by Ginny Aiken
Big of him, huh? And here I thought I’d come to my senses the minute I decided to come to Louisville. “Don’t, Roger. Don’t hold out hope. I’m staying here.”
“Not for long, you won’t. You’ll get bored in days, and besides, what are you going to do for a living? Can’t imagine there’s a huge need for gem experts down there.”
“I don’t know one way or the other.” I tamp down the panicky butterflies in my stomach, and give the by-now irate woman on the couch an apologetic smile. “But I do know I’m staying here. Now, hang up and call the GIA. I’m sure the perfect gemologist is out there, waiting for you to find him . . . or her.”
“Andie, really. I—”
“Good-bye, Roger. Give Tiffany my love.”
This time, the snap of the closing phone sounds more like the thud of the floor falling out from under me. What am I going to do with myself? Does anyone need a gemologist in Louisville? If so, where? Who? And if not, then what else does my skill with expensive sparkly stones qualify me for? My nerves detonate another stomach salvo, one unlike the earlier butterflies. This one threatens to wake up my dormant ulcer.
I burst up out of the uncomfortable chair. “Well, enough of that.”
Your choice, your choice, your choice. My footsteps seem to mock me as I march down to Aunt Weeby’s hospital room. She has to be done with that sponge bath by now. There isn’t a whole lot of her, so how long can a lick-and-a-promise swab-down take?
I slam the door on every thought that even considers popping into my head as I put foot in front of foot.
3 00
At the door, I hear a familiar, throaty laugh.
I grin. “Hey, there, Miss Mona! I didn’t know you were coming.”
“But here I am, and I need me a hug.”
As always, Miss Mona Latimer looks like a million bucks, somewhat less than she’s reported to be worth. Her sage green suit brings out the green in her hazel eyes, and her hair is in its usual sleek silver bob. By comparison, I feel ready for the next episode of What Not to Wear in my boring blue-on-white pinstriped button-down shirt and gray pencil skirt.
After I extricate myself from the solid, comforting hug, I catch a glimpse of Aunt Weeby. Uh-oh. The tricky twosome is up to something, and this time, I don’t think it has anything to do with matchmaking. That’s Aunt Weeby’s thing. Miss Mona would rather eat ground glass than mess with someone else’s love life. And she’s said so. About a million times.
“Okay, you two.” I frown and waggle a finger. “Spit it out. I can tell when you’re making trouble.”
“What?” Aunt Weeby can’t pull off the blasé thing worth beans. “Can’t a woman be happy to see her best friend and her favorite niece both at one time?”
“Favorite niece? What’s up with that? I’m your only niece, you fraud, you. And you and Miss Mona fight more like sworn enemies than best friends. So tell me what’s up.”
Aunt Weeby turns to Miss Mona. “It’s your idea, so go ahead and tell her.”
“Of course it’s my idea, but she’s your niece, and you think it’s a pretty good idea too, so you tell her.”
I roll my eyes, something I do around these two way more than anywhere else. “Why don’t you both do what you always do and talk over each other? I’ll figure it out.”
“Why, Andrea Adams, that’s rude. We don’t talk over—” “My, my, Andie! Your auntie and I would never engage in such—”
Both zip up at the same time, their eyes huge, their cheeks rosy.
“You don’t, do you?” I shake my head. “So what’s the big deal? Why don’t you just tell me what you’re up to?”
Miss Mona stands and gestures for me to sit in the pleather chair she’s just vacated. “Oh, all right. I’ll tell you. But I just want you to know that I know you’re the perfect woman for the job.”
I sit, but the stiff, hard chair almost spits me back out. “Job?”
“Yes, dear. Job.” Miss Mona squares her shoulders. “Do you remember when I bought a really bad television station a few years ago?”
There go my alarm bells. “Television station? I know nothing about broadcasting.”
“You don’t have to,” she says. “Let me tell you what I’ve gone and done. You do know that television’s all about cable nowadays, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Well, honey, I knew that local news would only keep the station sagging along as it was. So I decided to go into the big time.”
“What do you want me to do with your TV station?”
“Nothing, dear. Just pipe down and hear me out. You’re almost as bad as Livvy here. I invested a good chunk of change—I tell you, it was so much, it had even me scared for a bit.”
