Virginia arrived at the doctor’s office looking as youthful as possible, thanks to a drawer full of ancient cosmetics. She had a half-formed hope that the doctor and nurse would take one look at her and announce that they had made a mistake—anyone with Virginia’s energy and vitality was certainly not the right owner for Hotstuff. The socialite was looking for retirement—and all the calm that the word conveyed—for her pup. A life with someone as vivacious as Virginia would surely be too much for Hotstuff ’s diminutive heart.
This proved to be another one of Virginia’s miscalculations, and she left the office as the new owner of a Chihuahua. As hard as she tried, Virginia could not bring herself to introduce her new pet as Hotstuff, so she tried other variations: Spicy (too suggestive), Pepper (too common), and Umami (too obscure). She finally settled on Piquant, which at least nodded to the flavor of the dog’s original name.
The first weeks of dog ownership had been rough. Piquant was the Smart Car of the canine world, so tiny he could hide anywhere. Virginia would come home to the apartment and the dog seemed to have evaporated into thin air. She’d put down her purse and listen for any sound. Nothing. Then she would start crawling around the apartment on all fours, looking under the bed and sofa, rummaging through closets. She never caught him in the act of hiding. As she crawled around the floor she would finally hear him crunching his dog food in the kitchen. She would leap up and run to see him, casually chomping away. He would look up at her, but not miss a bite of food. Apparently, Chihuahuas didn’t go in for that adoration thing you heard about in dogs.
He never came when called and at first Virginia thought he just needed to get used to his new name, so she stood firm and never called him anything else—with one notable exception. One day, while walking him in the park, he escaped his collar.
“Piquant!” Virginia called as the little tail disappeared into some bushes. “Piquant!”
Virginia was close to hysteria, convinced she’d never find him. She frantically started calling out, “Hotstuff! Come on! Over here, Hotstuff!”
Two teenaged boys started snickering. She looked at them.
“Ain’t you a little old for this, Hotstuff?” one of them said.
Showing perhaps a smattering of solidarity, Piquant crawled out from under a holly bush. Virginia scooped him up and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster while the boys catcalled behind her.
Virginia knew that Suzanna loved getting pictures of Piquant from “Grammy” (Virginia laid down the law that she would not respond to the harsher-sounding “Grandma”) and sharing them with her toddler, Lizzy. When Erinn, who was more of a cat person but was clearly trying to be supportive, found out Virginia had taken on the miniature pet, she sent a “pet’s perfect potty,” a strip of sod in a tray that a dog could use instead of Central Park. Virginia remembered opening the box and thinking there would never be a need for this contraption (which was basically a dog litter box). Virginia knew she was starting to be a bit reclusive and one of the upsides of dog ownership was that she would now be required to get out of the apartment on a regular basis. At the very least she would meet other pet owners. This, along with most of Virginia’s “becoming a New Yorker” schemes, came to nothing. Piquant hated other dogs and Virginia was reduced to holding snippets of apologetic conversation as she crossed the street whenever another canine approached, Piquant snapping ferociously, little needle teeth bared for battle.
She was now very grateful for the “perfect potty,” which saved her from hitting the mean streets on frigid February evenings or scorching summer days. Basically, Manhattan lent itself to dog walking about two months out of the year . . . and that was when you had a friendly dog.
Virginia rinsed out the dog’s bowl. She opened the refrigerator and saw the only other “people food” in her house was a half-eaten box of lo mein. Even though the dog only needed three hundred calories a day to keep body and soul together, Virginia knew firsthand that she’d pay a steep price if she gave him leftover Chinese. There wasn’t a potty on earth perfect enough to contain the carnage once Piquant’s digestive system became aware that it had been served spicy noodles.
“OK, let’s go out,” Virginia said to the dog.
She looked out at the late afternoon gloom and tried to fool the dog into thinking this was a good idea. “Do you want to go OUT?”
