Now, walking toward the store, Darcy said, “Jinx, you’re not still upset about that, are you? Sissy’s going to have a great year on the blue team.”
“Don’t patronize me, Darcy Greer!” she snapped, grabbing a shopping cart. “You know that if they ever put Kelly on the blue team, your husband would throw a fit. And he’d be right. Sissy is simply devastated by this. She feels like her friends have turned on her.”
“Jinx, you know that’s not true!” Darcy said, continuing this absurd conversation. I wondered why we couldn’t just go to Target at the other end of the shopping center. Surely they had pink plates and napkins.
Jinx lifted her chin and turned away from us slightly. “Try explaining that to a twelve-year-old!”
I had to wonder how much of Sissy’s devastation was nurtured by her mother. I know I was toeing the line of sanity there for a while, but I’d like to believe that if Rachel hadn’t made the team, I would try to help her move forward instead of stagnating in bitterness.
Darcy reached toward Jinx’s hand and placed hers on it. “I know it must be tough on her, but she’ll be a star on that team and come back to tryouts next year even stronger.”
Oh please, I got less sympathy than this at Steve’s funeral.
“You’re right,” she sniffed.
“Maybe you’ll hire a private trainer for her,” Darcy suggested.
A private trainer?
Jinx glanced at me cautiously. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said. “I’m not one of those crazy parents who hires private coaches for their kids. That’s plain insane.” I got the definite feeling that Jinx was saying this solely for my benefit, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why. Why would she care if I thought she was a nutty parent?
“You’re right, Jinx,” said Darcy. “You always take things in stride.”
She does? She just told you she’s all but medicating her rejection wounds.
Jinx smiled placidly. “I try.”
Darcy took the situation from simmering to room temperature in seconds. I wished she could do the same at home. “Tell me, dear,” Darcy began. “When is your Spring Fling this year? Are you shopping for your supplies now?” Jinx nodded her head. “You are the most organized woman in all of Santa Bella. Would you believe I’m just now starting to shop for Veronica’s party this Saturday?!”
Jinx looked aghast. “But it’s—”
She could not finish her sentence. She could either not fathom or bear the thought of shopping for a party a mere four days beforehand.
“I know,” Darcy said, feigning shame. “Would you help me prep for the big day?”
Big day? I thought the theme was simplicity!
As the three of us walked the aisles of Party City, Jinx’s chatter revealed a lot. Although we didn’t discuss soccer, it was very clear that the cause for Jinx’s resentment of me was that she felt that Rachel had taken Sissy’s spot as a midfielder on the squad. Perhaps if Rachel was selected as a defender, it wouldn’t have stung so hard, but from her point of view my child had just stolen her child’s heart. Although it was completely irrational, I sort of understood where she was coming from. If Rachel is still on the bubble next year, and the coach decides to move her to the blue team, I might very well feel betrayed by the club. My daughter would likely take the news hard and, as a result, I might see the replacement’s mother through a lens that looked an awful lot like rifle sights.
After Jinx left, Darcy whipered, “Look, I like Jinx,” Darcy began. “But you should know that she and Mimi are best friends, so I wouldn’t really trust her too much given your relationship with the general.”
“Really?” I said. “I really thought we clicked there in Party City. You mean, you don’t think I should tell her too much as we chitchat in her hot tub at the Spring Fling?”
“Okay, smart ass. Just trying to warn you.”
When we returned home, Darcy came inside with me for a quick bite. As we made our way to the kitchen, our eyes were immediately drawn to the fishbowl, where Jaws had been resurrected. Was he faking his death? Or were we bearing witness to the goldfish Messiah?
“He looks fatter,” I said.
Darcy marched over to a piece of paper lain on the counter. She read aloud, “Claire, stop worrying about what other people want and take care of yourself.” What? Placing the note back down, Darcy enlightened me. “It’s Ron’s handwriting.”
