by Donna Ball
Lori gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Of course not. I know all about that midlife crisis stuff. It’s just like Dad driving around in a Porsche and dating models half his age.”
“Nothing,” replied Cici evenly, “is like your dad dating models half his age.”
She grinned. “It’s okay, Mom, even he knows it’s stupid. But it’s like my social psych prof says, it’s a life passage. And at least you didn’t marry the pool boy or run off with your Italian lover.”
Cici lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t know those were options.”
“It has to do with reinventing yourself. Men do it because they’re afraid of losing their virility. Women do it because, once their children leave the nest, they don’t know what their role in life is anymore. Some women go to spin class. You bought a hundred-year-old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It’s no surprise to me.”
“Well, as glad as I am to know you’re learning something in social psych class, let’s go back to that Italian lover I could have run off with.”
Lori laughed. “See? No surprise. You’re a nut, always have been.”
Cici hugged her. “I love you, baby.”
“Love you back.”
“I wish you were coming with me.”
Lori looked very seriously into her mother’s eyes. “Mom,” she said, “I have a life.”
Cici didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, and she struggled hard to keep from doing either. “But you’re coming this summer, right? Aren’t you dying to see the place?”
“Well, maybe not dying . . . it sounds like an awful lot of hard work to me. But I’ll definitely try to make it out for my birthday. There’s an airport there right?”
Cici realized she had no idea where the nearest airport was in relation to her new home. Had she ever in her life lived further than an hour away from an airport? “Oh sure,” she replied airily. “Paved roads and everything. And it’s all horse country out there. Maybe we could talk about keeping a horse for you to use when you visit.”
This time Lori’s expression was a little sad. “Mom,” she said gently, “I’m really too old to bribe with a pony.”
Cici opened her mouth to reply, snapped it shut again, and instead hugged her daughter fiercely. “I miss my baby,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes tightly shut.
“I miss you, too, Mom.” Lori leaned back and smiled through what Cici was surprised to see was a shimmer of tears. “But we’re both big girls now, huh?”
Cici sniffed and carefully blotted her mascaraed lashes with the tips of her index fingers. She tried to mimic Lori’s brave smile. “You bet.”
Lori gave her mother’s fingers a reassuring squeeze, then held out her hand, palm up. “Cell phone,” she said.
Cici hesitated, then grinned, dug into her pocket, and plopped the device into Lori’s open hand. “Let’s get back to the party,” she said.
Holding a drink, Kevin slipped his other hand around Bridget’s arm and nodded an apologetic smile to the group surrounding her. “Mom, okay if we borrow you for a minute?”
Bridget excused herself and let Kevin lead the way to Cici’s downstairs guest room, which tonight was serving as a coat closet. Kate, who had just returned from putting the girls to bed next door, had cleared off three chairs. She was sitting in one of them, her hands folded, her knees crossed, her expression reserved. Kevin quietly closed the door behind them. “Have a seat, Mom,” he said.
Bridget glanced around, smiling a little. “Why does this feel like an intervention?”
“Nothing like that,” Katie insisted quickly, patting the chair next to her. “We just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Sit down, Mom.”
Curious, Bridget did. Kevin straightened the bottom of his suit jacket before sitting on it, straight and stiff, just like he had been taught in law school—or wherever it was that he had picked up all those rigid, pompous mannerisms that always reminded Bridget of some stuffy British barrister on public television. Pompous, at his age. And what about Katie? The single mother of twin preschoolers, working sixty hours a week at a Chicago accounting firm, her lipstick was perpetually chewed, her face puffy, her eyes always strained. She was barely thirty. She should be having the time of her life. Bridget’s heart ached for her children, but in the end, what could she do?
As though in answer to her unspoken thought, Kevin said abruptly, “Mom, Kate and I have been talking it over, and we think you should go live with her.”
Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. “With Kate? In Chicago? Why in the world would I want to do that?”
Her children exchanged a glance in which Kevin was apparently elected spokesperson. The way he squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin reminded Bridget so much of his father that she felt a stab of longing in her chest. He said, “Mom, we know losing Dad has been hard on you. You’ve never been alone before. And God knows, he didn’t exactly leave you a wealthy woman . . .”
Bridget said sharply, “Your father was a college professor. He did the best he could.”
“What we’re trying to say,” Kate intervened quickly, “is that we know this whole plan of moving to the country is just your way of trying to build a new life for yourself. But it’s just not necessary, Mom. I mean, moving in with two strangers—”
“Sinking all your assets into a broken-down old house and leaving the only life you’ve ever known—”
“It’s not as though you don’t have a family, or anyplace to go. You don’t have to do this,” Kate repeated. She took a breath, tightened her fingers in her lap, and declared, “We’ll take care of you.”
Bridget’s first reaction was astonishment. What did she mean, they would take care of her? What was she, a hundred and eight years old? And her second reaction was a flare of anger at the grim determination on Katie’s face as she made the announcement, as though having considered all the options and weighed all the evidence they had come to the reluctant conclusion that yes, they had no choice but to step up and take care of their mother, no matter how inconvenient, how great the sacrifice.
