Pinkflipflop: says she didn’t take doggie depression course. I think she’s depressed 2. she’s gorging on dessert like we’re having a sugar shortage. some family, huh? dog needs therapy and so does mom the therapist. she only hangs out with old people, my dad only hangs with young bimbos. nana’s lovesick and
Suzicue: nana’s in luv?
Pinkflipflop: she’s all flirty whenever Oliver’s around moody when he leaves. weird seeing her with some 1 besides grandpop.
The truth is, though, I’m glad she’s not hiding out anymore. Before she moved in with us, whenever Mom or I would talk to Nana and ask what she’d been up to, it was always reading, or watching TV or trying a new recipe. She never spent time with friends or went anywhere. Which must’ve been totally boring, if you ask me. Even for an old person.
Now it’s Mom who’s hiding. She’s closed the door on life outside of our house or her office. Like she’s afraid of what might happen if she ventures out. Not that I want her to start dating or anything. As weird as it is to see Nana with someone besides Grandpop, it would be even weirder to see Mom with someone besides Dad. That’s not really fair, though. Dad has a girlfriend. I guess Mom’s allowed, too. She could at least do stuff with her friends. The Margarita Martyrs haven’t even been around lately.
Suzicue: b glad your family’s not boring like mine.
Pinkflipflop: nope they aren’t that. max is howling now.
Suzicue: see u and sorry about noah.
Pinkflipflop: me 2.
CHAPTER 16
From The Desk of
Belle Lamont
Dear Harry,
Merry Christmas! Though I missed you, we had a wonderful day. Jack and Lydia and the kids are here. It’s so good to see them. We don’t do so nearly enough since they moved. The children have grown. Except for the earrings, nose stud and tattoo, Jack junior looks just like you.
You won’t believe the news! Cecilia’s being sued over that book I told you about. Can you imagine? What a big ol’ silly mess. She doesn’t know it, but the entire reading group has been meeting here during the day while she’s at work. We’re putting our heads together to come up with ideas to help her case, or at least help pay her legal fees. Doris and Frank, whose children are lead plaintiffs in the suit, suggested everyone finagle money from their kids in the name of charity, then give it to CiCi for her defense. That would serve them right. Ellen Miles suggested a bake sale, as well. And The Frans are getting together a petition. More ideas are in the works. I’ll keep you informed.
Oh, Harry…another year over, a new one ahead. That and a dear friend’s near-death Viagra accident have me thinking about my life. If I could’ve stopped time in one place and lived there forever, when would I choose? The summers of my childhood? How good it would be to see Momma and Daddy again. To run through the fields on our farm with my Callie, Will and Claire, my legs lean and strong, baked brown by the sun. No worries to speak of. I’d always feel safe, knowing my parents were there to take care of me.
But then there’d be no you, no Jack or Cecilia. So maybe I’d choose when our children were little, before they started school, when we lived in our tiny white house on the corner of Tenth and Vine. The one with the faulty plumbing that always made the bathroom smell like rotten eggs, and that clanky furnace we decided only worked on odd-numbered days of the month.
I often recall the winter it snowed past the windows and you made that sled out of an apple crate and old skis. We bundled the kids up and took them to the steepest hill in the park, then all piled on and rode it down, again and again, until one ski fell off and everyone toppled over. Cecilia got a mouthful of snow and cried so hard her eyes swelled. You and Jack teased her so mercilessly that she rode it again just to prove she wasn’t afraid.
I could’ve clobbered you, Harry. Sometimes you were too hard on her. Trying to toughen her up, you’d tell me. Well, she’s tough now, Harry. You succeeded. She’s tough on herself and everyone around her at times. She won’t admit that she’s hurting or reach out to me or anyone else for a shoulder to cry on. I tell myself that she’ll get over this and show her soft side again. She always forgave you, didn’t she?
