“Claudette,” calls a man’s voice, and Michael’s head pokes out the window of my car. He parks in front of the loading zone at the theater, hops out, and helps me into the car. What a relief.
“Sorry to make you wait,” he says as we drive away.
“That’s all right.” I don’t admit that it was a very short wait.
“Things are going well at your house. I’ve managed to put together quite a good crew.”
“A crew?”
“Yes. By the time I got back this afternoon, the old furniture was all gone, and Hank, the rug man, was just starting to rip out the carpets. Fortunately they came out in a snap. Then he cleaned and polished the floors. Hank has this amazing machine that really works miracles. Then, just like clockwork, the moving van arrived.”
“My furniture is here?”
“Yes. And I offered to pay the movers extra if they’d stick around long enough to help me get things into place.”
“And they agreed?”
“They did.” He turns down Sequoia now. “And I’ve got painters lined up for tomorrow.”
“Painters?” For some reason I hadn’t considered this.
“You don’t really like that horrible peach shade, do you?”
“Well, no.”
“Exactly.”
“How much is this going to cost me, Michael?”
“Don’t worry about that, darling. The things we left in storage will more than cover all these expenses.”
“Oh…”
“So, how was the movie?” He parks my car in front of the house. The moving van has replaced the Goodwill truck and, I’m sure, given Busybody Bea something else to think about.
“It was okay. Although I think I dozed off a bit.” I point at the moving van. “Does that mean the movers are still here?”
“Yes. They were putting your bedroom into place when I left. I told them that was a priority. I figured you’d be tired.”
“And hungry.”
Michael smacks his forehead. “Of course. I didn’t even think, darling. I ran and got dinner for the boys about an hour ago. One of those chicken-in-a-bucket places. And I actually sampled it myself, but I am hungry too. Shall we go get something?”
I consider this.
“You sit tight,” he says, opening the door. “I’ll go have a word with the boys, then we’ll be on our way.”
How much more of this can I take? I feel like a displaced person, like a war refugee, an orphan. Will I ever have a normal life again? Would I want to settle for “normal” anyway? Perhaps I don’t even care. Then I have to ask myself, just how much can an eighty-two-year-old woman take? Is it possible that this whole thing really might do me in? Wouldn’t it be a relief if it did? Oh, I expect Michael would be disappointed. At least, briefly. But then he could gather up my things, sell them, keep them, whatever. It would make no difference to me.
I glance at my mother’s—rather my—house again. It appears that all the lights are on inside. I suppose I’m mildly curious as to what’s going on in there. But another part of me doesn’t really want to know. Another part of me would just as soon crawl under a rock and disappear. Why does life have to become so tedious?
Michael, as usual, is optimistic when he returns. “Everything seems to be falling into place,” he tells me as he starts the car. “I think we might not even need to paint your bedroom, darling. That shade of blue is rather nice, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what I think,” I growl at him.
“Now, now, no need to despair. You really should be happy, Claudette. Your little nest is coming together quite nicely. I think you will be pleased.”
“The only thing that could possibly please me would be to return to my home in Beverly Hills, to have a miraculous facelift that makes me look twenty years younger, and…” I pause, not sure what else I would want…or even if those things would make me happy. Sometimes I think I shall never be happy again. And sometimes I think perhaps I was never happy to begin with.
“And?” Michael persists. “What else would you wish for?”
“And…I’d like to have all of my old friends return from the dead for a nice big party.”
He chuckles. “Now, that really does sound rather divine. May I come too?”
“Of course. Just don’t hold your breath waiting for your invitation.”
He stops at Main Street, looks to the left, and then the right. “Now, darling, where shall we dine tonight?”
I’m about to throw my hands in the air and ask, “What does it matter? One thing is the same as the next in this unfortunate one-horse town.” But suddenly I remember something the bookstore proprietress, Page Turner, mentioned earlier.
“Someone told me about a restaurant, I believe it’s called Maurice’s. On the other end of town. Apparently there’s an art gallery next to it. The Phoenix.”
“Great sleuthing, Claudette. I’m proud of you. You might actually make it in this town after all.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Anyway, these places sound interesting—art and food in the same vicinity.”
“I seriously doubt the gallery is open. It’s a weeknight, and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly in civilized territory anymore.”
“Maybe we can simply press our noses against the gallery’s windows.”
I fabricate a sound that resembles a laugh. Yes, that will probably sum up the remainder of my days. From now on I will be on the outside looking in, my nose pressed up against the windows of civilized society.
I cannot imagine how Maurice’s stays in business.
When we are seated, without even waiting, there is only one other party in the restaurant. And before long, it is simply Michael and me and the waiter. The food isn’t equal to the places I would normally dine at in Beverly Hills, but it’s much better than lunch. I have veal tenderloin, and it’s rather good. Unfortunately the décor, a mishmash of old lamps and mismatched tables and rugs, isn’t to my taste. But Michael defends it.
“It’s simply shabby chic, darling. Some people love it.”
