The Girl in the Glass Read Online Free PDF

sunscreen even on rainy days, and gets a goodnight’s sleep every night. I have wondered more than once what my father thinks of how gracefully his former wife has aged in the years since the divorce. She is still very pretty. And they had been in love once.

    Inside the restaurant I told the hostess I was meeting my mother and that the reservation was under the name Elaine Pomeroy.
    “Yes. They are already seated. Right this way.”
    They?
    I opened my mouth to comment, but the hostess was already walking away. I fell in step behind her, ready to make a course correction. But then I saw my mother’s head at a booth near a wall. And another head across from her.
    A younger man.
    I closed my eyes for a second, incredulous. My careful mother was no fan of blind dates or online pairing. The risk of finding yourself being stalked by a psychopath—or at the very least pestered incessantly—was enough to keep her out of both camps and advising me to do the same. But she wasn’t above a little maternal matchmaking from time to time, since eligible men she deemed suitable had obviously already passed her scrutiny. She had offered a time or two to introduce me to so-and-so’s nephew or son or personal trainer. I had declined. I don’t need or want my mother’s assistance in finding a husband, as she puts it. She knows this.
    So I opened my eyes to reward my mother with a dagger look before the man turned his head at my approach. But she missed it.
    I arrived at the booth, and the man looked up. He was nice looking, a few years older than me. Late thirties, perhaps. Dark hair fashionably cutand gelled into wavy submission. Tufts of premature gray at the temples. Nickel-hued, rimless glasses. Kind face. Ringless left hand. A bit stocky. He smiled at me.
    “Here we are,” the hostess said, turning her head to me, looking for direction as to which side of the booth to seat me.
    “Here, sit by me, Meg.” My mother scooted over and patted the empty space next to her.
    I hesitated, waiting for my mother to make eye contact and get the full effect of my wordless annoyance. But she just smiled up at me and again patted the seat. She looked calm and elegant in a silky Indian-print blouse and silver jewelry.
    I slid into the booth.
    “I’m so glad you could come tonight, sweetheart,” my mother said brightly. She turned her attention to the man across the table. “Devon, this is my daughter, Meg. Meg, Devon Sheller.”
    Devon Sheller reached across the table to shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Meg. I’ve heard so much about you.” His teeth were perfectly straight and glistening white.
    I took his hand and shook it lightly. “Uh, yes. Nice to meet you as well.”
    “Devon’s a pharmacist. He works at Rady Children’s Hospital. He’s been there for what, five years?” My mother raised a glass of water and took a sip.
    “Just about,” Devon replied.
    “That must be very interesting,” I said woodenly. Again I turned to my mother, but she was waving a waitress over.
    “Could you bring us a bottle of Pinot Grigio? The one from Australia? I liked that one last time.”
    The waitress smiled, nodded, and walked away.
    “Your mother tells me you’re an editor with a publishing house in La Jolla,” Devon said.
    “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Crowne and Castillo. They publish travel books.”
    “She’s quite a wordsmith,” my mother said. “They made her an editor after only four years. I’m so proud of her.”
    “You probably have the more interesting job, then,” Devon said politely. “I suppose you get to travel a lot?”
    A common misconception. You don’t need to go to Morocco to line edit a book about sightseeing in Marrakesh. “Um. Not as much as I’d like, actually.”
    My mother patted my hand. “I, for one, am glad she doesn’t have to travel to all the places her authors write about. The world is so uncertain. Every time you turn around, it seems another nation is at war. I don’t