“Okay, I get the picture,” I said annoyingly, when something dawned on me. “People were betting on my dating?”
Katelyn bit into her lower lip and nodded. “We set it up like a football grid. Everyone bought a square,” she said matter-of-factly.
Suddenly, the sound of a whistle with decibels loud enough to cause deafness and evoke an instant migraine pierced my ears. I cupped my ears. My head swiveled to look at the bus driver standing almost shoulder to shoulder with me. I glared at the big silver whistle clamped between his lips. He quickly spit the whistle from his mouth and let it dangle from the chain around his neck. His gaze into my eyes told me he could read my expression, of how I would have enjoyed the pleasure of tightening the chain around his chubby neck until he lost consciousness.
“Sorry,” he said, as he quickly backed away from me, and turned to shout, “Okay, time for everyone to get on the bus!”
Instantly, I forgot about the goody table. We all rushed to say goodbye to our children. I kissed Nicholas and reminded him about not going down in the latrine after a dropped flashlight. However, the bus driver quickly reminded me Camp Big Foot had indoor facilities. The other mothers scoffed at me as if to ask, what year were you born?
As the yellow bus pulled out of the parking lot, I waved wildly at Nicholas and tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. However, the tears still came. As they trickled down my cheeks, I knew I was crying over finally being able to let go of my over protectiveness. However, mostly I cried because my son was hoping Gavin could be his father.
Twenty
I tried not to think about what Katelyn had shared with me, as I was still trying to cope with twinges of separation anxiety from Nicholas driving away in that big yellow bus that morning. Keep a stiff upper lip, I told myself as I drove to Cacey’s house for the luncheon.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of surprise luncheon she had in store for all of us attending. Her last bash was an evening themed “survival” party. One couple showed up dressed in nothing more than strategically placed tropical ti leaves and hibiscus print bandanas. Unlike Laura, Katelyn and I, Cacey’s career had ended and there wasn’t much to do in Sparrow Ridge.
Her daily activities revolved around scheduling play dates for her children, chairing various committees, and hitting a couple of rounds of golf on a private course designed by Jack Nicklaus. She lived in a community with houses nestled into woodsy settings that bordered a lake protected by the DNR. Cacey referred to her lakeside house as the “cottage,” all six thousand square feet of it.
A deluge of golden sunshine spilled across the huge park-like lawns, as I drove through the posh community of Sparrow Ridge. A feeling of celebrity status always overcame me while passing mansion-like houses with gardeners in large floppy straw hats and colorful gardening gloves pruning trees and trimming bushes. However, the woman getting into a black Mercedes CL glared at me as if she’d seen my face on America’s Most Wanted. She’d probably memorized the vehicles the hired help drove and knew my Chevy Blazer wasn’t one of them.
Sparrow Ridgeon’s lived by rules—driving a vehicle under fifty grand would be an atrocity, documented proof of having a personal trainer gained extra status points, and decorating their homes without the guidance of an interior designer was practically felonious. An au pair was a must for children, and owning at least one substantial piece of Harry Winston was crucial.
However, it stood to reason that Cacey would live in the kind of house featured on TV programs like “Homes of the Stars.” After all, she was a celebrity for many years, and like many celebrities, she led a life riddled with highs and lows.
Her first marriage ended when she was twenty-five. Mixing marriage with a demanding show business career, while trying to be a mother to her six-year-old stepdaughter, was like trying to balance a beach ball on the tip of your nose. After a second failed marriage that produced one child, and years of bad relationships that followed while continuing to lead Hollywood’s lifestyle of the rich and famous, became a recipe for disaster. Sadly, it all caught up with Cacey on the set of her cooking show four years before. It was a Thanksgiving Day segment.
Generally, Cacey’s shows were pre-recorded. The filming staff and the editors kept mum about her increasing slipups, due to her voracious appetite for alcohol. Their loyalty led to leaving scads of film on the cutting room floor. However, the network execs insisted on taping a live Thanksgiving show with an audience. The segment named “Romancing the Bird” ended up more like “Blowing up the Bird.”
