A Splendid Obsession

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Do you find something about my job to be beneath you?” she asked defensively.

  Dave’s response was immediate.

  “The real question is whether it’s beneath you. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but it seems strange that a woman as beautiful and intelligent as you would want to hide herself in a nursing home.”

  Kayanne was impressed by the fact that he somehow managed to flatter and insult her at the same time. As tempting as it might be to parade her accolades before him, it was even more refreshing to be taken at face value for a change. The truth of the matter was that it would suit her just fine if Dave Evans didn’t find out about her past until well after she’d moved on with her future.

  Kayanne was saved from having to come up with a clever response by another loud snore, one that actually shook Rose awake. Looking embarrassed, she wiped a spot of drool off her chin.

  “I hope you enjoyed your little catnap,” Dave said with a reassuring smile meant to ease her mind.

  “I did, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, Kayanne dear, I’m ready to go home.”

  Kayanne assumed that the endearment was more for Dave’s benefit than generated from any genuine fondness toward her, but she was happy to oblige nonetheless. Sitting in this sunny little nook drinking iced tea was making her sappy. She saw little point in wishing for the kind of life that had been denied her. God knows her widowed mother had done the best she could to provide, and if their home lacked the warmth of this man’s at least she’d never gone hungry.

  At least not physically.

  “You’ll be sure to come back, won’t you?” Dave asked as he escorted them to the front door.

  Rose didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  “I’ll see what the boss has to say about it.” That was all Kayanne would commit to. She had all she could manage trying to survive day by day without a drink without cluttering up her life with social obligations.

  She helped Rose slowly down the porch steps and stopped to let her rest at the bottom. There Kayanne studied Dave as if considering whether to divulge a state secret of the gravest importance.

  “Romantica,” she blurted out.

  When he looked at her quizzically, she gave him a grin that completely undermined the tough-girl image she’d worked so hard to perfect. It delighted her to know a little something about the publishing industry that he didn’t.

  “That’s what I like to read.”

  Four

  Dave had to look up romantica on the Internet to find out exactly what it was. A cross between romance and erotica, the description alone whetted his interest—in the enigmatic woman who’d claimed to read it as well as the genre itself. He’d never met anyone more intriguing. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Kayanne didn’t like talking about herself and her past. As mysterious as the waxing and waning moon, she was lighting his way through a book that was miraculously getting easier to write every day. Although Dave couldn’t honestly say that he found her altogether up to the standards of gentility and charm that he usually applied to his heroines, he couldn’t deny that he wanted her, either.

  Just the word romantica conjured up images of Kayanne lying naked in bed beneath him. Ashamed that he didn’t have better control over his thoughts, Dave reminded himself that her disclosure about being a closet romantic didn’t bode well for turning their relationship into something of a more passionate nature. As much as he’d like to believe the lady was into fleeting sexual gratification, her choice of reading material indicated otherwise. Whether she’d ever admit to it or not, Dave suspected Kayanne was looking for a long-term commitment—just like every other woman he knew. And the only commitment he was willing to make at the moment was to his writing.

  Given Kayanne’s reading preferences, he doubted if she would be much impressed with what he wrote. He imagined that she would find it as pretentious as he did on those days when he was feeling most vulnerable. How ironic that his literary awards left him feeling such a fraud. Afraid that he wouldn’t be able to repeat his initial literary success, he’d wrestled with self-doubt that had manifested itself in a full-blown case of writer’s block.

  Dave had no idea how Kayanne’s unexpected presence allowed him to sidestep that block. He simply knew that she was able to blast through it with those piercing green eyes of hers as if she were endowed with superhuman powers. As disconcerting as it might be to have her alter ego Spice take over the page without even bothering to let him know what she was up to, Dave preferred chasing her on a wild ride to staring at a blank screen wondering if the only way to prime his creative pump was with a stiff drink.

  If he failed to meet his looming deadline and produce something at least as good if not better than his debut novel, he would ultimately have to admit that his parents were right and do what they’d wanted him to do all along: give up his dream of writing and come home to fulfill his destiny of taking over the family business. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life litigating other people’s miseries as part of the firm of Evans, Evans and—soon to be—Evans. Unfortunately his feelings on the matter were beside the point. If he couldn’t turn his writing into something more lucrative and less excruciating, he’d have little choice but to support himself with his teaching job. And while that might be an acceptable option for someone raised with a lower standard of living, he’d grown up with expensive tastes. Dave couldn’t imagine struggling to meet the rent every month.

  The only thing more untenable would be having to sponge off his parents.

  Kayanne had no idea that she was responsible for postponing his career crisis a little while longer. And while it was true that he had lost control of his plot since she’d waltzed into his life, he was happy to be writing fluently again—without feeling the compulsion to edit every single word until little but soup was left. Writing had become fun again. And in spite of his critics’ stuffy literary expectations, an element of mystery and romantica was seeping into his book.

  Convincing J.R. to sanction Rose’s expeditions to Dave’s house wasn’t nearly as difficult as Kayanne had first imagined. As much grief as the old lady had caused the entire staff the past few days, everybody was eager to accommodate her insomuch as it kept them from having to clamp a police-issued monitor on her ankle or hire a full-time bodyguard to watch over her. If all it took to keep Mrs. Johansson from being forcibly detained was giving her a little time to visit a willing neighbor, then J.R. was all for it.

