The Bentleys Buy a Buick

by Pamela Morsi

  Erica nodded.

  “I want you to work with her,” Mrs. Converse said. “I especially want you involved in all the interdisciplinary collaborations.”

  Erica frowned. “I thought Callie Torreno was doing that,” she said.

  Mrs. Converse’s hesitation was so slight Erica might have thought she imagined it. “Callie has been on the project,” the supervisor said. “But she and Melody have not been a good fit.”

  It was a tepid criticism. Erica assumed Mrs. Converse was measuring her words.

  “Callie is an excellent employee with a very good grasp of the material,” she said. “But it is Melody who is by far the best on my staff in explaining what we do and answering why we do it for those who have yet to understand that good records are vital to quality care.”

  Erica nodded in agreement.

  “Melody is not, however, a particularly warm person. As you can imagine, many of our workshop attendees are not as enthusiastic about going digital as we are. New things can be threatening. The stress of that occasionally comes out in resistance. Melody’s response to that is not always the best. She seems to alienate more than she consoles.”

  From what Erica had seen of her coworker, Mrs. Converse was putting it lightly.

  “Many of our attendees were sent here by their supervisors, occasionally against their will. They are angry and frightened about the effect of these changes on their job. But they’ve got to keep all that bottled up on their own turf, in front of their own boss.”

  That made sense.

  “Here, within the safe confines of an unfamiliar place full of strangers, it sometimes bursts to the surface.”

  Erica was not surprised. It was a lot to expect of people who’d done their job a certain way for an entire career to suddenly have to learn something new and almost totally foreign. Especially when that investment in time and effort was perhaps not expected to pay out fully until long after you were retired.

  “Melody knows her material,” Mrs. Converse said. “But she cannot teach it to a roomful of unhappy professionals who find reasons not to like her.”

  Erica’s own encounters with Melody bespoke the truth of her supervisor’s words.

  Mrs. Converse gave a long-suffering sigh.

  “I decided she needed some backup,” she told Erica. “I need another staff member who could be competent in conveying our vision to others. The position requires an almost infinite patience and a willingness to help. I had high hopes for Callie—she has a very bright mind, she’s personable and a natural leader. But she has not been the best choice.”

  Erica found that surprising. “I can’t imagine what Callie would have done wrong,” she said.

  Mrs. Converse looked sharply at her for a moment and then tapped her pencil thoughtfully.

  “Suffice to say that it didn’t work out. And that I expect your behavior to be completely professional and with the best interests of our department in mind. Furthering our goals here should be your paramount consideration.”

  “Of course,” Erica answered.

  “I have great hopes that, with your help we will be able to do that,” Mrs. Converse said.

  Erica nodded because it seemed like the thing to do.

  “I am aware of your workload, Erica. And I know you’re still getting your bearings,” Mrs. Converse continued. “But I do believe that you are an excellent choice to take this on. There is still time for you to have some input on the syllabus. All the department chiefs have agreed to either participate or provide staff to speak for them. Brush up a little on note requirements and the forms. You can let Melody answer the technical questions. I just want you ready to be the friendly, welcoming face of our department and our institution.”

  Erica noticed that somehow the request that she take this on had morphed into the assumption that she would.

  “Absolutely.” She answered the question that hadn’t been asked. “I will be ready and I will have Melody’s back.”

  “Good.”

  “Have you told Callie that I’m replacing her?”

  “Not yet,” Mrs. Converse said. “But she does know that I’m giving the task to someone else. She’ll be completely cooperative.”

  That may have been true, but Erica realized very quickly that there was some unspoken reason her coworker had been taken off the job. And that she was not happy about it. Not that Callie said anything to Erica. In fact, nobody said anything to Erica. The lunch table had never been so quiet. Rayliss and Darla gave her furtive glances. Lena acted nervous, as if she were in on a secret and she didn’t know what to do with the knowledge.

  Only Melody seemed completely normal. She was contentedly enjoying her plate of grilled chicken and summer squash. But she was itching for an argument with Callie.

  “For the record,” Melody announced, her nose in the air haughtily. “I spoke to Gabe last night about the accusations I heard at this table. He denied them as ludicrous. And he agrees with me that you think like that because your own marriage was such a disaster.”

  It was unfortunate that her timing was such that she baited her coworker while she was wounded.

  “Did you think he would admit it even if it were true?” Callie asked her. “I’m just warning you to keep your eyes open. There are signs for cheaters and only women who are fools ignore them.”

  “I am not a fool,” Melody said. “And my husband would never be unfaithful. He loves me.”

  “Of course he does,” Darla agreed. “But you know men…or maybe you don’t.”

  Rayliss agreed. “I see it all the time,” she said. “I go out to clubs and most of the men there, they’re all married.”

  Darla and Callie nodded.

  “Not all men are like that,” Melody insisted. “Maybe not all of them,” Darla said. “But most of them.”

  “It’s no surprise,” Callie said. “A guy may love his wife, but she’s getting older and usually putting on the pounds.” She glanced pointedly at Melody, who visibly paled before setting down her fork. “It makes perfect sense to them to go out looking for something younger and hotter.”

