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Selfishly Selfless
Aug. 1st, 2008 12:45 am“Happy Birthday November’s Sweethearts, Rory and Pippa”
She sighed as she stood there looking at the sheet cake on the bar before her. She’d expressly asked they
A day that paid homage not just to the redheaded waitress but to the woman who birthed her. Someone Pippa had no intention of honoring in any way, shape or form. Whitney Kerr didn’t deserve accolades for bringing a child into the world, not if you asked Phillipa.
As she picked up a sharp knife, Pippa frowned, lips forming a pout that was anything but childish. The expression was full of hurt and determination as she used the fine edge of the blade to lift and remove the unwanted parts of the frosted message from the cake. Starting with the letters of her name, extricating and then smearing them across a paper towel, she thought about the last birthday she had been forced to commemorate.
Pippa studied her handiwork; it didn’t look bad now that she’d placed candles and a few decorative icing flourishes on the cake. “Happy Birthday, November’s Sweetheart, Rory”
No one would need to know that the cake had been doctored, corrected, undefiled.
Rory Stone was someone Pippa would gladly celebrate.
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//770 words
November’s a great month.
Same sign, different vintage.
Just think, a few days earlier and you could very well have been a birthday present of mine.
Well, I’m glad I wasn’t. You deserve to have the day to yourself.
Sharing with you wouldn’t be so bad.
No, Ro.
Pippa…
Same sign, different vintage.
Just think, a few days earlier and you could very well have been a birthday present of mine.
Well, I’m glad I wasn’t. You deserve to have the day to yourself.
Sharing with you wouldn’t be so bad.
No, Ro.
Pippa…
She sighed as she stood there looking at the sheet cake on the bar before her. She’d expressly asked they
not
do the joint birthday celebration. It wasn’t from being selfish or trying to put a damper on anyone’s good cheer. Not in the least. No, Pippa simply hadn’t celebrated the day of her birth in recent years and had no real desire to start again. It was just a day.A day that paid homage not just to the redheaded waitress but to the woman who birthed her. Someone Pippa had no intention of honoring in any way, shape or form. Whitney Kerr didn’t deserve accolades for bringing a child into the world, not if you asked Phillipa.
As she picked up a sharp knife, Pippa frowned, lips forming a pout that was anything but childish. The expression was full of hurt and determination as she used the fine edge of the blade to lift and remove the unwanted parts of the frosted message from the cake. Starting with the letters of her name, extricating and then smearing them across a paper towel, she thought about the last birthday she had been forced to commemorate.
***
Her mother was still trying to keep up appearances, uphold the pretense of a perfect family. Pippa wasn’t. Hadn’t been since she’d returned from college, brokenhearted and pregnant. By November, her normally slight frame had begun to already show signs of pregnancy: fuller breasts, a swell to the curve of her belly, thicker, shinier hair.
Her mother’s solution had been to tell people that it was the dreaded freshman ten that refused to leave, and on this particular occasion, had forced Pippa into a body restricting, breath stealing corseted affair of a dress. It was physically uncomfortable, something she suspected her mother intended from the outset, and emotionally painful. She was hated and more, the child she was carrying was abhorred.
And yet, at just nineteen, Pippa hadn’t quite been pushed to the point of not wanting to redeem herself in the eyes of her parents. She meekly went along with the dress, the angry looks and accusatory tones, agreed to the dinner party and the show of wanting a birthday party.
The guest list had been typical of her mother’s soirees: business partners belonging to her father’s firm and their spouses, women she played bridge with at the country club, the minor local celebrity of the day…no one from Pippa’s so-called circle of friends. Not that it mattered; she hadn’t spoken to any of them in months, most of them still away a school. Where she should have been. Another point her mother belabored at every turn.
It had been a tiring bore, a formal dinner affair with multiple courses of foods that turned her stomach. Not that she had much room to eat what with the bodice of her dress cutting her in half, but Pippa attempted to choke down the caviar, the lamb, the nauseating snails in garlic sauce. She did refuse to so much as sip her drink during the champagne toast in her honor. Some things she just wouldn’t be a party to.
Under the guise of feeling overwhelmed she excused herself, taking brief refuge in the kitchen and accepting the only genuine well wishes of the night—the ones from the house staff. Her reprieve was short-lived, her mother fast on her heels, coming into the kitchen only moments later, needing to be a conscientious hostess and assure that the cake would be served on time.
Or more to the point, to take yet another shot at her daughter.
They had stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, perfectly decorated cake situated between them, candles yet to be lit. It wasn’t until she dared meet her mother’s cold gaze that the older woman spoke.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you look at that?” She gestured to the standard birthday wishes written on the cake’s surface, “They misspelled ‘whore’.”
Her mother’s solution had been to tell people that it was the dreaded freshman ten that refused to leave, and on this particular occasion, had forced Pippa into a body restricting, breath stealing corseted affair of a dress. It was physically uncomfortable, something she suspected her mother intended from the outset, and emotionally painful. She was hated and more, the child she was carrying was abhorred.
And yet, at just nineteen, Pippa hadn’t quite been pushed to the point of not wanting to redeem herself in the eyes of her parents. She meekly went along with the dress, the angry looks and accusatory tones, agreed to the dinner party and the show of wanting a birthday party.
The guest list had been typical of her mother’s soirees: business partners belonging to her father’s firm and their spouses, women she played bridge with at the country club, the minor local celebrity of the day…no one from Pippa’s so-called circle of friends. Not that it mattered; she hadn’t spoken to any of them in months, most of them still away a school. Where she should have been. Another point her mother belabored at every turn.
It had been a tiring bore, a formal dinner affair with multiple courses of foods that turned her stomach. Not that she had much room to eat what with the bodice of her dress cutting her in half, but Pippa attempted to choke down the caviar, the lamb, the nauseating snails in garlic sauce. She did refuse to so much as sip her drink during the champagne toast in her honor. Some things she just wouldn’t be a party to.
Under the guise of feeling overwhelmed she excused herself, taking brief refuge in the kitchen and accepting the only genuine well wishes of the night—the ones from the house staff. Her reprieve was short-lived, her mother fast on her heels, coming into the kitchen only moments later, needing to be a conscientious hostess and assure that the cake would be served on time.
Or more to the point, to take yet another shot at her daughter.
They had stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, perfectly decorated cake situated between them, candles yet to be lit. It wasn’t until she dared meet her mother’s cold gaze that the older woman spoke.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you look at that?” She gestured to the standard birthday wishes written on the cake’s surface, “They misspelled ‘whore’.”
***
Pippa studied her handiwork; it didn’t look bad now that she’d placed candles and a few decorative icing flourishes on the cake. “Happy Birthday, November’s Sweetheart, Rory”
No one would need to know that the cake had been doctored, corrected, undefiled.
Rory Stone was someone Pippa would gladly celebrate.
Pippa Kerr//Last Call//770 words