I comfortably sat on the couch in my living room and watched the episode, which featured a Thanksgiving dinner with Cacey and friends. She was sipping endless amounts of what looked like water. However, when Cacey tried to shove an oversized mango up the bird’s cavity, it was evident the woman was three sheets to the wind. Amazing though, was that her diction never faulted.
“Let’s spice up the holiday!” she said gleefully, as she poured a bottle of what she thought was Grand Marnier over cherries jubilee flambé. Actually, she had mistakenly picked up a bottle of one hundred and eighty-proof rum.
“This will give your dessert that dramatic flair,” she said, lifting one arm high over her head, and with a snap of her wrist struck a pose resembling an unbalanced flamenco dancer.
“For a more theatric effect, perform your flambé in a darkened room,” she giggled.
Combined juices of cherry and rum sloshed out of the pan, as she weaved it over the prop dining table leaving a red drizzle that traveled across the crisp white tablecloth, then up and over the wicker cornucopia centerpiece.
As the stage lights dimmed to almost complete darkness, and Cacey’s futile attempts at trying to light a match failed, someone gave her a butane lighter. Suddenly, it was like the Fourth of July. The cherries jubilee went up in an explosion of flames that ignited the drizzled rum like a wick on a stick of dynamite that blew up the cornucopia centerpiece and set the tablecloth on fire.
Unfortunately, this was before networks added the five-second precautionary delay for live TV, a lesson learned after Super Bowl’s infamous Janet and Justin incident.
All I could see across the TV screen were undecipherable objects and a blur of frantic stagehands scurrying past the camera. Muffled screams from the audience filled the background with the clanging sound of pots and pans, presumably hitting the floor.
All at once, the stage lights came back on. Cacey stood over the dining table, her face covered in a puff of black soot. She looked like a firefighter who had just emerged from a smoking building. Bits of singed wicker from the cornucopia centerpiece hung from her hair like tinsel on a Christmas tree. And a thick layer of white foam from the fire extinguisher blanketed the top of the turkey like fluffy whipped cream on a pumpkin pie.
Now, that was reality TV!
As I drove around the cul-de-sac and pulled up to Cacey’s house, I marveled at the beautiful two-story, white stucco Mediterranean with its terracotta roof. Tall potted topiaries graced either side of the ornamental pewter security gate at the driveway’s entrance. I punched the button on the security intercom box.
“Hey Maggie, it’s me.”
“Hello, might I help you?” asked a woman with a very proper English accent.
The woman was definitely not Cacey’s housekeeper, Maggie. Trying to fake an English accent with her heavy Boston brogue, she would have sounded like Fran Drescher, but not quite as nasally.
“Who is it you wish to see?” the voice asked.
“Cacey,” I replied, wondering what had happened to Maggie.
“Ms. Brooks-Bagley-Simson is busy at the moment. Please announce yourself so that I might let Ms. Brooks-Bagley-Simson know you are here.
“Um, let her know it’s Aubrey.”
“Ms. Aubrey, please state your last name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please state your last name so I can tell Ms. Brooks-Bagley-Simson who is calling.”
I could tell the woma
n definitely got some kind of cheap thrill out of repeating Cacey’s name, but she was making me crazy.
“McCory,” I said, while gritting my teeth.
“Was that McCaffrey?”
Just as I was thinking that it was easier for those two DC party crashers to get into the White House, Cacey’s voice came over the intercom. “Hey Aubrey, come on in,” she said, as the tall security gates opened like theater curtains.
Water bubbled from the triple-tiered, fluted alabaster fountain, as I walked through the open courtyard and made my way up the European tiled stairs to the front doors. The nineteenth century, ten-foot tall double arched mahogany doors, a purchase Cacey made on a visit to Spain, magically opened before I had a chance to ring the doorbell.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman with the English accent. “Ms. Aubrey I presume.”
My heart quickened, as I nodded and peered curiously at a woman who looked exactly like Julia Child, but didn’t look all sparkly and iridescent like Matt had looked.