  These outings perked Rose up like a parched flower beneath a welcome rain shower. So immediate and obvious was her transformation that other residents began taking notice. Some wanted to know what kind of elixir she was taking. Others wanted directions to the fountain of youth from her.

  “It’s right across the street,” Rose replied coyly.

  The special attention she’d started paying her hair and makeup, however, did little to improve on a wardrobe she claimed was “as outdated as the Depression.” As much as Kayanne hated to agree, she was of the opinion that the contents of Rose’s entire closet should be donated to the nearest Goodwill store.

  “Would you mind taking me shopping today?” Rose asked, feigning a sweetness that Kayanne knew she only employed when she wanted someone to do something for her—or she was trying to impress Dave.

  “And don’t worry about money. It’s not an issue. For all intents and purposes, I’m loaded. I’d just like to buy a few things that don’t make me feel ready to fall into a casket.”

  Delighted at the prospect of escaping the dreariness of the retirement center, Kayanne obtained permission to take Rose shopping and was relieved to discover that she hadn’t exaggerated her financial situation. Kayanne had mistakenly assumed that most of the residents at Evening Star were there under the auspices of Medicare or Medicaid. For many, health issues, not finances, were the reason they resided at the retirement center.

  That made her feel a whole lot more comfortable parking a company vehicle in front of a trendy boutique rather
than a discount store where the quality of garments was considerably below her high standards. Ultimately though, style ended up proving to be more a problem than price. Kayanne hadn’t realized the dearth of stylish clothes available for older women. Colors ranged from beige to navy to black, and it seemed that everything, including pants, blouses and dresses, was cut in boxy, shapeless styles that even mannequins couldn’t manage to make look good.

  Steering Rose into a younger section didn’t help either. There, the trends gravitated to extremes, the choices being between streetwalker wear and frilly outfits suitable for prom.

  “May I help you find something?” the salesclerk inquired.

  “How about something in between the prosti-tot section and the coroner’s corner?” Kayanne suggested candidly.

  If the old saying that a designer is only as good as his last collection was true, Kayanne thought whoever was responsible for the hideous clothes they waded through all afternoon deserved to be run out of the business. The problem wasn’t store specific she discovered as they perused other boutiques. That the hyper-competitive business of selling clothes completely overlooked one lucrative demographic blew Kayanne away.

  And planted a seed in her mind.

  With her experience and knowledge of the fashion industry, it wouldn’t be an insurmountable leap from modeling clothes to designing them. If she was ever into big money again, Kayanne thought designing for the mature market might be something worth pursuing.

  For the moment, however, she settled for mixing and matching accent pieces from the younger section with a few core pieces from the more matronly racks.

  Rose was delighted. “I feel seventy all over again!” she exclaimed.

  So pleased was she in fact that she didn’t even fall asleep in the middle of her next visit with Dave as she usually did.

  “My, don’t you look particularly pretty today,” he said, opening the door to let her in.

  Although Rose was the only one to blush, the compliment pleased both her and Kayanne. As trying as their little shopping trip had proven in some ways, it beat the heck out of Kayanne’s tedious routine of dispensing pills and adjusting television screens at the home. Shopping without a budget had stirred in her an innate love of fashion.

  “Maybe you should consider a career in the industry,” Dave suggested after listening to Rose describe in detail Kayanne’s genius with textures, colors and fabrics.

  Kayanne gave him a hard look to see if he was making fun of her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t already heard from any number of people about her ignominious fall from the heights of Manhattan to her present status. Seeing no sign of ridicule in his features, she decided to take the comment at face value.

  “I’ve thought about it a time or two before,” she said with an edge of self-reproof that went right over his head.

  Rose was less obtuse. “Let me know when you decide to market those fashion skills of yours,” she said. “I’m always willing to back a good idea when it’s coupled with an architect to see it through completion.”

  Later that week, Kayanne was flattered once again when some of the other female residents approached her and asked if she would consider helping them spruce up, too. Kayanne decided that her AA sponsor might be on to something about serving others being good for the soul. Hard work and involvement in other people’s lives actually did seem to be curbing her appetite for alcohol.

  Rose’s comment got her thinking about blending her newfound sense of service with a career for which she was more suited. Modeling hardly prepared a girl for the grind of working in an old folks’ home. And a future in nursing held as much appeal to someone of her temperament as starting up her own convent—although she figured she might just as well nominate herself Sister Superior and christen the order the Sisters of Perpetual Atonement. That Dave Evans kept popping into her head on such a regular basis lately seemed sure proof that she’d been celibate far too long. Linking sobriety to a life without men, she didn’t see things improving in that area of her life any time soon though.

  Her mother had other ideas about her self-imposed state of chastity. Having finally recuperated enough to start bossing her daughter around again, Suzanne Aldarmann had resumed nagging where she’d left off years ago. She’d started by informing Kayanne it was time to settle down and start producing a grandchild for her. As soon as possible.

