I love having Frankie around, but I know that he and Lindsey will leave someday. It’s only right that she makes her own home. I am not looking forward to that day, but I officially become Frankie’s godmother on the third Sunday of his life, which only seems appropriate, since I was the first one to see his face.
I think Mother would have liked Frankie, had they met. He’s a handsome little man and a captive audience, right up Mom’s alley.
I think about Mom a lot. I still have guilt, but it is less of a companion these days. I remember snippets of our life together—sad, bad, happy, funny—and I don’t want to lose those memories. I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, and I am reminded of the day Mom and I used the Google net to search for baby shower ideas.
My first memory of Mom is of sitting on the back of a green velvet couch, brushing her hair and watching Dynasty through a haze of cigarette smoke, I write. I was probably four or five, and I think even back then I knew I had to take advantage of those special times when it was just the two of us. When Mom was between men and I had her full attention.
I write about my earliest memory of Mom’s push-and-pull and about how much I loved her. How much I will always love her.
It takes me several hours to get it all out of my head and into a document I’ve titled “How I Lost My Mind.” I haven’t looked at the day planner on my phone since Mother died, but I’m sure it will inspire a new rush of memories for me to write down.
The Louisiana sunlight pours through the library windows, creating a wavy swath across the hardwood floors and round couch. I rise from my chair and stand in that light, looking out at the patchy front yard, where I once stood slapping mosquitoes and sweating in my St. John suit.
It seems like it’s been years since I stood next to Mom, both of us looking at the same old estate but each seeing something entirely different. She saw a home, I saw a money pit, and we were both right. Sutton Hall is a two-hundred-year-old money pit, and I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather call home.
So much has happened since that day we arrived. Life is so different. I stand in the same place but see a different world. So much has changed.
I am changed. I don’t think I was ever a bad person, I’m just different now. I hope a little better of a person, too. I know I have a hell of a lot more patience.
I hear Lindsey’s footsteps, and I turn as she walks into the room. Frankie is strapped in his car seat while his mother lists to the right from the weight on one side. She and the baby are car shopping today, and they’re waiting for Jim. Their “friendship” seems to be heading in a more serious direction, but it’s none of my business.
“What kind of car are you going to look at?” I take the car seat from her and sit with Frankie on the couch until Jim arrives and the three of them will head out in the Cadillac. It already has the other part of the car seat strapped in the back, and, well, it’s more reliable than the Malibu.
“I have my eye on a few different Subarus that are top safety picks by Car and Driver magazine.”
Frankie is wearing his “Ladies’ Man” onesie and socks that are too big. His sleeping cheek rests against his neck pillow.
“Hey, baby.” I run my finger across the back of his chubby little hand. “Do you think he needs a haircut?”
“Oh, no. His hair is too beautiful to cut.”
He is beautiful and I love him so much—enough to make me think I hear the faint tick of my biological clock. “You could put it in a man bun.” Since he came home from the hospital, his thick hair has gotten wavy, and his pink skin has tanned up. With each passing day, he looks more and more like his mom.
“That’s crazy.”
“No.” I point to Frankie’s head. “That’s crazy. It’s even growing down his forehead. I had a widow’s peak, and it’s not fun.” As if he hears me, he sticks out his tongue in his sleep. “See?”
“He could totally rock a widow’s peak.”
I chuckle as I hear the sound of a car parking in front of the house. It’s Simon’s white truck, not Jim’s Malibu, and it isn’t stopping just long enough to let Jimmy out.
I haven’t seen Simon since Mom’s funeral. For some reason, when he walks into the house with Jimmy, I feel like smiling. I guess that means I’m not mad at him anymore.
“I haven’t met this guy,” he says, and heads straight for the baby next to me.
“I told ja he has da hands of a football playa. ‘Who Dat.’ ”
Simon bends down on one knee to get a better look. “Un petite cochon.”
“Talk about.”
At least Jim knows what Simon just “talk about.”
