Glossy Lips

by Barbara Silkstone

  While Puff explored the inside of the condo, I stepped out on the balcony, allowing the sight and sounds of the Gulf of Mexico to soothe my aching heart. “Nonna, I am so sorry,” I whispered hoping my grandmother’s spirit still lingered somewhere in the cotton candy skies that hugged the teal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. A chunk of hair whipped my cheek as I leaned over the balcony railing. I tucked the blonde lock behind my ear. “I should have been here.”

  As the words left my lips, two magnificent dolphins broke from the sea and faced each other in perfect arcs. They danced on their tails backing away from one another. Was their ballet a message of comfort from my grandmother? I could hear her voice, firm but sweet. “Olive, you blot those tears. You’re a Peroni, and Peronis don’t cry.”

  The dolphins swam towards the horizon, now and then leaping into the air seemingly ecstatic with the joy of life. Take pleasure in the simple things and live in the moment.

  If I was going to make a lifestyle change, it should be now or never. Why was I wasting my best years bound to my psychotherapy practice in Manhattan when I could be free like a dolphin?

  I slipped inside, forced the heavy sliding glass door closed, and picked up Puff. She nuzzled my neck purring softly. We settled on the pink and blue sofa, facing the sea. “It’s you and me, kid.” I stroked the kitten between her two big blue eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Starfish Cove, Florida ~ Thursday, 9:30 a.m.

  I had an hour to unpack and change out of my coffee-stained slacks before Lizzy Kelly arrived. Misgivings nibbled around the edges of my mind. Was I doing the right thing in selling Nonna’s home? The condo held all her treasures, which was another problem.

  Nonna was Sophia Napoli’s most ardent fan. She had adorned every possible space in the condo with framed photographs of the Italian actress; there was even an exquisite oil painting of the lady hung above the table in the foyer.

  Unit 201—Sandy Shores Towers was a gallery dedicated to a lady who had come from my grandmother’s village in Italy. These things would never blend in my apartment up north—nor should they. They belonged just where they were—at Nonna’s.

  To sell or not to sell, that was the question. Usually I’m decisive, but the happy memories of days spent in the kitchen helping Nonna by stirring a pot of cold cream while listening to the stories of her girlhood clouded my judgment. I vacillated like a flag blowing in the wind.

  Puff meowed at me.

  “Are you telling me you’re hungry? There’s probably tuna in the pantry to tide you over until I can buy some cat food.”

  I stood and went to the kitchen. Puff followed me, watching my every move. The little darling made me feel like the most important person in the world.

  The pantry yielded one can of fish. “Do I know my Nonna or not?” I opened it and scooped half the tuna into a small bowl. Puff’s head bobbed up and down as she plowed into the moist bits.

  When she finished, I closed her in the bathroom and went to my car to collect my luggage. Heeding the warning signs, I carefully avoided the wet paint on the first-floor railings as I wheeled my bags into the elevator. I wrestled them into the condo then deposited them on the floor of the guest bedroom.

  Puff’s sad whimpering reminded me to let her out of the bathroom. I decided to change before fully unpacking in case the realtor arrived early. I put on an ivory-colored business suit with a blue blouse and surveyed myself in the mirror. I wanted to look professional but not too sophisticated.

  I continued to empty the suitcase and hung my simple black dress on a hanger. Puff, like all white cats since the beginning of time, made a beeline for the black jacket exposed at the top of the pile. She plopped down on it and began to lick her paws contentedly. I scooped her off the jacket leaving it with a fine dusting of white cat hair confirming my reluctance to let her out of the bathroom.

  After I finished unpacking, I faced the sad task of arrangements for the memorial service. The celebration of my grandmother’s life would require a list of her friends and our family, including greedy Aunt Tillie who would attend sniffing for crumbs from the estate.

  Nonna’s generation of Peroni sisters, brothers, and cousins had all departed for spaghetti heaven. That was one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, and it always made me laugh. I imagined them all sitting down to a heavenly family dinner of meatballs and angel hair pasta.