She wanted to say, Damn right you’ll take care of me, Missy. When I’m old and sick and too tired to feed myself and too weak to dress myself, you’ll do it for me just like I did for you. You’ll tie my shoes and wipe the drool off my chin and change my diapers just like I did for you about a hundred and thirty-seven times a day for the best years of my life. You’ll put a roof over my head when I can’t afford to do it myself and you’ll put groceries in my cupboard when my only other choice is to eat cat food and you’ll take me where I want to go when the state takes my driver’s license just like I did for you for the first twenty years of your lives and by God you’ll do it with a smile on your face.
But then she saw the strain behind the bravado in Kate’s eyes, and the fear disguised as determination in Kevin’s, and her heart softened. They had lost their father at the same time she had lost her husband. They, too, were trying to find their place in a world without him. And the sudden realization that the one person they had always depended upon—their mother—might need them to take care of her was more than an inconvenience. It was terrifying.
She said, “Thank both of you for worrying about me. But it’s not necessary, really. I’m fine.”
Kevin said, “It’s not Cici and Lindsay, you know that. We love them like family, always have. I’ve looked at the contracts and they seem fine, but I don’t think you realize what a potentially devastating risk this is. I know they’re your best friends, but owning property together—”
“You could lose everything,” Katie said, “including their friendship. It’s just crazy, Mom. Come to Chicago. There’s a three-bedroom apartment becoming available in a few months in my building, and with your help we could afford to move. Meanwhile, there’s room for a rollaway in the girls’ room. It would mean so much to me, Mom, not only financially—I mean, you know how we’ve struggled since the divorce—but to have you there to help out, now and then, you know, and on weekends, m
aybe I could finally have a life again. And it would be great for the girls to have their grandma with them. It would be great for everyone.”
“You haven’t signed the closing documents yet,” Kevin reminded her. “It’s not too late. So let’s do it, okay? Let’s tell Cici and Lindsay you’ve changed your mind and you’re going to Chicago instead.”
Bridget spent a long moment looking from one to the other of her children, so filled with conflicting emotions that she didn’t know where to start. Were these really her children? How had they grown into these strangers whose thought processes Bridget could barely begin to fathom? Kate had not bothered to ask her mother’s advice when she decided to marry a man she’d dated less than three months, nor when she decided they “had nothing in common” on her twin girls’ second birthday. But now she wanted her mother to fix everything. And Kevin, whose perpetual bachelorhood was merely an excuse for the kind of selfishness that included scuba diving in Belize and a designer apartment with a view of the Washington Monument, thought he could settle the problem of his inconvenient mother with the same brusque efficiency with which he settled a court case. Who were these people?
The answer of course was simple: They were her children, whom she loved with all her heart.
She said gently, “Katie, I love my grandbabies, but I told you when they were born that I did not want to raise them. And I’m sorry you can’t afford the three-bedroom apartment. Maybe prices would be cheaper if you moved out of the city.”
Before Kate could draw a breath to reply, Bridget turned to Kevin. “Kevin, honey, you are a dear, dear boy. But you don’t have to be the daddy now. You don’t have to take care of things, and you don’t have to fix things, and for heaven sakes you do not have to be responsible for me. All you have to do, both of you, is to live your best lives, right now, just like I am. Someday I am going to need you, and when that day comes I want you”—she pointed a finger at Kate in mock sternness—“to have a house in the suburbs with a mother-in-law suite, a maid, and a pool. And you”—she turned the finger on Kevin—“to have a wife who loves you as much as I loved your father.
“In the meantime . . .” She smiled. “You’re right, I do have a family. And it includes Cici and Lindsay. We’re about to go off on a marvelous adventure together, and we’ve earned it. Some day, if you work hard and live right, the two of you might get a chance to have as much fun as I’m having. So be happy for us, okay?”
She stood, then, and extended her hands to her two rather dazed-looking offspring. “Now, unless you’re planning on serving me with papers for a competency hearing . . .” She paused only slightly to toss Kevin a look of mild inquiry. He quickly stood up and grasped her hand. “Let’s get back to the party, shall we?”
His name was Peter Shepler, and he insisted everyone call him Shep. He was over six feet tall, slim and muscular with iron gray hair and a nose like Richard Gere’s. There had been a time in Lindsay’s life when the mere sight of him could stop her breath.
Now all she could notice was that he had had a lot of work done on his teeth. His smile was about three shades whiter than the brilliant white satin she had used for the buffet. She thought about complimenting him on it, but wasn’t sure that would be polite.
He looked down at her now with that sad, tender, sweet expression in his eyes that once upon a time had melted her heart like chocolate in the sun. “So,” he said, “after all these years, it’s good-bye.”
Lindsay actually remembered a very distinct good-bye some five years ago, when he had married another woman. But she merely smiled and agreed. “It looks like it.”
His gaze swept her face, her hair, and barely skimmed the glitter-dusted curve of her cleavage before returning to her eyes, the tenderness in his smile never wavering. Subtle, Shep. Very nice.
