Thank God I locked it.
“Everything OK in there?” Eric asked, rattling the knob.
Suzanna kicked the quilt under the bed as she heard her husband picking the lock.
Damn him and his competence!
Suzanna was still on the floor, with her feet tucked under the bed where she had kicked the quilt, when he walked in. He was holding Lizzy, who was sucking on a rag doll. The doll was covered in baby slobber, which usually amused Suzanna to no end. But there was a first time for everything.
“Oh, sorry,” Eric said, plopping the toddler on the bed. Lizzy pulled the doll out of her mouth and started sucking on the top sheet. Eric sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at his wife. “I didn’t know you were exercising.”
Suzanna lifted her head and realized that it did appear that she was doing sit-ups. She lay back down, exhausted. If Eric wanted to think it was from a great workout, so be it.
“That’s OK . . . I’m done,” she said. When she couldn’t get up, she added, “Well, maybe just a few more crunches.”
Eric put Lizzy on the floor so she wouldn’t fall off the bed. Suzanna and Eric had hoped they would be breezy parents, but the apartment now resembled nothing less than Baby Prison: locks on all the cabinets and doors, baby gates at every entrance to every staircase that were so complex Suzanna usually found herself leaping over them, and cleaning supplies stored on shelves so high Lizzy might not be able to reach them until college.
Eric blew Suzanna a kiss and headed out the door. He turned back, leaning against the doorframe.
“My parents called. They want to take Lizzy to Disneyland pretty soon. That good by you?”
“I don’t know, honey,” Suzanna said. “I mean, she’s only two years old. And she doesn’t really know your parents very well.”
“I think that’s the point,” Eric said. “The idea that your mom will be here and sucking up all the grandchild love has my mom feeling a little insecure, I think.”
“Let me think about it,” Suzanna said.
“I already told them yes,” Eric said.
“Then why did you ask me if I was good with it?” Suzanna asked in a surly voice. It drove her crazy when her husband asked her opinion on something, just to smack her down with an “I already decided.” She fell for it every time, just like Charlie Brown and his football. She realized it was a difference in upbringing. Eric always said his family was just nonconfrontational, but Suzanna felt that these “what do you think, even though I’ve already made up my mind” moments were passive-aggressive. When she finally brought this to Eric’s attention, he said, “That’s possible, but your family is aggressive-aggressive, so we’re probably even.”
He had her there.
“I’m going over to the community garden. There seems to be some debate about pesticides; thought I’d see what the trouble was all about,” he said, looking down at her sweating form. “Don’t kill yourself.. . . I think you’re perfect.”
Did he think she was perfect? Was he blinded by love or had he just stopped noticing? She felt guilty about her less-than-kind observations of a moment ago. He really was an amazing guy.
Suzanna felt a tingling in her nose, which was a sign that she was going to cry. Disgusted with herself, she unzipped the jeans and sat up, still breathing hard from her “workout.” Eric was such a wonderful man. There was nothing to be gained by arbitrating the squabble at the community garden, but he saw it as his job to keep Venice on a happy, even keel. It was amazing how many people came in and out of the Nook seeking his advice. She was really proud of him . . . although he was often distracted. She kept telling herself that he was distracted for the greater good, but sometimes, as he headed out the door for more good deeds, she had to admit it irritated her. She knew he really did love her—even when he was preoccupied. When she was pregnant and crashing into chairs with her huge belly, he’d held her and made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Well, truth be told, he only managed to get as far as making her feel like the most beautiful whale in the world, but that wasn’t his fault.
Suzanna pulled herself onto the bed, hauling Lizzy with her. She lay back, trying to catch her breath as she watched Lizzy attempting to stand on the mattress. The toddler gave up and crawled over to her mother. She patted Suzanna on the head, which made them both laugh. Suzanna swooped the baby up and covered her with noisy kisses. Why was she even thinking about Rio? She had everything in the universe right here.
I’m just going to forget I ever thought I saw him.
Suzanna’s resolve was short-lived.