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cast blame. You were a good father, you just expected so much. Still, despite your mule headedness, rotten egg smells and a clanky furnace, our children’s early years were a happy part of my life. I was content. We’d waited an eternity, it seemed, to finally be blessed with children, and after it happened, I never took that blessing for granted. Even with the stress of more bills than money, hectic days of stubbed toes and runny noses and no social life, I could stay in that time forever and be satisfied.
But then I’d miss seeing our children grow up, all the times they’d struggle over something and succeed, the fun of having teenagers in and out of the house at all hours of the day and night, all of them laughing and so full of life. Of course, I haven’t forgotten that it wasn’t always fun and excitement. We had plenty of sleepless nights. Worry. Tears. Even disaster. But I wouldn’t have traded it. Just as I wouldn’t trade our years together after we’d raised them. Alone again, just the two of us. Rediscovering each other. Traveling. Grandchildren.
So I suppose it wouldn’t do to stop time. Each stage had joy and heartache and so many surprises. I love every memory, though I admit that, while we were making those memories, there were moments I wanted to run away and leave no forwarding address.
When you died, Harry, I thought that time had stopped for me, too. Stopped in a place I didn’t want to be. A place of no joy, no more surprises, only heartache. But I was wrong. Tonight I discovered that, if I allow it to be so, even this stage of my life can be rich and full.
Oliver kissed me. Remember, I told you about him? Oliver the old fart, as CiCi calls him? Well, the old fart kissed me, and it was wonderful.
So, there you have it. Maybe I’m wrong to tell you, but that’s that.
I’m so torn. Happy and ashamed. Thrilled and guilt-ridden. Most of all, angry. Angry at you for making me feel so confused. I tell myself that if our destinies were reversed, if I were gone and you were here, I’d want you to keep making memories, not just exist on the ones from the past. Just because a person is old and widowed, why should they be expected to sit on the sidelines, only existing, not living. Why, Harry? Tell me. Is that what you want for me? If not, then why do I feel I am betraying you by caring for Oliver?
I want one last gift from you. A sign. Something to assure me you understand and accept whatever I decide to do with the rest of my life.
I love you, my husband. Ornery as you sometimes were, I always did, and I always will. Caring for someone else, too, will not change that.
As always, your yellow rose,
Belle
CHAPTER 17
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Friday, 01/5
1.
9:00 a.m.—First Weight Wackers meeting.
2.
10:30—patient follow-up/Roger & Cindy Hoyt.
3.
1:30—1st meeting w/Smythe’s teenaged daughter, Halee (drug problem).
At noon, I close the Hoyt’s file, remove my reading glasses, and head for the fridge in the office kitchen for my fat-free, sugar-free, carb-free, taste-free shake, compliments of my new Weight Wackers diet plan. I’m popping the top on the can when Willa, my secretary, steps in, her purse over her shoulder.
“Sure you don’t want to grab a burger with me?”
“Why would I want juicy beef, hot melted swiss and crispy fried potatoes when I can have this?” I lift the can.
“Bless your heart. Tried that one. Lost five pounds, gained back eight.” Willa, who I would swear purposely gains weight so she can test each new fad diet that comes along, eyes me with sympathy. “New Year’s resolution?”
I nod and point at my butt. “I’m tired of looking like a pear.”
She scowls. “Girl, don’t give me that. You’re tiny.”
“Okay, so I’m a tiny pear. A pear’s still a pear. Small at the top, bigger at the bottom.”
She shakes her head. “All right, then. Enjoy.”
I take a sip. “Yum.”
Back at my desk, the Hoyt file beckons. They’re making progress. Roger fired his secretary, Bitsy or Bootsy or Betsy, whatever her name is. Cindy takes classes to sell real estate now, so her entire world no longer revolves around her husband. They claim I’ve helped them save their marriage. If that’s true, I’m glad. Still, I wonder why I couldn’t save my own marriage.
The phone rings. Since Willa’s gone to lunch, I pick it up. “Cecilia Dupree.”
“CiCi, it’s Bill Burdette over at Parkview. Do you have a television in your office?”
“A TV? Sure. Why?”
“Turn it on to The Scoop.”