“Mm-hmm,” Aunt Weeby says. “The whole thing had me shaking up a storm. And it wasn’t even my retirement that was about to run off with all them infomercial doodads she bought to sell.”
My pulse kicks it up one more notch. At this rate, I’m going to need all kinds of blood pressure meds to stay alive around these two. But I don’t say a word; the ladies are doing a pretty nice job of doing all the talking.
Miss Mona crosses her arms. “I reckon you can tell by now I didn’t lose my shirt, and now I own a cable TV shopping network.”
I sproing out of my chair. “You what?”
“You heard me. I own the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network.”
My eyes goggle. “No way. You mean you are the brains and bucks behind the ‘All women, for women, by women’ channel?”
“So you’ve seen us.”
Fists on hips, I tap my right toe. “They do have TV in New York, you know. Of course, I’ve seen you. I’ve been known to channel surf every once in a while.”
“But you haven’t stopped to shop.”
“Oh, I’ve stopped. But I haven’t shopped. I hardly ever cook, so I don’t need pots and pans. And clothes? Well, as tall as I am, I really need to try things on. If I’m not careful, five foot ten means lots of floodwater pants.”
“You do know we have a 100 percent money-back rule, no questions asked, don’t you?”
“I remember hearing something like that.”
“And you still didn’t buy anything. Can you tell me why?” “I just told you. I don’t need a whole lot, and although I did like the clothes I saw, it’s the sizing thing that nails me every time. I can’t shop catalogs either, if that makes you feel better.”
“We offer lots more than pots and pans and clothes.”
Aunt Weeby gives a most unladylike snort. “Mona! Let the girl be. Isn’t there something more important you wanted to talk to her about?”
“Oh. Well, yes. I’m just so passionate about my business. You do understand, don’t you, Andie? That’s how you feel about your gemstones, right?”
“Totally.”
“I knew you’d understand. And that’s why you’re my girl.” This is getting scary. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Miss Mona. What is it you want?”
“Well, honey . . . This, to me, looks like the Lord’s just put before me the perfect opportunity to expand my network’s gem and jewelry catalog. I want you to be my new jewelry and gemstone show host.”
I can’t possibly have heard her right. She hasn’t just put bling-bling, me, and a TV show together in the same sentence. Has she?
Her expectant look says otherwise.
When I finally speak, I rival a bullfrog. “You want me to be your what?”
“You heard me,” Miss Mona says, her gaze clear and direct.
So I didn’t hallucinate it. Miss Mona is as nutty as I’ve always thought. As nutty as the nutcase on the bed not two steps away from her, a matching goofy grin on her face.
“But I know nothing about TV shows or anything like that.”
“True, and that’s where I come in,” Miss Mona says. “What you do know all about, and what I do need, is a hot-shot gemologist. And there’s none better than you.”
“Just think, Andie.” Aunt Weeby clasps her hands at chest height. “
You’re gonna get to teach your viewers all about your bing-bing—”
“Bling-bling.” My voice nearly wimps out on me this time. Aunt Weeby chuckles. “That’s it! Anyway, you’ll be teaching all you know about gemstones, and where they come from, and all that. Isn’t that just plumb wonderful?”
As wacky as it is, she does have a point. The whole scheme has a certain appeal to it. But the on-TV part? That sure doesn’t give me the feel-good cozies. Nuh-uh. That part makes my teeth itch.
“I can’t go on TV. I don’t know what to do, what to say.”
“Whoo-ee!” Aunt Weeby gives Miss Mona a thumbs-up. “See? She’s not run halfway back to New York like you said she would. I know my girl. She’s gonna be great—the best. You’ll see.”
Miss Mona holds out her right hand. “I won’t take no for an answer, you know. So let’s shake on it, and get to getting. There’s a whole world of things you have to learn.”
Lord? I know I prayed for a change of pace. But this? What is this?
F-16s dive-bomb in my gut. I stare at Miss Mona’s perfectly manicured hand. Tympani bong-bong-ba-bong-bong in my temples. I did want out of the New York rat race. I still need a job. And Miss Mona says she needs a gemologist just when this one has fled her wormy corner of the Big Apple.
