The Good Life by Susan Kietzman Page A

planned. Her favorite treadmill at the club had broken down in the middle of her workout. She had lunch with Sally and had to listen to her brag about her kids and their academic achievements. While Sally talked about tough honors courses and the burden of extra homework, Ann made a mental note to ask Lauren for her report card and to ask Emma to search Nate’s room for his. And after lunch, Ann endured an endless budget discussion at the most tedious hospital board meeting she had ever attended. As a reward afterward, she hit the mall, which lifted her mood some. But now her mother, uninvited, was in her kitchen, using her expensive copper pots and humming a hymn Ann vaguely remembered from Sunday school. “What are you doing?” were the first words that came out of her mouth.
    “Oh, hello,” said Eileen, turning around to face her daughter. “I was lost in thought and didn’t hear you come in. I’m trying out a soup for Thanksgiving. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Is your stove working all right?” asked Ann, tossing her keys noisily into the wicker basket on the counter.
    “It works like a charm,” said Eileen. “Selma is making our dinner and I didn’t want to get in her way. Thanksgiving is only a week away, Ann. We have to start preparing. Come taste this.”
    “We have nothing to prepare,” said Ann, peeling off her coat and hanging it on a peg. “I have it catered.”
    Eileen’s eyes became full moons. “You’re kidding me, Ann. You cater Thanksgiving?”
    “I’m not kidding, Mother. Thanksgiving is an underappreciated meal that’s devoured in seven minutes.”
    “Thanksgiving is an American tradition, honey.”
    “It’s way too much work.”
    “Not if we roll up our sleeves and work together,” said Eileen. “We could spend next Wednesday in the kitchen, just you and me. It would be fun.”
    “That,” said Ann, lifting her shopping bags and walking across the kitchen floor, “is not my idea of fun.”
    “What is your idea of fun?” Ann stopped and turned to face her mother. “It seems like every day you leave here early in the morning and return late in the afternoon with a bunch of shopping bags,” said Eileen, turning off the burner.
    “How would you know when I come and when I go?”
    “I have eyes, Ann,” said Eileen. “Our little house has that beautiful picture window.”
    “So,” asked Ann, reddening, “you’ve been spying on me?”
    “I’m not spying on you, honey,” said Eileen, laying the wooden spoon down in the sink. “I’m interested in you. I want to know what your life is like.”
    “Look around you,” said Ann, gesturing with her free hand. “This is what my life is like. It’s a fabulous life, and I love it.”
    “That’s good,” said Eileen, moving the pot to the granite countertop. “I just want you to be happy.”
    “I’m ecstatic,” said Ann. “I have everything I want. Who wouldn’t be happy?”
    “Sometimes you seem a little edgy, dear.”
    “I live my life on the edge,” said Ann grandly.
    “Well, good for you,” said Eileen, looking into her daughter’s eyes. “I just hope you don’t fall off.” Ann was immobilized for just an instant by her mother’s remark. And then she slowly smiled, and—never breaking eye contact—backed the rest of the way out of the kitchen. She jogged down the hallway and up the staircase to her room. She shut the door behind her, sat down on the bed, and called Mike. He didn’t pick up.
    “Damn it!” she said, sitting on the edge of her king-sized bed and breathing as if she’d just stepped off a treadmill. She sat for a moment, and then walked into her bathroom to wash her hands. When she returned to her bedroom, she emptied the contents of her bags onto the bed and stared at what she had bought. She took a permanent marker and a pair of scissors from her bedside table drawer and clipped the tags from the buttery cashmere sweaters and wool tops. Holding the marker, she turned to the shoes