Feeling desirable at seventy was not the same as feeling desirable at twenty or thirty. She certainly felt the jolt of age when she stumbled upon the video for Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines.” She sat stunned as the topless beauties strutted across the screen with their feverishly perky breasts bouncing. She was not so old that she couldn’t see the allure of these girls, but the odd props and insane platform shoes seemed more silly than sexy. She guessed she was alone in that assessment—or at least among the under-fifty crowd.
She was past the age of comparing herself to younger women. Thank God. What a relief that was! If Bernard or Mr. Clancy were interested in her, it was not because they were expecting a perfect young body. Older men seemed to be kinder than their younger brethren, but whether that was because they had to be (they were not so perfect themselves, after all), Virginia didn’t know.
Virginia wasn’t sure why she hadn’t informed her daughters that she was having a glass of wine with Mr. Clancy. She knew from experience (at this age, didn’t she know everything from experience?) that children did not want to see their mothers as sexually attractive to the opposite sex. The fact that their mothers’ sexual attractiveness to the opposite sex was wholly and directly responsible for their very existence would probably fall on deaf ears.
She felt like a teenager, sneaking out of the Huge Apartment for her rendezvous with Mr. Clancy. She had only meant to borrow Suzanna’s makeup and perfume, but here she was walking out the door in one of Suzanna’s lace tops. She hoped she could get it back into her daughter’s closet before it was missed.
People who said “nobody walks in L.A.” clearly did not live near the beach. Virginia walked more in Venice than she had in New York. She could have walked down the Beach Walk as far as Rose Avenue before heading east, but she was trying to keep a low profile. She zigged and zagged through tiny courtyards until she came to Rose Avenue, where Mr. Clancy would be waiting for her at a tiny wine bistro. Rose Avenue was a trendy street, but as a whole kept a slower pace than the hipper, more energized Abbot Kinney, Main Street, or the Beach Walk. Virginia often thought it must be exhausting being a street in Venice.
Virginia could have spotted Mr. Clancy a block away. He was the only man in the city wearing a tie. She thought back to her dating years, when all men wore ties. When Virginia was in New York, if she went to dinner alone she had studied young couples on dates. The women tended to have put some thought into getting dressed. Even if they were dressed casually, their makeup was always perfect and their shoes impressively spiky. The men, on the other hand, often looked as if they had just rolled out of bed. Unshaven, wearing un-ironed shirts, beltless pants, and no socks—Virginia thought they looked as if they were signaling, “I didn’t care enough about you to make any effort,” but the young women around her didn’t seem to feel that way at all. Times had changed, no doubt, but she was touched by Mr. Clancy’s old-fashioned gesture. He smiled nervously as she approached.
“You look so nice,” Virginia said.
“Thanks.” Mr. Clancy blushed. “It took me a while to find my tie.”
She had spent too many years as a professional to offer the easy hug that seemed to be the common greeting in Southern California. She thought about shaking his hand, but that seemed too formal, even for her. Instead, she just said, “I’ve never been here. Is it nice?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Clancy said, looking at the building as if he was surprised to find it standing there. “I’ve driven by it a couple of times and never had a reason to stop . . . until now.”
Virginia felt her own color rising.
“Let’s go in,” Virginia said, taking his arm.
The bar was dark and it took a minute to adjust to the light. The room was small with only a few tables. A copper bar ran along one wall, red leather barstools dotting the length of it. Mr. Clancy led Virginia to one of the tables, his hand against the small of her back. They sat and he signaled the bartender. Virginia had been on her own for several years now and she found it hard to step back and let the man take the lead. Cultural submissiveness was not something she missed, but she supposed if you wanted a man to shave and wear a tie, you couldn’t have everything.
“I’ll have a glass of Shiraz,” Virginia said, setting the ground rules that she would order for herself.
“That sounds fine,” Mr. Clancy said. “I’ll have one, too.”
