Jack reaches for the bag of unmentionables and plucks the red mesh number Bernie got me for our second anniversary. “I bet you look real good in these.”
“I wouldn’t know and you’re never going to find out,” I say cockily.
“Never say never, Ms. Radley,” he replies challengingly.
“Never, never, never, never, and…never, Mr. Parella,” I exclaim with righteous indignation.
“Don’t make me bet you another meatball sub,” he retorts with his usual arrogance.
“You’re on, bucko. Now if you wouldn’t mind I’m going to have a shower and get some sleep.”
I strut out of the room and pull off the green wool dress, leaving it in an untidy pile on the bathroom floor. The hot water feels soothing, but the shower has one of those water conserving heads that barely lets out a trickle. I make a mental note to ask Kate if I can change it for a rain shower version. Okay, so she might be disappointed in me and the fact that I'm not doing my part to save the environment, but at least I’ll be able to enjoy a hot shower after… what the hell?! The lights just went out, and I know it can’t be a power outage because I remember Kate saying the water heater is an electric tankless and the water’s still hot. Maybe the bulb just burned out? As I blindly pull back the shower curtain and reach for the towel bar, I hear the distinct sound of someone breathing…and it’s not me. My limbs go weak and my teeth begin to chatter. My mind is racing, yet I can’t formulate an actual clear thought. The only thing I can think of doing is to say, “Hello?”
There is only silence as I step out of the shower.
Crap!
I slip on the wet floor and go plummeting, face first, onto the hard, cold tile. My head spins and my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it in my stomach. I hear the scuffle of shoes running down the hallway and the already familiar sound of my heavy front door opening and shutting. I pull myself up, clinging to the wall, and fumble around for the light switch.
Damn, I think my face is bleeding.
I flick on the light and see that indeed, my eye is bleeding; and that the intruder has left a note on my mirror in the scarlet red lipstick I left on the sink.
“Last warning. Stop meddling,” the words state with an unmistakable calligraphic flourish.
What a waste. Now I know it’s a man. No self-respecting woman would use up a perfectly good tube of lipstick to leave a message on someone’s bathroom mirror.
I catch a glimpse of myself and realize my left eye looks worse than I thought. Somewhere between the shock and fear I guess I forgot to feel the pain, which comes rushing in now like a speeding train. It feels white-hot and a sudden queasy feeling drains by body of energy. Everything is still a blur, but I know one thing for sure as I reach for the phone—I need Jack.
81
I talked Jack out of taking me to the hospital, but he made me file a police report and insisted on sleeping on my couch with his gun drawn. What a guy.
My cell phone rings in the middle of the night and I answer groggily, thinking it might be the police.
“Liza, darlin’, it’s Beck Beck.”
Beck Beck is the nickname my Dad gave my sister when we were kids.
“Hi, Beck, what time is it?”
“I’ve been away at a spa and I just heard the news. I can’t believe that no good, cheatin’ scoundrel!”
I laugh out loud at the word scoundrel, which makes my throbbing eye feel like it’s going to pop out of my skull.
“Liza, this is no laughing matter; now we must immediately get you the best divorce lawyer that little Podunk town has to offer.”
Becky’s idea of Podunk is anything that isn’t London, England. She is an expat in every sense of the word. Except that she hasn’t adopted a British accent and hasn’t shed a lick of her Georgia drawl.
“I’ll see if I can get a referral or something,” I reply, still groggy. The swelling from my eye seems to have made its way to my mouth so I’m slurring now. Wonderful.
“I’ve done one better, darlin’, I’ve made you an appointment with a woman in Boston who is supposed to be quite the man-eater, as they say. And she’s originally from England, so you know she’s good.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
Becky’s always acted like my older sister even though she’s two years younger. Although she can be a bossy boots, she also means well, and is exactly the kind of person you want on your side when the chips are down. She promises to call back later with the address and details and I gratefully hang up, immediately curling up under the covers and popping a couple of Advils for my poor, aching eye. It probably looks like an eggplant. And definitely feels the size of one.
