by Leanna Ellis
If Marla had launched herself at me, teeth bared and claws protracted, I couldn’t have been more shocked. Even Cousin It’s attacks weren’t vicious. As her words sink into me, shred my dignity, my hope, I blink copiously like a tragic butterfly trying to take flight in a gale. I sputter a useless sound, then my gaze shifts to Isabel, who has her arms crossed over her chest and is waiting, her flip-flop tapping out her impatience on the kitchen tile.
None of Marla’s words are news to my daughter. After all, there comes a time when every kid can do the math and realizes her parents’ wedding anniversary doesn’t have a nine-month gap before her birth. But as I splutter to the surface of my thoughts, taking little tiny puffs of air, the audacity of Marla’s bullying unplugs the dam of pent-up emotions stored over the years. “Are you saying I got pregnant all by myself?” I draw a quick breath of confidence, not allowing enough time for Marla to respond. “My recollection is that Cliff was more than eager to participate!”
“Mom!” Izzie’s disgust couldn’t be more clear if she’d slapped her palms over her ears and run out of the room.
Marla waves her hands like a baby bird flapping its weak wings and attempting to take flight and stay above my attempt to attack right back with my own claws. “Well, dear”—she flips through pages in the phone book, not looking down at the categories she’s filing past—“there’s no use crossing old bridges, now is there?”
She made that leap first. If we’re crossing into uncharted waters, I’m not going alone. “None of that matters anyway.” My gaze narrows as I gain control over my tossed and strewn emotions. “He made a vow. And—”
“And you’re going to hold him to it.” She laughs. Laughs. My emotions fray into raw strands of indignation, fury, and pain. “Good luck, dear.” Then Marla glances down at the restaurant listings on the bright yellow pages as if I’m a humorous comic strip and not a tragic figure. “Divorce attorney and psychiatric offices are full of women who meant to hold onto their men and the vows they made.”
“Mom”—Izzie interjects a lifeline into my nightmare—“we’re going to be late.”
I release a breath and look to my mother-in-law, who I’d like to boot out of my house at the moment. She still looks like a smaller, red-haired version of Rocky. I give what sounds like a polite clearing of the throat but which truthfully is clearing the way for me to offer a UN solution. I pray she won’t take me up on the offer as I hook my purse over my shoulder. “You’re invited to come with us for dinner.”
Marla looks at me with that lopsided gaze as if she’s trying to size up my intentions. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to go out in prime time yet. I’ll just order something.”
“But I made another casserole for you. It’s in the oven.”
“It’ll keep. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here. All alone.”
I weigh her tone to see if that’s a ploy for sympathy or simply desire. Reading between her not too subtle lines is not for a novice. It’s her usual ploy laced with guilt, but I’m not swallowing it this time. She’s perfectly capable of being alone for a couple of hours. “Suit yourself.”
Izzie’s forehead smooths out and she claps a bright pink baseball cap on her head.
“When will your wig be ready?” Marla’s question halts us at the door.
“Never. I’m fine without it.” And she whisks her cap off her head and tosses it onto the kitchen table, a gauntlet thrown in her grandmother’s direction.
“What will you tell your friends, dear?” The added dear is a fabrication of deigned concern.
“Why do I have to tell them anything?”
Marla shrugs a narrow, indifferent shoulder. “They’re not blind. They’ll ask. And worst of all, they’ll talk behind your back.”
“Let ’em. I don’t care.” Izzie’s bravado is admirable, but I’m afraid it might wane under the force of peer scrutiny. “I told them it’s for swimming. I’m focused on setting a record this season.”
“And impressing that new coach?” Marla throws back, making my maternal nerves quake.
“Yeah. He was impressed with Mom the other day.” Izzie turns and walks out the back door, leaving it open for me to follow. Her bending of the truth disturbs me, especially when I realize that, just maybe, I’m equally guilty of distortions I’ve told in the past.
