Facelift

by Leanna Ellis

  I stand suddenly, jolted by his words and the strengthening truth they ignite in me. But the distance from Jack settles my nerves. The cool decking is solid under my feet. I stare down at the still water as if staring into my own soul. My spine straightens. He’s right. I’ve been acting like a beggar.

  I imagine myself in rags, holding out a tin cup, waiting for a compliment or kind word from Cliff. Suddenly I feel dirty and in need of a bath. I lean outward toward the pool and let gravity pull me down into the water. At the last second I tuck my chin, kick my feet up, and make a clean slice into the water.

  Cold splashes over me, taking me down into a curtain of bubbles. I come up, laughing and sputtering and brushing my wet hair off my face. Mascara runs down my cheeks. But I’m smiling up at Jack. For a moment I tread water, feeling the weight of my jeans pulling me downward in an undertow. Then Jack stretches out a hand toward me. I lunge forward grab his hand and feel myself hauled up out of the water. Water sluices off me, forming a puddle at my feet. My T-shirt hugs me tight and I pull the material away from my skin. My jeans cling to my legs, the weight of the water tugging in a downward pull. I yank at the belt loops in the opposite direction.

  I laugh again, the chill of the night settling into my bones. “I can’t believe I did that. You must think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t shave your head. I think you’re going to be saying that a lot more in the coming months and years.”

  Tilting my head, I study him, searching for underlying motives. “Why is that?”

  “Because I think God has a different plan for you than you ever imagined or thought possible.”

  With only a foot separating us, I imagine leaning up and kissing his mouth. But it’s a crazy thought that I bat away. No. No more men. Not now anyway. “Are you a turn-lemons-into-lemonade kind of guy?”

  “Not really. I’ve seen plenty of folks get lemons and nothing sweet or satisfying ever comes from it.”

  “So how do you know I won’t just wither into a bitter old woman?”

  “Because”—he closes the gap between us—“you’re practical enough to know there are a lot worse things that could happen than losing ol’ Cliff. Right?” Then he cups the side of my neck, letting his thumb slide down the column of my throat. A chill passes through me that has nothing to do with the cold weather and in its wake heat takes its place. “And because you’re too beautiful for that to happen.”

  Staring up at Jack, his shirt splotched from pool water, his cheeks tan and taut with a confident smile, I can’t seem to contain my exuberance. Without thinking, contemplating, or planning anything, I reach up and kiss him full on the mouth. His lips are warm and pliant. It’s that touch of flesh against flesh that stuns me, makes me question what I am doing. Confused by my own behavior, I panic. Before his arms can push me away or close around me, I pull back.

  “Right,” I whisper breathless. Heat rises up inside me. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  What was I thinking?

  I’m not sure I was. Bubbles come up to my chin as I’m submerged in my own tub, my fingers and toes pruning, while my thoughts flounder in a sea of uncertainty. Was it some sort of desperation that had me reaching out to Jack . . . kissing him? Or is my heart’s desire Jack?

  And what of him? Did he kiss me back out of want, need, desire? Or was it some sort of a pity kiss?

  I sink deeper in the tub, grateful at least that I have this last refuge of my own now that Marla has moved out of my house. Which only reminds me that I need to call her and let her know her son is a royal jerk. In this, I believe, she and I will fully agree.

  Like a cork bobbing in the water, my thoughts wobble and dip in a new direction. Izzie seems to be the only adult in our home these days. She figured out long ago that her father wasn’t coming back. She knew what I couldn’t see. What I didn’t want to see. What I refused to see. She knew I needed to let go. And boy did I! Of my sanity.

  There I was, plunging into the deep end of the pool like a total idiot. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I was reacting. Crazily. Just like Izzie shaving her head. I needed space from Jack. Something about him unsettles me. Is it because I care about him too much? Is it because I’m afraid of being rejected again? Is it that I know if he rejects me it will hurt much more, much deeper than anything else?

  But he didn’t push me away. When I think back to our conversation, he actually seemed to encourage something between us. More than that, he defended me. Me! When did Cliff ever defend me? When did my father?

  Is Jack simply waiting for me to be ready? Am I? I’m not sure. And I have to be sure. While blowing air bubbles out my nose, I let my body slide down in the water until I’m covered from head to toe.