82
Luckily Eddie left his Jackie-O sunglasses at my place last night, so I’m looking more like a Hollywood starlet this morning than a battered wife. I hope. Jack left early to open the shop, but made some coffee and put some Vaseline on my bruiser so the skin wouldn’t crack. I’m still pretty shaken up when Kate raps on the door, so I give her the third degree before unlocking the deadbolt.
“It’s really me, Liza. Katherine O’Leary born March 11, 1971.”
I open the door a crack. After confirming her identity with a visual inspection, I pull her inside and shut the door with a slam.
“What’s going on?” She whispers, carrying a white porcelain plate of muffins covered in shrink-wrap.
“Didn’t you hear anything last night?”
Kate smiles shyly and says, “Well, we did hear some rough-housing and we thought that might be you and Jack. He’s such a handsome man.”
I pull the sunglasses off dramatically. “Not quite.”
Kate gasps. “Oh, dear, what happened?”
“Someone broke in here last night.”
“Oh, my gosh. And they hit you?” She gasps again.
I shrug. “No, actually. I managed to do this to myself. I fell out of the shower.”
Kate looks confused and seems to think a piping hot muffin may be just what the doctor ordered. “Here you go, sweetie. Have one of these. I’m going to get Jonas and he’ll whip you up a security system, lickety split.”
I nod and take a bite of the muffin as I move to unlock my fortress. Jonas, his name is Jonas. Need to store that in my mental Rolodex.
“Hey, these are good. What are they?”
Kate gives me a sideways glance. “Bran…they, um, help keep the tummy flat,” she says as an aside and exits briskly.
I polish off the muffin and grab for another when I suddenly realize that Kate may have just been hinting—in a friendly sort of way—that I’m turning into a porker. I beeline to the full length mirror behind the bathroom door and open my worn flannel robe. Lo and behold, I’m looking at a full on potbelly. Not the cute kind that’s just a little pooch, but one that may have people thinking I’m in my second trimester or something.
Inspired, I make my way through the newly stocked cupboards throwing everything that even resembles a starchy carb into a grocery bag and make a pinky swear pact that I will not go within one hundred yards of a Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ll give all this stuff to Eddie. He’ll be thrilled. There’s another knock at the door. It’s Jonas, and he’s here to install my security system. Only problem is I don’t have one.
“Oh, no. No problem at all.” He pulls out what looks to be a wad of gum, a roll of tin foil, and some other household items, and within minutes he’s rigged up a makeshift security system. It reminds me of that show MacGyver, where that really cute guy made bombs out of a pencil sharpener and a piece of lint, or something equally absurd. I thank Jonas and say his name too many times, which makes things mildly uncomfortable (I’m hoping the repetition will help me remember).
Becky left a message with the lawyer’s name and address and it turns out she can squeeze me in this morning. Her office is near the McCormack building which is only about six blocks, so I think I’m going to give the Boston mass transit system a shot. I find myself reluctant to shower in
the house alone so I just clean up with some baby wipes I got at the market. Good enough. Right?
83
I hop on at the Treemont Street metro stop in Commons Park and am surprised how easy it all is. Except for getting my purse strap caught in the roundabout that is. Twice. The law office is on the fifth floor and has the look of new money. Stone lions mount either side of the entrance to the inner office and as the receptionist shows me in I spot Aurelia Gorman sitting with her bird-thin, stockinged legs flung across the side of her desk, laughing heartily into the phone. She motions for me to have a seat. She is manicured within an inch of her life and smells strongly of lilies.
“Okay, darling, but not one penny less. That client of yours is practically the anti-Christ and if you want to keep his buddies at the club from finding out all the sordid details… Yes, yes, I know. See what you can do,” she exclaims hurriedly in her clipped, proper British accent. She slams down the phone with a self-satisfied smile then turns her attention toward me. I get the once over and suddenly feel horribly underdressed in my jeans, sneakers, and oversized cable knit sweater.