“What’s up?”
“Just do it.”
I start to inform him that I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all him, but curiosity gets the best of me. With the cordless phone pressed to my ear, I walk to the entertainment center across from my desk. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d watch tabloid TV, Bill.”
“I don’t. My secretary does. She said they mentioned something about the case.”
“Our case?” Opening the cabinet doors, I flip the television on.
“Yep. After the commercial they’re supposed to—shhh. Here…it’s on again.”
A perky blonde wearing too much makeup appears on screen. “And now the stories our reporters are hard at work on to bring to you in the weeks ahead. First, from deep in the heart of Texas, we have reporter Steven Motley with news of a retirement village sex scandal. Steve—”
The scene shifts. Dread sucks the air from my lungs. A shivering man holds a microphone. He stands beside the sign at the entrance to the Parkview Manor grounds. Cars whiz past on the highway beside him.
“Son of a bitch,” Bill hisses.
“Hi, Mary Ann,” the reporter says into the microphone, “Recently I spoke with Dale Renfro, a prior Parkview Manor employee…”
“Son of a bitch!” Bill explodes. “That asshole.”
“Who is he?”
“Our maintenance guy. He quit two weeks ago.”
“…an eighty-year-old gentleman ended up in the hospital,” the reporter continues. “According to Mr. Renfro, this Dallas retirement community became a haven for hanky-panky after the facility brought in Dallas therapist Cecilia Dupree to host group readings of sexually explicit material to the senior citizens residing here.”
“We’ll definitely look forward to more on that,” the blonde says with a wink, a chuckle and a rise of her brows. “And now over to Lyle Peters in Minnesota who’s covering—”
I switch off the TV, close my eyes, clasp one hand over my mouth.
“No wonder that slimy weasel quit.” Bill has murder in his voice. “I’d bet my last dollar he’s selling this story. There’s no telling who the bastard’s talked to.”
I lower my hand. “What do we do?”
“Watch our backs and screen calls. The media will be after us next. Get ready.”
In the pit of my stomach, the diet shake starts to gurgle. I sit on the edge of my desk. “You really think so?”
“Count on it. I’ve already had one call. The guy wanted to film a seniors-gone-wild video here at the Village.”
Not so long ago, I might’ve laughed at the prospect of such a movie. Not today.
Bill and I promise to keep one another informed if the vultures start circling, then say our goodbyes.
I decide to call Nathan Colby about all this. It’s been more than a couple of weeks since we’ve spoken. Before I can look up his number, the phone rings again.
“Cecilia Dupree.”
“Hey.”
“Bert?”
“Yeah. I was afraid you might be at lunch.”
I glance at my half-finished shake. “I am.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I wanted to talk to you before I call Erin.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, everything’s great. Fantastic, actually. I’m getting married.”
“Oh.” I deflate like a punctured bicycle tire. Lovestruck. That’s how he sounds. Like a man who’s head over heels. I remember when he sounded that way about me. About us. I remember how sweet he looked and the guilt I felt because I didn’t share his feelings, and because he didn’t even realize it yet. “Wow. Congratulations.”
His laugh is self-conscious. “Thanks. Her name is Natalie.”
The college coed and coffee-shop counter girl. “The redhead.”
Irritation creeps into his voice. “No, not the redhead. Erin’s met Natalie. They seemed to get along.”
Right. Like a cat and a canary. “Erin told me about her.” How old did she say? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? How nice. The older sister our daughter’s always wanted. They can have pillow fights. Trade clothes. Paint each others toenails. “I hope you’re both very happy. I wish you the best.” And I should, I guess. Wish him the best, that is. I really do hope this time his bride marries him for the right reasons and will love him from the start, not wait until it’s too late.
“We’ll be moving to Amarillo.”
“Oh.” Another puncture. “Why Amarillo?”
“The coffee shop where Natalie works? They’re branching out. They’ve offered her the management position. And since I can work anywhere…”
“I see.”
