by Leanna Ellis
“Of course.”
Marla leans back against her headboard, readjusting a pillow at her back and indicating the chest of drawers. “My unmentionables are in the third drawer. Probably should take it all, just in case.”
In case of what? My washer breaks? She decides to move in permanently? I pull open the drawer. The rainbow of silks and satins look more like Izzie’s than my ex-mother-in-law’s and appear to have come straight from Victoria’s Secret. Beneath the intimate apparel are several slinky negligees made of sheer material and lace trimmed satin, peek-a-boo baby-doll styles and fly-aways, bustiers, and corsets. What kind of activities do they have in this retirement village anyway? If she wears any of these, then she’d definitely have some recovering to do. The material slides and slips through my fingers like mercury and into the luggage bag. Where are her sensible pjs? My pinky snags on a garter and I hold it up. It dances in the air like a stripper.
“Is there a problem?” Marla asks from behind me.
“Uh, no. I was . . . uh, just wondering if you were sure you’d need these.”
“You can never be sure what you’ll need.”
Oh, really?
“Of course, I need something to wear to bed.”
Okay then. Grabbing a handful, I stuff the rest of the lingerie into the suitcase, not wanting to think about it or know anymore about Marla’s private life. I’d rather just keep it under lock and key.
From there I move to her closet, holding out first one outfit for her approval, then another. All seem overkill for recovering as a couch potato while watching Oprah. She discards more outfits than she approves, but finally the suitcase is full to the brim. I pray she doesn’t make me climb into the attic for the trunk.
“Ready?” She props a hand on her narrow hip, tapping a bare fingernail against the seam of her A-line skirt.
“I think so.” I zip her bag, tugging hard as the contents threaten to burst the seams. “You have a lot here for just a few days.”
“If I need more,” she says in that gritty way, “you can come back for it.”
How long does she intend to stay? I match her squinty gaze, but her one remaining drainage tube bobs, tapping into my guilt. She looks like she’s gone fifteen rounds with Rocky Balboa.
Who knows what she’ll look like after she heals. I still don’t understand why she did it. Was she so unhappy with herself, so desperate to feel beautiful? Is the competition in the retirement village that brutal?
I wander back into the kitchen, carrying the designer bag, which is heavier than a brick of gold out of Fort Knox. “I think we’re about ready. You must be getting tired.”
She waves away my comment as if it’s inconsequential.
A knock at the door makes Marla gasp. Automatically I take a step toward the door.
“Don’t get that.”
The fear in her voice, the panic, stops me midstride. “What? Why? What’s wrong?”
“Pretend we’re not here.”
“But—”
“Do as I say.” Marla stands beside the door wide eyed (well, one eye wide, the other still squinting from the swelling), her hands splayed, forming a diminutive human barricade. Her look is more formidable than her stance. A clock in the apartment tick-tocks away the seconds, minutes.
Finally she steps sideways. “Check the door.” As I peer through the peephole, she checks the front window, barely moving the drapes. “Do you see anyone?”
“Just an older man—”
She elbows me out of the way, raises up on tiptoe, and peers with her good eye through the peephole.
“I think he’s probably gone now.”
“We should be going. You load the car and I’ll wait here until you’re ready.”
It feels like we’re about to make a mad getaway. Actually, I’m mad for following her orders and inviting her to stay. Indefinitely!
I’m beginning to see the wisdom of my teenage daughter.
Chapter Six
Marla’s stuffed-to-the-gills bag weighs as much as a Texas-sized catfish. I back through the front door, dragging the heavy bag. A deep-throated bark signals something is wrong. Either I’ve entered the wrong house or a burglar brought his own dog.
From the corner of my eye, I spot a furry black blur. As I fully turn, what looks like the creature from the black lagoon launches at me. I recognize the dog as the force of its paws hits me right in my middle. “What are you doing here?”
I wrestle my way through the door, slamming it behind me in a pathetic effort to protect Marla and her face.
