by Laura Levine
Prozac looked up as I walked past her and sniffed with interest.
Hmmm! Someone smells yummy!
Sure enough, it was Scott at the front door, looking tres adorable in chinos and a blue and white striped oxford shirt, his cropped brown curls extra shiny, his Adam’s apple eminently kissable. I thought I smelled aftershave, but it was hard to tell in the miasma of my Cat-Away.
“Hey, there,” he said, with what had to be the sexiest grin in the Western hemisphere.
But when he leaned in to kiss me, he sprang back like I’d just zapped him with a stun gun.
“Whoa! Your hair stinks!”
Okay, so what he really said was, “New shampoo?”
“Actually, it’s cat repellent.”
“Cat repellent?” He blinked in confusion.
“I sprayed it on by mistake.”
Prozac looked up from where she was examining her privates.
She’s always doing stuff like that. She once tried to shave her legs with Reddi-wip.
“Maybe I should just pop in the shower and wash it off,” I said.
“Oh, no. That’ll take way too long. You’ll be fine. I’ll leave the windows open in my Jeep. I’m sure the smell will blow away in no time.”
I only hoped he was right.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready!” I replied with a carefree toss of my smelly curls. “Santa Barbara, here we come!”
Or so I thought.
True to his word, Scott rolled down the windows in his Jeep, and by the time we hit the freeway, the wind had whipped my hair into the ever-popular finger-in-the-electric-socket look.
If the Cat-Away was bothering Scott, he showed no signs of it, chatting about how much he’d always liked Santa Barbara—the beaches, the mission, the carousel at Chase Palm Park, and the people-watching on State Street.
“I made us lunch reservations at the El Encanto hotel,” he said.
Holy Moses. The El Encanto was a nosebleed-expensive resort high in the hills of Santa Barbara, with a spectacular view of the city and the ocean beyond.
The closest I’d ever gotten to it was the travel section of the L.A. Times.
“How lovely,” I said, kicking myself for not going with the Casual-Elegant look.
I could just see me in my T-shirt and electric-socket hair walking into the lobby. Would they even let me in?
But then Scott put his hand on my knee and said, “You look sexy like that. With your hair sort of wild.”
Omigosh. He thought I looked sexy!
Suddenly my worries vanished. I was about to have lunch at the famed El Encanto with Scott at my side, Santa Barbara at my feet, and my sexy hair blowing in the wind.
I was debating whether to order a ladylike salad or go for the gusto and get a burger, when Scott’s car phone rang.
“It’s my mom,” he said, checking the number on his screen.
Oh, foo. What was Ma Willis doing, intruding on our lovely ride?
“Scott, darling,” Ma Willis’s aristocratic drone came over the speaker. “Guess who’s here! Grammy Willis! She’s having one of her good days, so your father brought her over from the nursing home to have brunch with us. And she’s dying to see you!”
“I’d love to see her, too, Mom”—at this, he pantomimed shooting himself—“but I’m driving up to Santa Barbara with Jaine.”
“With who?”
“Jaine Austen, the gal who came to dinner the other night.”
“That imbecile?”
Okay, so what she really said was, “Oh.” But I could hear the disdain dripping from that single syllable.
“Can’t you just stop by for a few minutes and say hello? It would mean so much to Grammy. Heaven knows how many days she’s got left, with that pig valve in her heart.”
Scott turned to me with a helpless look. Do you mind? he mouthed.
Of course I minded. But what could I tell him? That I’d rather spend the afternoon sniffing Cat-Away than visit his folks?
“No, I don’t mind,” I lied with a feeble smile. “Not at all.”
And so off we went on our unexpected detour to the Willises’ Malibu Manse, or as I would soon come to think of it, Hell House.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Scott said, as we started back to Malibu. “But Grammy Willis is ninety-six and pretty frail. She’s been living with an artificial valve in her heart that could give out any minute.”
“Your mom seems very fond of her.”
“Oh, no. Mom can’t stand her. Never could. Grammy can be rather difficult. Having a ‘good day’ for Grammy means she hasn’t thrown her Metamucil at her nurses.”