“I took the subway here,” I say, hoping this will forgive my lack of fashion couth.
“Yes, yes, of course. You must be Liza.” She doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m wearing huge sunglasses indoors and motions toward the sofa where I assume we are to adjourn for our lawyer-client heart to heart.
After five minutes of rehashing all the gory details, I realize that Ms. Gorman may not actually have a heart at all. She may, in fact, be an alien droid on a mission to analyze human behavior and systematically dismantle and destroy us all based on our all-too-human flaws. She’s perfect. She agrees to take my case for only backend fees as a favor to my sister’s husband, who she remembers from summers at some upper crusty resort their families used to frequent. I feel invigorated after the meeting, so deciding to have a little cheat on my diet in celebration. Oh shut up! It’s one little cheat!
I missed a call while I was in the dragon lady’s office; it was John Gainey letting me know his plane has landed. Crap. I totally forgot that date was tonight. I have no idea what I’m going to wear, not to mention this huge shiner. I look like half a raccoon.
84
I’m off to Evvy’s to borrow a dress. It’ll have to be something really stretchy since she’s got the most statuesque body in all of New England.
“Hello, baby cakes,” Evvy says as she props the door open with a bare, manicured foot.
From the broad grin she’s wearing, I can only assume she’s one and a half sheets to the wind. That usually only happens this time of the morning when her and David Jr. are fighting.“Hi, babe, you seem a bit… drunkish,” I state as gingerly as possible.
“Ha ha, yes, darling. Too true,” she exclaims, her voice a bit hoarse. “Jr.’s acting like a horse’s ass again. I swear he never even thinks to come home early for dinner. Not that I make dinner, mind you, but that’s not the point!”
Oh no, she’s in rare form.
“I mean the idiot even missed his own daughter’s birthday. It’s not as if she’s home from school that often. He could make an ounce of effort!”
Evvy and David Jr. sent Amanda, their only child, to boarding school when she was barely out of diapers. Evvy said she was never the maternal type and didn’t want to torture the poor girl. She thought having other girls her age and people who were paid to “entertain” her was a much better plan of attack. I have to admit I can see her point. The notion of Evvy as a fulltime mom is absurd. In fact, the idea of Evvy as a fulltime anything seems insane.
“I’m sorry, pooh bear,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. Her frail shoulders feel delicate in my embrace, and she gives way to a moment of vulnerability before pulling back.
She gives her hair a dramatic sweep away from her face declaring, “Oh, I’m fine darling. Don’t make a big to do. You know I never was one for tears. And why are you wearing those sunglasses?”
“Someone broke into my place and I slipped in the shower.”
Evvy studies my face as I whip the glasses off. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
I know she’s only being polite. Evvy really prefers conversation be kept light and airy. It’s from years of growing up in a country club environment, no doubt. Her mother is the exact same way; the woman can blather on endlessly about absolutely nothing of import, but start talking about a true emotion and the woman turns deaf and mute.
“Not really.” I shrug. “I need to borrow a dress. This guy from my high school is taking me to the opera tonight.”
Evvy cackles deliciously. “So many suitors!”
“Obviously it will have to be something that stretches. A lot. And I’d prefer something kind of longish. You know how I feel about my legs.”
“I think your knocked knees are sexy,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “You would. Weirdo.”
Within thirty minutes I’m waltzing out the door carrying a Brooks Brothers shopping bag with a forest green, stretchy velveteen Ralph Lauren, floor length, off-the-shoulder dress inside of it. It has pale gold stitching around the waist, and I’m accessorizing with a brocade evening bag and a cashmere shawl in the same pale gold as the stitching on the dress. Score.
85
Mr. Gainey is perfectly punctual. Which is not so perfect for me since I’m running a tad late and haven’t had time to cover my shiner. Evvy gave me some thick concealer, which should do the trick, but unfortunately I have to answer the door first so I put the sunglasses back on.