  It’s the final walk-through of Jack’s house before the For Sale sign goes in the yard and the information lists on MLS. After working all morning on finalizing curtains and rugs plus adding the perfect pillows to the leather sofa in the den, I meet him at the front door when he arrives. It’s a bit of a reversal, me welcoming him to his own home, and I feel as awkward as a teen at her first dance.

  “Welcome.” I focus on the additions to his house rather than the way the sun lights up bits of gold in his dark hair. And then, of course, there’s that bright smile of his. I try to ignore the jitteriness in my belly and the memory of that insane kiss. “Come on in.”

  His gaze remains on me rather than glancing at all the accessories and details I’ve added to his house. “How are you, Kaye?”

  “Good. I’m good.” I walk ahead of him, turning sideways, and bump into the doorway.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I rub my arm but keep two steps ahead of him. Throwing my arm out wide, I step back for him to get a good look at his new décor. “So what do you think?”

  His brow dips inward briefly before he dutifully walks through the house, noticing each detail, each new change from the framed photos I used from my own house to the hand towels in the guest bath. After trailing him through the den, kitchen, dining room, office, guest bedrooms and master suite, I can’t wait any longer for a response.

  “Well?”

  He looks at me then. “It feels . . . wrong.”

  My lungs compress. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s nice. But . . .”

  Nice. How I hate that word. I brace myself for what he doesn’t like and feel the prickle of disappointment in not having pleased him. This man holds my heart in his hands and with even the slightest criticism I sense he could crush me. “But?”

  He makes a slow turn in his den. “It’s not me.”

  “It’s not supposed to be. It’s not your house anymore. It’s a house on the market.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He shakes his head, his gaze landing on a black and white photo of Izzie and me in a wrought iron frame.

  A hot flush bursts outward from some core place within. Does he think I’m trying to move in on him? Take over his life? I used the pictures to give the office a homey feel, and it seemed the easiest to pull them straight out of my own house. Or was it some psychological fantasy I was having?

  “Jack . . .” I step toward him. Maybe we should deal with the kiss and get it over with. It’s best to state this straight out. “About the other night. I should have . . . well, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. It was irresponsible. And I didn’t mean . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say “anything.” Because that isn’t true. I pick up the framed picture and hold it against my middle. “I’m not trying to . . .” I’m at a loss for words.

  “Make a move on me?” He pauses a moment, leaves me hanging, as if running my words through his mind again. Is he relieved about the kiss? Disappointed? Reading him is about as easy as reading a doctor’s handwriting. “It’s not that at all. The house doesn’t feel exactly like you either. I mean, I see the pictures of you and Isabel, but—”

  “It’s not supposed to be a reflection of me either. If it was, then I did
n’t do my job. I went with the architectural details of the house, accented and emphasized the beamed ceilings, the archways, the shapes of the rooms.” I smooth a hand over the frame. “This just seemed to fit here. But it’s not . . . well, you know.”

  “You’re right.” He takes the frame from me, his hand brushing mine and sending tiny tingles along my spine. “It does belong here.” He sets it back on the shelf, tilting it just the way I had it. Izzie and I smile out at him from our framed home.

  When he faces me again, he looks confused like a little boy who’s had a scarf suddenly whisked off his face after being turned around and around. “What do I do now?”

  My insides jump at the implication. Does he mean—do I kiss you again? That would be all right. Definitely better for him to make a move this time. Or does he mean—how do we handle this new development? Is he having regrets, doubts, misgivings? “What do you mean?”

  “Do I stay here? Get a hotel room? What?”

  My stomach drops. He wasn’t thinking of me at all. “You can stay. Just keep things tidy. Which I don’t think will be a problem. You don’t seem the messy sort.”

  His mouth compresses and forms grooves in the brackets surrounding those lips I’ve only just begun to appreciate. “Okay. I can do that.”

  I should stop looking at his mouth. “When you move,” I stare into his eyes, which have some sort of hypnotic effect on me, then clear my throat, “you can make that place your own.”

  He nods his head as if convincing himself. “All right then. Good.”

  “You really don’t like it?” Shut up, Kaye! You don’t need a pat on the back. Or a congratulatory kiss.

  “The house looks beautiful. Like it’s out of Architectural Digest. It just doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore.”

  I place a hand on his shoulder then realize my mistake and pull my hand away. “That’s the general idea.”

  “It just feels false. You know, like I’m lying.”