“Edouard calls it shaggy cheap. And when Helen Caruthers wanted to decorate her guest cottage in it a few years ago, he refused.”
“Edouard is a bit of a style snob.” Michael sips his wine. “I think there’s room for all kinds in this world.”
“You are so open-minded.”
He smiles. “Thank you.” He holds up his glass as if to toast. “Here’s to two fine restaurants in this town.”
“I suppose that all depends on how you define the word fine.”
“Oh, darling, you are such an Eeyore.”
“An Eeyore?” I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, the old Winnie the Pooh character who was a pessimist about everything.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
“You weren’t always a glass-half-empty sort of girl, Claudette.”
“Being poor changes one’s perspective.”
“You’re not poor. Financially challenged, perhaps.”
“Call it what you like, Michael. Life as I knew it ended when the IRS stepped in.”
“I did have a bit of good news,” he says suddenly. “I think I mentioned that I’d called my old friend Alex Granville.”
“The one with the décor shop?”
“Yes. I left the key for him at the storage unit office and invited him to go in and look around.”
“That’s very trusting of you, with my things.”
“Alex is an old friend, darling. Besides, some of the things are mine too, remember?”
“Yes, yes… Tell me the good news.”
“Alex called this afternoon. He was in the storage unit at the time. And he wants to take almost everything that I’d tagged for him. He’s sending me a check.”
“He’s sending you a check?”
“Well, yes. As you know, I’ve been stuck with the bill for everything involved in this move so far. I’m no
t financially destitute, but I’m not exactly rolling in dough either. And keep in mind, it’s not an enormous check, but it’s enough to cover the cost of our Sequoia Street project.”
“And that’s it?”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Delirious.”
Now Michael’s sunny disposition fades, and as he signs for the check, I can tell I’ve wounded him.
“I’m sorry. I must seem terribly ungrateful.”
He solemnly nods as he puts his pen back in his pocket.
“You’ve been extremely helpful, Michael. Under normal circumstances, I’m sure I would be a much better sport.” I sniff, as if I’m about to cry, although I don’t think I am. “It’s just that this is so hard.” I shake my head. “It’s taken such a toll on me.”
He pats my hand. “Yes, I know, darling. That’s why I’m doing all I can to make things better.” He smiles now. “Speaking of which, let’s go home and see how the moving boys are doing.”
“Aren’t they finished yet?”
“Well, there’s been a lot of rearranging going on. It’s not easy making it all fit and work together. Just before we left for dinner, I arranged for them to do a little painting, and they promised to stay as late as necessary.”
“How did you talk them into that?”
“Money talks.”
“Oh yes. But where will they sleep?”
“I’m putting them up at the Motel 6.”
“How luxurious.”
“They didn’t complain.”
When we get home, the moving van is still parked in the driveway, and Michael parks my car in front of the house.
“I don’t like leaving my car on the street. It’s bad enough this house doesn’t have a garage, but—”
“I’ll move it to the driveway after the boys leave.”
Then, as we’re about to go into the house, Michael makes me cover my eyes. “I don’t want you to see anything until it’s all done.”
“How am I supposed to—?”
“I’ll guide you to your bedroom. At least it’s mostly in place. Then you must promise not to peek.”
I’m so tired that I cooperate, allowing Michael to lead me along as if I can’t see. “So now I know how it feels to be old and poor and blind,” I say when we finally stop at what I assume is my mother’s old bedroom.
“Open your eyes.”
I open my eyes and, for a moment, can’t remember where I am. “Is this really my mother’s bedroom?”
“It is. See—the pale blue paint is the same.”
I walk around the room, taking in the dark cherry furnishings, the pale blue and cream bedding and window coverings, the elegant lamps on the bedside tables, the art on the walls, the gleaming hardwood floor, and the Oriental carpet. “I cannot believe it.” I run my hand over the silky duvet cover. “This was from the guest room in the Beverly Hills house. I’d almost forgotten it.”
“It’s like new, darling. And the blue and cream damask is so perfect with the walls. Do you like it?”
“I do, Michael.” I turn and look at him, and to my surprise, tears are in my eyes. “Thank you.”
“I know it’s a comedown from your master suite, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
I nod. “Yes, my master suite was bigger than this entire house.”
“But this is cozy. And look.” He opens the closet. “I even unpacked some of your things for you.”
I frown. “There’s not much room in there.”
“No. It’s time to pare down.”
Michael tells me good night, reminding me again not to peek at the rest of the house. “Well, other than the bathroom, of course. I’ve put some of your nice linens in there, but the rest will have to wait until it’s painted tomorrow. We must get rid of that ghastly peach color, darling. That color should be called dead salmon.”
“That sounds about right.”
As I get ready for bed, I try to imagine what my life in this house will be like in the days to come, but it’s like looking into a pitch black tunnel…a tunnel with no light at the end. I feel as if I’ve been sent to prison, serving a life sentence with no parole. Or perhaps it’s more of a death sentence. But, not unlike so many murderers living on death row, I don’t know when the execution will actually take place. Perhaps tonight. Oh, to simply die in my sleep. It sounds so easy.