“Izzie!” I elbow the beast out of my way, placing Marla’s suitcase between me and those platter-sized paws. The crazy dog jumps and barks in a circle around me. “Sit!”
Surprisingly, It does. But there must be springs on its backside as it pops right back up. Four fat, furry paws prance around me. Keeping my focus on the dog, I glance around to see if Jack is nearby. But my client isn’t here. Just his dog.
Izzie comes around the corner into the foyer. She sports an innocent look but registers no surprise at me being cornered. “Need help?”
“Where did this”—I push the dog off me again—“thing come from?”
“Cousin It.” She grabs the collar. “That’s its name. Cute, huh?”
“We’ve met before but—”
“You have? Where?”
I wave my hand to brush aside that unimportant topic. “Question is—how did you?” Distracted from the real problem, I glare down at the menace. My blood pressure surges. “Why is It here?”
“A friend needed a place for his dog. It’s just temporary.”
“Yeah, it is. Get it out of my house now.”
“Dad never let me have a dog.” It’s the parent-versus-parent sand trap. “Come on, Mom.”
“No.”
“Just for a couple of weeks.”
“Your grandmother is going to be here. She’s outside right now. We don’t have room for that . . . that . . . thing.”
“If you can invite someone here without my agreeing, then why can’t I?”
I square off with my daughter. This time I’m taller than she is, because she’s bent at the waist holding the dog’s collar. “Because I own this house. You don’t.”
She jerks on It’s collar and drags the furry mass to a giant crate occupying half of my den. “Fine. I’ll call an animal shelter.”
“Izzie . . .” I regret my words. I’ve tried to maintain a better relationship with my daughter than the one I had with my parents and their ever-present, “Because I said so.” Convenient as that might have been a few times in my daughter’s life, it doesn’t necessarily promote happy relations or diplomatic understanding. “Look, how do you know Cousin It anyway?”
“A guy I know.”
“Gabe.” I supply his name and enjoy watching Izzie’s eyes widen momentarily.
“They’re trying to sell their house.” Her voice slows. “And he needs a place for Cousin It to stay. Temporarily.”
“My new client.”
“Of course. Well, good, then it helps you too.”
Scowling, because I have no rebuttal for that, I stare at the beast in the crate. His—or is it a her (I can’t remember)—whatever, It’s tongue lolls out of its mouth, a pink ribbon of cuteness. I admit only to myself that the dog is kind of sweet. Frankly I have an inkling it’s because I do like outdoing Cliff in this regard. But I know for a fact looks can be deceiving.
I go back to the garage. Marla stands at the side of the car looking disoriented. She props a hand on her hip. “What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry. You must be tired. Come on.” I take her arm. “Let’s get you settled.”
She wobbles on her heels. Why didn’t she just wear tennis shoes or house slippers? But that’s not Marla’s style. She’s not about to show any weakness.
“What is that?”
Cousin It stares out from her crate, pink tongue still lolling.
“Another house guest.”
>
“You’re not going to put me in a crate, are you?”
Good idea. “Of course not.”
When I start to pull out the sofa bed, I catch the shock in her one good eye, the fatty one. I’m being selfish. Nettled by my own good conscience, I pick up her Big Louie bag and carry it to my bedroom. Of course, I change the sheets, fluff the pillows, and invite her to “make yourself at home.” This time with my teeth gritted.
Marla crawls into my bed fully clothed.
“Want some help?”
She sticks out a foot like I’m her newly acquired servant girl, and I tug off her three-inch heels and pray she won’t use them to stab me in the back.
“Where is she?” Izzie whispers after she’s cleaned the pool and taken Cousin It for a long walk.
“Sleeping,” I pause, cutting carrots for homemade chicken noodle soup. “At least for now.” I can hear Cousin It’s gruff barks from the crate. She’s discovered our neighbor’s poodle and they like to share the local neighborhood gossip through the slatted fence.
Izzie peeks into the den then back into the kitchen. “Better not be my room.”
“No, Iz.” I present a tight smile. “Mine.”
“Where are you gonna sleep?”