Oh, swell. Just what I needed. Another hostile family member to confront.
“Mom’s using Grammy to guilt me into stopping by. She and Dad spend most of their time in the Cotswolds and when they come to town, Mom tends to get a bit clingy.
“But I guess you’ll just have to get used to that,” he said, putting his hand on my knee again, and sending my G-spot spinning.
Whoa! Did that mean Scott and I had a future together?
Let’s all say a little prayer, shall we?
Twenty minutes later, Scott was parking his Jeep in the driveway outside Hell House.
I checked my hair in his rearview mirror. By now, I looked like the love child of Medusa and Little Orphan Annie. But at least it didn’t seem to smell too bad.
Frantically I tried to tamp it down as we made our way to the front door.
“Don’t worry,” Scott assured me, ringing the bell. “You look great.”
What a sweetie, huh? He could tell I was worried, and right away, he reached out to reassure me.
Basking in the glow of his smile—not to mention the memory of his hand on my knee—I was indeed reassured.
That is, until the door opened. That’s when everything fell apart.
Standing there framed in the doorway was Chloe, her willowy model’s bod clad in the weensiest of bikinis.
Oh, crud. Who invited her?
“Chloe!” Scott said, echoing my surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Your mom phoned to tell me Grammy Willis was here and I raced right over to see her. You know how crazy I am about the old darling.”
So Ma Willis had invited Chloe over to make her move on Scott. That woman was determined to bust us up.
“C’mon in, you two,” she said, beaming at Scott. “We’re having brunch out on the patio.” Then, with a halfhearted smile in my direction: “So nice to see you again, Jan.”
“It’s Jaine,” Scott pointed out.
“Yes, of course, silly me,” she said, looking anything but silly. I could practically see the cogs in her brain spinning, trying to figure out how to pry Scott away from me.
She started her campaign by walking in front of us, flaunting her fabulous tush as she led the way through the house.
Scott didn’t seem to notice, but c’mon. The guy was only human. And Chloe’s bod had Man Bait written all over it.
“Ick!” she said, suddenly sniffing the air. “Something smells awful. Like rotting garbage.”
Damn! Apparently the Cat-Away was still clinging to my follicles.
“Do you guys smell anything?” Chloe said, turning to face us.
“No!” Scott piped up. “We don’t smell a thing!”
Then, grabbing my elbow, he hurried me through the living room and out to the back of the property—an eye-popping expanse of real estate about the size of Romania. The patio had more furniture than my whole apartment: sofa and easy chairs, dining table, chaises, plasma TV, and gourmet kitchen with a six-burner oven.
Beyond the patio was an infinity pool, a tennis court, and off to the side a yard the size of your average NFL football field.
All overlooking the Pacific, and landscaped in Garden of Eden splendor.
Ma and Pa Willis were sitting at a glass and wrought-iron dining table, Ma tanned and sinewy in tennis whites, Pa’s eyes glued to The Wea
ther Channel on the plasma TV. Sitting alongside him was a tiny, dried-up bird of a woman, clutching a highball glass in her clawlike hand.
Grammy Willis, I presumed.
“Hi, Grammy!” Scott said, hurrying to her side.
She shot him a blank stare.
“Another vodka tonic, young man,” she said, holding out her glass. “And this time don’t be so stingy with the vodka.”
“Grammy, I’m not a waiter. It’s me. Scott. Your grandson.”
She squinted at him through cold rheumy eyes.
“Oh,” she said, recognition finally setting in. “Where the hell have you been? How come you never visit me in that dump of a nursing home they’ve got me locked up in?”
“Grammy, I saw you just last week,” he said, bending down to peck her on her papery cheek.
Her gaze flitting between him and Chloe, she asked, “So when are you lovebirds getting married?”
“Now, Grammy,” Chloe said. “That’s all over. Scott and I aren’t getting married. We’re just friends now. Isn’t that right, Scott?” she purred, practically blowing him a kiss.
“That’s right,” he said. Then, taking me by the hand, he added, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Jaine Austen.”