When we reach the car, Izzie places a comforting hand on my arm. “Ignore her, Mom. You should date.”
“So you’re in agreement with your grandmother?”
“Not for the same reasons.”
I jerk the gear shift into Drive. “Close enough.”
Still rattled after the short drive to the crowded Asian restaurant, I greet Jack and Gabe, my face feeling stretched into a pained smile. After we order platters of Orange Beef, Thai Mango Chicken, tofu lo mei, and an assortment of pot stickers and spring rolls, Gabe and Isabel find a table for two, leaving Jack and me on our own. Which unnerves me. Should I insist we all sit together? Keep an eye on Gabe and Izzie? Play it cool? Pretend it’s a date, even if it isn’t?
“This okay?”
“Sure.” I slide into the booth opposite Jack. The table is too small; the booth too intimate. He’s wearing a pale yellow button-down shirt and jeans. His dark hair has that carefree, mussed look that makes me want to run my fingers through the slight waves. I fuss with my purse, stashing it beside me in the booth.
He holds out a straw for me. “You okay?”
“Of course.” I plunk it into my iced tea then unfold a napkin and lay it across my lap. “How are things going at your place?”
He grabs both ends of the straw and pulls outward, popping the paper covering. “A bit on the crazy side. It’s crunch time for Gabe’s Eagle Scout project. You and Isabel should come out this weekend and see what he’s doing.”
I don’t know anything about Boy Scouts . . . or Girl Scouts for that matter. “So remind me what exactly this project is.”
“Gabe conceived it. He’s altering a park to accommodate disabled kids. I only helped with the funding but he met with all the sponsors and convinced them to invest in his project.” A waiter brings our food and Jack tells them which dishes belong with Gabe and Izzie across the room. Jack ladles out rice for both of us, scooping generous portions onto our plates. He offers me the platters of food first and I take a helping of Thai Chicken while he spoons Orange Beef onto his plate.
“What inspired Gabe?”
“His little sister is disabled. Amy’s never been able to play on regular playgrounds. Neither can any kid with a wheelchair or walker. So Gabe petitioned the city council and got permission. Then he met with some of my wealthier clients and asked for donations. He raised almost fifty thousand dollars. With those donations, we’ve bought equipment plus some was donated to update the park. We’ve already done the grading and repaving. This weekend we’re putting the rest of it together. Gabe’s rallied a bunch of kids from school to help out, along with local troops.”
“He’s some kid.”
Jack grins. It’s a devastatingly charming smile that shines right through to my soul. “I couldn’t be more proud of him if he was my own.”
His comment strikes a nerve in me that resonates outward. If only Cliff would be half as involved in Izzie’s life, but he hasn’t made it to one swim meet since he left. He always has to work. Or he’s out of town. There’s always some excuse. I glance over at Gabe and Isabel. Their heads are inclined toward each other and they’re engaged in what appears to be a deep discussion. What are they talking about?
“So how are things at your place?” Jack interrupts my thoughts.
It’s a delicate subject, which I approach cautiously. “She’s improving.”
“How long will she be with you?”
I blow out a breath as if it were candles on a birthday cake. “I wish I knew.”
“That good, huh?”
Shrugging, I focus on the Thai Chicken, which has a bit of a kick to it. “She means well.” If only I were as convin
ced as I sound.
“There’s a wide road between meaning well and doing good.”
I laugh. “You must have a Marla in your own life.”
“I’ve known a couple.”
“Is that the reason you’re not married?” The intimate question takes even me by surprise. Jack is a curiosity to me. That’s all.
His mouth twists as he ponders the question. “I’m cautious.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
He hesitates almost too long. So does that mean it’s a fresh wound or too painful to discuss? “I was. She wasn’t.” He lifts a shoulder awkwardly. “We were supposed to get married. And then didn’t. It’s one of the many reasons I’m selling the house. I kept it for a while, telling myself it was a good investment. But it’s become an albatross. It definitely needs a woman’s touch. And well . . .”