She kept an eye on the Beach Walk for the next couple of days but there was no sign of Rio. She was relieved that she had probably just imagined the whole thing and let Rio fade into memory again. Besides, she had enough on which to focus. Their mother was due to arrive in two days and Erinn had one excuse after another why Suzanna should be orchestrating the bulk of the arrangements, including living arrangements. Erinn thought their mother should stay at Suzanna’s and she was certainly persuasive in her arguments: Suzanna had Lizzy and their mother would love every minute spent in the baby’s company. Erinn had a large cat that might not take kindly to Piquant. And of course Erinn was desperately trying to rent out her guesthouse to make ends meet.
Her mother called often, a little unsettled that nothing was finalized, but Suzanna told her not to worry about a single thing. The truth of the matter was that Suzanna and Eric would truly be thrilled to have Virginia stay with them. There was just something about Erinn’s “It’s not my problem” attitude that made Suzanna nuts. Suzanna told her mother that she and Erinn were fighting over her.
Well, that was the truth . . . in a way.
From the tearoom window, Suzanna could see clouds rolling in and a striking woman with perfect posture striding into the foyer that separated the Bun from the Nook. The woman looked around, clearly not a regular who was familiar with the place.
The Bun was closed for the day. Suzanna hoped the woman wasn’t interested in tea. Suzanna hated turning people down. She couldn’t stand to see the crushed spirit of a person being denied a cup of tea and a small pastry. She’d put a kettle on rather than be greeted by such disappointment.
Suzanna studied the woman. She wore tailored pants with a man’s shirt tucked into them. Her hair was slicked back away from her face, sweeping across her jawbone. She wore large, round, black glasses. Suzanna thought she was attractive, in a postapocalyptic way: strong, confident, with a take-no-prisoners air about her. Something about her made Suzanna think this woman could stand the rejection of a closed tea shop.
“May I help you?” she asked, coming into the foyer from the tea shop.
“I hope so,” the woman replied, smiling a crisp, toothy smile. She waved a stack of papers. “I’m showing some artwork at Willow Station later this month and I was wondering if I might leave some flyers with you.”
Willow Station was a well-respected art gallery in Santa Monica. Suzanna had forgotten about it but made a mental note that it might be a good place to take her mother. She reached for the green flyers.
“I don’t hang flyers in the tea shop,” Suzanna said. “But I’m sure my husband will be happy to put one up on the community board he has in the bookstore.”
“That would be wonderful,” the woman said. “Can I leave extra, in case anyone would want to take one with them?”
Suzanna took them and nodded. Flyers had been a bone of contention in their workplace even before Eric and Suzanna were married. Eric loved flyers. He thought the old-school approach of tacking flyers and business cards on bulletin boards and flagpoles kept a community “real.” Suzanna saw them as artificial at best and litter at worst. Eric and Suzanna had reached a nice compromise. Flyers in the Nook, no flyers in the tearoom. It crossed Suzanna’s mind that she and Eric had been experts at the art of compromise before they even got married. How many couples could say that?
Suzanna looked at the flyer.
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sp; “Alice?” Suzanna asked and looked at the woman.
“Yes, Alice,” she said. “Thank you.”
The woman took two purposeful steps and was out the door. Suzanna realized that Alice had not asked Suzanna’s name in return.
“You’re welcome,” she said to the closed door.
Suzanna looked at the flyers in her hand. She was annoyed at herself for agreeing to hand them over to Eric. He could foster the community all he wanted, but it was Suzanna who had to go through the outdated pamphlets and multicolored sheets every week to make room for the latest batch of community outreach.
She peeked out the window of the tea shop and watched Erinn pull into an open parking space. It likely wouldn’t matter to Erinn that the shop was closed; she rarely came by for tea. She was more inclined to spend hours in the Book Nook, coming in with insane requests for Eric to track down. When Erinn wasn’t working, she kept her mind and Eric’s time occupied with books. Erinn was much more like their intellectual parents than Suzanna was, although Suzanna (she had to admit) got along better with them. Well, that wasn’t really difficult; Erinn couldn’t get along with anybody.
