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“We just talked and tried on clothes.”
“Your mother said you rented a movie.”
“I did, but we didn’t watch it yet. Maybe tomorrow.” I glance toward the door to the kitchen. The lights are off. “Where’s Mom?”
“She turned in early to read.” Nana covers her mouth and yawns. “I think I’ll take a quick soak in the tub then do the same. I’m having some trouble settling down after all the day’s excitement.” She reaches up to me. “Would you give me a lift?”
I stand and face her. Nana’s hands are dry and powder soft. As I pull her to her feet, I try to figure out what excitement she’s talking about. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
“Happen?” Nana’s brows pull together. “Your mother and I just ate pie and watched television. I couldn’t have stood much more after all the unpacking and putting away. And then there was the trip to the grocery store. And the cooking.” She pats my arm. “Mind you, I’m not complaining. It’s a joy to be busy with my family.”
I hug her, realizing the excitement she talked about was just the move. Shame tightens my throat. This day meant a lot to Nana. I guess I should’ve known that, but until now, I didn’t. I probably should’ve stuck around instead of going to the mall with Suzanna.
Ending the hug, I stand back and look at her. “I think I’ll go to bed, too. I’m sort of tired.” I almost choke on the lie. What started out smooth and clear is all twisted and cloudy now. I didn’t expect my escape route would have ruts, guilty feelings to dodge along the way.
“I love you. Sleep tight,” Nana says. “Stay warm.”
“Love you, too.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck. My heart beats too fast. “I’ll put Maxwell out.”
Max trots toward the front door, his bottom twisting in the prissy way that always used to earn him a rude comment from Dad. “Oh, no you don’t.” I hook a thumb in the direction of the backyard and lead him that way. Once outside, he squats to pee, then lifts his head and sniffs the air, as if he smells freedom beyond the fence and wants to explore. I watch him a minute, thinking of Suzanna waiting out front, of the night ahead. Then I go back inside.
I decide I better cover all my bases. A light shines under Mom’s bedroom door so I knock and tell her I’m home. Usually, she tells me to come in and we talk for a while. By some miracle, this time she doesn’t. She sounds sort of funny, like she’s startled or something. We speak through her closed door for a few seconds then say good-night.
Twenty minutes later, after changing clothes and fixing my hair and makeup, I’m halfway out my bedroom window when the buckle of one spiked-heel boot catches on the inside latch. I have my free foot on the ground, the snared one raised high above the sill. I’m leaning forward, mooning the street. The temperature outside has dropped from comfortable to chilly. A breeze lifts the pleated hem of my miniskirt and scatters goose bumps across my butt. This is more than a rut, this is a major pothole.
Leave it to Suz and her great ideas.
I hear an engine and look over my shoulder. Her Honda Civic passes slowly by with the headlights turned off. She’s supposed to wait down the street, but since I’m ten minutes late, I guess she got worried.
Before going through the window, I tossed my purse out. It’s on the ground beside my foot. My cell phone’s inside of it, ringing nonstop. It’s a quiet muffled trill, but I panic anyway, sure Mom or Nana will hear it. My breath comes fast; I’m so scared I’m dizzy.
The second the phone goes quiet, I hear Nana humming on the other side of my door. I quit struggling with the boot buckle and stand still in spite of my cramped thigh. Her bedroom is next to mine; she probably finished her bath and she’s headed there.
I’m shivering from coldness and fear when I finally hear Nana’s bedroom door close. The humming stops. I twist my foot from side to side to work on the buckle again.
The bushes alongside the window rustle. I gasp, but see it’s just Suzanna.
“Jeez!” I hiss. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m stuck.”
“Here.” Suzanna squeezes in beside me. “Let me see.” She leans in through the open window, reaches up, wiggles the latch with one hand while wiggling my boot buckle with the other. In no time, I’m free.
“I knew these boots would cause trouble,” I mumble, pulling my leg from the sill, stumbling as I put my foot on the ground. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”
“You are.”
I reach for my purse as Suzanna slides the window closed.
She grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Her car idles at the curb. Giggling, our ankles wobbling on our spiky heels, my silicone boobs bouncing like her real ones, we run across the dark lawn toward it.