The bartender, a young woman in jeans and a buttoned-up black vest with a name tag that read Neila and her hair in a topknot, just nodded and returned to the bar. It was obvious Mr. Clancy was feeling as awkward as Virginia. They watched the bartender as if they’d never seen a drink poured before. When the drinks arrived, they toasted self-consciously and each took a sip.
“This is lovely,” Virginia said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Mr. Clancy said. “I was worried you might be a wine snob or something, coming from Napa Valley.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, not a wine snob, exactly. I just meant you might know a lot about wines and not like this place.”
“I do know a lot about wines, and I do like this place,” Virginia said, letting him off the hook.
“Listen, Virginia, I don’t want you to think I only asked you out because I wanted to talk business.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know. We’re on opposite sides on the tree thing. I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to win you over or anything.”
Virginia just blinked at him. She hadn’t thought that at all. They were on more solid ground when he’d called her a wine snob. He’d brought her out on a date to try to manipulate her! Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was? She suddenly felt very foolish in her lace top.
“I’m an old hippie chick,” Virginia said. “It would take more than a glass to make me compromise my ideals.”
“How about two glasses?” Mr. Clancy said, smiling.
She looked up, startled. He actually meant it—he didn’t want this evening to be about the tree. She relaxed.
“OK, no shop talk. Deal?”
“Deal,” Mr. Clancy said, and this time they did shake hands.
Before they had a chance to settle back, Virginia noticed that Miles and Winnie had walked in. She watched as they headed to the bar. She pointed them out to Mr. Clancy.
“Aren’t those Rio’s kids?” she asked.
Mr. Clancy reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his glasses.
“Yeah. Looks like them.”
“They aren’t twenty-one.”
“Well, I know they have to be over eighteen to be one of Rio’s students. I made sure of that myself. I don’t want any trouble with crazy parents. The kids are crazy enough as it is.”
“Eighteen is not twenty-one. Excuse me.”
She took another sip of wine, got up from the table, and approached the daring duo at the bar. They appeared to have ordered whiskey sours.
Who orders whiskey sours?
Winnie looked past her as Virginia approached, but Miles smiled at her.
“Hi, Virginia,” Miles said. “Want a drink?”
“I have a drink,” Virginia said, gesturing to Mr. Clancy’s table. “What are you kids doing here?”
“Uh, drink-ing,” Winnie said, staring through her charcoal makeup.
“May I see your ID?” Virginia asked.
Neila, the bartender, who appeared to be as surly as Winnie, stood on her side of the bar and planted her hands on the counter.
“I already checked their IDs,” she said.
“I’m sure you did, dear. But it’s very dark in here. I’m fairly certain you couldn’t tell a fake ID in this light.”
“What’s it to ya, lady?” Winnie said. “We’re not hurting anybody.”
“Oh, I know,” Virginia said. “But, you know, Rio is working really hard to give you guys something special, and the least you guys could do is meet him halfway. Now, you and I both know—even if Neila doesn’t—that those IDs a
re fake. So, please hand them over.”
“No way!” Miles said. “They cost three hundred bucks each!”
“Dude, you’re such a moron,” Winnie said.
Neila looked at Virginia, as the kids turned over their fake IDs.
“Somebody will have to pay for their drinks,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’m sure the police frown upon establishments that serve liquor to minors, fake ID or not.”
“Go ahead,” Neila said. “Call the police.”
“If you insist,” Virginia said, pulling out her cell phone. Who knew her years of being a professor would come in so handy? She’d been outbluffing young people since before this young woman was born.
“OK, OK,” Neila said. She turned to the kids. “You guys just go.”
Virginia wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a faint smile on Winnie’s lips.
“Later,” Miles said to Virginia.
“Yeah,” Winnie said, “later.”
The kids slunk out of the bar. Virginia turned back to Neila, who was still glaring at her.
“May we have two more Shiraz at our table, please?” she asked.
“Sure,” Neila said. “And I guess you expect those to be on the house, too.”
“I hadn’t,” Virginia said. “But since you offered, thank you.”
She headed back to the table, heady with victory. Mr. Clancy stood up as she approached.
“Wow,” he said. “That was pretty impressive.”