  “Let’s peek in Nonna’s office and see if she has an address book. We have a memorial to plan,” I said. Puff studied my lips as I spoke.

  The makeshift office was a small room, more like an over-sized alcove adjacent to the master bedroom. I sat at the Art déco desk and attacked the organized piles on the blotter. Whoever was collecting Nonna’s mail might be able to help me prepare a guest list.

  Inside the top center drawer was a shiny key on a pink satin ribbon. It must be important to be set aside in such a careful manner. I searched the room to see what it might match. My hunt revealed a gold-toned wooden file chest on a shelf hidden behind the slatted wood doors of a small closet. The container was the size of a cardboard file and had been glazed with paint to look antique.

  The key fit the lock. I opened the box slowly while Puff stood on her tiny hind legs ready to jump in. The chest was filled with worn alphabetized file tabs that were neatly labeled with Nonna’s printing. Eureka! These were the secret recipes for her beauty treatments!

  The first folder was labeled Cold Cream (Night). Two sheets of paper slipped out and fell to the soft mauve carpet. Quick as a wink Puff sat on them, putting all her kitten weight into commandeering the papers. I wiggled them from under her.

  I read the first paragraph of the top sheet twice, my hands shaking and my heart quaking. The page did contain the recipe for her magical cold cream—the key to Nonna’s secret world. The second sheet was a letter that could wait. I scanned the list of ingredients at the top of the recipe.

  My grandmother’s homemade beauty treatments were family lore. They were secret emollients that performed mini-miracles. I put the two sheets of paper on the side and continued to thumb through the files.

  These mystical potions were the reason the females in the Peroni lineage, including me, did not look our age. Even the Peroni men kept their youthful handsomeness well into their dotage, thanks to Nonna’s creams.

  I adjusted my skirt, sat on the floor, and crossed my legs. Ever so slowly I began to sift through the folders. Many times over the years Nonna had whispered that she would leave me her formularies, passed to her by her grandmother.

  The condo and all the contents included in the gold-tinted chest had been willed to me. I now literally held the key to the fountain of youth, or at least the brakes which when gently applied would slow down the aging process. My heart flip-flopped as I came to grips with what I held in my hands.

  There was a file marked with a skull and crossbones; I opened it cautiously. It contained an illustrated catalog of Florida plants to avoid when making creams and lotions. I thumbed through the colorful pages getting a quick education in the alluring appearance and false fragrances of a surprising number of poisonous plants indigenous to the area. Anything that came with such a stark warning was important. I placed it on the chair in front of the desk to study it later.

  The doorbell rang. Time had gotten away from me. It must be the realtor. I replaced the file folders, locked the lid, and pocketed the key. I forgot to replace the cold cream recipe. The bell rang again, and I placed the two sheets on top of the box. The bell rang a third time. I nearly tripped over the recipe chest as I dashed to the door. Puff scurried away.

  Chapter 4

  Lizzy Kelly stood on the doorstep, a ray of sunshine in the form of a gal in her late twenties.

  “Sorry about the bell,” she said with concern on her face. “Hope I didn’t annoy you. If people have their windows open to the Gulf, they don’t always hear their doorbells over the sound of the waves. Was three times too many?”

  Reading people is in my job d
escription. This cheerful woman struck me as someone I might be able to trust. Her honey brown hair fell in spirals that bounced off her shoulders while her amber eyes glowed with mischief.

  She wore a turquoise jumpsuit with slightly flared bottoms and tan straw wedge heels. Lizzy Kelly resembled one of Charlie’s Angels caught in a time warp. Whether her outfit was accidentally passé or a purposeful decision, it suited her.

  Three persistent rings were annoying but humorous. It was something I might have done to be certain I was heard.

  She remained on the threshold rather than rushing in to check out the view and tout me on the apartment’s strong points. I liked that she didn’t jump into a selling mode from the get-go. Real estate agents are often too aggressive.

  “You must be Lizzy. I’m Olive. Thanks for coming.” I held out my hand.

  Her grasp was warm and firm. “Thanks for understanding about the bell.”