CHAPTER 3
From The Desk of
Belle Lamont
Dear Harry,
Last night was my first at home with Cecilia and Erin. With remnants of our life together packed away in boxes around me, I dreamed of your roses. The dream was so vivid that, as I woke, their cloying scent filled the room and I felt the velvet petals brush my cheek.
I miss you so. Now, more than ever, I need your strong arms around me, your whisper of reassurance, your rational advice.
Just moments ago, I looked out my bedroom window and saw Erin sneaking out her window. She and another girl were dressed to kill—an appropriate cliché in this case since I know it would kill her mother to see her in a skirt so short and heels so high. Her father, too, if Bert even cares anymore. Sometimes I wonder.
The two girls made a beeline across the yard, climbed into a car and sped off, leaving me here wondering about my role in all this. My duty. Do I go to Cecilia and tell her? Or do I bite my tongue? Wait up for Erin, listen to what she has to say, then try to talk some sense into her? I’m leaning toward the latter. I have Erin’s cell phone number, and I can always call her if she’s not in by midnight. Besides, Cecilia’s too strict with the girl. In this day and age, an eleven o’clock curfew on a Saturday night for a young woman of almost eighteen is going overboard if you ask me. Of course, Cecilia didn’t.
I think our daughter lives in deadly fear that if Erin’s allowed to be a normal teenager, the girl will put her through the same grief Cecilia put us through at that age. Which would serve CiCi right; I’m sure you’ll agree. I say that with a smile on my face!
I don’t think poor Erin has ever had a date. How could she when she’s stuck beneath the weight of CiCi’s expectations that she act like a middle-aged adult when it comes to everything except boys? With the opposite sex, she’s supposed to stay ten years old and uninterested.
Being a man who raised a daughter, you’d probably be tempted to agree with Cecilia on that. But I’d have to remind you that at eighteen, I’d already received a marriage proposal. From you. You smooth-talked me into tying the knot, and I had already dated enough young men to know that you were the one for me.
So, there you have it. Only one day living under our daughter’s roof and already I worry about overstepping my bounds. Though, to do whatever’s best for Erin, I’ll gladly suffer the wrath of both her and her mother. I only wish you were here to help me decide what is the best thing to do. Was this a mistake? My moving in with the two of them? Maybe I’m being selfish, but I need them. And they need me, though they don’t know it. They need me, Harry. CiCi lives life in a blur. Because of it, she’s missing out on so much, and so is Erin. Which is why it’s a good thing I’m here.
But do they want me here? They act as if they do, but I’m not certain that isn’t pretense to spare my feelings. Is their love for me sturdy enough to weather so much togetherness?
I realize something now that I didn’t last week, or even yesterday. This won’t be simple. For them or me. Maybe it goes against nature for parents and their adult children to live in the same house. Maybe Cecilia and I, maybe all mothers and daughters, are only meant to know one another as parent and child, not as grown women with more shared fears and desires than we care to admit. Which brings to mind a certain bread beater incident.
That blasted nasty Jane Binkley and her silly birthday gag gift! I swear, I thought I’d thrown the thing away, but CiCi found it in my things. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details. Suffice it to say, I had to think fast to come up with a story. And even then, I didn’t fool Cecilia.
Back to the subject at hand. After you left, I thought Parkview Manor was a good solution for me, the answer to CiCi’s worries about me living alone and so far from her. I didn’t mind moving there, really. Like I’ve said before, Parkview isn’t a nursing home; good heavens, I’m not ready for that. It’s simply a community of retirees, but they do have a nursing staff on the premises in case they’re needed. Still, it wasn’t what I’d hoped.
One day I may have to accept moving back to Parkview Manor or someplace like it. But for now, while I’m still able to care for myself and able to help CiCi with Erin, I couldn’t bear to spend another day in the place. Gather that many old men and women together in one building and what do you get? A big ol’ bunch of busybodies with too much time on their hands, that’s what. Why, just last week, Ellen Miles tried to pry gossip out of me about Jane Binkley. I didn’t waste a minute before setting her straight. I told her I don’t make a habit of talking about other people’s business. “Just because my apartment is next door to Jane’s and I’m privy to most of the woman’s coming and goings,” I said, “doesn’t mean I’ll tell you or anybody else about the late hours men spend over there, or about all the giggling I often hear on the other side of my wall.”