The world froze. Jaws II stopped swimming. Darcy was motionless, and I couldn’t breathe. Unfortunately, the world never came to a full stop for me, but rather resumed after a few seconds of sheer awkwardness. “Darcy, I’m, I don’t know what to say.”
Darcy’s pace quickened. Her speech was fast and her movements bordering on jerky. “You don’t have to say anything, Claire. It’s nothing. Ron bought Rachel a fish, no big deal,” she said.
“How did he get in?” I asked.
“We’ve got the spare key from when the Reynolds lived here.”
“Darcy, stop, please. You don’t need to wipe my counter.”
“It’s filthy,” she said as she bent down to look under my sink for cleaning supplies. “He can be a real sweetheart sometimes. That’s why I married him. We’re not always fighting, you know. There’s plenty of good in him.”
“I know that, Darcy. I didn’t say—”
“He’s great with the kids and he’s a great cook, did I ever tell you that?”
“Darcy, I—”
“And we have a lot of good times together. It’s funny, Claire, people always think things are one way, but they don’t see what the relationship is really like when no one else is looking.”
I wanted to collapse into her arms and beg her forgiveness. I wanted to assure her that nothing would ever transpire between Ron and me. I also wanted her to stop squirting so much damned Fantastik on my stove top, but it didn’t seem like a good time to bring up her nervous cleaning.
If I ever doubted that Ron felt something for me, the goldfish overture set me straight. There was something definitely there and, though I may have been walking away, he was running toward it.
I thought about how skillfully Darcy calmed Jinx today at Party City, and wondered why I couldn’t do the same. Why couldn’t I place my hand over Darcy’s and give her peace of mind? Why couldn’t I communicate to her that she had nothing to worry about with me? I looked at the tears building in Darcy’s eyes and pretended not to notice them. “I know,” I said. I wanted to say more, but these were not the sort of conversations people had aloud. Instead they talked around the issues. They wiped counters. They made their promises to each other in the guise of different gestures.
Chapter Fifteen
On Friday after school, Rachel played piano in the background as I dialed the phone. It rang four times before an exhausted-sounding woman answered. “Kathy?” I asked.
Groggily, she replied, “Oh, hi Claire. What’s up?”
“Not you, it sounds like. I was just calling to check in on you. How’s the baby?”
“You mean my tormentor?” she said, perking up a bit with a laugh.
“I was thinking maybe I’d drive in tomorrow and give you a hand with him,” I said. “Maybe a couple hours so you could take a nap?” I suggested, at the same time wondering what was showing at the LACMA. Maybe I would call Lil and the two of us could meet for lunch and a quick visit at the museum.
“Speaking of naps,” Kathy said, “Duke’s out right now, so I’m going to catch up on my sleep, okay?”
“Okay. How does three o’clock sound?”
“Like music,” Kathy replied.
“See you then.”
Rachel and I curled up in my bed that night and watched STivo, a collection of videos Steve shot of himself talking to Rachel and me. He left behind about forty hours of recordings so we wouldn’t forget him. There were touching ones, like the message he left for Rachel on her wedding day. And there were the fun, everyday ones in which Steve offered his advice on dating
. “Rachel, the answer is no,” he said with a smile. “I don’t care who he is or what the situation is, my answer is no. He’s not good enough for you.” In tonight’s episode, Steve was recalling how I used to make necklaces with glass beads and sell them in Santa Monica on weekends. “I was finally starting to make money, and your mom decides it’s time for her to start selling stuff on the street.” I laughed, remembering the sight of my “boutique” under a palm tree near the Promenade. I set out a card table and strung beads as passers-by stopped and looked at my jewelry. Steve was at a nearby playground with Rachel and checked in on me every hour or so.
This evolved from Lil’s motherly intervention. Shortly after Rachel’s first birthday, she came over to babysit and plopped a copy of The Learning Annex catalog on our dining room table. “Pick one class you’d like to take and register for it right now,” she said.
“Right now?” I asked.