  With a wave, I motioned her to come in. She stepped into the foyer pausing to study the portrait of Sophia Napoli. “Is that…?”

  I nodded before she could finish her question.

  “Oh, I love her! I have seen every movie she ever made!”

  She tore her gaze away from the portrait and strode passed me. With a dramatic flair she dropped her oversized straw purse on a chair, slipped one hand under her hair and flipped the curls off her neck. She had an odd black mark on her left sleeve and the aroma of cigarette smoke about her. My stomach roiled at the smell.

  “Shall we go out on the balcony and take in the view?” I said, secretly hoping to air her out a bit before parading through the apartment.

  “Let me look around inside first. I grew up on the beach and know the views by heart. They are lovely but constant, only the colors change.” She licked her bottom lip as she smiled. A smoker’s habit—a tongue continually in search of a cigarette.

  Lizzy trailed ashtray fumes as we slowly toured the living room and the Sophia Napoli gallery Nonna had created in the long hallway. She paused at each picture; now and then quoting lines from some of the actresses more popular movies. Both of us giggled as she spoke in an atrocious faux Italian accent.

  Her bubbly manner lifted my spirits. Too bad she was a smoker. We might have become friends.

  “Your grandmother had excellent taste. The color scheme is perfect. It reminds me of a shell washed up from the sea—pink and blue and cream all over.”

  She drooped her lower lip. “Did I mention I am sorry for your loss? I love my Grams to bits and pieces. It would break my heart to lose her.” Her next words stunned me.

  “I feel your Nonna’s presence here. I’m not exactly a believer in that sort of woo-woo stuff, but sometimes I get a twinge.” She shook her head. “I don’t think your grandmother wants you to sell her home. The market is slow right now and if anyone can sell it, I can—but I don’t think she wants you to do that.”

  Was she using reverse psychology to get me to sign a listing agreement? My father’s mother, Isabella Peroni was indeed present in the rooms, for they still bore the delicate scent of her perfume, which was most likely something she brewed herself.

  But how could this stranger sense my grandmother’s wishes?

  “Yipes!” Lizzy said as we walked past the mirrored closet doors in the master bedroom. She tugged on her sleeve with the odd pattern on it. Struggling to see her arm in the reflection, she flushed. “Well, this is embarrassing!” She rubbed the inky design smearing what had been a four-inch stripe of black into an eight-inch long blob.

  “Can I get you something to remove that mark?” I was relieved that the black design had an explanation and wasn’t from some secret society of smudgers.

  “Thanks anyway. It’s my own fault. There was a wet-paint sign on the rail near the elevator. I must have leaned on it coming up—not the sign, the railing.” She bent her head over her shoulder and sniffed. “Yup, it’s paint. Nuts! This is my lucky listing outfit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, apologizing for something I didn’t do. Typical of me.

  “I’m always messing up. Knowing you’re a psychologist from Manhattan, I wanted you to think I was cool. So much for that, I’m not even tepid.” She laughed. “I’ll be very careful around your grandmother’s wonderful things.” She waved her hand as if demonstrating Nonna’s possessions on Home Shopping.

  She was revealing a litany of flaws that matched mine. I would have thought twice before sharing my weaknesses with anyone, let alone a stranger.

  Lizzy wrinkled her brow and paused her rambling. “Do you believe in signs? I do.” She peered over her shoulder, checking her reflection again, and then gave up. “Not wet-paint signs but signals from the universe. I think getting the paint on my listing suit is a hint that I am not supposed to sell your grandmother’s condo.”

  She was doing a great job of discouraging me. Perhaps I didn’t really want to sell, and it showed? I do believe in hints from the cosmos, and I was beginning to think that Nonna had sent this offbeat character as a messenger. In the short time Lizzy Kelly had been whirling in my sphere, I felt the burdens of Manhattan lighten. This laughing cheerful chatterbox was definitely the type of person I would choose for a friend if I were staying in Florida.

  Keeping up with Lizzy’s energetic chatter was like following a cartoon character waiting for the anvil to fall. She would start a sentence and then come off track, appearing as if she was searching for the end of what she intended to say. Rather than being irritated, I found her spaciness to be charming.