I swear, Harry, you should have seen Ellen’s face! Her eyes bulged and she slapped a hand over her mouth like I had offended her, instead of the other way around.
Busybodies aside, Parkview just isn’t for me. It doesn’t seem natural to see only old, wrinkled faces day by day, to go out into the courtyard and never hear children laughing, to never see or speak to young families playing together or taking bike rides or walks around the neighborhood. A happy, healthy life requires a certain mix of ingredients. Babies and children. Teenagers. Middle-aged people and old folks. Most of those ingredients are missing at Parkview, and what remains is a very stale cake.
The only things I liked about the Village are a few dear friends I met and the reading group, which I formed and CiCi led. She’s promised we can go on with it, that we’ll keep meeting each week and she’ll still read aloud for those of us with eyes too weak.
Speaking of my eyes, Cecilia would probably tell you a different story about my ability to take care of myself. Because my sight’s getting worse, she’s hired a baby-sitter to stay with me during the day. She won’t listen when I tell her that, other than driving and reading and the like, I’m as self-sufficient today as I was five years ago and the five before that. My new glasses help with my vision. My only complaint is that the magnification is so strong my eyeballs look as if they might pop out of their sockets. I’m trying not to be vain, but sometimes I’m glad you can’t see me like this.
I’ll be thinking of you every moment next Saturday, the anniversary of our last day together. The truth is, I still think of you almost all the time on every day. I try to concentrate only on the good times, but often my mind drifts to the difficult times, too. Oh, how I wish we had had more patience with one another. Why did we spend even one precious moment on pettiness, jealousy or pointless blame? Because of your stubbornness and the resentments I collected like rare coins, we wasted minutes that could’ve been spent making joyful memories. If only we had it to do over.
That said, I must admit that sometimes I even miss our arguments. I miss your hard head, our standoffs. Without them, there’d have been no making up. And making up was the sweetest thing, wasn’t it?
I’m asking Cecilia to drive me to Cleburne and by our old house next Saturday to check on your prize roses. If the weather held, they always lasted at least through mid-November. I hope that’s true this year. I missed having you give me the first bloom this season. It was always my favorite gift from you, especially during our tough times. It seemed a promise that everything was all right between us. That you were sorry, or I was forgiven, or you’d given in and life would go on.
Saturday, when we turn the corner onto Bentwood Drive I will see your tender smile in the blooms. And I’ll remember.
As always, your yellow rose,
Belle
CHAPTER 4
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Wednesday, 11/5
1. 9:00—Hoyt Couple—New patient appt.
2. 1:00—Mom’s Parkview reading group.
3. Call Bert. Remind him he has a daughter.
By nine-thirty-five, I’m wondering if Mr. Roger Hoyt will ever open his twitching mouth and start talking. He sits stiff and straight as a ruler beside his wife of twenty years, hands clutching the chair’s arms like he’s on a roller coaster that’s about to take off. His expression tells me his tie is too tight. Only, he isn’t wearing a tie.
“Mr. Hoyt…Roger. May I call you Roger?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Cut to the chase, I decide. Ask him point-blank. I lean forward. “Cindy has said that she feels you don’t love her anymore. That you’re bored with her.” I catch his gaze, hold it. “How do you feel? Are you bored with your wife? Have you fallen out of love with her?”
Roger Hoyt reeks of fear, or it might be his aftershave; I’m not sure. He glances at the woman in question and clears his throat. “I still love my wife. It’s just, well, I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”
Cindy’s lower lip quivers.
I flash back to the moment Bert made the same admission to me, and I sympathize with Cindy Hoyt. “Okay, Roger. When did you realize this?”
He clears his throat again. “I can’t put my finger on an exact moment. It just sort of happened over time. We stopped having fun together, stopped talking about anything except the kids and the bills. That sort of thing.”
“So, you’re saying you’re more like brother and sister now?”
“Yeah, but we still…you know. We’re more than brother and sister, but it’s not enough.” He shifts in the chair. “I want more.”
