Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

work clothes, which usually meant trading the fishnets and Uggs for black jeans and Doc Martens. Kim finished with the groceries. She noticed her mother studying the cash-register receipt, pressing her lips into a firm line as she folded it up and put it away.

“Mom, I could help you. I’ve got some savings. I mean, I can’t pay off your debts, but—” Kim said.

“That’s not what I need from you, and you know it. Money is money, but you…just by being here, you’re helping.” Penelope sighed. “I feel so foolish. Sometimes I think that’s the worst part of this—feeling foolish.”

“Trust me, everybody’s foolish about something. Look at me and my stupid job and even stupider taste in men.”

Daphne returned, helping herself to a satsuma from the fruit bowl. “What men?” she asked.

“A guy in L.A. He was a client.” Kim shuddered.

“Lloyd Johnson, right?” Daphne asked, leaning forward. “What was he like?”

“A self-absorbed man-child with symptoms of narcissism—that about sums him up. No idea what I was thinking. I feel like an idiot for believing it would work out.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do that?” Daphne asked. “I mean, if you start a relationship thinking it will never work, then that’s kind of the kiss of death, right?”

“Yes, but this was one of those romances everyone knows is doomed from the start. Everybody except the couple directly involved. I mean, come on. Did anyone think Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra would last more than five minutes?”

“Dennis and Carmen probably thought so,” Penelope chimed in. “Do we really want to criticize people for believing in love?”

“No, for having poor judgment. Which I freely admit I had, for a long time. I mean, when things are happening fast in a big career like Lloyd’s, you get swept away. It’s like a wave, and you just go with it.”

“I know what we need,” Daphne declared, hurrying toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

It was still hard for Kim to think about what had happened to her old life. She remembered the flashbulbs going off as Lloyd walked the red carpet with the sponsors’ backdrops behind him. She could still hear the shouted questions, feel the rush of excitement at all the attention. She remembered standing off to the side with Lloyd’s other handlers, holding her breath as he responded to question after question the way she’d trained him.

For the most part his performance was as crisp and controlled as his left-handed layup, and as his career flourished, so did their relationship. They were a team, the two of them. They were invincible. There was no stopping them.

Then came the night in question. Her mind flinched from the memory. One day, she would have to face up to what had happened—his tantrum, and the fact that she’d willingly provoked him for the sake of deflating his temper, saving his career. What sort of person did that? Where had her self-respect gone?

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” her mother said. “But I’m also happy for you. I think the Lloyd fiasco will turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”

“This so-called blessing came disguised as a man I thought I loved. A man who publicly dumped and fired me. On camera.” She shuddered, hoping her request that the clip be deleted from YouTube would be honored. “Kind of hard to see that as a blessing.”

“Maybe you’ll see this as a blessing.” Daphne returned with a brown paper sack, from which she took a few limes and a bottle of tequila.

“Excellent,” said Kim. “Think of the money we’ll save on therapy.” She went to the cupboard and got a cutting board and knife, a shaker of salt and three shot glasses.

“Good heavens, I’m not doing tequila shots,” her mother declared.

“You are, too,” Kim insisted.

“You and Daphne enjoy,” she said. “I’ll clean up the mess afterward.”

“You’re not weaseling out of this,” Kim said. She led the way into the sitting room and deftly poured three shots, her movements as neat and controlled as a bartender’s.

Her mother recoiled. “I’ll make myself sick.”

“Not with this,” Daphne assured her. “It’s El Tesoro. Smooth as filtered water, you’ll see.”

“But it has a bite,” Kim added, cutting lime wedges. “Watch and learn, Mother. Watch and learn.” She demonstrated the time-honored ritual of tequila consumption—shake, lick, swallow, bite, grimacing with the lime’s tartness. Finally, she leaned back, smiling as the fiery liquor spread.

Daphne followed suit, dispatching her shot with efficiency and expertise.

“Your turn, Mom,” said Kim.

“But I promised you a girly salad—”

“We’re not hungry,” Daphne said.

“She’s right,” Kim added. “Humor us. Come on, Mom. It’s a bonding experience.”

“All right, but I’m not licking my hand. That’s disgusting.”

“Lick your damn hand. How else will you get the salt to stick? And try to do everything in one fluid movement. The key is not to stop until you’re through.” Kim did another demo, then lined everything up for her mother.

Penelope pursed her lips. Then, working quickly, she licked the back of her hand and added a sprinkle of salt. She took a moment to compose herself. Finally, like a diver about to take the plunge, she tongued the salt, knocked back the tequila shot and chased it with the lime wedge. In compliance with instructions, she smacked her lips, then patted her mouth with a paper napkin.

“There. Are you satisfied?” she asked.

“It’s a good start. You have to do two more,” Kim said.

“Or three,” Daphne added.

They set her up for another shot, and then another a few minutes later. She sank back on the sofa with a sigh. “I’m a new woman. It’s nice to know I’m not too old to try something new,” she declared. “My, but that was invigorating.”

“We knew you’d think so.” Kim poured three more shots and saluted Daphne with her glass. “To new perspectives,” she declared.

“Better late than never,” Penelope said, and clinked glasses with Kim.

“Agreed,” Kim said.

“To trying something new,” Daphne said.

“To no more pro athletes,” Kim added, remembering all those shallow, spoiled bullies who expected the moon and then complained when