Simon lifts his gaze to mine. “How are you doing, Lou Ann?”
Lou Ann? What happened to “tee Lou Ann” or “tee Lou” or “cher”? “I’m good. How have you been?”
“Good. Busy.” He points to Frankie. “How’s life with the ladies’ man, here?”
“Better now that he sleeps.” I look up as Lindsey walks toward me and says, “I don’t know when we’ll be back.” She picks up the car seat. “Do you want me to pick up anything for you while we’re out and about?”
“No, I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay, but call if you think of something,” she says as she heads out of the library.
“Hold up a minute, Jimmy.” Simon stands and waits until Lindsey and the baby are on the front porch. He takes Jim aside and talks to him, but I can’t understand a word either of them says. I can gather it’s about Lindsey and the baby, and things get a little heated when Jim raises his voice and angrily leaves the room.
“Is he okay?”
“He’ll calm down.” Simon sits next to me and watches Jim through the window. “He just didn’t want to hear what I had to say.”
“About?”
“About playing at being a daddy. It’s all fun and games now, but if he’s not real sure this is what he wants, he needs to walk away before that baby gets used to him in his life.”
“It sounded as if he didn’t like your advice.”
“No, he did not.” He places his elbows on his knees and continues to look out the window. “He said that I should know him better than that, and if I don’t, I should… fuck myself. The little crotte.”
I burst out laughing.
“You think that’s real funny?” He looks over his shoulder at me.
“Very.”
“Get your laugh out, and when you’re done, I’ll take you fishing.”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Whichever works for you.”
“You know I don’t like to torture innocent fish.”
“Yeah.” He stands and offers me his hand. “That’s why I rigged a pole with a new pink bobber just for you.”
Some men bring a girl flowers. Simon brings a new pink bobber. I take his hand and rise to my feet. I can’t think of anything better than a pink bobber. “Same alligator deal as before?”
“Same deal.” He keeps my hand in his and we walk from the library. “I’ll wrestle gators, but it’s going to cost you.”
“How much?”
“You know I’m not cheap, tee Lou.”
“Is it going to cost me an arm and a leg and a few other body parts?”
He laughs and drops my hand to open the front door. “We can probably barter something.”
It’s good to hear his laugh again. “Are you going to take advantage of me because I’m a woman?”
He raises a brow as we step outside and into the Louisiana sunlight. “Are you coming on to me, cher?”
I walk past him and say over my shoulder, “If you have to ask, I must be getting old.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A SPECIAL THANKS to my agent, my rock, and my friend, Claudia Cross. It’s been a wild twenty years.
Lauren McKenna for believing in me. Your enthusiasm for and insights into Lulu were invaluable and our conversations priceless.
David. For the best three words of m
y day: “Baby, I’m home.”
More in Fiction
Still Alice
Then She Was Gone
Who Do You Love
When Life Gives You Lululemons
The Storyteller
Beautiful Disaster
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© TANA PHOTOGRAPHY
RACHEL GIBSON is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels, including The Art of Running in Heels and Just Kiss Me. She has been the recipient of a RITA Award, a Golden Heart Award, and a National Readers’ Choice Award, among others. Visit her at www.rachelgibson.com.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Rachel-Gibson
SimonandSchuster.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Gibson
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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition May 2020
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Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Cover design by Ella Laytham
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Gibson, Rachel, author.
Title: How Lulu lost her mind : a novel / Rachel Gibson.
Description: Trade paperback edition. | New York : Gallery Books, 2020. | Summary: “From New York Times bestselling author Rachel Gibson comes the story of a mother-daughter journey to rediscover the past before it disappears forever”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019054751 (print) | LCCN 2019054752 (ebook) | ISBN 9781982118112 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781982118129 (paperback) | ISBN 9781982118136 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3557.I2216 H69 2020 (print) | LCC PS3557.I2216 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054751
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054752
ISBN 978-1-9821-1811-2
ISBN 978-1-9821-1813-6 (ebook)
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 26