I pick up my novel as a distraction from these depressing thoughts, and I get into my comfortable bed with its down comforter and pillows, its eight-hundred-count percale sheets—the best bed I’ve been in for weeks. But I’m so exhausted that I set Danielle Steel aside and turn out the light.
And here I lie in the darkness, haunted, it seems, by the past. It is strange and unsettling to realize that this is the room where my parents once slept and fought and occasionally, when my father forced his drunken way, even had sex. I shudder. Naturally, I don’t want to think about such things. What child likes to imagine her parents together like that? Although it was hard not to know what went on in a house so small. And yet I know my anxiety has deep roots, something that lies beneath, buried below layers and years of distraction.
I have been quite adept at pushing unpleasantries away, suppressing those parts of childhood that make me uncomfortable. Over the years, I’ve worked hard to block old things out, putting them behind me.
Haunting memories can slice into one’s soul… They can torture the mind.
I’ve seen it happen to others, seen them broken down, locked up, forlorn and forgotten. It is very sad and terribly unfortunate. But I always made sure it didn’t happen to me. And somehow, without the aid of psychological therapy, which so many of my friends have relied upon, I have managed to keep my demons at bay. So far, I’ve kept them away for my entire adult life. And I have no intention of losing this battle now.
For no particular reason, I wake up at dawn. No one is pounding on the door, demanding to know who I am or why I’m here. And yet I sit up in bed and wonder why I’m awake. I turn on the bedside lamp to see that the room still looks rather nice. Small, yes, but at least it’s elegant. That is something.
It’s unlike me to be wide awake at this hour, but it’s no use. I might as well get up. I go to use the bathroom and almost venture down the hallway and into the kitchen, but I remember my promise to Michael and stop. I suppose it’s the least I can do, considering all that he’s doing for me. And if his efforts for the rest of the house are even half as nice as my bedroom, I can at least show my appreciation by keeping my word. Besides, I don’t relish the thought of being caught by him as I tiptoe past my old bedroom, where I suspect he is sleeping.
So I return to my room, get dressed, carefully put on makeup, and finally sit in the easy chair in the corner and read about Claudette Colbert. I knew that she’d been born in France, just one more thing I’ve been jealous of. However, I didn’t know that she’d gone to art school or that her career began on Broadway, more envy-worthy facts.
“Good morning, darling.” Michael taps on my door.
“Come in.”
“I thought I heard you up early. Did you sleep well?”
I shrug. “I suppose…”
“I have coffee brewing. Can I bring you a cup?”
“Meaning I still can’t see my house?”
“Of course not. I’m not ready for the unveiling yet.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I close my book with a snap. “Stay in here all day like a prisoner?”
“Let me think about that as I get your coffee.”
Michael returns with a tray that’s set with china dishes that look vaguely familiar. “Is that my Limoges?” I pick up a delicate white cup trimmed in a narrow but sophisticated band of dark green, black, and gold.
“I thought it went well with your mother’s dark green tile in the kitchen, and it sort of lends itself to the style of your home.”
“I haven’t seen this in years,” I say as I admire the cup.
“It may not be replaceable
.”
I shrug. “So little in life is…” I take a sip of the coffee. “This tastes better than yesterday’s.”
“It should. It was made in your very own espresso maker.”
“You know how to use that thing?”
He chuckles. “And so shall you before I leave.” He nods to my unmade bed. “You know, darling, you don’t have a housekeeper anymore.”
“Oh…”
“Would you like me to teach you how to properly make a bed?”
“Does one really need lessons for all these mundane chores?”
“It can’t hurt.” And then, as if he thinks I’m an imbecile, he proceeds to give me a step-by-step lesson on the correct way to properly make a bed. Everything from how you fluff a comforter to arranging the pillows. “I learned this on Martha Stewart,” he admits.
“Really,” I say in exasperation. “Do you think I’m completely helpless?” Or just helplessly lazy, I almost add.
“Not completely. Just mostly.”
“And what difference is it if I don’t make my bed every day? Will the Silverton housekeeping police arrest me and throw me in jail?”
“No, but you may create a prison of your own, darling. One that you would not be happy in.” He artistically folds the pale blue chenille throw just so and sets it at the end of the bed. The bed looks so lovely now that it could be a page in a magazine. Funny how my housekeepers back in Beverly Hills didn’t make beds nearly as well as this.
“Did I tell you what I found in here yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“When the Goodwill boys were removing your mother’s bed…there was something amusing beneath it.”
“Beneath her bed?”
He chuckles. “Yes, it gave us all a good laugh.”
“What was it? A sex toy?”
He waves his hand. “No, no, nothing like that. It was a cast-iron frying pan.”
I frown. “A cast-iron frying pan?”
LimeLight Page 10