“With Cousin It. I’ll take the sofa.” My voice lifts in my attempt to make light of the situation. “She can have the crate.”
“You’re taking this well.”
My automatic smile feels stiff, like I need some lubrication in the corners.
Izzie shrugs one unconcerned shoulder. “I’ve got a paper to write.”
“Let the dog out, will you?” I call, thinking the beast needs a reprieve.
With the chicken boiling in an oversized stockpot, I set the table, taking care to make everything just right, even placing fresh flowers in a vase for a centerpiece. No tulips were available as it’s the wrong season. I certainly hope I’m not.
When the phone rings, I jump toward it, not wanting Marla disturbed. Before I answer, I check caller Caller ID, hoping its Cliff. No such luck. Unlisted. I ignore the disappointment, which feels like Cousin It jumping on me for attention as irritation follows on its heels. Grabbing the receiver before it can ring again, I say in hushed tones, “Hello?”
“Isabel?” The rusty voice puts my motherly instinct on alert.
“No, it’s her mom. Can I tell her who’s calling?”
“Gabe.”
“Oh, hi, Gabe. We met this morning. You and Jack . . . Mr. Franklin, were loading up the truck.”
“Yeah. Course. Hi, Mrs. Redmond.”
“Okay, hold on.”
The oven’s buzzer sounds. I silence the timer, take the chicken off the hot burner, and walk to Izzie’s room. Two light taps on the door is enough of a warning. Inside her room she’s lounging across her bed, earbuds in place, toes tapping against the headboard. “Iz?” I repeat it louder. “Iz? Phone’s for you.”
She tugs on one of the cords that attaches her to the iPod. “What?”
“Phone.”
She glances at her cell phone charging on the table beside her bed.
“The regular phone.” I waggle it at her.
Her brow creases. “Oh, okay.” She rolls over and off the bed, landing like a cat on her feet. “Dinner ready?”
“In about thirty minutes.”
Much as I’d like to eavesdrop on her phone conversation, I move to my bedroom and there I hesitate. Should I check on Marla? It’s not yet time for more medicine. Closing my hand over the door knob, I question what exactly my obligations are here. Before the surgery I never would have bothered her behind a closed door. But now is different. She might be in pain, unable to call for help. Which gives me an idea.
I knock a couple of times, then open the door. Marla lies on the bed as if she’s in a casket, hands clasped over her chest, eyes closed. “Marla?”
She opens one eye then closes it.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.” Her voice is weak and raspy.
My closet is a quick escape. I refuse to feel guilty since it’s my own space with my own clothes and shoes. In a box toward the back, I find a little brass bell I used once for a play Izzie was in at school. “I thought this might be useful.” I place the bell on the bedside table. “In case you need something . . . anything.”
“Fine.” She doesn’t open her eye. I’ve been dismissed.
Still I hesitate. “Dinner will be ready soon. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“It’s homemade chicken noodle soup.”
No answer.
“Well . . . let me know if you need anything. Water. Your pills. An ice pack. Okay?”
Still no answer. Definitely dismissed. I slip out of the room and close the door as quietly as I can. When I reach the den, I glance out the back window and realize something is wrong. Dirt splotches the pool decking like it has just rained soil. The roots of a plant are upturned, the leaves shredded and scattered about like confetti. Mixed among them are the pink and yellow petals of my roses. Next to it all is the panting, eager face of Cousin It. Which makes me growl low and menacing at the back of my throat.
The bell was obviously a mistake on my part. I should don a uniform of some kind to complete my new role of servant. Maybe I should answer, “You rang?” in the same ghastly voice of Lurch.
“Mom!” Izzie appears in the den. I’m curled upon my new bed, exhausted from the day of being Marla’s beck-and-call girl. “Did you get me cotton balls at the store today?”
“I didn’t go to the store.” I feel as if I didn’t accomplish much today but drop the balls I’ve been juggling, scamper around to pick them up, rush around to help Marla, and chase after Cousin It. “Did you ask for some?”