Silence. Then, “CiCi, I just, well, I want you to know—”
“You don’t have to explain—”
“I regret a lot of things.”
A sigh seeps past my lips. “I know that, Bert. So do I.”
“I made mistakes, and I wish…I want you to know that I did love you.”
“Don’t, Bert. Please.”
He coughs. “I just wonder…” Another cough. “How do you think Erin will take the news?”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
“I don’t want to upset her.”
Since when did our daughter’s feelings become a priority to him? Not when he came on to our cute, young neighbor. Not when he so easily gave up on our family and marriage, or when he stopped calling Erin more than every other week or so. “She’s dealt with worse and survived, Bert. She’ll survive this, too.”
And so will I.
I continue to try to reach my attorney, but only get a machine.
Work is my salvation, a fact my one-thirty appointment backs up. Sixteen-year-old Halee Smythe’s drug experimentation takes my mind off The Scoop segment and makes all my other problems seem insignificant in comparison. At least for a while.
At four-thirty, I show up at the attorney’s office unannounced, hoping Nate can work me in. I want to hear his take on the television segment. Surely the negative publicity will hurt the case. Or maybe I’m just the pessimist Bert often accused me of being.
Inside Colby and Colby, I go through the same routine as before.
“Hello?”
This time, Nate comes out into the hallway instead of his brother. He wears a suit, and wears it well. Hormones that have been missing in action for so long I’d thought them dead, show up waving flags.
“Well, hi there,” Nate says. His eyes are tired, his smile is anything but. Lazy, yes, but in a flirtatious way. Could that be true? Could it be possible he’s flirting with me? That he really was the last time I was here, too? Silly or not, I’m flattered to think it might be possible.
He blows out a work-weary breath as he runs a hand through his hair.
I catch myself wanting to do the same thing; run my fingers through his too long, wavy brown hair, to feel the heat of his scalp on my skin. To just touch him, period. How long has it been since I’ve touched a man? Since a man touched me? Going without has caught up to me, I guess. Here’s this virtual stranger, and just because he’s all male, just because his eyes seem filled with promises of forbidden fun, because his arms look strong and invi
ting, I have this overwhelming urge to throw myself into them.
Shocked, I step back. “I hope you don’t mind, I, um…” Oh, God. I burst into tears.
He frowns, then moves toward me.
Turning my head away, I raise a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m crying.” Which is true. The lawsuit and sudden publicity? Bert’s engagement to a blushing debutante? Mother and Erin moving on without me? That I haven’t had sex in so long I could probably classify as a virgin again? Maybe all of the above. I should be ashamed, I know. At least I don’t have a child in crisis. At least I have work I love. A good book to curl up with at night.
I cry harder.
Finally, I shudder and sniff. “I’ll quit. I promise. Just give me a second.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to tears. I have three sisters. When I was growing up, we had more crying jags around our house than a hospital nursery.”
Sputtering a laugh, I look up at him.
He nods toward his office and I follow him in. From a CD player on Nate’s credenza, Led Zeppelin sings about climbing a stairway to Heaven. I imagine that’s what sex with him would be like. Climbing straight to Heaven.
Oh, help. My knees are shaking.
Nate turns off the music then hands a box of tissues to me as I slink into a chair. I take one and blow so hard into it my nose honks, which should probably embarrass me, but the man’s already heard me burp, so what the heck? Miss Manners I’m not, and he knows it.
Facing me, he leans against the desk, crosses one ankle over the other, loosens his tie, then takes it off. “Tough day?”
Shaking my head “yes,” I honk again into the tissue.
“I can relate.” His eyes are kind. No more mocking glint, no hint of salacious thoughts. Damn, I blew it. Probably a good thing.
“You too, huh?” I dab my wet cheeks.
Nate lets out a long breath. “Missed my morning racquet-ball game ’cause I had to be in court.”
“Wow, that is tough.” I don’t even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
He points over his shoulder at his desk, which is even messier than the last time I saw it. “Jo’s gonna have my hide when she gets back from maternity leave and sees all this.”
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