Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  She ignored him and went on with her list of improvements. “My friend drew up a wonderful landscape plan for the yard. Did you know there are half a dozen fruit trees in the backyard? Lemon, lime, grapefruit, tangerines. He’ll show me how to trim them and fertilize them so they produce again. I’d plant more flowers in the front beds, maybe do away with some of that grass…”

  “Get rid of grass?” he squawked. “What do you want to do, pave the yard?”

  “Not at all,” she said calmly. “Maintaining all that grass takes so much time and energy, water and chemicals, my friend thinks flower beds might be a better solution. Oh, and did you know there’s a sprinkler system out there?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said. “Not much good, since it hasn’t worked in years and years.”

  “My friend thinks he can probably get it working again without spending much money,” Grace said. “This could be the beauty spot in the neighborhood.”

  “Not to mention my water bill would go sky-high,” he muttered.

  “Come on, Arthur,” Grace coaxed. “Quit making excuses for why it won’t work. Won’t you at least consider it?”

  He folded the brochures and stuffed them in his back pocket. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said finally. “Have to discuss it with my wife. She’s the real boss, you know.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Grace said. “Show her the pictures you took today, tell her my ideas, see what she says.”

  “Can’t promise anything,” he warned. “We’re busy, getting ready to head up to the mountains.”

  “That’s fine,” Grace repeated. “Just let me know. And Arthur?”

  “What now?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m really thrilled you like what I’ve done.”

  Truegrace

  One of my favorite old movies is Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House. Poor Mr. Blandings (played by Cary Grant) is a harried advertising copywriter living with his happy nuclear family in a cramped city apartment who just wants to build a simple little cottage in the country, but when the dream starts to take on grandiose proportions, Mr. Blandings’s sunny version of utopia suddenly turns cloudy. I’ve thought of that movie a lot lately, as my own home life was dramatically disrupted, and then destroyed. Up until three months ago, I was living in a 6,500-square-foot mansion, that I thought was my own dream house. Now, with the clarity that only hindsight can bring, I realize that dream was mostly spun of high-fructose fantasy.

  These days, I’m finding intense satisfaction in the transformation of a weather-beaten little 1,200-square-foot Florida “cracker cottage” into what I think will be a cozy jewel of a home—maybe even, eventually, my home. I feel a little like Goldilocks, who found one chair too big, another chair too small, but, finally, an exactly-perfect-fit chair that feels “just right.” My work on Mandevilla Manor is far from done, but already it’s feeling “just right.”

  44

  Nelson Keeler was having one of his good days. “Goddamn it,” he roared, when Wyatt told him of his impending doctor’s appointment. “I do not have Alzheimer’s! I’m fine! That scheming woman … you call up that judge, tell him I’ll go to the courthouse right now. I’ll recite the Declaration of Independence by heart, balance my checkbook, balance his checkbook, and then I’ll drop and give him fifty, by God!”

  “No, Dad, that’s all right,” Wyatt protested, but it was too late.

  Nelson proceeded to do just that, right there in the living room of the trailer, flattening himself on the floor, doing fifty straight-arm push-ups, counting aloud in a wheezy voice, then sitting up, cross-legged, wiping his perspiring brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “How many other seventy-four-year-olds you think can do that?”

  “None.” Wyatt gave his father a hand up. “I know you’ve got all your marbles. But we’ve got to prove it to the judge, and to do that, you’ve got to go see this doctor and get a bunch of tests done. Just remember, you’re doing this for Bo, not for Callie.”

  “Callie!” Nelson spat the name. “Somebody should have knocked some sense into that woman years ago. When this is all over, I’m gonna…”

  Wyatt steered his father toward the door. “When this is all over, we’re gonna laugh about it, but until then, neither of us can afford to do or say anything that might make anyone believe we’re a couple of dangerously violent misfits. Right, Dad?”

  “If you say so,” Nelson muttered.

  “One more thing,” Wyatt said. “If you’re going to convince this doctor, and then the judge, that you’re harmless, you’ve got to keep your temper under check. This means no debating Alex Trebek or the designated-hitter rule. And it especially means no discussion of your bowel movements. Right?”

