ExcerptARunFortheMoney

"That reminds me," Rhoda said, appearing unfazed by the heavy sarcasm. "Guess who's single again."

Not again. "You have to stop, Mother. I'm not interested."

"How do you know you're not interested? You don't even know who I'm talking about. Besides, he asked about you."

"Okay, fine." She knew she'd regret it, but also knew her mother wouldn't stop the game until they'd played at least one round. "Who's single again?"

"Dr. Danny."

"Ick." The reaction flew without a moment's hesitation. At her mother's sharp look, Nicole added, "You don't find it even slightly disgusting that you're trying to fix me up with a man you dated ten years ago?"

Rhoda's perfectly manicured hand flitted in the air like a scarlet-tipped butterfly. "Pish. We only dated once. Hardly a grand affair."

"You dumped him after that one date because he hit on your waitress while you were seated at the table. What makes you think I'd want to roll those dice?"

"You're twenty-nine, darling." Her mother's tone left no doubt Nicole's age fell only slightly short of bald and toothless on the attraction scale. "The odds aren't in your favor anymore. After the age of thirty, you have to lower your standards if you plan to marry. Most of the men out there will be looking for replacement mothers for their children, or worse, for themselves."

"You've married enough times for both of us," Nicole replied. "Trust me. The Fleming women have filled their marital quota for the next three generations."

"No thanks to you."

"Congratulations. You're a one-woman dynamo."

She stamped her stiletto heel. "I want grandchildren while I'm still young enough to enjoy them!"

"You only want grandchildren so you can show off pictures to your mahjongg group!" Pain shot into her brain, and she scrubbed a hand over her face, closed her eyes, and let all the bad humor out with one long exhale. "Why are you here, Mother?"

Rhoda shrugged her delicate shoulders. "Louis had a conference in New York this week. I thought we'd share some girl time. Just mother and daughter."

"Sorry, but I have to work."

"Mmm�too bad." Rhoda sniffed. "Are you sure you can't take a few days off? We could visit my hairdresser in the Village, do some shopping, get you some decent clothes."

She plucked the clinging skirt, damp and wrinkled, from her thighs. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

Mother said nothing. She merely stared at her own crisp, cream-colored, linen shirtdress, and then at Nicole, visually comparing a pampered Persian to a battle-scarred alleycat. Only Rhoda could get up at dawn, hop a three-hour flight, spend the day in Manhattan, and still look like a dewy-eyed model who'd stepped out of the Saks showroom.

"Darling, you dress like a ragpicker. And that hair. Look at that hair." Mother fingered the blond waves at Nicole's neck. "Didn't I tell you to see Pierre about updating your color? But once again, you ignored your mother's advice."

A light slap to Mother's fingertips and a softly hissed, "Stop!" only garnered Nicole another glare of disapproval. Mother never frowned, never smiled, never puckered her brow. Mother wouldn't use any expression that might leave a line on her flawless face.

"How do you expect to attract a decent man when you look so shabby?"

"Actually, I've met a decent man. I'm seeing someone."

Oh, dear Lord, someone duct tape my mouth shut. Where did that lie come from?

"Really? How wonderful. Who is he? Anyone I know?"

Silently begging forgiveness from Papa Joe's ghost, Nicole plowed on. "You might know him. Do you remember Dante LaPalma?"

"Dante LaPalma. No, I don't think--"

Suddenly, the name must have registered. Rhoda's hand fluttered to her throat. Nicole could've sworn she heard ghostly laughter in her ears. Somewhere above them, Papa Joe was rolling on a cloud, holding his sides with glee at the stricken look on his ex-wife's face.

"Not Joe Corbet's grandson!" she exclaimed, her complexion whitening beneath her unsmeared maquillage.

In thirty years, Nicole had never seen anything or anyone ruffle Mother's feathers. Until now.

Hey, Dante, looks like I owe you one. Thanks!