Do I shake? Do I run?
Do I dare?
I swallow hard against my inner wimp and take Miss Mona’s hand. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you! See how the Lord answers prayers?” she cries. “I’ll take my chances, dear. And it sure seems the Father’s gone and given me a natural instinct for this kind of thing. He hasn’t let me fail yet.”
Swell. Talk about pressure. “I sure hope I’m not your first one then. Failure, that is.”
“Pshaw! You couldn’t be a failure if you tried.”
I am so not going there. Besides, I’d been glooming and dooming about my shaky earning prospects not even a half hour ago. It looks like God has a sense of humor, after all. Did you ever imagine he’d answer like this?
I didn’t.
“Well, I still hope I don’t let you down.”
That’s when it all hits me. Like a ton of bricks, it hits me. I am home. Really and truly. In Louisville—well, the outskirts, but a whole world closer than New York City, that’s for sure.
New York . . . Louisville. New York . . . Louisville. Oh, geez! Al and his pal and the truck with my stuff. Knock, knock! Reality calling.
“Ladies, ladies! I gotta go. The movers are at the house, Aunt Weeby. They called while I was in the waiting room. Something about some papers they want me to sign.”
“Everything’s ready for you at the house,” Miss Mona says. “I was so excited, and just couldn’t wait till you came home, and since Livvy couldn’t do a thing, I had me the best time shopping and doing for you. I hope you like what I prepared.”
What can I say? They’re wacky ones, but they’re my wacky ones. I love them to death.
After hugs and kisses—the real kind, not those oh-so-chic air deals—I make my way to the parking garage, drive home, watch Al and his pal do their thing, sign papers, go inside, drink a tall glass of Miss Mona’s killer sweet iced tea, and then collapse on the parlor sofa.
If you ask me how I did any of it, I can’t tell you, it all happened so fast, like a blur.
And blurring out’s scary. Almost as scary as . . . the other thing.
The TV thing.
Did I really agree to work for Miss Mona? Did I really agree to hawk jewelry and gemstones on TV?
Do I need a frontal lobotomy?
I’ve never had a problem with Wednesday mornings. I do now.
Let me draw you a mental picture: Aunt Weeby . . . her metal contraptions . . . the trip home . . . helped by Miss
Mona. How’s that for scary? That’s what I’m facing today. I’ll take a blue Monday any day.
Oh yeah. I’m ready to pull my hair out over these two. But before I get to my new do, I have to help Erin talk Aunt Weeby into the required wheelchair ride to the parking garage, where Miss Mona is waiting in the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s limo. Aunt Weeby’s comfort on the ride home is assured.
Just not her cooperation.
She frowns from head to toe. “What good’s this cute little cast they gave me if I have to ride down to the car in that dumb ol’ thing?”
Erin pushes the chair closer. “Weeby, it’s hospital policy. Remember? We have lots of those around here, and I can’t break the rules. I like my job. What if someone’s spilled water, and you slip on it? How about grease in the garage? The cast won’t keep you from breaking something else if you fall. You want to keep this super-luxurious suite awhile longer?”
Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “I’m done with being sick. And I can walk outta here just fine too, thank you very much.”
There’s my cue. “Aunt Weeby? D’you want to go home?” “Why, sugarplum, you know I do.”
“Well, then. Piece of cake. Sit in the chair.”
“But—”
“It’s the chair, or it’s the chair.”
Her sigh deserves an Oscar. “Now, you two girls have just ganged up on a poor, defenseless old lady. I ask you, is that right?”
Before I roll my eyes, I catch myself—I did tell you I do that way too much around Aunt Weeby, right?—and only shrug. “Them’s the rules, ma’am.”
She clamps her lips together, the edges rim white. “I just plain hate this. I can do for myself. I’m not really that old, sugarplum.”
The lightbulb goes on in my head. So that’s what this is really about. I drop to my knee next to the green pleather chair where Aunt Weeby’s been ensconced during our argument. “It’s losing your independence that worries you, isn’t it?”