  “Unless the doctor asks,” Nelson countered.

  “But only if she asks.”

  * * *

  It was after six o’clock. Nelson Keeler was sitting upright in a chair in the doctor’s office, snoring.

  “He’s had a really long day,” Wyatt told Margaret-Ellen Shank. “He gets up at six, always has, and some nights he doesn’t sleep all that well. He usually has a midday nap, but he didn’t get that today.”

  “No need to apologize,” Dr. Shank said, her voice soft. “Your dad is quite a guy. I really enjoyed meeting and talking to him today. One thing. What’s his diet like?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Dad has a sweet tooth. He likes Pop-Tarts or Twinkies for breakfast. He might eat some canned soup for lunch, and a lot of nights he’ll have a frozen chicken potpie for dinner. Or, and I’m not proud of this, a quart of ice cream or some more Twinkies.”

  Dr. Stark was still making notes. “What did he have for lunch today, do you know?”

  “I don’t,” Wyatt admitted. “I was out in the park working until right before time for his appointment with you.”

  She frowned and consulted her notes. “Your dad has good balance and coordination, is able to communicate clearly, and his short- and long-term memory seemed to be in an acceptable range for his age. But as the day wore on, his personality changed drastically. I’m not an endocrinologist, but I think there really is a good possibility that your dad might be suffering from diabetes.”

  Wyatt stared at her. “So … you don’t think he has Alzheimer’s?”

  “We’ll need to take a look at all the test results, but my initial impression is that he does not. Your Aunt Betsy called him cantankerous, but I’d prefer the word ‘spirited.’ He clearly adores you and your son and is not an admirer of the boy’s mother.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Wyatt said. “As far as Dad is concerned, Callie is the enemy, because she wants to move to Birmingham and take Bo with her. And, of course, she’s now trying to prove that he’s senile.”

  “He’s pretty adamant on that subject,” Dr. Shank said, smiling. “And I can’t blame him. By the way,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “I don’t agree with him on the subject of Alex Trebek. At all. I think he’s every bit as intelligent and talented as Art Fleming.”

  Wyatt let out a sigh of relief. “We’ve got to meet with the judge at eleven tomorrow morning. Is there any way you can give us some kind of report?”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’ll fax over something by ten tomorrow. Will that work?”

  “That would be great,” Wyatt said, jumping to his feet and pumping her hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Shank. For seeing Dad so quickly and, just, everything. You’ve been a huge help.”

  Margaret-Ellen Shank leaned over and tapped Nelson gently on the shoulder. “Mr. Keeler?”

  Nelson yawned widely. “What’s that?” he asked groggily.

  “It’s nearly seven o’clock,” she told him. She offered her hand; he took it and stood slowly.

  “I told Wyatt you need to eat more sensibly,” she said, giving him a look of mock disapproval. “No more Pop-Tarts for dinner. Right?”

  “Right,” he agreed.

  45

  Grace heard the muffled pi
nging of an incoming text coming from somewhere beneath the towering pile of merchandise in her shopping cart. She shoved aside the quilt with its vivid orange and green chinoiserie print, the four turquoise and green quilted throw pillows, the green and blue striped dhurrie, and the stack of turquoise and white polka-dotted bath towels.

  The pair of green chevron-striped shower curtains she’d bought for the condo’s dining room windows slid off the top of the stack and onto the floor. Finally, burrowing deep down into her pocketbook, she brought up the phone.

  The text was from Camryn Nobles.

  Where r u?

  HomeGoods. What’s up?

  While she waited for a reply, Grace studied the store’s furniture selection. Mitzi Stillwell’s kitchen had an island crying out for barstools. Here were a pair of barstools with a perfectly acceptable look, clean lines, and a great price, $59.99 a pair. The problem was that they were white. And that was the problem with Mitzi’s condo. Every single thing in it was white.

  The walls were dead white. The tile floors were white. The sectional sofa in the living room was white, the pair of armchairs facing it was white, the sheer draperies hung from the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the sparkling blue Gulf of Mexico were white. In the kitchen, the countertops were white Corian, with a white subway-tile backsplash. The master bedroom had a king-sized bed with an upholstered, tufted white headboard and footboard. The carpet was an off-white flat weave. The guest bedroom featured a pair of twin beds with no headboards at all, just an expanse of white quilted-cotton bedspreads.