“Aubrey, darling, it’s so good to see you,” Cacey said, as she charged toward me. Her voice echoed in the huge two-story vestibule where an impressive curved black iron staircase led up to the second story with a Juliet’s balcony that bridged two wings of the house. I stared numbly at Julia Child, as Cacey circled her arms around me and gave me the California one-kiss-per-cheek greeting.
“Aubrey, this is Julia. Julia this is my very good friend, Aubrey.”
“You can see her!”
Julia gave me a strange look and walked away.
“See who?” Cacey asked.
I gave a nod toward Julia. “I thought she was dead,” I whispered, as Julia disappeared around the corner.
“You thought who was dead?”
“Julia Child!”
Cacey rolled her eyes. “Aubrey, she’s a look alike I hired from Celebrity Helpers to stand in for Maggie while she’s on vacation. It’s all the rage around Sparrow Ridge. They have Emeril, Wolfgang Puck, Benson, even Rosario from Will & Grace, and they all go by their celebrity names.”
I laughed. “I knew that, I was just…never mind,” I said waving my hand dismissively. I released a deep breath and smiled at Cacey. She had always been a natural beauty with short spiky, flame red hair and luminous skin. Dressed in simple stonewashed Levi’s and a white cotton Gap blouse with upturned collar, Cacey looked picture perfect.
“Come on, let’s sit down,” she said, as we passed under the arched foyer with tall pillars that led into the living room with a soaring twenty foot ceiling.
“I’m glad you came a little early so we can talk before the others arrive but first, what would you like to drink; beer, wine, soda, margarita?”
“Diet Pepsi would be good.”
Cacey, who had been on intimate terms with the staff at the Betty Ford Center, had been sober since her TV incident. Although it didn’t matter to her, I’d always felt awkward drinking around her.
“Julia,” Cacey bellowed. “Bring Aubrey a diet Pepsi, please.”
As soon as I settled into the cushiony jacquard-woven tapestry sofa, and slid my hand over the rolled leather arm, Cacey plopped down next to me.
“Don’t you just love it?” she said, caressing the arm of the sofa. “It’s embossed crocodile. Isn’t it just too scrumptious for words?”
Purchasing home furnishings was an obsession for her. She once ordered three different sets of china because she couldn’t decide which pattern she liked best.
“I take it you didn’t find this at Pottery Barn.”
“Hardly,” she said. “It was custom made in Italy and arrived a couple of days ago. Oh, and wait till you see Ricky’s new bedroom suite. He’s even got a cute little canopy over his bed.”
I gave her a blank stare. Ricky is a Shih-Tzu.
“Aubrey, you don’t exactly seem like your lively old self. Was it rough seeing Nicholas get on that bus this morning?” Cacey asked soothingly.
“It was. Although Camp Big Foot is only an hour away, it seems like Nicholas is a million miles away.”
“I know what you mean. I remember when Spencer was finally old enough to go off to summer camp. With him and Madison both at camp, the house seemed so empty, quiet, I felt lonely. I must have cried a bucket of tears. It wasn’t till the next day that reality set in. It really hit me hard. I thought to myself, wow, I could have hassle-free shopping sprees, sleep till noon, and eat my meals in peace without having to break up a fight. Best of all I was able to have two weeks of guilt-free, wild and kinky sex with Armando. You remember him, that Latin actor I was dating, the one who played the detective in that TV show, Criminal Justice. I think we christened every square foot of my Hollywood home,” Cacey said with a schoolgirl giggle.
“Anyway, that happened years ago,” she said. “The point is you’ll survive and you should try to take advantage of the situation, if you know what I mean.” She gave me an exaggerated wink. “Speaking of which, aren’t you even a little curious to know how I found out about your new boyfriend?”
“No. I just figured you stopped by the gift shop and my father told you.”
“Hmm, good guess but no cigar,” Cacey said, with a devious look in her eyes. “It was Mother Paula who told me.”
Word of my dating had spread throughout the Catholic Archdiocese?
“A nun told you?” I asked, confoundedly.
“No, silly, Mother Paula is a spiritual advisor, the one I recommended you see for your men problems?”