“Right now, Claire,” she said, hovering over me. “I have my checkbook and a stamped envelope with me and I’m mailing your registration on my way out this afternoon.” There was no room for argument. I flipped through the pages and found a two-day beading class that was hosted at a jewelry shop on Fourth Street.
On my first day of class, the teacher talked about selecting beads that worked together, colors and textures that complemented each other rather than competed for attention. “You can have four gorgeous beads strung together and they’ll look hideous,” she explained, pronouncing the word hid-jhis. “The trick is finding the right combinations, beads that help bring out the beauty in what’s next to them.”
As I watched my dozen classmates struggle with colors and shapes that fought each other, I put together patterns that “harmoniously sang with life” (the teacher’s words, not mine). Soon after, I was making up to ten necklaces a day, which is no easy feat with a toddler. I loved the feeling of creating something that was alive with beauty. I made six for Lil, two for my mother, and one multi-stranded piece for Kathy. After a few weeks of this, it was clear I needed to find a way to get rid of these necklaces. It was Lil who suggested I start a small business, and if she was disappointed that it was located on the street, she never showed it. Every weekend I was greeted by a suspiciously high number of Junior Leaguers who just so happened to be passing through. When I was ticketed for selling without a license, Lil paid the fine and saw to it that I was legit by the next weekend.
Steve’s voice grew weaker in his last recordings. “I took you to the playground and pushed you on the swing while Mommy did her thing. I bought you your first Popsicle there. I actually bought it for myself, but after I let you have a taste, it was yours. It was one of those red, white, and blue rockets and your eyes popped open when your lips hit the tip. I thought you were shocked by the cold, but then you grabbed my hand and said ‘good’ like thirty times while you ate that thing,” Steve said, chuckling at the memory.
Rachel looked at me. “How come you don’t make jewelry anymore?” she asked. She tilted her head ever so slightly and knit her brows, an expression she had since infancy. Her face had become that of a young woman, but her expressions were still my baby’s.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I love to bead,” Rachel said. “Maybe we could do it together?”
“Sure,” I promised. “I have to remember where I packed all of my supplies. They’re probably still in the garage.”
“Well, if you can’t find them, there’s a new bead shop that just opened up next to the Soccer Post.”
Sunday was Veronica’s seventh birthday party. As Darcy opened the front door, the sounds of kids’ music, laughter, and horns burst out. Rachel’s eyes shot past us as she spotted Kelly and Sapphire playing a video game. Cara was chatting with girls I’d seen at school. I scanned the room for Mimi and saw her in a heavy conversation with another mother from the team, one of the Jennifers, I believe. Surely it was about her physical fitness program she’d be implementing with the girls this year. We only heard about that for forty minutes at the meeting, so of course there must be more to tell.
Walking in, I saw an elderly woman with sagging knee highs and blue hair sitting in a rocker reading to a group of younger children. When I say blue hair, I don’t mean that she dyed it so black that it had a blue shine, or that it was grey with a slight blue hue to it. She had full-on Cookie Monster-blue hair and wore a quilted robe that matched her slippers. I raised my eyebrows as if to ask who this senile old woman was who forgot to dress for Veronica’s party.
“Aunt Betty,” Darcy answered.
“Yours or Ron’s?” I asked.
Darcy thought I was joking because she laughed. “I know I said no entertainers, but it’s so hard to get Aunt Betty, and when I heard that Susie Atwater had to cancel Barclay’s party, I knew I could snatch her up last-minute.”
The family room was kiddie bedlam. I had hoped I wouldn’t see Ron, but knew it was a ridiculous notion since I was in his home. I caught glances of him interacting with Veronica’s friends and softened toward him. Okay, I’d never actually hardened, but I saw a gentler side of him, which, as luck would have it, I found incredibly sexy. He walked over to Mimi and told her something that made her nod affirmatively. Mimi looked as if she was excusing herself and the two walked off to the hallway. En route, he noticed me staring at him and gave a slight nod of his head and a smile. I loved the way his lips were full and uneven.