The tone of voice seemed to do the trick. Piquant’s tiny toenails started tapping on the hardwood floors. His cough was always worse when he was excited, and he started hacking joyously. Virginia bundled herself up, grabbed the leash and Piquant’s plaid coat and booties. She scooped up the dog and headed into all New York City had to offer on a frozen afternoon. After nodding to the bellman she scooted around the corner and dressed the dog. She put Piquant down on the pavement and started walking. The dog stayed stock-still. Virginia gave the leash a short tug. The dog shivered and sat down.
The snow started falling steadily as she stared down at the Chihuahua, who looked alternately miserable and ridiculous. She wanted to just pick the dog up and be on her way, but the vet had warned her that she had to assert herself as the alpha in her relationship with Piquant. Virginia cringed every time a pedestrian passed by. She could see in their knowing eyes that she was the beta. It was written all over her face.
She tugged halfheartedly at the leash. Piquant coughed. She had moved to Manhattan to assert herself and she couldn’t even stand up to a two-pound dog.
CHAPTER 3
ERINN
“Mom’s coming for an extended visit,” Suzanna said.
Erinn breathed in, absorbing the news. She stared out at the waves as conflicting emotions pulled at her like the tide. She was pretty sure that Suzanna had lured her to the beach in order to share this little nugget, and she didn’t appreciate being manipulated by her kid sister. She dug her toes into the sand and tried not to look as if she were digging in her heels as well.
She glanced sideways. The muscles in Suzanna’s cheeks remained smooth, seemingly free of any anxiety. Suzanna’s strawberry-blond hair whipped around in the wind. Normally, when Suzanna was apprehensive, she twirled her hair around her finger, a habit from childhood. But she just stood there, peacefully looking at her daughter, who sat at the water’s edge building a sand castle. Two-year-old Erinn Elizabeth was now called “Lizzy” because Erinn had made it clear she would not be referred to as “Old Erinn” or “Big Erinn” as opposed to “Young Erinn” or “Little Erinn.”
Of course, Erinn understood that having a child named after oneself was a huge honor. But ground rules had to be set.
Eric, Suzanna’s husband and always the peacekeeper, suggested “Junior,” but that went right out the window as soon as everyone realized for every “Junior” there was a “Senior.”
“I’d settle for ‘Master’ and ‘Apprentice,’ ” Erinn had said to them. But when several of Suzanna’s customers made references to Donald Trump’s TV show, she’d nixed that as well.
Out of sheer exhaustion, the family finally decided on “Lizzy.”
Erinn looked out over the water, stalling for time, the silence crashing over them like waves.
Maybe the idea of an extended visit with Mother doesn’t scare her! Maybe I should just be a little more flexible.
Twirling hair or not, Suzanna couldn’t be happy about broaching the subject of their mother. Erinn didn’t want to be difficult. She knew Suzanna was probably overjoyed that their mother was coming to town. Erinn decided to be kind, always an act of acute determination.
“That’s great news!” she finally said. “Define extended.”
“I have no clue.” Suzanna shrugged. “She says she wants to talk to us and she’s flying in from New York next week.”
“We have phones.”
“She wants to talk to us together.”
“We have conference calling.”
“She wants to talk to us face-to-face.”
“We have Skype.”
“Erinn! Sh
e’s coming. Just be happy.”
And there it was. Suzanna’s simple request. Plea. Demand.
Just be happy.
As if anything in life could be that simple. Especially a visit from one’s mother—a situation fraught with peril, in Erinn’s book. While she had been Daddy’s girl and Suzanna was always more in tune with their mother, the two sisters could always count on each other for supportive eye-rolling when the need arose. But now Suzanna was a mother herself. Where once Erinn had a reasonable ally in her battles with their mother, she now sensed resentment. Suzanna was a mother, and mothers stuck together.
Erinn decided to be quiet for a moment. Not her strong suit. But she’d learned that words, especially between sisters discussing an extended visit from their mother, possibly should be weighed before spoken. Their late father used to say proudly that their family wasn’t into sports, they were into words. That was true—words were their sport and they played tackle. To be fair, Suzanna, as the youngest member of the group, certainly was the “tacklee” most of the time. Erinn thought that there probably was a real word for “tacklee,” and if there wasn’t, there obviously was a need. Suffice it to say, Suzanna bore the brunt of Erinn’s verbiage throughout the years, and now Erinn tried to soften her approach. She took stock of her sister.