“Yeah.” The disgusted look on Izzie’s face reminds me of my full-blown reaction when Cousin It dug up my roses. I took a long time-out, walking around the block to cool off my temper. I took another this morning with Cousin It in my effort to tame her. But I’m not sure who walked whom.
“I’ll pick you up some cotton balls tomorrow. There may be some in my bathroom if you want to check.”
“I’m not going in there.” There now means where she is. But she also means Cousin It. As in, she has a pen. Or she’s eating toilet paper. Or she’s counter surfing again.
Before this week I would have considered it a toss-up as to which would be in the lead for worst house guest—Marla or Cousin It. But the dog seems to be winning. Maybe God planned it this way to give me more patience and appreciation for Marla. After all, if Cliff and I are to get back together, then I’ll have to get along with his mother. At least she doesn’t drink out of the toilet.
“I’ll sneak in later and find some for you. Okay?”
“We have to sneak around in our own home,” Izzie grumbles.
“Yes, and we also have to keep the toilet seat down and food away from the counter’s edge. You can’t blame your grandmother for that!”
She gives me a look—the teen kind that means I’ve stepped in it. She turns on her heel and heads back to her room. I follow. At least Izzie is less intimidating than Marla. And that’s saying something as my daughter’s temper could be considered a perfect storm at times. “I’m just trying to be considerate. Marla needs her rest.”
“She always needs something.”
Carefully I close the door. A crunching noise alerts me. I glare at the dog. “What’s she chewing on?”
“A bone. Gabe gave me a supply at school.”
“Look, Izzie, I know you’re not happy about this, but we have to make the best of the situation. Can we at least try to get along? Marla hasn’t done anything to hurt you.”
“Lately.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Did she eat that soup you went to so much trouble to make?”
“No, but you didn’t either. And she didn’t eat my roses either.” Ignoring her scowl, I walk toward my daughter’s closet. “Can I borrow your tennis shoes?”
“Why?”<
br />
“Because I want to go for a run.” It’s not my usual. In fact, it’s unusual. But I feel an urgent need to get out of the house. And a run or fast walk might get me back in shape before I see Cliff again. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
“A run?” Izzie stares at me as if I’ve just spoken Aramaic.
“Do you mind?”
“No, sure. But they’re too big for you.”
“I’ll be okay this time. I’m not running far.”
She drops her chin and stares at me. “You’re running? Really running?”
I lift mine a notch. “Yeah.” But under the weight of her stare I give. “Okay, walking.”
Her mouth curves in a satisfied smile. “Do you want to borrow some shorts?”
“I’d probably be arrested for indecent exposure.” I pull socks out of her drawer and shoes out of the closet, which, ironically, I put away earlier in the day before Cousin It helped herself to a leathery snack.
“You know, Mom, it’s kind of late to be going for a walk.”
“I’ll be fine.” It actually feels good to have my daughter worrying about my safety rather than the other way around.
“It’s dark.”
“So?”
“You always tell me not to go out at night alone.”
The words slither around my brain, strike me as odd. Now she’s biting back at me with my own words. “I’ll take Cousin It. Okay?”
“Whatever.”
The irony that Cousin It is the reason I need to get out is not lost on me as I grab the leash. She bounds around me, a seventy-or-more-pound bouncing ball. Her barks echo off the entryway ceiling.
“Shh.” I try to shush her before she wakes Marla. Before I lose my chance to escape for even a few minutes. It finally sits near my feet, her tail brushing the tile and thumping against the wall.
I push open the front door and step into the darkness. The warm night envelopes me with scents of gardenias and damp grass. Sniffing freedom, Cousin It bolts. The leash jerks my arm, and I follow, my feet thump, thump, thumping along the sidewalk as I trip and stumble along in the oversized shoes. Prancing and dancing around me, It manages to tie me up like a hostage. Oh sure, this is safe. Anyone who wants to assault me can find me already hog-tied. I wiggle and turn, unwrapping myself from the leash. It barks. The sound rebounds off the rooftops. In the distance, other dogs answer her.