I needed an escape. When in the home of another woman, helping her in the kitchen is a perfect excuse to get away from the crowd. Quickening my pace, I walked toward Darcy, who was chatting with Gia and her boobs. “What do you need help with?” I asked.
“Thanks, Claire. We’re all set,” Darcy said. “Gia just finished setting out the juice boxes and Aunt Betty serves the sandwiches.”
Goddamn Gia and Aunt Betty!
I saw Ron, who was now making his way toward us. Panicked, I shot, “What about milk?!”
“Milk?” Gia repeated as though she’d never heard of the stuff before.
“Darcy, you’ve got to offer them milk. What about the kids who are, um, fructose intolerant and can’t drink juice? I’ll go pour some milk in the kitchen.”
I could see the thought bubble over Darcy’s head. Fructose intolerant?
“Nancy told me about it,” I lied. “It’s very serious. A kid could get really sick.”
“Okay,” Darcy shrugged. “Thanks, Claire.”
I scurried off to the kitchen just seconds before Ron arrived at our cluster. “Oh, hi,” I said, breezing past him. “Nice party.”
As I stood at the granite island, pouring milk into pink paper cups, Ron brushed past me. I felt the sparks of sexual electricity between us. “You’re not avoiding me, are you, Claire?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Why would I do that? Oh, thanks for the goldfish. Rachel really appreciated it.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, the front of his body so close to the back of mine that we were touching. “Oh, excuse me, Claire.” The feeling of his body coupled with the sound of his voice saying my name was almost too much. It was like cold liquid rushing over my hands. Cold liquid rushing over my hands? Shit! Shit, shit, shit!!! I was pouring milk over the top of a cup, onto my hands and all over their beautiful granite countertop.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked.
Ron rushed for a cloth from under the sink and tossed it onto the floor to begin absorbing my mess. “Don’t worry about it, Claire. I’ll help.” As Ron knelt down to wipe the floor, I grabbed a handful of paper towels. I laid them on the countertop, never too far from the thought that Ron’s lips were nine inches from my thighs. I wished I’d worn a skirt. Stop thinking things like that!
As one might expect, my cleaning efforts were about as fumbled as everything else I tried that day. My nervous energy caused me to wipe the milk from side to side without giving it time to absorb into the wad of paper towels. I wound up sending a waterfall of milk onto Ron’s head and neck.
�
��Oh my God!” I shouted. “I’m so sorry.” I knelt down to the floor where Ron was flicking milk from his hair. “I’m so sorry,” I kept repeating.
“It’s okay,” he said, laughing slightly. “It’s only milk.”
“I’m such a klutz,” I explained, as if that needed to be clarified.
“You’re not much in the kitchen, are you?” Ron commented as our eyes locked. We both crouched behind the counter like soldiers in a foxhole. Okay, like secret lovers hiding from the world. God, I wished I was in a foxhole. I was positively the worst person alive. Uncomfortable silence flooded the space between us as the sound of cheering kids swinging at the piñata outside amplified.
“No,” I said, meaning more than the concession that I was not a domestic goddess.
“That’s okay,” Ron said, never releasing me from his gaze. “You’ve got a lot of other things going for you.” He finally looked away and started wiping the floor again, an obvious ploy to stay put.
“I’m really sorry,” I said again, an obvious ploy to keep talking. “Can I, um, wash your shirt?” Thank goodness this offer made sense in the context of having just spilled milk on it because it was actually quite an independent thought. The idea of dancing around my laundry room with Ron’s button-down top was my idea of a hot Saturday night.
“Nah, that’s okay,” Ron said, smirking as if he could see his loose shirt sleeves leading me in a tango. “I get laundry service here.”
Laundry service? With those words, my heart broke for Darcy. I snapped back to reality.
“Oh. Well, thanks for helping me clean this mess.”
He smiled. “You’ve already thanked me, Claire.”
“Thanks for the goldfish,” I said in the absence of anything else to say.
He smiled again, knowing he had me. “Anything for you, Claire.”
Field of Schemes Page 12