She’s a good sister, a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter. She runs a crazy little tea shop and bookstore at the other end of town, and she’s loved by the entire community. She’s got a great epitaph waiting for her.
Erinn quickly tallied her own self-worth. She was a good playwright and TV producer.
But I’m going to be cremated, so I don’t have to worry about filling up a big piece of our increasingly small world.
Lizzy toddled up and threw herself into the middle space between Suzanna and Erinn, arms joyously outstretched. She loved it when her mother and aunt each took one of her arms and swung her off her feet, as if the sisters were her own personal human swing. At two years of age she had yet to grasp the concept that you needed to alert adults that the swinging game was about to commence. Several times Lizzy had leaped into the air and landed, crumpling in her biodegradable diaper onto the floor. However, Suzanna and Erinn were by this time fully trained to most of Lizzy’s whims. They seamlessly each grabbed a soft-as-suede upper arm and swung her into the air. For a brief second she hovered there, blocking out the sun and smiling with the radiance that only children—correction: only children you love—can convey.
Icarus himself could not have been more beautiful, soaring directly into the sun immediately before his wax wings began to soften.
When he was still so sure that he’d gotten it right.
Suzanna and Erinn each took a little hand and headed for the pier. Suzanna had it in her head that today would be a good time for Lizzy to discover the joys of the carousel.
Well, Lizzy is her child, and if she thinks that’s the thing to do....
Erinn admitted she didn’t know anything about children, but as a TV producer who did a lot of her own camera work, she did know something about perspective. A two-year-old is small. A bobbing wooden horse with bared teeth is big, not to mention unusual. There is no reference point for a two-year-old to make sense of a bobbing wooden horse going in a fast, big circle.
But I’m not the mother. Mother. Extended . . . visiting . . . mother.
Erinn pushed the thought out of her head. There would be time for the mother situation. Right now it was more important to help her sister try to strap her toddler onto the red saddle of a prancing goat.
Because a wooden horse isn’t confusing enough.
Suzanna and Erinn stood on either side of the goat. Suzanna had her arm around Lizzy, and Erinn took the opportunity to get out her new video camera, her prize possession, and motion to Suzanna that she was going to get off the carousel so she could grab some video. Suzanna nodded quickly and returned her attention to Lizzy.
It never ceased to amaze Erinn how many situations she could turn to her advantage just by having a nice camera with her. Her sister was not going to nag her about not riding the carousel and Erinn would be the hero who brought home adorable footage to share with friends and family. These were times when if Erinn could have surgically attached the camera to her hip she would have.
For many years, Erinn had been a successful Broadway playwright, and for more years than that she was a very UN-successful Broadway playwright. That’s what brought her to Santa Monica: to be where her sister was and her failed career wasn’t.
Two years ago she had stumbled onto a career in cable TV, thanks to the fact that she was pretty good with a camera. She had even won an Emmy last year for a series she had created called Let It Shine, a History Network reality show about two people trying to run a lighthouse like in the old days.
Let It Shine was a huge hit. Huge. But the contestants were hired for their looks, not their brains, and the cast and crew almost had a shipwreck while the challengers argued about who was getting more airtime. End of series. Erinn hoped it was not the end of her second career. She hadn’t been offered anything for a few months now and was getting nervous. Her sister and mother kept telling her to be patient and something would materialize. That was easy enough for them to say—Mother had her retirement fund and Father’s life insurance, and Suzanna and her husband’s business was thriving, even in this loathsome economy. “Patience is a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue,” wrote Ambrose Bierce.
Erinn thought about sharing this quote with her sister, but prudence won the day. Erinn and both of her parents (well, both parents when her father was still around) were all great quoters, but Erinn suspected that Suzanna sometimes got tired of this habit as, she also suspected, did her co-workers on just about every show she worked on. Voltaire once said that “A witty saying proves nothing,” but Erinn vehemently disagreed. She felt a well-placed quotation proved many things . . . not least of which was that you knew a lot of interesting quotes and were willing to share.
