Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey Page A

me?”
    One side of his mouth twitched up like an angry bulldog’s. “How can I miss you when I’m bombarded by credit card bills suggesting a widespread path of decadence?”
    â€œErnest ...” My mother’s voice held a warning.
    â€œYes, yes, I missed you, but we must go over the rules, Alana. Certain rules of order we all must abide by in civilized society.”
    I sat down and shook the linen napkin open. “May I order a drink first?”
    That took the wind out of his sails—at least for the moment.
    â€œYes, yes, of course. Sit.” He summoned the waiter and I ordered a greyhound—grapefruit juice and vodka. While Daddy fished out his reading glasses to study the evening’s menu, I motioned for the waiter to make it a double. The man smiled at my gesture of desperation, then hurried off.
    Mama reached across the table and tapped my hand. “I’m dying to hear, how was Europe?”
    â€œSpectacular. I was there to help Pierre launch his new line of gowns.” When Mama squinted, I added, “You remember Petey from Harvard? Pete Brown?”
    â€œSkinny little thing?”
    We giggled together, recalling some of Petey’s antics one summer at my parents’ house in the Hamptons. We had decided to throw an impromptu luau, and for the occasion, Petey quickly fashioned mumus out of shower curtains, grass skirts from a broken wicker chair, gaudy necklaces from large plastic shower curtain rings. Mama had laughed heartily over his creations, but my father had been thoroughly unsettled to discover the shower curtain missing from the master bath.
    The waiter took our order then disappeared, and the light conversation continued. As Mama and I caught up on news, I began to relax. Maybe this dinner with the ’rents would actually be enjoyable. After all, my mother totally got what I was about, and she adored the way that I held up my friends, providing an occasional lift for Hailey, endless support for Petey, fabulous neckties for Rory, and streams of baby gifts for Carla, Joyce, and Nayasia, my college friends who now had little droolers of their own. Now that I thought of it, I was pretty darned benevolent. Maybe I should incorporate myself—the Alana Foundation. Yes, I liked the sound of that, and wouldn’t Daddy be proud?
    â€œOh, look, Ernest, the Schnabels are here,” my mother said as she cast her gaze over her martini glass. “I wonder how their show went? And I think that’s Dr. and Mrs. Chin in the corner. I hear they returned from the conference in Stockholm. Sadie Williams says they stayed in an ice hotel in northern Sweden. Wouldn’t that be fascinating, Ernest?” Mama’s brown eyes were dreamy, full of adventure and wonder.
    I guess I’m my mama’s daughter.
    My father squinted as if the concept of a hotel made of frozen water did not compute. “But, Rose, what about your sabbatical?”
    â€œOh, I meant down the road,” my mother said, but my radar was on the word “sabbatical.” “Mama? You’re taking a vacation from NYU?”
    â€œActually, I’m taking off next year to do a research project on reading comprehension of urban youth. An unpaid sabbatical, and I’m quite excited about it.”
    â€œThat’s great, Mama. Where will you travel for your research?”
    â€œLots of exotic places,” she said. “Rosedale, Flushing, Murray Hill, the Grand Concourse.”
    I blinked, liking the wispy feel of my new mascara. “Aren’t those neighborhoods in New York City? Oh, right! I get it.” Had she said something about not getting paid? That sounded dumb, but I didn’t want to be the one to point out the downside, since Mama seemed so enthused. “I’m really excited for you, Mama.”
    My father cleared his throat. “Which leads me to my agenda issue this evening. With your mother’s lack of income next year,