  Just thinking of all that arctic white made Grace shiver. Maybe, she thought, running a finger over the back of one of the barstools, she could paint the stools a high-gloss tangerine.

  Her phone dinged again with a reply from Camryn.

  Been digging into Stackpole’s financials and hit paydirt. Lunch?

  Grace shook her head, annoyed. She had just begun shopping for Mitzi’s place. She still needed lamps, bedspreads for the guest bedroom, and a new chandelier to replace the hideous builder-brass one in the dining room—and art. And those was just the accessories. She still needed dining room furniture, dressers for both bedrooms, coffee tables and end tables …

  Can’t it wait til tonight? she typed. With her pocket calculator, she began adding up the tab for the merchandise in her cart. She frowned. She was already at $431.99, not counting the two barstools.

  Another ding interrupted her mental mathematics.

  Got good stuff. How ’bout meet @Sandbox @2?

  Grace shrugged and typed.

  See u there.

  * * *

  Cedric Stackpole drummed his fingers on his desktop. He looked down at the faxed report from Dr. Shank, then up at Nelson Keeler. “Mr. Keeler? I understand you are a Vietnam veteran, is that right? In what branch of the service did you serve, sir?”

  Was this some kind of trick question? Nelson looked to his son for some kind of signal, but Wyatt remained expressionless.

  “That’s correct, Judge,” Nelson said finally. “I was in the army. Fifth Infantry. Did two tours, managed to get home in one piece. How about you?”

  “Er, no,” Stackpole said. “I like to think that my time in the judiciary is of some small benefit to my community. But I thank you for your service to this great country.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nelson said. “I got drafted, so it wasn’t like I had a choice or anything.”

  Stackpole looked at Nelson over the rim of his glasses. “I understand you had some kind of verbal altercation recently with your daughter-in-law?”

  “Altercation’s a big word for what we had,” Nelson replied calmly.

  “Your daughter-in-law is saying that you did use strong language in your conversation with her. In fact, she says you actually threatened her. Did your grandson hear you making threats against his mother, hear you using strong language?”

  “I reckon he did,” Nelson said, his chin dropping. “I’m ashamed of that, Judge. Ashamed I let her get me riled up like that. And I’m here to promise, I won’t let her get my goat again. No sir.”

  Betsy Entwhistle cleared her voice. “Judge? If I may?”

  Stackpole gave her a curt nod.

  “I’d just like to point out that Mrs. Keeler is not charging that Nelson Keeler has ever neglected or in any way harmed his grandson. Because he hasn’t, and he wouldn’t. And if you’ve read Dr. Shank’s report, you can see that Mrs. Keeler’s assertion that Nelson is suffering from dementia or the onset of Alzheimer’s disease is totally untrue.”

  Betsy took a deep breath. “Dr. Shank is waiting on the rest of the test results, but she believes Mr. Keeler’s occasional, er, bellicosity, could be simply the result of low blood sugar. In fact, she’s suggested that Nelson Keeler might be suffering from diabetes, which could be responsible for all these symptoms Mrs. Keeler seems to want to believe are Alzheimer’s.”

  The judge glanced over at Nelson Keeler and considered the old man sitting in the armchair across from him.

  Nelson’s thinning gray hair was neatly trimmed and combed. He wore a pair of navy dress pants, a white dress shirt that he hadn’t donned since his late wife’s funeral, and a pair of well-polished black lace-up dress shoes.

  “I’m not senile,” Nelson volunteered. “There is nothing in the world wrong with me, except maybe a little sugar diabetes, and I told the doctor I’d get that checked out and lay off the Pop-Tarts.”

  “You do that,” Stackpole said finally. He closed the file folder. “I’m going to tell Mrs. Keeler and her lawyer that for now, I agree with your Dr. Shank. It appears to me that you have all your mental faculties and that you pose no threat at all to your grandson.”