“You’re finally getting a chance to paint full-time, just like you always wanted,” he said. “You’re going to have gallery owners beating a path to your door.”
She smiled. “I don’t know about that. But there aren’t too many times in life you get a chance to go after a dream. This is mine.”
He nodded. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you, Shep.”
“I remember that weekend we spent in Charleston. You did some fabulous paintings there.”
Back in those days, he had been the principal at the school where she taught. She had been madly in love with him for almost a year before he noticed. It had taken another three years for him to finally convince her he would never make a commitment. A month after she had accepted a teaching position in another school, he announced he was engaged to be married—to someone else, of course.
She said, “Actually, I only took photos. I never travel with painting supplies.”
He looked surprised. “Are you sure? I distinctly remember you painting the bridge at Magnolia Gardens.”
“That’s a pretty popular scene to paint. But I never got around to it.”
“Not even a sketch?”
“Not even.”
“Funny how the mind can play tricks.”
“I guess.”
“Anyway, you’re going to be great. And I’m envious.”
She said, “I’m a lucky woman,” and meant it.
She sipped her wine. He said, after a time, “I love the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Me, too.”
“Maybe I’ll drive up some weekend, after you get settled.” Still the same bedroom eyes.
Damn him to hell.
“We’d love to have you,” she said. “How is Estelle, anyway?”
He flinched. “Still in rehab.”
“Oh.” She did not look away. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He gave her an apologetic smile. It was another one of his tricks, that little quirk of the lips, half begging, half flirting, that used to work every time. “It just seems so strange, knowing you won’t be here. That I’ll never bump into you on the street again, or see you at a soccer game or band recital. That . . . you just won’t be here.”
That almost got her. Suddenly she found herself thinking about all the things that simply wouldn’t be there anymore. The familiar desk in room 312, the giant hemlock in her backyard, the eighty-year-old clerk at the Shop-and-Go who always gave her the wrong change. The Cineplex, the creaky board in her bedroom closet, the teller at the bank who called her “Miss Wright” because three of her four children had been in Lindsay’s class, cranky old Mr. Daughtery who lived on the corner and refused to clip his overgrown hedges despite the fact that they were a traffic hazard . . . she had lived here for twenty-three years. What was she thinking?
Shep reached out, lightly touched her arm. “We were good together, Linds,” he said softly. “Whatever happened to us?”
She looked at his fingers on her bare arm for a long time, and slowly the panic that had begun to gather in her chest dissipated. She looked at his face. She smiled. “You got married,” she said, “and I got smart.”
She glanced over his shoulder, and saw Cici and Bridget standing across the room. They raised their glasses to her, and she returned the salute. “It was great talking to you, Shep. Now,” she said, turning her smile back to him, “if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the party.”
Delores and her secretary, Sheryl, were waiting for them in the media/game room downstairs, where the baize card table had been claimed as a temporary office. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she declared as they came in, “so I can get back to what I do best—drinking.”
Years of chain-smoking had given the attorney’s voice a gravelly tenor, and she had a habit of chewing on the tip of her pen when cigarettes were not an option. Her spiked silver hair and crocodile-tanned skin spoke of a woman who wasn’t afraid of living, and her shrewd black eyes didn’t miss a trick. She had handled Cici’s divorce, Jim’s estate, and Lindsay’s contract dispute when she left her former school system early due to the aforementioned incident with Shep. She was a woman who knew how to get thin
gs done.
“So.” She peered at them across the spread of papers as they sat down. “Last chance to back out. You’re really going to do this thing?”
Almost as one, they burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me?” “Silly question!” and “Let’s get on with it, Delores! We’re missing the party!”
“All righty, then. The closing documents are pretty straightforward. I’ll go over them as you sign, and Sheryl here will witness. I’ll fax them to Virginia first thing in the morning and we’re done. Here’s your Agreement to Enter into Joint Venture.” She distributed three copies of the document between them. “It covers everything from how much each of you is required to contribute to household expenses each month to how many pets you’re allowed to have.”
“I still think this is unnecessary,” Cici said.
“How many pets are we allowed to have?” Bridget asked.
“As many as we want,” Lindsay said.
Delores answered Cici. “It’s like a prenup. Everyone thinks they’re unnecessary until they don’t have one.”
Cici murmured, “Well, I guess I can relate to that.”
Delores said, “You’ve been lucky. Everything has gone smoothly up to this point. But what if things start going bad? How much more are you willing to invest? Where are you going to draw the financial line?”
Lindsay said, “What line? It’s drawn. All I’ve got left is my retirement fund, and I’m not touching that.”
Bridget spread her hands. “My financial life is an open book. All I have to live on until Social Security kicks in is what’s left of Jim’s life insurance, unless we’re talking about selling my jewelry.” Absently she fingered the emerald and diamond ring which had been Jim’s last anniversary gift to her. It was extravagant, but he hadn’t been able to afford an engagement ring when they had gotten married, and this had been his way of making up for its absence.
Cici said, “And I’m not borrowing money from my ex. I don’t care if he is richer than God. So there you go. We’ve invested all we can afford to.”