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Virginia said as Mr. Clancy held out her chair.
“No,” Mr. Clancy said. But instead of helping her into her seat, he turned her around and kissed her. “You didn’t scare me at all.”
CHAPTER 18
SUZANNA
Suzanna waited for Rio to show up at her door. How important could this conversation be if they kept not having it? Was he avoiding her? She knew how his withholding nature had been catnip to her years ago, but did he know it? Was this some sort of seduction tactic? The idea that he might just be busy with his fledgling studio blew into her brain from time to time, but she discarded that thought immediately.
She was grateful that her own life was busy and she couldn’t be all-consumed with Rio. Lizzy was changing by the day, discovering new reasons to say, “no”; “no” to getting dressed, “no” to going to bed, “no” to eating kale (although Suzanna suspected her mother of giving Lizzy sugary treats, she couldn’t prove it). No after no after no, which rattled Suzanna, but Virginia took it in stride. It was good to have a baby expert on the premises.
Lizzy loved Piquant and that horrible little dog seemed to love her back. Piquant still growled at almost everyone who came near him, but Suzanna was happy that he’d made peace with her little one. Lizzy was not the gentlest of pet lovers. She would yank on Piquant’s ears and squeeze his neck, but he just endured the lovefest. Suzanna would be so overwhelmed by the dog’s good grace that she would try to pet him, but Piquant reverted to Chihuahua type immediately and would nip at her. If she found she needed to pick the dog up for any reason, she would throw a towel over him and scoop him up in that. The towel would thrash wildly, like an undulating beast.
Suzanna was standing in the apartment kitchen, looking through the cabinets for nutmeg. She was always surprised how much nutmeg you could go through when you ran a tea shop. She rubbed absently at her palms, which were still scabby from her spill over at Mr. Clancy’s Courtyard. Her mother came in with Lizzy on her hip and Piquant already on his leash.
“We’re going for a walk,” Virginia said.
Suzanna turned around. Was her mother wearing makeup?
“Where are you going?”
Her mother reddened.
“Just . . . out,” Virginia said.
Suzanna had been a teenager much more recently than her mother, and those words did not ring true. Suzanna was pleased that her maternal detective skills were on high alert. But what was her mother hiding?
“OK,” Suzanna said slowly. “Well, if you find yourself by the market on Main Street, will you grab some nutmeg?”
The tension visibly went out of Virginia.
“Sure,” Virginia said. “We can do that.”
As Virginia headed down the stairs, Suzanna listened as Piquant’s tiny toenails tapped on each step. She heard her mother strapping Lizzy into the Jogger and the front door slam.
Who was “we”?
Suzanna still had an hour before she needed to head down to the tea shop. Eric was already in the Nook. Suzanna was surprised how quiet the apartment was. She didn’t like it. She made Eric’s favorite tea, a fruity number called Gibraltar Black Currant, and headed down to the Nook carrying two mugs. She was still in her oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms, the ones with the rubber duckies on them. The odds were slim she’d run into a customer at this hour.
Good thing I’m not a gambler, Suzanna thought as she looked into the Book Nook and saw a customer. Suzanna looked closer—this was not just any customer, this was Blu! What was she doing here?
Taking a cue from her husband, she decided to remain neutral until she had all the facts. She studied them. Eric was on one side of the counter and Blu on the other. Their heads were together as they laughed over that oversized comic book of Blu’s. Virginia had mentioned something about Blu having a book at the Nook, and Suzanna had checked it out immediately. She thought it was ridiculous, self-serving, and took up far too much counter space, but she had too much on her mind to consider it further.
Blu was wearing what looked like sprayed-on running gear and very well-worn running shoes. Could she possibly have run all the way from Santa Monica and still look this cool? She was standing on her tiptoes, flexing her well-toned calves. Suzanna was proud of herself for not overreacting, but then she saw The Sign. As Blu leaned over the counter, she squeezed her arms together under her breasts, so they heaved forward. She casually turned a page in the book.
That woman is after my husband!