Maybe Mom should stay with me.
Suzanna frowned. She was perfectly happy to have their mother stay with her family in their apartment over the store. Suzanna had always called the living space “the Huge Apartment.” It was enormous, with three bedrooms, a spacious bathroom, living room, dining room, and fantastic eat-in kitchen, and there was more than enough room for their mother. As a matter of fact, their mother would be a welcome addition!
Then why am I so annoyed with Erinn?
She couldn’t actually put her finger on the reason, but there was no getting around it. She was extremely annoyed. Erinn always shirked her familial responsibilities. Suzanna always had to be the one to remember birthdays, make holiday arrangements, call their mother. Erinn had been running away from responsibility for years. Now their mother was coming, and Erinn not only had enough room in her rambling house to take in a platoon of mothers, she had an empty guesthouse, too. But instead of stepping up to the plate, she was letting it all rest on Suzanna’s shoulders.
As usual.
No, Mom should stay with Erinn; she’d have her own space in the guesthouse and besides, it was a matter of principle!
Suzanna heard the door creak open in the foyer that joined the Rollicking Bun to the Book Nook. Erinn stepped inside and veered immediately into the Book Nook. Suzanna inched toward the Nook so she could eavesdrop on Erinn’s conversation with Eric. Erinn was like a canker sore; if it stopped bothering her, Suzanna would poke it with her tongue until she was aware of it again.
“Hey, Erinn,” Eric said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you were able to make any headway tracking down my book.”
“Book? Was I supposed to find a book?”
Suzanna smiled to herself. Eric loved to tease Erinn.
“Yes, Eric,” Erinn said. “The Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“Hmmm . . . let me think. Mary Wollstonecraft. New mystery author, right?”
“Good God, no!”
“Mash-up writer?”
“Never! She didn’t write novels.”
“Oh! WOLLstonecraft . . . the one who wrote Thoughts on the Education of Daughters: With Reflections on Female Conduct, in the More Important Duties of Life . . . that Wollstonecraft? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did. I did say so.”
Suzanna couldn’t resist. She peeped around the corner to watch Eric deposit a large, battered book in Erinn’s hand. He was trying not to laugh, but Suzanna could only see a confused scowl on Erinn’s face. She didn’t know why Eric bothered. Erinn really had no sense of humor when it came to herself. Or to anything.
Suzanna caught Eric’s eye as she entered the room. They both knew what was coming. Years ago, Eric had pointed out that Erinn always said your name by way of greeting. It never failed to be a shared joke between husband and wife.
“Suzanna,” Erinn said.
“Erinn.”
Suzanna caught a wink from Eric. God, she loved that man.
“I’ve come to talk about Mother,” Erinn said.
“Come on in,” Suzanna said, putting the pamphlets down and ushering her sister toward the tea shop. “I’m just cleaning up a bit. I’ll get us some tea.”
Suzanna steeled herself for a conversation with her sister. Erinn was a writer; she was good at conversation. But Suzanna was on her toes . . . she was not going to give in.
“I got a job,” Erinn said.
“That’s great news,” Suzanna said. She started stacking delicate dinner plates on a sideboard. “You’ll have enough money to keep the guesthouse free for Mom.”
“That’s true.”
“It is?” Suzanna looked up, startled. She felt guilty that she had been thinking such unkind, un-sisterly thoughts. She felt the anxiety she’d been carrying in her shoulders suddenly ease.
Maybe that’s why I had a stress float! This has been weighing on me more than I thought.
Erinn walked to the sideboard and took the glass dome off a cake platter containing gingerbread, a specialty of the house. She took a plate from the top of Suzanna’s stack and tipped a slice delicately onto it. She sat at one of the small tables and started to eat.
“It’s true that I’ll have enough money . . . but it’s too late. I’ve already rented the place,” Erinn said. “This is delicious, by the way.”
“To who?” Suzanna could feel her teeth clench.
“Whom . . . to whom.”
“I said ‘whom’!”