A hideously loud bell sounded and the carousel lurched to a start. Lizzy screamed.
Of course Lizzy screamed.
Erinn held her tongue.
As Suzanna made cooing sounds at Lizzy and apologetic faces to the other carousel riders, Erinn tried to keep them in view as they swirled in and out of frame. Every time Lizzy and Suzanna swooped by, Lizzy bobbing up and down, not crying now but looking incredibly confused, and Suzanna with a smile plastered on her anxious face, Erinn waved and tried to follow the action, all the while keeping the camera steady. Looking up from the camera, Erinn noticed a man staring at her from the center of the carousel, where the carnies stood. He had a small paintbrush in his hand and leaned against a horse that was propped up between two sawhorses and held straight by two large vise grips swaddled in cloth that Erinn guessed was to protect the paint. These were no ordinary carousel horses. Erinn had shot a documentary on them for the History Network a year or so ago, so she knew that the forty-four horses (and other animals) were all hand-carved and hand-painted. They dated back to at least 1922 and had been rescued more than once from the demolition ball by concerned Santa Monicans. Erinn studied the grounded horse while trying not to study the man. The horse was white, with a curve to its neck that made the mane look like it was blowing in the wind. With all the other horses leaping to the music, it was as if it had been given a time-out. Erinn put her eye back to the viewfinder but could tell that the man was still looking at her. He was incredibly handsome, a tinge of gray just starting at his temples. And even from across a moving carousel she could see his sky-blue eyes. Or were they ocean-blue eyes?
She could feel the color mounting in her cheeks. Firmly ensconced in her forties, she wasn’t used to men staring at her so blatantly. She often felt that if that science-fiction cliché of disposing of less-than-gorgeous people came to pass it would start with middle-aged women in Los Angeles. On the other hand, the man was the right age . . . maybe he did find her attractive. It could happen. H
aving convinced herself of that possibility, it became even harder to focus on the video. Luckily, Suzanna and Lizzy were about to come back into frame and she tried to regain her concentration.
The music started to slow and a buzzer sounded, startling Lizzy and sending her yowling once more. Suzanna scooped her off the goat and headed over to Erinn as soon as the carousel stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, Erinn noticed that the provocative carney was also headed her way. She busied herself with the lens cap and case and pretended she didn’t notice him. With her nose pointed determinedly at the depths of her camera case, she waited for whatever pathetic pretense he was going to come up with in order to speak to her.
It came as a total shock that the voice she heard was Suzanna’s.
“Christopher! I can’t believe it! What are you doing here?”
Erinn looked up. Suzanna was hugging the carney with the arm that was not holding Lizzy on her hip.
“I saw you on the carousel and noticed you were being photographed.” He nodded at Erinn and showed off his insanely white teeth. “I figured you must be doing a mother-daughter modeling session.”
Erinn stared at her sister. She couldn’t believe that Suzanna was buying this claptrap, but she appeared to be enjoying herself. The carney, Christopher, poked Lizzy playfully in the belly.
“How’s my Queen Elizabeth?” he asked and gave her a buss on the cheek.
He knows them? Is he a regular at the tea shop? Carneys don’t stop in for tea, do they?
Erinn’s questions were answered before they were completely formulated as Suzanna started to introduce them.
“This is my sister, Erinn,” Suzanna said. “Erinn, this is Christopher. He is an artist on our block. His shop is next to the kite store. You know the one, right?”
Erinn did know the place. She had admired his work in the gallery window many times. He mostly painted scenes of Venice and Santa Monica but with a hipper vibe to them: hot colors and distorted, playful images. Definitely meant to attract the tourist crowd but still showing a personal flair that would leave buyers happy they had more than a postcard of their Southern California adventure. His gallery also included insightful photographs (in her professional opinion) and a few random wooden objets d’art.
Much Ado About Mother Page 2