  “I…I…it’s hard work to lose that last ten pounds of baby weight,” Melody pointed out. “And when you sit at a desk all day.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Lena agreed. “These young girls sure aren’t sitting at desks. They’re in the bars all night and at the gym all day. They’d never eat a salad. They get all their calories from tequila.”

  Darla laughed. “I remember those days, kind of.”

  “And you never dated any married men,” Melody pointed out as evidence for her side of the argument.

  Lena shrugged. “Who knows? Married men look just like single men.”

  “Especially when they’ve got their pants down,” Callie said.

  Her trio of henchwomen giggled delightedly.

  “Don’t worry,” Rayliss told her. “These guys are never planning to just blow up their marriage.”

  “Although that does happen,” Callie said. “Remember Dr. Carnegy.”

  The women nodded to each other sagely.

  “Just remember the signs,” Darla said. “Changes in your sex life. New clothes. Secret spending.”

  “Unexplained absences,” Lena added.

  “You should be watching him like a hawk,” Callie told her. “Men are very good at this kind of thing. But if you watch closely enough, you’ll pick up clues.”

  “But don’t do anything about it,” Rayliss reminded her. “Don’t confront him unless you’re ready for a divorce.”

  “And you’re not ready for a divorce until you’ve got photos of the two of them in a cheap motel.”

  Darla giggled at her own statement and the other women laughed, too.

  Erica smiled halfheartedly. These women were beginning to sound like her mother. Inexplicably, she suddenly recalled her discussion with Tom during the basketball game. Then somehow the infidelity humor just didn’t seem quite as funny as it once had.

  Chapter 8r />
  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, Erica simply could not bring herself to visit the laundromat again. Instead she called her mother.

  “I need to use your washer and dryer,” she said.

  “I’m going to be out most of the day,” her mother answered. “I’ve got a massage at Ric Marmolejo and then I’m having my hair done. After that I have a facial with Iga.”

  “I don’t need you, Ann Marie. I just need your laundry room.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said with a huff. “Are you bringing Quint with you?”

  “Well, I can’t exactly leave him at home.”

  “Don’t let him break anything,” her mother said. “This house has so many irreplaceable pieces that it would break Melvin’s heart if anything were damaged. And it would be just one more excuse for his children.”

  Her mother sighed heavily.

  “I promise he won’t break anything,” Erica said. “I’ll do laundry and I’ll leave. That is it.”

  But of course that wasn’t exactly it. Her mother’s gentleman friend, Melvin Schoenleber, was just back from temple, still wearing his suit and yarmulke. He was not a particularly tall man and his back was slightly bent with age. But behind his glasses was a sense of good humor that was unmistakable. Erica was fairly certain that a sense of good humor would be essential for living with Ann Marie.

  “Come in, come in, it is always so good to see you. And especially to see this young man. How are you, Quinton?”

  “Hi, Mr. Schoenleber,” Quint said. “Cool hat.”

  “Cool hat?” Schoenleber repeated, and then laughed delightedly. “Did you hear what the fellow said? He said, ‘cool hat.’”

  “I’m so sorry,” Erica apologized. “He’s just barely familiar with his own religious heritage, we haven’t actually branched out to other faiths yet.”

  Mr. Schoenleber was laughing. “You have to admit, he’s right. It is a cool hat.”

  Erica was embarrassed.

  “We are very sorry to intrude upon you on the sabbath, Mr. Schoenleber,” she said.

  “It’s my sabbath not yours,” he pointed out. “And you’ve got to call me Melvin. I am so disappointed that you don’t call me Melvin.”

  “Of course, of course, Melvin,” Erica managed to get out.

  “Quinton, Quinton, I think there are some toys in that far cabinet in the living room. Go see what you can find in there.”

  “Be careful,” Erica cautioned. “Don’t break anything.”

  “The room is full of useless tchotchkes. You can break whatever you want,” Melvin called after him.

  He smiled broadly at Erica. She wasn’t sure what he’d just said, so she smiled back.

  “I need to get started on the laundry,” she told him, and headed off in that direction.

  She carried in one basketful, which she started washing immediately. Then she returned to the car for another basket.

  Mr. Schoenleber’s home was on a wide, graceful boulevard in the old Monte Vista section of the city. On house-tour brochures it was described as a two-story Italianate villa built in 1927 on a half-acre lot just above downtown. How long the Schoenlebers had actually lived here, Erica didn’t know for sure. But his four children had grown up in this house. They had a great attachment to it. And, according to Ann Marie, they weren’t all that keen on Erica’s mother making herself at home.

  That was understandable, even to Erica. If a woman who seemed to make her living divorcing well-to-do men moved in with an elderly parent, there was reason to be concerned.

  She’d parked in an area between the main house and the building that housed both the garage and the guesthouse. It was convenient to the kitchen entrance. She lifted out another basket and then topped it with a couple of pillowcases stuffed with dirty sheets. Erica carried that inside and had just set it on the laundry room floor when she turned to find Melvin behind her, holding the final basket.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, immediately taking it from him.

  “It’s not so heavy and I’m glad to help.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for letting me just barge in over here.”

