Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin Read Free Book Online Page B

family.”
    “Okay. Okay,” she relented. “I hope I’m wrong, Tessa. I truly hope I’m wrong.”
    I think of this conversation now, and my vow to try to support Ruby’s choices even when I don’t agree with them. But as I survey the Sharpay photo, taking in the red lipstick, high heels, and provocative pose, I lose my resolve and attempt to carve out a “no hoochie-wear” exception and change my daughter’s mind. Just this once.
    “Ruby, I think it’s a little too mature for you,” I say casually, trying not to entrench her position.
    But Ruby only shakes her head resolutely. “No it’s not.”
    Grasping at straws, I try again. “You’ll freeze trick-or-treating in that.”
    “I’m warm-blooded,” she says, clearly misunderstanding her father’s biology tutorial this morning.
    Meanwhile, I watch another mother-daughter pair, dressed in matching purple velour sweats, happily agree on a wholesome Dorothy costume. The mother smiles smugly, then, as if to show me how it’s done, says in a suggestive voice clearly intended for Ruby, “Look at this darling Snow White costume. This would be perfect for a little girl with dark hair.”
    I play along, to show her that her flimsy tricks would never work in my house. “Yes! Why, Ruby, you have dark hair. Wouldn’t you like to be Snow White? You could carry a shiny red apple!”
    “No. I don’t want to be Snow White. And I don’t like apples,” Ruby retorts, her expression stony.
    The other mother gives me a playful shrug and an artificial smile as if to say, I tried. But my mother-of-the-year prowess can only go so far!
    I flash a fake smile of my own, refraining from telling her what I’m really thinking: that it’s an unwise karmic move to go around feeling superior to other mothers. Because before she knows it, her little angel could become a tattooed teenager hiding joints in her designer handbag and doling out blow jobs in the backseat of her BMW.
    Seconds later, as the two continue along their yellow brick road, Nick rounds the corner carrying Frank in one arm and an Elmo costume in the other, proving once again that, at least in our house, boys are easier. Ruby’s eyes light up when she sees her father, and she wastes no time in busting me in the highest volume possible.
    “Mommy said I could be anything I want for Halloween and now she says I can’t be Sharpay!” she shouts.
    Nick raises his brows. “Mommy wouldn’t go back on a promise like that, would she?” he asks.
    “Oh, yes she would,” Ruby says, pushing out her lower lip. “She just did.”
    Nick glances my way as I reluctantly nod. “See for yourself,” I mumble, pointing at the glammed-up photo, and feeling a rush of secret satisfaction as I read his mind. On the one hand, I know his basic instinct is to indulge his daughter, make her happy at virtually any cost. On the other, he’s as overprotective as they come, with a strong preference that his little girl not roam the neighborhood resembling a child prostitute.
    Feeling hopeful, I watch Nick kneel beside Ruby and give it his best shot. “I think this looks a little . . . old for you, Ruby,” he says. “Maybe next year?”
    Ruby shakes her head. “It’s not too old, Daddy. It’s my size!” she says, pointing to the 4T in the upper corner of the packaging.
    At this first sign of resistance, Nick stands and surrenders, shooting me a helpless look.
    “Well, then,” he says to Ruby. “It looks like this is between you and Mommy.”
    I think of my mother again—both trying to imagine what she would say to Ruby, and perhaps more important, what she would say about Nick’s laissez-faire fathering. The domestic details will be yours, I hear ringing in my ears. Then I heave the burdened sigh of , mothers everywhere and say, “A promise is a promise. Sharpay it is.”
    “Yay!” Ruby says, scampering toward the checkout line.
    “Yay!” Frank echoes, as he and Nick follow her,
    “But no lipstick,” I say, now