His hesitation makes me even more curious. Is he still aching over that love? Or has he chalked it up to experience? “The decorating is my job. The furniture should be delivered tomorrow, by the way.” Back on a safe topic, I relax.
“Good.” The tension in his face eases. It’s easy to see why women chase after him.
“How long have you owned the house?”
“Five years.”
I study him for a minute, seeing the way his hand grips the edge of the table. “She must have really broken your heart.”
“Oh, I’m over her. Tiffany. That was . . . is her name.” He shakes his head as if having a discussion with himself. “I’ve learned that once you get to a certain level of income, there’s a reason to be cautious.”
“So women are after your money?” And other things, I surmise, taking in his casual, no-fuss good looks.
“Let’s just say I’ve learned that beauty is often only skin deep.”
“And you’re looking for more?”
He leans forward, meeting my gaze squarely. “Absolutely. Looks only last so long.”
“Then it’s the nip-and-tuck stage.” Inwardly, I wince. Cliff nipped me out of his life and tucked his family out of sight. Maybe I should have visited a surgeon like Marla did. Was she just trying to hang onto what she had? Or grasp something more? Maybe I should have tried harder.
Jack grabs an egg roll, bites off the end, chews, and swallows. “I don’t get plastic surgery at all. I understand it’s needed for car accidents and to repair birth defects. But . . .”
“Could it be avoidance?” I voice my own fears and reasons for not pursuing such a course.
“Exactly. We’re all headed in the same direction. You can’t evade death. And seems to me, folks don’t want to think about what could happen, what will eventually happen.”
Nodding, I plunge my fork into fluffy white rice. “They don’t want to have to make a decision about God.”
“You’re right. Interesting that God’s Word says we’ll grow more beautiful with age in heaven, and yet here on earth the opposite happens. Or we see it that way.” For a moment he focuses on eating the egg roll and I scoop up rice. “When Gabe’s father passed away, I knew I couldn’t avoid the issue anymore either.” He leans back, his mouth drawing to the side as if he’s reluctant to share something. “We were best friends since fourth grade and went off to college together. Luke and I once made a bet on who would become a millionaire first.”
His statement surprises me. It sounds so much like something Cliff would say or do. Maybe the two men are more alike than I originally thought. But I suspect something along their paths made them veer onto different trails.
“We came from nothing. Our families had no money. We both made it to college on scholarships.” Having started out at opposite ends of the spectrum from Cliff, maybe Jack was destined for a different outcome. “I’m embarrassed to say I won our bet. I don’t think Luke ever pursued it as seriously as I did though. He found his purpose in life—he was a great husband and father.” Jack remains silent for a long moment, concentrating on his dinner then he glances toward Gabe. “He shouldn’t have died.”
“We all do though some day. We can’t circumvent it.”
“At least he died doing what he knew he was supposed to do.” He stares down at his food, not eating, not pretending to. The weight of his loss rounds his shoulders. “Seems to me, there are better things to spend your money and time on than sucking out fat and lifting . . . well, you know.”
“And what do you spend your money on? Not just those pinball machines.”
“Oh, that.” He laughs. “I bought those for Gabe and his siblings, while their dad was sick and in the aftermath of their dad. They came here on weekends to give their mom a break.” He rubs his chin. “I got carried away. I wanted to distract them. Spoil them. Make up somehow for what they’d lost. Kind of foolish to think anything could take the place of their father.”
His desperation to fix an unfixable situation pierces me. I offer him a tender smile. “It’s sweet of you to try.”
He shrugs and looks toward Gabe and Izzie. “I’m just a glorified uncle, but I think of Pam and Luke’s kids as my own. I want to help them all I can. I promised Luke I would.”
