Just One Night(13)

But if she was going personal for the story—if she was going to tell the truth—

first, she had to find out the most important truth, once and for all.

It was time to find out if Sam Compton wanted her back.





Chapter Four


“Um, Mom? Does Dad know we’re having tacos for dinner?”

“No, he does not. And neither of you will mention it until it’s too late for him to start

hollering about the ways of our motherland. It’s a stubborn, rigid mind-set, if you

ask me.”

Riley exchanged a glance with her younger sister, Kate, both of them wisely

opting not to mention the chunks of potatoes nestled in with the meat on the

stove. Her mother probably hadn’t even consciously included them. For her

potatoes were like salt. Never the meal, but always an unspoken part of the meal.

Both Erin and Joshua McKenna had been born and raised in Cork, Ireland, but

they had different approaches when it came to the cuisine of their homeland.

Riley’s dad was a purist and rarely made it through a meal without muttering, “If

my mother caught me eating this foreign slop, she’d die all over again.”

Erin, on the other hand, fancied herself a bit of a fusion cook.

Hence the tacos with potatoes. Last week it had been pasta carbonara. With

potatoes. The week before that, she’d put corned beef in stir-fry.

“Always an adventure,” Kate muttered under her breath before grabbing her beer

and escaping to the living room, where the guys were watching soccer.

“I like the new cupboards,” Riley said, gesturing at the dark-wood cabinetry her

mother had finally convinced her father that they needed to install. It was one of

the few things that had changed in the Park Slope house Riley’d been born and

raised in, and she liked it that way. She liked the way everybody had a favorite

chair around the kitchen table that fit their butt just right. Liked the way they all

knew not to wear socks without shoes in the kitchen because the boards were

getting rough and tended to snag them. She even liked her mother’s affinity for

cheap watercolors, and the way the weepy landscapes covered every possible

wall.

It wasn’t fancy. But it was home.

“How’s work?” her mother asked, carefully spooning a carton of sour cream into

a bowl. Riley’s mother wasn’t above convenience, but she drew the line at setting

a plastic carton on the dinner table. Everything store-bought was promptly

transferred to a “real dish.”

“Work?” Riley asked, feeling her eyebrows creep up to her hairline. Her mother

rarely asked about Riley’s job.

Probably because she hated Riley’s job.

Riley couldn’t blame her. She doubted there were very many mothers out there

who would be excited that their baby girl’s career involved reviewing dildos.

Particularly conservative Irish-Catholic mothers.

“Work’s … um …” Awful? Stressful? Ruining my life?

It had been two days since Camille had dropped her little bomb about the fiftieth-

anniversary issue, and even though Riley wouldn’t need to turn in a draft for the

stupid semicentennial issue for at least another month, it was all she’d been able

to think about.

“Work’s fine.”

“Mmm …” Her mother sucked a glob of sour cream off her thumb and wandered

over to the side table, where they stacked mail and bills and magazines. “Here it

is.”

Shit.

It was the most recent Stiletto article. The one in which Riley’s BDSM headline

was sandwiched between “Over-the-Knee Boots Are Back!” and “Rich Autumn

Makeup That Anyone Can Pull Off.”

“What about it?” Riley asked nervously.

“Have you tried this stuff you’re talking about?”

Riley nearly spit out the water she’d just sipped. And here she’d thought she and

her parents had a good thing going with the don’t-ask-don’t-tell routine.

She knew that her mother collected every issue out of loyalty to her middle

daughter. Maybe even read an article from time to time. But to actually talk about

it?

There were vicious stomach bugs that were more pleasant.

Not to mention, this really, really wasn’t good timing.

“Ma! Come on!”

“Don’t Ma me. My friends’ daughters talk with them about sex.”

Your friends’ daughters are probably actually having sex.

“Do you talk to Kate and Megan about it?” Riley asked, referring to her two sisters.

“Yes.”

“You do?” Riley nearly fell off the ancient bar stool. What sort of craziness was

this? “Why am I never included in this girl talk?”