It rains from the ceiling, Holly.”
Yes, it’s a Polynesian tropical paradise complete with a band playing on a floating raft, thunderstorms, exotic bird calls, and outrageously priced Chinese food, but it’s also my last memory of dinner with Ted—Dad—before he packed up and left.
“Oh, Holly…” Mom’s eyes are shining, and clearly she doesn’t remember the Tonga Room the way I do. “It’d be so fun. With your new friends it’d be a party.”
She doesn’t know I haven’t made friends yet. She doesn’t know I’m barely able to cover my rent and, worse, that my landlady’s a bitch. She doesn’t know I get parking tickets right and left. She doesn’t know I still get lost when I drive around the city.
But she’s smiling. And I feel a pang, the way her eyes light up. I hate seeing her like this. Girlish. Excited. Hopeful. It reminds me of how she must have been, once upon a time before she married Ted and had us.
Ted’s a bastard.
Ted left her with his three little Bishops (Jamie, Holly, and Ashlee) and a houseful of heartbreak in the middle of Central California. He moved south, somewhere sunny and beachy in Southern Cal, and with the help of some mind-science church he discovered his true self. (Praise the power of the mind!) And Mom continues to struggle along, doing her best, which means instead of being on some cruise ship in the Panama Canal meeting sex-starved sixty-year-olds (preferably male, but hey, I’m open-minded), she’s in San Francisco for some mother-daughter bonding time.
I’d say it’s a fate worse than death, but that’s actually reserved for my night out with Lehman.
“Call the Tonga Room,” Mom says.
I really want to be a good daughter, I do, but I’m dragging my feet here. “I don’t know if I can get reservations.”
She lifts a hand, a careless wave. “I’ll go there myself. Speak with the manager. See what I can do.” She winks, suddenly self-important, suddenly surprisingly pretty. Even if her dress hurts my eyes. “How many should I say, Holly?”
How many? There’s a good question for you. How about two, Mom? You and me. But I’m going for broke; I’m going to be outrageous here. “Let’s say four—”
“Just four?”
“It’s Thursday night. Lots of people work late, and they still have to get in early tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Her smile returns. She leans forward, presses a kiss to my cheek, and then a little pat with her hand. “What time shall we say?”
“Seven thirty?”
“That’s so late!”
I think about the work waiting for me, I think about Olivia’s temper, but this is also my mom’s first visit to the city in years, and I know she’s excited. “Six thirty?”
“Holly.”
“It’ll take us a half hour with traffic.”
“But Nob Hill’s not that far!”
“It’s the city, Mom.” I can’t say no to her. I hate that; I hate that I can’t say what I want, or tell her what I feel. “Fine,” I say with a small sigh. “Six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock,” Mom repeats. “For four.” Her purse changes hands. She looks invigorated, almost young. “See you then, honey.”
ChapterNine
Mom leaves, andI go back to my desk, and immediately the office is a beehive of activity.
Tessa appears at my desk, soon followed by Josh and then delicate little Sara.
“Your mom?” Tessa asks, leaning against my cubicle wall, downing a little silver can of Red Bull, but it’s not a question; it’s a statement, and I can’t help thinking that Tessa’s the last person who should be drinking Red Bull. She’s by far the most creative director with her wardrobe. Today she’s wearing a short red vinyl skirt, red tights, a black leather vest, and black combat boots.