Does he worry the way a parent does? Does he toss and turn at night while contemplating all the things that can go wrong, from some crazy student at school bringing a gun to maneuvering through traffic to bad grades and stupid mistakes? Does he send up prayers of desperation, knowing there is nothing he can do to protect his child from all the dangers of this world?
“I donated the arcade games to local orphanages and church youth groups. That’s why the movers were there last night.”
His generosity admonishes me. What would I have done? Sold them on eBay? Cliff would have. “That’s great.” Maybe Gabe’s unselfish act of establishing a park for challenged kids might not be such an anomaly. “So the house is clear?”
“Ready for the furniture.”
My gaze shifts toward the newest threat to my peace of mind. “You think they’re okay together? Iz and Gabe. I mean—” Heat works its way up from my chest, and I’m unsure if it’s from the spicy Thai Mango or from embarrassment. “I know the trouble teens can get into. And I wouldn’t want them to . . . well, you know.”
Do what I did. But I keep that to myself. Will Jack’s thoughts go down the same slippery slope?
“Nothing is going to happen in this restaurant.”
A nervous laugh skips out of me. “I didn’t mean here. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His gaze is solemn as if he’s reading my very thoughts, my glaring mistakes. But there is no condemnation in that steady gaze. Simply understanding. “They’re good kids. We’ll keep an eye out for them, but I’m not too worried. I know Gabe.”
“And I know Izzie.”
“Then we should be okay.” His gaze bores into me. “So how is it going on the get-your-husband-back front?”
A flush resurfaces. I tug on my vest and stare down at my napkin. I wish I could report success, even progress. “He’s out of town.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
I twirl my fork in the rice, no longer hungry. “My mother-in-law wants me to date.”
“Her son?”
“Other men.”
“Ouch. But that might be a way for you to regain his interest.” Jack leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “If Cliff thinks others are interested . . . well, that’s how the game works, right? It’s a lot like what you do for a living.”
“Staging?”
“Yeah. Dating is another variation of staging. You know, take someone out, walk them through your life, see how they fit in.”
Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?
“If you need any help in that area”—his voice dips so low I’m not sure I’m hearing him correctly—“let me know.”
“Uh, okay, I’ll let you know.”
Is he offering to be my pretend end table, a prop to help Cliff see himself stationed back in my life? Or is he thinking more of an arm decorat
ion, as in taking my arm, walking through life with me?
When I return home, Gabe and Izzie sit on the front steps still talking intently and Marla watches The Bachelor on television, so I put on my running shoes and grab the dog’s leash. Jack’s words create hurdles in my mind that I can’t quite get over. What is my purpose? Jack seems so comfortable, and yet so determined.
So is the dog. Determined, that is. Cousin It drags me along behind as she noses the grass and every mailbox, jerking the leash each time she changes trajectory. Why do I always feel insecure and wishy-washy?
Keeping up a steady pace though, I manage to block out thoughts of Marla, Cliff, Jack, Izzie, and Gabe. I jog past pumpkins and a couple of ghouls dangling from trees, pumping my legs faster and faster until my lungs feel like they might burst, then slow to a walk, my tennis shoes feeling like steel boots; Cousin It still boing-boing-boings with energy. My breathing requires all of my attention and distracts me from unanswerable questions.
After a mile, more or less, I return to my house. A splash of water from the backyard tells me Izzie is swimming. Cousin It lunges and barks at the shadows, nearly pulling the leash out of my hand. Then I see a solid figure on the front porch. Could it be Cliff? Jack? My heart kicks into high gear.
As the dog pulls me along behind and we draw closer, I recognize Harry Klum. He stands on the front porch. He bends and holds out a hand for It to sniff. Behind his back, he holds a bouquet of what looks to be self-picked flowers. He’s dressed in his usual mismatched style, wearing a button-down shirt that looks as if it came right out of the package, crease folds still in place. It’s tucked into the elastic waistband (which is stretched to its breaking point) of his crinkly warm-up pants. “How’s Miss Marla? I rang the doorbell several times but no one came.”