Grammy wrinkled her nose.
“My God! What smells so awful?”
“See?” Chloe piped up. “I told you I smelled something.”
Oh, hell. By now I was crimson with embarrassment. Clearly everyone was smelling my eau de Cat-Away.
“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Scott said. “I don’t smell a thing.”
“I’m not surprised,” Chloe said, smiling indulgently. “You always did have a terrible sense of smell, honey.”
Did you hear that? She called him “honey”! It was all I could do not to bean her over the head with my purse.
“Remember the time I was wearing Chanel No. 19 and you thought it was Chanel No. 5?”
The chucklehead just wouldn’t shut up.
“Wait a minute!” Grammy Willis cried. “It’s coming from her!”
Needless to say, she was pointing a bony finger at yours truly.
Now all eyes were riveted on me, Scott’s wide with pity.
I had to put an end to this. Now.
“Actually,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, “it is coming from me. This morning I accidentally sprayed my hair with cat repellent.”
“Really?” Ma Willis smirked. “How very droll.”
“Sprayed her hair with cat repellent? The girl’s a lunatic!” Grammy Willis bellowed into her vodka.
“Would you care to wash your hair in one of our cabanas?” Ma Willis offered. “And while you’re there, you can change into a bathing suit. I think we have one in your size—the one Cousin Caroline wore before her tummy tuck surgery.”
Well, wasn’t she the hostess with the mostest?
“Jaine doesn’t have time to wash her hair and change into a bathing suit,” Scott said with an exasperated sigh. “We’re going to Santa Barbara.”
“If you insist, darling. But you can’t leave without a teeny bite of brunch.”
And before I knew it, she had her steely arm on my back, propelling me to the dining table.
“Just don’t put her next to me,” Grammy muttered. “P.U.!”
Ma Willis obligingly sat me at the other end of the table, far from Grammy Willis—and everyone else, too. Except Scott, of course, who sat down next to me. Without missing a beat, Chloe picked up her plate and eased into the seat on the other side of him.
You’d think that after all the trauma of stinking up the joint, I’d have lost my appetite, but you’d think wrong.
The piece of quiche Ma Willis had given me looked dee-lish—studded with bacon and gooey cheese and nestled in a golden flaky crust.
I barely restrained myself from inhaling it in three bites.
“Have a mimosa, dear,” Ma Willis said, handing me a champagne flute. “And don’t worry. It’s a glass tabletop,” she smirked. “So you can spill all you want.”
It was all I could do not to spill it down her tennis skort.
But I just forced a smile and took a healthy glug of the mimosa. And another. And another. Which, I must say, had quite a calming effect.
So I hardly even minded the next twenty minutes of endless chatter about family members about whom I knew nothing.
“Well, it’s been fun,” Scott said, at last pushing back his chair, “but Jaine and I really have to go.”
“So soon?” Ma Willis cried.
Was she kidding? It felt like we’d been there since the dawn of time.
“Can’t you stay for a quick game of Frisbee?” Chloe implored.
“Daddy’s been looking forward to it all week. Haven’t you, Brighton?” Ma Willis nudged her husband, whose eyes were still glued to The Weather Channel.
“Huh?” Pa Willis said, wrenching himself away from a storm in the Midwest.
“You’ve been looking forward to playing Frisbee all week,” Ma Willis repeated slowly, as if talking to a five-year-old.
“Oh, right,” he said, at last remembering his lines. “Of course. Frisbee. Wonderful weather for it. Would you believe they’ve got six inches of snow in Minneapolis?”
“Please, Scott,” Chloe begged, batting her eyelashes at him. “Just one game?”
Scott had chugged down a mimosa himself, and I could sense his resolve weakening. One of his passions, I’d found out when we first met and he’d hired me to write an online dating profile for him, was playing Ultimate Frisbee.
“How about it, Jaine?” he asked. “Want to play?”
Puh-leese. No way was I about to run around flashing my thighs in front of the Willis clan.
“I can’t, Scott.”