  “You and your sister are always welcome in this house,” he said. “And don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

  “Thanks Mr. Scho…I mean Melvin.”

  “Do you drink coffee?” he asked. “I make a mean pot of joe.”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble,” Erica said.

  “It’s not trouble, it’s a pleasure,” he said. “Coffee’s always best when shared with a good conversation.”

  “Okay then, I’d love a cup.”

  In the kitchen, Erica seated herself at the glass table in the windowed breakfast nook that looked out on the garden.

  Mr. Schoenleber didn’t just throw a filter in the Mr. Coffee, he ground the beans by hand and then slowly brewed them in a moka pot. Erica watched him as he moved around the kitchen with purpose and confidence. He was almost eighty, and age had marked him in many ways. But there was no sense of him as a defenseless old man. He seemed completely in control of his own universe.

  Quint came running in, excited. In his hand he carried a wooden biplane with a U.S. Mail insignia on the side. Its paint was fading and the wood had a dark glossy patina.

  “I found this, Mr. Schoenleber,” he said. “I found it in the back of that cabinet. Can I play with it?”

  “Of course you can,” the old man said.

  “That’s an antique,” Erica said. “Maybe you should just look at it, you wouldn’t want to break it.”

  “It’s a toy,” Mr. Schoenleber corrected. “Toys are meant to be played with. Why don’t I give it to you—that way if you break it, it will be your loss, not mine.”

  “Wow, thanks,” Quint said. “This is so cool.”

  Her son immediately headed back down the hall, swooping his plane up and down and making engine noises in an imitation of flight.

  “You really shouldn’t give him something so valuable,” Erica told Mr. Schoenleber.

  The old man shrugged. “He likes it. Who else should have it? He’s the youngest of all the grandchildren. The rest are all too old for toys.”

  Erica raised an eyebrow at that statement. At first she thought just to leave it alone, but decided she couldn’t.

  “Quint isn’t really your grandchild,” she said. “And your actual family might not appreciate having you hand out family treasures to him.”

  Mr. Schoenleber carried the moka pot to the table and set it on a trivet.

  “Technically he’s not my grandson,” the man conceded. “But when you’re that young, technicalities don’t count for much.”

  Erica couldn’t argue with that.

  He retrieved a pair of beautiful china cups with matching saucers from the cabinet and asked Erica to pour. She managed to fill them without spilling a drop. The smell was wonderful, but when Erica brought the cup to her lips, it was too hot to drink. She’d just have to wait.

  Mr. Schoenleber, however, had his own method. She watched as he sloshed a small amount of the coffee in the saucer, then drank out of it instead of the cup.

  Her surprise must have shown on her face, as the old man answered the question that was never asked.

  “It cools more quickly this way,” he said. “The wider area of the saucer diffuses the heat more efficiently, so you can drink it. Give it a try.”

  It was not as easy as it looked. Getting the right amount from the cup to the saucer was a challenge. And then drinking from the saucer without spilling it was even more difficult. Erica was grateful to have a napkin.

  “It’s an old trick I learned,” he told her. “A very good trick for a man who loves coffee but who never had a moment to linger.”

  Quint came flying in, delivering a fake letter to the table. Mr. Schoenleber gave him a pile of sales circulars requesting air mail service to several different sites in the house. Erica watched her son happily participate in the game.

  Alone
at the table once more, she sipped her coffee, directly from the cup.

  “I love your mother, you know,” Mr. Schoenleber volunteered without preamble. “But I worry about marrying her.”

  Erica was momentarily caught off guard, but recovered as quickly and as graciously as she could.

  “I understand.”

  “No, I doubt you do,” he said. “You probably think, like my children, that Ann Marie is a gold digger and I have just enough functioning brain cells left not to tie the knot.”

  Erica deliberately focused on the coffee in her cup.

  “The truth is, your mother doesn’t need my money,” he said. “She’s tucked away enough from all those losers she married to live like a baroness. Of course, she doesn’t believe that. There’s not enough money on the planet to make Ann Marie feel financially secure.”

  Mr. Schoenleber chuckled as if that fact were humorous. “Lucky for me,” he added.

  Erica glanced up, forcing herself to meet his eyes. At least her mother wasn’t pulling something over on the old guy.

  “That’s why I hesitate to marry her,” he explained. “We have a wonderful time together. She’s fun and full of life. She likes parties and concerts and the productions at San Pedro Playhouse. We eat great food at Biga or Il Sogno and we truly enjoy each other’s company.”

  He took another sip of coffee, as if appreciating his own thoughts.

  “But we both know her history,” Schoenleber said. “And I’ve no doubt that it could repeat itself. The minute that a man says ‘I do’ to Ann Marie, she starts to believe that he doesn’t.”

  Erica was surprised at the man’s insight. She thought he might be exactly right about her mother.

  “In order to keep her on the hook,” he said, “I’ve got to keep stringing her along.” He chuckled lightly at his own little joke. “But I don’t want you and your sister to imagine that I’m not committed to Ann Marie. I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with her, however long or short that might be. But I may not be able to manage being listed as husband number nine.”

  “Nine?” Erica asked. “I thought there were only seven exes?”