Knowing she could not wage battle in her pajamas, Suzanna tried to back slowly out of the room, but her elbow thudded against the wall. Eric and Blu looked at her. She could feel her cheeks turning red as she stood there in her pajamas, with bed head, holding on to two cracked mugs of steaming tea.
“Hey, Beet,” Eric said easily.
She couldn’t hear any guilt in his voice but wanted to smack him for using her childish nickname in front of this slut.
Blu tossed back her hair and beamed. She was very aware that she was in control of the room.
“Oh,” Blu said with her twinkly laugh. “Did you bring us coffee?”
“Tea,” Suzanna said. She wanted to bite her own tongue.
Blu came over and took the cups, as if Suzanna were the intruder, not she. Blu handed one cup to Eric.
“I’m just checking on my book sales,” Blu said.
At this hour?
“Oh, that’s right . . . you have a comic book,” Suzanna said.
“Graphic novel,” said Blu.
“Superblu and O’Brian . . .” The blow glanced off Blu, who laughed and said, “O’Hara!” And then she shot an “It’s us against her” smile at Eric.
“Blu says it’s a circus over at Erinn’s house and she couldn’t take it anymore,” he said.
“What’s up?” Suzanna asked, genuinely interested.
“Oh, the paparazzi is all over the place,” Blu said, shaking her curls and opening her eyes wide at Eric, even though she was talking with Suzanna. “I just get so tired of it. It’s nice to just get away to someplace quiet and think.”
How could her husband be such an idiot? He never was very good at picking up the signals that a woman was hitting on him, but Blu was more obvious than most.
“Oh?” Suzanna said. She was torn between retreating upstairs, giving Blu the win, or jumping across the room and throwing her out on her flat ass. “Paparazzi? That’s good for publicity, isn’t it?”
“Depending on whose side yo
u’re on,” Eric said.
“Whose side are you on?” Suzanna wanted to scream at him.
“Dymphna is totally stressed,” Blu added. “She says all the noise is freaking the rabbits out.”
“I’ve heard that anxiety is bad for their fur,” Suzanna said, horrified that she was engaging this woman in conversation.
“They might die!” Blu said. She tried to widen her eyes farther, but Suzanna noticed her face didn’t move. “Dymphna says bunnies have very weak hearts.”
“Poor Dymphna,” Suzanna said earnestly. “She must be so upset.”
Blu shrugged. She opened up the graphic novel again and turned back to Eric, pretext forgotten. Suzanna could tell she had been dismissed. Suzanna willed herself not to float—this woman did not deserve to get to her! She stayed rooted, looking at Eric. He sensed her stare and looked back at her. He gave her an easy wink, as if they were both in on the same joke. They were together in this. Suzanna headed back upstairs. She decided the morning had ended in a draw.
By the time Suzanna ended up in the Bun’s kitchen, she was showered and wearing a bright new peasant blouse, which she felt hid a multitude of sins. She had put on some lipstick and mascara as well. She knew she’d never be able to compete with Blu in sheer sex appeal, but Eric loved her. Showing a little appreciation wouldn’t kill her.
As she started to make her nutmeg-scented scones, she realized her mother hadn’t returned with the spice. Suzanna instantly changed gears, rummaging through her cabinets. She had a large bag of chocolate chips somewhere and her customers loved her chocolate chip scones. She missed Fernando, who had been her friend since high school and her first pastry chef. He would know exactly where he had put the chocolate chips. She could also use someone to talk to. She had so much on her mind. Eric. Blu. Rio. Not the sort of problems you wanted to discuss with your mother or older sister. While Eric knew about the whole Rio thing, he didn’t want any details, but Suzanna had spilled her guts to Fernando. However, Fernando was miles away, having opened a successful bed and breakfast on Vashon Island near Seattle. Her other dear friend from the Napa Valley days, Carla, a busy architect in Northern California, would happily lend an ear, but she’d have no time for Suzanna’s fantasies about Rio, and Suzanna would be embarrassed to admit she had no idea what to do about Blu.
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