Erinn gave her younger sister her long-suffering smile.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” Suzanna said. “Mom will stay with me.”
CHAPTER 5
ERINN
The drive from Suzanna’s tea shop in Venice to Erinn’s home in Santa Monica was only a few miles, but Erinn castigated herself the entire trip home.
Why did I lie about having a tenant? And even worse, lie about getting a job? These are very visible lies!
Erinn got out of her car and walked to the front door, digging in her purse for her house keys. She was proud of the work she had done restoring her home, but she could see that it was, once again, getting that down-at-the-heels look. Shabby but not quite shabby chic. Erinn knew the meandering front walkway by heart and was so used to the routine of lost keys that she never had to look up. Feeling the key chain in her hands, she pulled them out of her bag and held them in the air, triumphantly.
“And I have found Demetrius like a jewel . . . mine . . .”
Erinn stopped midquote as she stared at the tiny woman sitting on her step.
“Mine own . . . and not mine own,” said the woman in a hushed whisper. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream, act three.”
“Act four,” Erinn said.
“Is it?” asked the woman. She put tiny fists up to her mouth in dismay. “I always get everything wrong.”
“No, no, that was very . . . close,” Erinn said, amazed that anyone could or would finish a random Shakespearean quote.
Who is this woman?
“My name is Dymphna,” the woman said, anticipating the question. “Dymphna Pearl.”
Erinn shook the offered hand. Erinn was the smallest woman in her family, several inches shorter than both her mother and her sister, but her hand closed completely around Dymphna’s diminutive and calloused one. “I’ve come about the guesthouse.”
“The guesthouse?”
The fists returned to Dymphna’s mouth.
“Is it already rented?” Dymphna asked. “I knew I waited too long.”
“Oh! No, it isn’t rented.”
“Thank goodness!”
Did she really say “goodness”?
“I was selling the last of my sheep and it took longer than I thought it would,” Dymphna said. “My luck hasn’t been very good these last couple of years—so I figured the place would be long gone.”
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“Your sheep?”
“Yes,” Dymphna said. “I’m a shepherdess.”
“In Los Angeles?”
“No, of course not,” Dymphna said. “In Malibu.”
“Oh, yes . . . Malibu, land of sheep,” Erinn said, instantly regretting her sarcasm. Who was she to judge this woman’s ridiculous career choice?
“Well, I was a shepherdess,” Dymphna said, her eyes filling with tears. “But it got too expensive. It took everything I had and I failed.”
This woman really has a knack for alienating potential landladies.
Dymphna, who had stood up to greet Erinn, collapsed back onto the front step, put her head in her lap, and sobbed. Erinn patted her tiny shoulder awkwardly. She was never good at moments like this, moments that required tact and a few soothing words.
How strange that I’m a writer and yet I’m at a loss for words. Oh, wait, this isn’t about me.
Erinn searched her brain for something, anything, to say. She suddenly remembered Massimo, an Italian cook who had once rented the guesthouse and who used to rhapsodize about lamb.
“I hope you got a good price for the meat,” Erinn said.
Dymphna stopped crying instantly and looked fiercely into Erinn’s eyes.
“I didn’t raise them for food!” Dymphna said.
Dymphna stood up again. Standing on the step she was just eye level with Erinn. She wore a flowing skirt, petticoat, a fitted waistcoat, buttoned boots, and several scarves. Erinn thought she looked like someone who had lost her way and needed directions to a Steampunk Convention. Erinn took a step back. You couldn’t be too careful around these would-be renters, and this diminutive—and overdressed—woman didn’t seem to be an exception.
“I’m raising them for their wool,” Dymphna said, an edge of pride in her voice.
“You were raising them,” Erinn corrected.
Dymphna looked as if Erinn had slapped her. She seized fistfuls of skirts in her little hands and held them to her eyes as she sobbed. Erinn looked around the yard and tried to think of a way to get this woman-child off her property. When she couldn’t think of anything, she just waited until Dymphna calmed down. Finally, Dymphna dried her eyes on her skirt.
Much Ado About Mother Page 4