“Why on earth not?” Ma Willis wanted to know.
“Um, old water skiing injury,” I said, rubbing my knee.
“Pity,” she clucked in faux sympathy. “But you don’t mind sitting out a game, do you, hon?”
Daggers lurked behind her smile.
“No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?” Scott asked.
I could see he really wanted to play.
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
“You can keep Grammy Willis company!” Chloe chirped.
“Just one quick game,” Scott promised, running out to the yard with the others, “and we’ll be on our way.”
Of course, the game wasn’t the least bit quick. It seemed to stretch out interminably as I sat on the patio with Grammy Willis, several chairs between us.
“Don’t get too near me,” she warned me cordially. “You stink.”
So there I sat, glugging down another mimosa, watching morosely as Chloe scampered in the grass in her bikini, flaunting her bod in front of Scott like a Vegas lap dancer.
“Aren’t they a handsome couple?” Grammy Willis bellowed. “Good breeders.” Then she lowered her voice to a boozy whisper. “I hear some ghastly girl with a big tush is trying to come between them.”
And so it went. Grammy Willis sucking down vodka as she trashed her nurses and the tramp with the big tush, Chloe flirting mercilessly with Scott, Ma Willis looking on happily, and Pa Willis gazing up at the clouds, no doubt trying to predict any oncoming precipitation.
By now I’d given up any hope of going to Santa Barbara.
I was sitting there, daydreaming about pushing Chloe over the cliff to the ocean below, when suddenly the Frisbee came sailing over to the patio and landed at my feet.
“Give it here, Jean!” Chloe waved at me, eagerly.
“All righty,” I said.
Oh, how I wanted to give it to her.
I picked it up and threw it at her with all my might, wishing it were a javelin. I was so darn steamed, I guess I must have hurled it with just a bit too much fervor.
Now I watched in horror as it sailed past Chloe straight to Pa Willis, who, unfortunately, was still gazing up at the sky. Which is why h
e didn’t even bother to duck when the Frisbee came whizzing at him and hit him smack dab in his eye.
On the plus side, at least the Frisbee game was over.
On the minus side, Pa Willis was rushed to the emergency room for stitches. Scott drove me home and then hurried off to the hospital to be with his dad. He told me not to blame myself, assuring me that it was just an unfortunate accident. But he sounded a tad distant, and I couldn’t help wondering if he meant it when he said he’d be in touch.
Chapter 18
Would you believe I had to wash my hair five times before I finally got rid of the Cat-Away smell? When the last of the stuff had finally gone down the drain and the air was safe to breathe again, I hunkered down at my computer to work on the Big John brochure, determined to forget about my ordeal at Hell House.
Easier said than done. As much as I tried to concentrate on Toiletmasters’ extra-large commode, images from my nightmarish brunch kept flashing through my brain: Ma Willis sneering down her patrician nose. Chloe flaunting her fabulous bod. Grammy Willis pointing her finger at me and telling everyone I stank. Worst of all, I kept seeing that damn Frisbee sailing through the air and bonking Pa Willis in his eye.
But with grit and determination (not to mention a few inspirational Oreos), I managed to finish the brochure updates and shipped them off to Phil at Toiletmasters.
After rewarding myself with a chicken burrito for dinner (tossing chicken bits to Prozac as I ate), I lolled away the rest of the night sprawled out in bed, mindlessly watching an I Love Lucy marathon on TV.
I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the episode where Lucy sets fire to her nose while trying to impress William Holden. I was soon lost in a dream where I set fire to Chloe’s bikini (most satisfying). When I awoke, it was after eleven, and the evening news was on.
I was lying there, trying to dredge up the energy to get up and brush my teeth, when suddenly a picture of Candace flashed on the screen.
Sitting up with a jolt, I turned up the volume to hear a spray-tanned news anchor say:
“Candace Burke, the beauty pageant director whose assistant was killed just this past weekend in what the police are calling a mistaken attempt to murder Ms. Burke, was attacked tonight by an assailant in a jog suit and ski mask. Reporter Mario Prieto is live on the scene.”