“Hi, John,” I say as I pull open the door and spot the boy from Savannah High, just a wee bit bigger around the middle with a wee bit less hair. He smiles and shows me he’s still got those dazzling pearly whites though. Feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline, I pull off the sunglasses. “I don’t normally wear these…especially not at night.”
John looks distraught. “Oh, Liza. That bastard.”
I snort. “Oh, no, it’s not what you think at all…I just have some crazy serial stalker guy threatening me and he broke into my place last night while I was in the shower, and I panicked and slipped and fell. No biggie.”
“Phew, for a second there I thought it might be something serious,” John says with a mock sweep of his brow and a sigh of relief.
Cute, he’s got a sense of humor. Albeit a corny one, but humor nonetheless. Point for Team Gainey.
86
We arrive at the Boston Opera House a few minutes early. The lobby is filled with old money types cradling the signature opera glasses, and there’s a faint scent of pine and fake roses in the air. The hall is so ornate it’s almost surreal. The crimson curtains and intricate gold carvings give the air of bygone days where men were “gentlemen,” people smoked cigarettes from long filters, and they wore expensive jewelry without fear of being mugged.
John buys me a program and we take our plush seats. They’re made of almost the same fabric as my dress, only in red, which makes me feel like I dressed appropriately for the occasion. Although I’m wearing flats. But the dress is long so I can get away with it. I’m sure the fashion police would tar and feather me for such a monumental violation, but I don’t care. I’m comfy and that’s all that matters. Though I could do without the pantyhose. These things always make me feel like a giant sausage. I notice John noticing me as I fiddle with my program trying to figure out what we are seeing and if it will be in a language that I understand, while simultaneously hatching a plan to discretely ditch my pantyhose. I like the warm twinkle in his eyes. He has a way of making the person he’s with feel really interesting and exciting.
“You make me feel interesting,” I blurt unintentionally.
He looks surprised and gives me that winning smile. “You are interesting, Liza. You’ve always been that way. Back in high school I remember every guy on the team loved to watch you walk down the hall. You just had a certain something about you.”
“Nuhuh,” I say stupidly. “I mean, no way…I don’
t remember that.”
“Well, I do, because I was one of them.”
This guy is smooth. Not sleazy-trying-to-put-one-over-on-you smooth, but genuinely smooth as butter in a way that makes you feel warm and fuzzy and important. I decide at that moment to take the night and John for exactly what it is: a once in a lifetime moment that is providing me with a much-needed boost of self-esteem.
The lights go down and La Boheme begins. I vaguely remember the story, but as the actors fill the stage in beautiful costumes I feel like I’m being transformed into another world. John hands me a pair of opera glasses and I’m completely enthralled. The moment Mimi and Rudolpho meet it just feels like magic and I find myself hoping and praying that their love will conquer all, especially Mimi’s illness. I’m riveted until the moment the curtain is drawn for intermission.
We make our way to the long marble bar in the lobby. I’m feeling nostalgic for some reason, so I decide to have an Old Fashioned. It’s the drink my Grammy on my Mamma’s side used to have on Sunday afternoons. She would fuss about how she was only going have one, but she’d always have a second. She was bona fide Georgia royalty and came from one of the first families to settle Savannah. Our old house was originally built by her great grandfather and still has all the secret compartments he used to stash his homemade moonshine and other valuables. Daddy’s made one of the spaces a den of sorts where he keeps his collection of Civil War artifacts and an old plaid recliner. On warm summer evenings I would find him tucked away in a corner. The block walls kept the temperature cool, almost like a cellar. He reminded me of a chickadee still in its shell, cocooned from the world.
“Penny for your thoughts,” John says sheepishly.
He’s so old fashioned. Like the kind of guy that might take you out for a chocolate malt on the second date.
“I’m not sure you’ll get a good return on your investment. I was just thinking about my Grammy and my old house.”
Eye Spy Page 19
