For Better Or Worse. Jill Amy Rosenblatt

screen. The jacket sailed up into the air, followed by her gown, both landing draped over the screen. “You are the next Simon, Williams, Stoppard of Broadway. Your work must be seen. I won’t allow you to languish in summer stock with some…farmer.”

      “Robert’s from Long Island.”

      “It’s the same thing. With Henry you will not be putting on a show in the barn. Cows may provide a service to humanity but they cannot understand dramatic irony.”

      “I’m marrying the farmer, Mom.”

      Margaret emerged from behind the screen, wearing a dazzling white and cream Ralph Lauren ensemble, and a look of astonishment.

      Karen sucked in a mouthful of air. “We’re engaged. We’ve set a date. We’re getting married next June.”

      Margaret stroked Karen’s hair and grasped her hands in her own. “You know he will only disappoint you,” she said, her eyes misting.

      “I don’t set expectations, Mom.”

      “Excellent, my darling. He can’t meet them anyway. Oh, Karen, after everything…” She sighed. “Your father’s been recycling material I wrote during our marriage and using it in his books. The lawsuit has already been filed. You are looking at your future. This, my darling, is what you will have to deal with. Wouldn’t you prefer taking a nice trip instead? Someplace exotic. Everyone is going to Thailand these days.”

      “You’ve sent me there already.”

      “Have I?”

      “Twice.”

      “Karen, I don’t want you to experience your partner as a lesser man in almost every sense of the word. You cannot waste yourself. I cannot allow this.”

      “Mommy, I love him.”

      Sinking down on the bed next to her, Margaret brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Well,” she said, “life is about change.”

      “That’s what Daddy said.”

      “You’ve seen your father? Good. All daughters should spend time with their fathers, indulging them in the myth that man is invincible. That is a daughter’s greatest gift.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “He still owes me a Prada wardrobe.”

      “We discussed that. Mommy, what do you mean, you won’t allow this?”

      “Miss Elizabeth!” Margaret sang out, ignoring Karen’s question. “I see you lingering there.”

      Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. “I was just visiting my old room.”

      “I provided room, board, nutritional and emotional sustenance during your time of crisis, and this is how I’m to be repaid? I leave my girl in your care and come back to find her affianced to a Clampett. What have you to say for yourself, young lady?”

      “I missed a meeting?”

      Margaret narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth. “And who have you been spending your time with?”

      “An Impressionist-style painter who should be drinking absinthe in Montmartre,” Karen piped up.

      “Interesting choice, considering your history. Anyone else?”

      “A lawyer.”

      Margaret stood up. “It’s so refreshing when a profession explains the man.”

      “Mommy,” Karen broke in, “what do you mean, you won’t allow this?”

      Margaret chucked Karen under her chin. “My buttercup, you know your father and I disagree on—everything, except marriage. You know we’ve made it our mission—our raison d’être, if you will—to do what we can, in our own humble way, to prevent these tragedies.”

      “Mommy, you can’t object at my wedding.”

      Margaret raised her eyebrow at Karen. “I ask you, my nutmeg, what greater act of love can a parent bestow than to save their child from imminent destruction?”

      Karen felt herself shrinking, her body curling into a fetal curve. “By objecting at my wedding?”

      Margaret patted Karen’s knee. “Muffin top, someone must stop the madness.”

      “But…but you won’t need to object. You’ll like Robert.”

      “Oh, that’s irrelevant, darling.”

      Karen stared at Elizabeth. “My parents are going to object at my wedding.”

      “I heard.”

      Karen grabbed her mother’s hand. “I want to get married.”

      Margaret sighed. “I know, my sweet. It’s all that spiritual training. We should never have encouraged you.” She swept to the bedroom door, stopping before Elizabeth. “By the way, do you love the painter, Miss Elizabeth?”

      “Absolutely not,” Elizabeth answered.

      Margaret raised her eyebrow in response and kept walking.

      “You didn’t ask if I loved the lawyer,” Elizabeth said.

      Margaret laughed. “Of course not, dear, why would I?”

      Karen lay back on the bed and Elizabeth flopped down next to her, listening to Margaret’s booming voice fill the apartment.

      “Mary, you wretched woman, you’re getting your wish. We are going out to eat! Come along, my little buttercups! These are deep waters we are to traverse today!”

      Karen lay staring up at the ceiling and sucked in a deep breath.

      “So this is the part where you yield?”

      “Did I have a choice?”

      “What now? You just relax and do nothing and it all works out right, that’s the Taoist way?”

      Karen turned to stare at her. “Taoism never met my mother.”

      “True,” Elizabeth said, “very true.”