Honestly, Stacy. Do you really expect me to believe that you have joined a coven? That you are some kind of practicing witch? You live in Greenwich, for God’s sake. There are no covens in Greenwich.

Furthermore, I thought the Trents were episcopalian, not Wiccan.

If you are just SAYING you are holding a coven meeting or whatever it is on the summer solstice in order to make Stuart angry . . . well, you’ve succeeded.

What is wrong with you, Stacy? Why can’t you play nicely with your brother? Stuart is, out of all of you, the only one who was born with any common sense. Why must you and Mitch antagonize him so? He’s always been extremely sensitive, as I’m sure you’re aware, particularly about the size of his head. Yet, that never stopped the two of you from calling him Tweety growing up, did it? Oh, you two were just hilarious.

Claiming you belong to a coven is hardly an amusing joke, Stacy. It’s cruel, and it’s insensitive, especially coming from a mother of three. What if the children should hear of it, Stacy? Besides, I want this Amy Jenkins to LIKE us. For God’s sake, she’s hardly had what I’d call a warm welcome into the family, with your father still not returning anyone’s calls from Scottsdale, and Mitch causing this uproar in her office, and you saying you’re a practicing witch, and Janice . . . well, just being Janice. Really, the poor girl is going to think you’re all out to get her, and who could blame her? Finally we have a chance to get some NORMAL blood into the Hertzog family tree, and you’re trying to ruin it for everyone.

Well, I won’t have it. You’re to let your brother have his wedding at your house, like your own husband promised him he could. Do you understand, Stacy?

And while you’re at it, it would be polite if you’d host Amy’s bridal shower. I’m not saying you have to have it at your place. We can have it here. But I think it would be a nice gesture if you and Janice hosted it.

Hopefully all the green will have grown out of her hair by then.

Well, that’s all, call me.

Mother


To: Kate Mackenzie <katydid@freemail.com

Fr: Vivica <vivica@sophisticate.com>

Re: Dale

Hi. I know you probably haven’t had a chance to look over the quiz I sent you. Dale says you’re a human resources rep, and I know that is a very important and busy job. Not like being a model. I mean, when you are a model, you just, you know, try on clothes and smile and stuff. Although it is quite hard to smile when you feel as if your heart is breaking—which I felt like mine was. Until the other night, when I met Dale. I know he is your ex-boyfriend and all and you probably don’t feel about him the way you did when you were first going out, but you guys are still friends, right? Dale says you are. So I was just hoping you could get back to me, because it’s been a really, really long time since I met a guy as nice as Dale. Most guys, they don’t even remember my name, they just want to hook up so they can go back to the office on Monday and tell everyone they scored with a supermodel.

Dale, he says he’s gonna write a song about me. Just as soon as he can think of a word that rhymes with Vivica.

But no pressure about the quiz. Whenever you get to it. I know you’re probably really busy with helping people and everything. Dale says you used to be a social worker. I think that is so admirable. I mean, people are our best resource. I once rescued a dog from the streets of Mexico City. But that isn’t the same as rescuing a person. And the dog turned out to have heartworms and had to be put to sleep. You can’t put people to sleep, which is too bad, because some of them deserve it, like my ex. But that’s another story.

Well, anyway. Just get that quiz back to me when you get a chance. Thanks.

Bye.

V

Journal of Kate Mackenzie

Okay, breathe, Kate. You’ve got to breathe.

It’s just, I never had a guy go to so much trouble for me. I mean, make a whole dinner for me, and all. Dale made me tea once when I was sick in bed, but that’s about it. Plus he left the tea bag in it when he went to warm it up in the microwave and the staple ignited and the kitchen caught on fire and the fire department had to come put it out, and we had to get all new cabinets, so I’m not even sure that counts.

But Mitch. Mitch made me scampi. Shrimp scampi.

And it was good. The scampi, I mean. Really, really good. He says he went to cooking camp as a kid (Cooking camp! Apparently no one in his family was very thrilled with the idea . . . they wanted him to go to soccer camp with his brother Stuart. But Mitch says he was more interested in scoring pies than goals).

Anyway, he’s in the kitchen now, making dessert. He won’t tell me what it is. I sincerely hope it involves chocolate.

But that’s not why I’m freaking out. The dessert thing, I mean. And the-having-a-guy-cook-for-me thing.