When her eyes meet mine, fear burns loud and clear in the blue. “I’ve never had to depend on anyone”—her voice cracks—“not even on your dear Uncle Harris. And I don’t intend to start something like that at this point in my life.” Her hand is cold against my fingers. “You and Uncle Harris were partners, the real deal, I know. But this is different. Look at it this way. If I was in your place—the broken leg deal—I’d have to accept the same kind of help and limitations you do right now.” I wink. “It’s really not all about you!”
She covers my hand with her other one. “I guess my head knows that, sugarplum. But it’s my gut what hates this being so weak, so needy. I see so many friends who’re in warehouses now—you know. Them nursing homes.”
“Oh, ick! What a nasty thing to say.”
“Listen to me, Andie. I know I’m kinda creaky, but I’ve got me some eyes and ears too. And I know how folks feel when their friends and families muscle ’em into them nursing homes. They feel they’ve been shelved in a warehouse—that’s Paulina Madson, Doc Madson’s older sister, what came up with the name when they stuck her in that Happy Days Acres place. Happy Days Acres! What kinda dopey name is that? I can’t stand it, and I’m gonna fight it to the end.”
No way will she wind up like that. At least, not so long as I’m around. I’ll take care of her. But no matter how strong my reaction, Aunt Weeby’s words scare me more than I let on. I can’t stand to think she’s aged so much. I can’t stand to think of the day when she’ll go home to be with her Lord, even though I know it’s coming. Not too soon, Lord, please.
“Weeby,” Erin says, “what kind of logic is that? You’re going home, woman, not to a nursing facility. You’ll have all the independence you want there. Well, all that your cast gives you, but the cast’s not so bad, right? Staying here, fighting hospital rules, that isn’t independence.”
It’s just stubbornness, Aunt Weeby’s specialty. Something I’m just a wee bit familiar with myself. “C’mon. Miss Mona and the driver are waiting for us. You should be happy, not so down. Let’s get you home.”
“Oh, my, my, my!” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t’ve put my troubles on you girls. I’m so, so sorry. That’s not right. I
do get to go home, and I should be celebrating. Besides. Just look at my darling new cast, Andie. It’s pink!”
My aunt, the pink obsessed. “I can see that. Whose palm’d you grease to get that kiddy cast?”
With a ton of effort, she stands, then tips up her chin and looks down her nose at me—kinda hard to do, since I’m about six inches taller. “I did no such thing. Dr. Takashi told me to choose, and I chose.”
So as not to further irritate her sensibilities, I fight my urge to hold her elbow to help her walk as she crosses to the wheelchair. Instead, I walk next to her, matching her every step, close enough to catch her, if needed.
Finally, she sits, hugs the vase of pink roses I’d sent her, and we head on out. When the elevator finally lands at the appropriate parking garage floor, I take a deep breath.
Almost. I’m almost home.
4 00
Miss Mona spots us. “Why, Livvy! And here I thought you said you wouldn’t ride the wheelchair, no matter what.” She winks. “You going soft on me already?”
Aarrgh! See what I’m up against?
Aunt Weeby glares. “You bite that flappy tongue a’ yours, Mona Latimer. You don’t know beans. This”—she smacks the armrest—“is all about them hospital rules. Can’t have sweet Erin here losing her job over a silly little ol’ wheelchair, now can we?”
“Of course not, dear, of course.” She grins. “Now let’s get you in this car. Davina’s ready to help us get you home.”
The tall, uniformed driver gives me a brief nod. Whoa! This girl’s got at least two inches and a good forty pounds on me. It takes a lot to make me feel petite. Davina does it without breaking a sweat. Bet you shopping’s no treat for her.
Davina turns to Aunt Weeby. “You ready, ma’am?”
“Can’t wait to get home.”
To my surprise and Aunt Weeby’s horror, Davina the driver scoops her up and heads to the limo. Aunt Weeby sputters like a steamed-up teapot but gets nowhere with Miss Mona’s benign giant.
“Why . . . you! Davina! You put me down right this minute.” To Miss Mona, “Call off your goon-girl. And here I always thought her such a sweet thing.” She shakes her head. “I’m perfectly capable a’ making my way to that fancy car a’ yours, Mona. Tell her to put me down right this very minute. Immediately, Mona Latimer!”