  Finally, after enduring as much badgering as she could stand, Kayanne asked her point-blank, “Do you remember that part of why I left here in the first place was because of you constantly interfering in my life, Mom?”

  “Now that wasn’t the only reason, dear.”

  A deeply religious woman, Kayanne’s mother had a penchant for belaboring the past. Not that anyone could blame her. Her life had been hard—she’d lost her husband prematurely to cancer, had raised a headstrong child single-handedly on waitress wages and had dealt with serious health issues herself. Still, since reliance on a man hadn’t prepared her mother to live independently, it confounded Kayanne that Suzanne’s solution to everything wrong in her daughter’s life was marriage.

  “If you’re so sold on the institution, why don’t you quit pestering me and find a nice man yourself?”

  Her mother’s long-suffering sigh spoke volumes. “You of all people should know that no one could ever replace your father.”

  Kayanne bit her tongue. The truth of the matter was that she could remember little about her father except the ruthlessness of the illness that had ravaged his once strong body. What she remembered most was the terrible, traumatizing pain of losing him. At eight years old, Kayanne had felt more anger than grief at being thus abandoned. Even at that tender age, she had been willful. More often than not her father had had to step forward to intervene as the mediator between his wife and daughter. Once he was gone, the battle to conquer Kayanne’s spirit had begun in earnest.

  It was a war Suzanne had been destined to lose. One that had prepared Kayanne for the many skirmishes to follow in a business that devoured the faint of heart.

  “Is it so much to ask for grandchildren to bring some joy to my twilight years?” Suzanne asked with a martyr’s wringing of the hands.

  “They’d be sure to be just as much trouble as I was, Mom,” Kayanne assured her. “And at your age, I’m not sure your heart could stand that much mayhem.”

  What with her mother’s badgering, the dearth of shopping and constant reminders of a sad childhood all around, it didn’t take Kayanne long to recollect why she’d been so eager to shake the dust of this town’s streets off her shoes a decade ago and make a place for herself in the world beyond. Aside from its picturesque mountains and crystal-clear skies, there was little to do in this sleepy little town. Except party.

  Considering that the museum listed itself as Sheridan’s number-one attraction, it was a given that opportunities abounded for illicit activities. Here, teenagers explored their budding sexuality in the backseats of cars parked at the same drive-in theater that Kayanne had frequented in her youth. And the soaring price of gas hadn’t deterred anyone from “hanging Main” as a primary form of entertainment, either.

  It was little wonder that young people were leaving the community as fast as they could get a diploma in their hot little hands. Kayanne still felt guilty about abandoning her mother the instant she was out of high school. And she worried how Suzanne was going to manage when she left again. Even if there were some way of better utilizing her talents in this backwater setting, she wasn’t sure she would want to relocate here anyway.

  With so little of interest to do in her spare time Kayanne began doodling clothing designs. With her connections, it wouldn’t be all that difficult to find the right fabrics and locate seamstresses who could bring her ideas to life.

  “Would you mind helping me wash my hair, dear?” Suzanne asked.

  Kayanne acquiesced to one of her least favorite chores without a word of complaint. Whatever her problems with her mother, she refused to let them
get in the way of her duties as a daughter. She placed a chair in front of the kitchen sink and positioned Suzanne on it as comfortably as possible. Since her mother was still weak from her surgery, it was difficult to bend her head over the sink without hurting her in the process.

  “Make sure the water’s not too hot. Last time you scalded me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Kayanne tested the temperature with her elbow, then wet her mother’s hair. Lathering a dab of golden shampoo in her hands, she recalled how she’d started drinking as a way of initiating herself into the popular crowd and escaping the dreariness of living in a home where nothing she ever did was right. She pressed the trigger of the spray nozzle attached to the faucet and cleared all the cold water from it before directing the flow to Suzanne’s head.

  “Try to lean back a little farther,” Kayanne prompted, trying to avoid drizzling water down Suzanne’s collar.

  After what she’d put her mother through during her turbulent adolescent years, Kayanne considered her present servitude a fair penance. She only wished she could wash away some of those painful memories as easily as the strands of hair swirling in the white enamel sink. Her mother blamed Kayanne for putting the gray in her hair with her underage drinking and high-spirited shenanigans.

  Coming from a wide-open state where the miles between towns were measured by six-packs and bottles of booze, Kayanne herself had been surprised how ill-prepared she’d been for the level of substance use that she’d encountered in the city. She counted herself lucky that she’d never been drawn to putting anything up her nose or directly into her veins. All she’d needed to anesthetize herself to the stresses of her career and personal life was good old-fashioned legal alcohol.

  Forrester was one of the few people Kayanne had ever met who could literally drink her under the table. It had been while she was with him that her own drinking had spiraled out of control. Right up until the moment he crossed the line between having a good time and being downright mean, Forrester was one of the most fun people in the world to be with. But when his hard drinking had led to hard-fisted blows, Kayanne knew she had to make a choice. Showing up for a gig sporting a black eye and bruised ribs was considered in poor taste for a swimsuit edition. No masochist who needed daily beatings to figure out something was wrong, Kayanne had left after the first incident.