“You’ve got commitment, the security of family, but no passion?”
He nods.
I turn to Cindy. “What’s it like for you to hear all this?”
“It hurts.” She blinks tear-bright eyes. “But he’s right. We don’t have fun anymore. We don’t really talk. And our sex life has suffered. But I think we can work things out if we try.”
I watch for Roger’s reaction. Interesting. Cindy sees it, too, and looks down at her lap.
“Roger, when Cindy just said that, you cringed. Why?”
“I don’t know. I, um, I guess I’m not sure if I want this anymore. I—”
Cindy sits straighter; her expression hardens. “That’s just what I thought, Roger. Do you think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending at work?” She turns to me. “I think he’s starting something with his secretary.”
“I am not!” Roger’s face flames.
“Not an affair,” Cindy adds quickly, anger replacing the hurt in her voice. “Not yet. But I saw the e-mails, Roger. I saw them. The woman couldn’t be more than twenty-five.” She crosses her arms and leans back.
A switch flips inside me. I stare at Roger and cross my arms, too. “Would you care to tell me about these e-mails between you and…?”
“Bitsy,” Cindy hisses. Our eyes meet then narrow in unison. In unity.
“So, Roger, you and Bootsy have been flirting with infidelity through e-mails, is that—”
“Betsy. Her name is Betsy. I—we’re—” Roger scoots to the edge of the chair. Glares at Cindy. At me. “We’re not…I…” He stands. “Fuck this! Fuck it! I won’t sit here while a complete stranger and my wife gang up me.”
Oh, no! No! Damn it! What’s wrong with me? What am I doing? I reach my hand toward him. “Calm down, Mr. Hoyt. No one’s ganging up on you.”
“Oh, really?” He paces and tugs at his collar, at the tie that isn’t there. “What would you call it then?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I was simply asking a question. Perhaps I should rephrase.”
“Perhaps you should.” He flops down in the chair.
“It seems that the two of you are at a point of decision, would you agree?”
Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs. He and Cindy look at one another. The two of them nod.
I tap my index finger against my thigh and study the immature jerk, trying to see deeper. Will he choose some temporary, ego-boosting fun with little Miss Bootsy who, judging from the looks of Roger, is probably only after his money? Or will he decide to make an effort to revive what he once had with the mother of his children, this intelligent, attractive woman he chose to marry? This woman who has washed his dirty socks and underwear, stuck with him through the early, sparse-money years after he started his business, believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.
Realizing my thoughts pertain to my own marriage, not necessarily the Hoyts’, I take a deep breath. This is about them, not me. “Both of you need to spend some time thinking about what you really want, what’s really important to you.” I zero in on Roger. “Do you want to preserve your commitment or move on to something else? Think hard about that. This affects not only your life, but also Cindy’s. And your children’s lives, too. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”
I turn. “And you, Cindy.” Her efforts to control her emotions trigger my own. My throat knots up; I tell myself to breathe. “If Roger stays, are you willing to work on the marriage? Can you put your suspicions and bitterness away and trust him again? And if he chooses to leave, what will you do? Your life will change dramatically. How will you deal with that? It’s something to ask yourself.”
We end the session. And while Roger doesn’t promise to come back next week, he does say he’ll consider it.
In the meantime, I have a lot to think about, too. It’s clear I still have Bert issues. I thought I’d worked through the worst of them, buried the pain, cynicism and anger in a deep, dark grave. But judging from what just happened, they’re all still alive. And thriving.
The paperback novel lies open in my lap. A Room For Eleanor. The current literary rage. Four hundred pages of angst and introspection.
Perching my funky new reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I glance down at the page. The final chapter, thank God. If I have to spend one more week reading about the depressed and depressing Eleanor, I’ll need a room, too. At the psychiatric pavilion.
I look up for a moment, scan the group of four women, all wearing glasses of some kind or another, and one man whose vision must be better than mine, since he’s lens-free. Ten folding chairs sit empty behind them. We started the club a year ago with fifteen members. Fourteen women and Oliver something-or-other, the sharp-eyed old charmer who sits at the end of the first row beside my mother. The club has dwindled to these five people; I don’t know why.