No, it’s the fact that he just told me that he USED TO BE A PUBLIC DEFENDER.

It’s true. He only came to work for his father’s company because his dad had a heart attack, and then bypass surgery, and he begged Mitch to keep an eye on things at the firm while he was recovering.

Apparently, a large part of the recovery process for Mr. Hertzog is playing golf with his buddies in Arizona.

But whatever. The point is, Mitch isn’t really a soulless corporate drone. He has never embraced big business and is in fact looking forward to getting back to work down at the criminal courts.

Where he apparently defends those who can’t afford to pay for their own lawyer.

And the thing is, Mitch could get a job anywhere. He doesn’t HAVE to be a public defender. He does it—well, probably for the same reason I became a social worker . . .

To make a difference.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP FROM LIKING HIM???? More than liking him, even.

He got mefired. He got me fired because he doesn’t like his brother’s girlfriend.

And Istill totally want to jump his bones. I KNOW! There is something severely wrong with me.

Seriously. Because—oh my God—he’s so perfect. I mean, he COOKS, and he VOLUNTEERS, and he WANTS TO HELP PEOPLE. . . . God, even hisapartment is perfect. I mean, it’s clearly a GUY’s apartment, and it’s a little messy—baseball caps stuffed in amongst the paperback mystery novels on the bookshelves; University of Michigan basketball season schedules lying around on the coffee table; a copy of Playboy peeking out from beneath the couch where he obviously recently shoved it.

But it’s a beautiful apartment, one he inherited from his dead grandfather, two bedrooms (he uses one as an office and a guest room for when his nieces and nephew come to stay, he says) and two bathrooms—1800 square feet with a balcony overlooking the East River. He owns, which is good, because the rent on a place like this would be five grand a month at least. Maybe even more, because there’s a health club in the building. The maintenance alone has to be at least fifteen hundred a month.

And he’s gotthree TVs, one of them at least a 42-incher (for watching the games, he says).

And okay, all the furniture is brown: brown couch, brown armchair, brown place mats on the dining-room table, even brown sheets (I peeked on the way to the bathroom) on his bed.

But I could fix that. I mean, I watchTrading Spaces, I know how a few well-placed slipcovers can brighten up a space. . . .

OH MY GOD, WHAT AM I THINKING?

Professor Wingblade would be appalled. I mean, he always told us we have to develop a relationship based on trust and mutual harmony before we can—

OH MY GOD, HE’S GOT TIVO!!!!!! I just found the remote, wedged in between the sofa cushions. TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who had TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who owned his own TV. I mean, I bought the one Dale and I—

Wait. I need to get a grip. Yes, Mitch seems like he might—in spite of the whole getting me fired thing—be a great guy. And yes, he has a great apartment.

But, even though he used to be a public defender, right now he’s making five hundred dollars an hour defending corporate giants from the likes of little Mrs. Lopez, who has never hurt anyone (who didn’t deserve it, anyway).

And he’s so cavalier about the whole thing, he got me fired. FIRED!!!!

Besides which, I have a lot of problems right now. I can’t be jumping into a romantic relationship with someone I’ve only just met. I need to find a job, and an apartment, and a sense of purpose to my life. Professor Wingblade said that you can never truly love anyone until you learn to love yourself, and the truth is, I am finding it very hard to love myself since I got fired. Not that I define myself through my work. It’s just that . . . without my work, who AM I? What is my purpose here on earth? I want to make a difference and help people, but no one will seem to LET ME. So if I can’t do what I was put on this earth to do, WHY AM I EVEN HERE????

And seriously, supposing something DOES develop between Mitch and me. How am I going to introduce him to people? “Oh, this is my boyfriend, funny story: He’s the one who got me fired?”

Um, that will not exactly endear him to my social set, if you know what I mean.

But, oh my God, he has such really nice lips! Mitch, does, I mean. What’s a public defender doing with lips like that? It’s not FAIR!!! I was looking at Mitch’s mouth all through dinner, when he was telling me about the year he took off to travel around the world. And his lips really are very beautifully shaped. They look like they’d be really . . . strong. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s weak lips. But no need to worry about Mitch’s. I have a feeling those lips of his could make a girl forget all about being destitute and homeless . . . and quite a few other things, as well—