  Lizzy wiggle-walked into Nonna’s alcove. “Hmm… an office? Was your gran in business?”

  Puff crept out from under the desk.

  “Ooo… A kitten. I love animals!” Lizzy said. “I have one rescue dog and a bevy of birds at my place.” She bent over and lifted Puff to her chest. The kitten purred and rubbed her cheek against Lizzy’s thumb.

  “You must see my cottage, it’s a beach bungalow about a mile south of here, nothing special, but I like it. There’s just enough room for WonderDog, my birds, and me.”

  I was so taken by her chatter that I almost forgot why she was here.

  She kissed Puff on the nose and placed her back on the floor. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. It’s almost noon plus or minus an hour. Let me take you to lunch. A guy I date manages the best seafood restaurant on the beach. It’s called Crabby Nancy’s and the fried fish is to die for.”

  “Sure!” I said. “There is nothing here that can’t wait.”

  “And on the way back I can show you my beach cottage. WonderDog will want his lunch by then.”

  Chapter 5

  “Let’s take my car. The top is already down,” Lizzy said. She tottered on her odd-shaped heels to a shiny white Jaguar convertible that sat open to the sun and to any thief who might want to pick through the assortment of goodies scattered on the passenger’s seat and floorboard.

  Lizzy jumped behind the wheel, leaned over and grabbed the stack of books and papers from the front seat and tossed them in the back. “Just kick the stuff on the floor out of your way.”

  “Nice wheels,” I said.

  “Thanks!” She slipped on a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, gunned the motor, and spun out of the parking lot. My new friend drove as if she were in her own private Grand Prix; sending the white car skimming around traffic in heart-stopping swerves.

  The aroma of Crabby Nancy’s reached me before I saw it. My mouth watered at the smell of fried fish.

  Lizzy pulled into the lot. “See how crowded the lot is, and it’s not even lunchtime?” She circled the rows of cars. “Work with me here, as I demonstrate the power of positive thinking. I imagine an empty parking space.”

  She closed her eyes but kept on driving, slower, but still frightening.

  “Lizzy!” I yelled. “Open your eyes!”

  “Hang on! I’m concentrating!” she kept her eyes closed for an instant longer and presto an empty space appeared right next to the front door. She zipped
in, a perfect fit.

  “Now that was amazing!” I said, my ears ringing from the rush of blood in my head.

  “It happens every time. I believe in visualizing. How about you?”

  “I forgot how useful it is. Thanks for reminding me! For future reference, I have a desire to live.”

  She laughed as we clambered out of the car and walked into what looked like a nasty old boathouse, a setting reminiscent of Popeye’s home. The windows and walls were all open to the Intracoastal Waterway. Boats slowly cruised through the No Wake zone.

  A young hostess dressed in white sailor pants and a blue T-shirt with the Crabby Nancy logo emblazoned in lime green and white welcomed Lizzy with a hug.

  “Is Dave around?” My new friend asked.

  “He’s swamped. We have a big party coming in at noon. Outside okay?”

  The girl motioned us to follow. We settled at a rickety table on a shaky deck. For an August day it was cool, a breeze came in off the water, while the sunshine warmed my face. The floorboards flexed underfoot, and I expected the entire structure to collapse any minute.

  “The usual?” The hostess asked. “I’ll let Dave know you are here, but I can’t promise he’ll come out.” She headed toward the back of the shanty.

  “Dave gets busy this time of year. We don’t get to see each other much, but that’s not a bad thing.” She punctuated her remark with a wink. “Togetherness can get old real fast!”

  A waitress in an outfit identical to the hostess placed two frosty glasses of lemonade in front of us. “Here you go Lizzy. Both no sugar and sour as a lemon!” she said.

  I took a long sip and scanned the room. The place was packed with chatting, chewing people all dressed as if they had wandered in from the beach. Island-like music was playing just soft enough to allow Lizzy and me to hear each other. I settled back in the stiff plastic chair and decided I could adapt to this lifestyle with little resistance.