  “Good!” Nelson exclaimed. He pulled himself to a standing position and extended a hand to the judge, who took it, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Judge,” Betsy said hurriedly. “This is the second time in as many weeks that Mrs. Keeler and her attorney have launched one of these baseless attacks on my client and his father. I hope this will reinforce our argument that it is not in Bo’s best interest for you to allow his mother to move her son out of state and away from his father’s care.”

  “You’ve made your point, Ms. Entwhistle,” Stackpole said. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  * * *

  Camryn Nobles was sitting at their regular corner table at the Sandbox, with Rochelle seated right across from her, their heads nearly touching, deep in conversation.

  Grace dropped down into a chair beside her mother. “I’m starved,” she announced. “What’s the lunch special?”

  “Shrimp burger, tuna melt, gazpacho,” Rochelle said.

  “Gazpacho?” Grace raised one eyebrow askance.

  “My produce supplier gave me a whole bushel of tomatoes with bad spots, for next to nothing,” Rochelle said. “Do you have something against gazpacho?”

  “I love gazpacho,” Camryn said. “Unless it’s got green peppers, which don’t agree with me.”

  “This recipe is straight off Grace’s Web site,” Rochelle said. “No green peppers. Cucumbers, garlic, cilantro…”

  “You read my blog?”

  “When it’s interesting, which I occasionally find it is,” Rochelle said.

  “You bought cilantro?” Grace’s second interruption was a clear annoyance to her mother.

  “Yes,” Rochelle said. “And I peeled the cucumbers, just as your recipe specified, for your information. With, I might add, a garnish of diced avocado and shrimp. Now, is there anything else?”

  “No,” Grace said, somewhat meekly.

  “Would you like a bowl of gazpacho?”

  “Yes, please,” Grace and Camryn said in unison.

  When they’d spooned up the last traces of cold soup and drained their iced tea glasses, Grace and Camryn sat back in their chairs.

  “That was pretty damned good,” Camryn said with a sigh.

  “Better than my original recipe,” Grace admitted. “But she’
ll never tell me how she changed it.”

  “Mothers,” Camryn said, in unspoken agreement.

  “Yeah,” Grace said. “Now. What kind of dirt did you dig up on Stackpole?”

  Camryn reached for her Yves St. Laurent tote bag and extracted a sheaf of computer printouts.

  “Judge Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” she said, with a flourish, “is in debt up to his pointy little ears.”

  Grace rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Oooh. Goody. Do tell.”

  “This is a list of bank-foreclosed properties I pulled from the county’s Web site,” Camryn said, tapping a fingernail on the first sheet of paper on the stack. She ran her finger down the columns of tiny print and then jabbed one line, highlighted with a yellow marker.

  “See here? 1454 Altadora Way, unit C. Siesta Key.” Her finger trailed down the page until it stopped at another yellow-highlighted line of print. “1454 Altadora Way, unit B.” Grace’s eyes skipped down to the next line, which she read aloud.

  “1463 Altadora Circle, unit A. But the mortgage holder is listed as Solomon Holdings,” Grace said, squinting at the fine print.

  “Solomon, as in, wise King Solomon, biblical judge,” Camryn said, deadpan. “I looked it up. C. N. Stackpole is the sole corporate officer of Solomon Holdings. And then I took a ride over to Altadora Commons. It’s a development of new town houses not far from his address on Longboat Key. I’ll tell you a funny coincidence. I didn’t realize it until I pulled up in front of the complex, but I actually looked at one of those town houses with my real estate agent, right after I kicked Dexter out of the house. Prices aren’t bad, for Siesta, the unit I looked at was a resale, and they only wanted 575,000 dollars, but it was still way too pricey for my budget, and besides, I didn’t like the floorplan.”

  Camryn leafed through the pages of documents until she found one she wanted, a computer printout of a real estate listing for Altadora Commons. The picture showed a series of tasteful cream stucco two-story town houses with orange stucco barrel-tile roofs, and a not-so-tasteful billboard seemingly mushrooming from a postage-stamp-sized lawn that proclaimed, “Bank Owned. Prestige Homes at Distressed Prices!”