Just as I was trying to decide which was more ridiculous, her hearing about Gavin from a nun or a spiritual advisor, Amanda, Cacey’s au pair, appeared in the living room. Little three-year-old Emily dressed in a yellow ruffle sundress with daisy barrettes holding back ringlets of strawberry blonde hair, ran toward Cacey and jumped in her lap.
“Aubrey, you wanna see my new shoes?” Emily said in a squeaky, tiny voice. Stretching her legs straight out, she showed off her pink shimmery, floral trimmed, Dora the Explorer tennis shoes. “I can put them on all by myself,” she said proudly, as she leaned forward and pulled back on a bright pink leather daisy to reveal a Velcro closure.
“Wow! You’re like a big girl now,” I said. Emily smiled and receded, quickly burying her face in Cacey’s chest.
“I dropped Spencer off at Kevin’s and now I’m going to take Emily to the park,” Amanda said, flipping her long, chestnut hair off her shoulders.
She was a twenty-year-old trying to break into modeling, and was so thin her hipbones protruded through the lightweight fabric of her white low-rise shorts. Her shoulders were sharp and angular looking in her navy blue tank top.
“Okay, great. Oh, and do me a big favor. Pick up the dry cleaning on your way back,” Cacey said lightly, as she gave Emily a kiss goodbye.
“I’ll be right back,” Cacey said, as she popped to her feet and walked away muttering something about Julia and my soda, while Ricky, looking sissified with a ribbon-tied ponytail on top of his head, trotted into the living room. As I wondered how some quack mystic, frog toe, snake oil sideshow freak, a.k.a. spiritual advisor could know anything about Gavin and me I felt something assault my leg.
What was it with dogs humping my leg? I was beginning to feel cheap and tawdry. “Ricky, no!”
Just as I’d finished peeling the dog off my leg, Julia walked into the room. I took the glass of soda from her. “Thank you,” I said, while Ricky growled at my sandal. Julia picked the dog up and walked away without uttering a single word. I still felt a little spooked by her eerie behavior. Seconds later, Cacey returned, her hands anchored on her hips. “That’s odd, I can’t find Julia.”
I sighed, thinking part of the drawback of having a house the size of an office building is there are too many rooms and one too many hallways. “She just brought me my soda and left. Now, for heaven’s sake, please finish what you started to say.”
“Oh, yeah!” Cacey said, as she plopped back down on the sofa next to me.
She rambled on about
her visit with Mother Paula and explained the ways in which Mother Paula knew intimate details of her life. What came to mind was the reign of the self-appointed Queen of Con. Miss Cleo and her gang of hucksters--sued by eight states and the Federal Government.
“Here’s another fact,” Cacey said conspiratorially, “people who have sought Mother Paula’s advice for years, do say her predictions are correct ninety percent of the time.” Cacey stated this like somewhere there was research information stashed in a file drawer backing up the ninety percent error-free theory.
“But here’s where you come in,” she said. “Mother Paula talked about a friend of mine and described you to a T. She told me there was a new guy in your life and described him. From the reaction I got from you over the phone when I gave you his description, I knew she was right. But she did mention there is something very unusual about this man. When I asked her what she meant she said she lost the connection.”
“The connection to what?” I asked, thinking what a scam. It probably would have taken Mother Paula but a couple of seconds to spark a live wire had a few twenties graced the palm of her hand.
“I don’t know, but here’s the good part. I’m not just having a luncheon today. I’m surprising everyone with a psychic party. I’ve invited Mother Paula and paid for everyone’s reading. So, there you go. You can ask Mother Paula yourself!”
The information Cacey gleaned from her session with Mother Paula seemed quite generalized. Although I had strange episodes of mind reading, and had communicated with my dead husband, I certainly didn’t believe in anything as ridiculous as psychics. However, I didn’t want to hurt Cacey’s feelings, so I just smiled.
“I knew you’d be speechless,” she said, as the doorbell echoed. “I’ll be right back.” Cacey bounced to her feet. “Julia, I’ll get it,” she bellowed and took off to answer the door. Not a minute later, I heard Katelyn screech.
ONCE UPON ANOTHER TIME Page 19
