Page 41 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Before you react,” she says, “I need you to know everything is under control.”

I close my eyes briefly.

Mira mouths, Is it bad?

I cover the phone and mouth, Always.

“What happened?” I ask.

A pause.

I hate pauses. Pauses are where families store knives.

“Well, Gloria quit.”

“She what?”

“She resigned this morning.”

“Gloria doesn’t resign. Gloria makes other people resign. Gloria once bullied a florist into retirement with nothing, but a disappointed sigh and a pen from a luxury hotel.”

“Well, apparently Liam’s mother had concerns about the welcome dinner floor plan, Carla’s mother had concerns about Gloria’s tone, and Gloria had concerns about remaining legally responsible for what she called ‘a pageant of wealthy delusion wearing pearls.’”

Against my will, I respect Gloria more than I ever have.

“She said that?”

“Not in writing, thankfully.”

“Mom.”

“I know.”

“Mom.”

“Daisy.”

“No.”

“I haven’t asked yet.”

“You’re about to.”

The office seems to hold its breath around me. The printer stops mid-grumble. The air vent kicks on above my desk and sends the paper leaves near the conference room trembling against the glass.

“I need you to come home,” she says.

And . . . there it is.

The sentence I have spent months pretending wouldn’t find me if I kept my rent paid and my Boston address current.

“I can handle things remotely,” I say.

“You’ve done more than enough remotely, and we’re grateful.”

Grateful.

What a suspicious word.