  Is that what I’m doing by denying these feelings for him? “You’re not. You’re showing someone what their life could be like if they bought the house and moved in. You’re showing off the house’s potential. It’s marketing.”

  The memory of us discussing dating and marketing together comes back to me. So, how can I show off my best assets to him?

  “You did a great job. Really. The house is a showplace. I never imagined what could be done here.” He turns around in a tight circle, looking over the den and up at the ceiling again. “Amazing.”

  “Good.” I laugh with a combination of relief and nervousness. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s not the only thing I like.” He steps toward me and slips a hand around my waist. “And don’t ever apologize for kissing me.”

  “Oh, Jack, I . . . uh . . .” My gaze shifts to his mouth again.

  “I know. I understand.”

  Good because I don’t. I swallow a sudden lump in my throat.

  He gives a slight shake of his head, as if he’s battling something inside himself. Then he leans forward and places a firm yet gentle kiss on my mouth. Before I can respond, he pulls back. “Thank you.”

  My days are filled to overflowing with helping Isabel and Gabe with the swim-a-thon by running errands, depositing checks, checking the Facebook page and providing pizza and popcorn for teens who come in and out of my house. In spare moments, when I’m sitting at a traffic light or lying in bed at night in the moment before I fall asleep, I try not to imagine my ex romping around Vegas with Barbie who’s probably wearing a gargantuan diamond on her left hand, and instead conjure up an Elvis impersonator (complete with toupee, potbelly, and polyester blue-suede jumpsuit) marrying them, which gives me a momentary sense of satisfaction.

  Then my thoughts drift toward Marla. Guilt is a common companion for me but not in this instance. I simply wish we could part company as friends. Apparently that might be too much to ask from Marla, but still I attempt to reach out to her. She doesn’t answer her phone or return calls. I’m not sure if she went back to her apartment or stayed with Harry. Part of me wishes she would move in with Barbie and Cliff. Which gives me another chuckle.

  Mostly though, I want to apologize to her (for what, I’m not sure), but I want her to know that everything is okay. I wish her happiness, which seems elusive to those who are inclined to stay knee-deep in drama. It’s a concern I have about my own daughter who is easily caught up and carried away by chaos. Her reaction to her father’s elopement was my first glimpse at a new, hopeful attitude in her.

  And surprisingly, a glimpse into my own craziness. Which might be attributed to Jack.

  I attempt to shake off my reactions to him. It’s foolish. Some desperate part of me wishing for something far better than my ex. Jack and Pam should get together. It makes sense as they’ve known each other for years. The kids are comfortable with Jack. He’s already a father to Gabe. Yes, that is definitely how it should go. Maybe that’s why he hesitated before kissing me the other night. Maybe he is torn between what is right and what he desires.

  But a tiny fantasy starts in my head, and I convince myself my attraction to Jack is a way to seek revenge on Cliff. My ex would be stunned into silence and one-upped for sure. So I am content with the fantasy and not about to act on it. I’ve already made a fool of myself with Jack. Once . . . okay, twice is too much.

  The Tuesday before the swim-a-thon, a simple phone call puts every absurd thought out of my head and places the event in jeopardy.

  “Lily’s back in the hospital.” Fear saturates Terry’s voice.

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Terry. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. I just thought you should know. She probably won’t be at the swim-a-thon on Saturday.”

  “We understand. What are the doctors saying?”

  “She has a blood infection.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what that means and I waffle about what to say. “There are good antibiotics that can fight that, right?”

  “They’re trying.”

  I wish I had a medical degree so I’d know how to interpret the information. “What can I do?”

  “Pray.”

  So with that disturbing news, I call Isabel out of the den where she’s sorting through the pledges that have been made by teachers, businesses, parents, and citizens of Southlake. The numbers have grown astronomically. A good thing about living in a wealthy community is that money abounds, and in this community with churches on almost every corner, giving hearts abound as well.

  “Hey, Mrs. Redmond.” Gabe grins up at me from the schedule he’s been concocting on who will swim at what time at the natatorium. “Aren’t you going to swim?” He hands me my own pledge sheet.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, Izzie said you were. Jack’s swimming too.”

  Remembering my late night swims, thinking about donning a swimsuit in public, which would not showcase my best assets, I waffle yet again. “I’m not a good swimmer.”

  “You don’t have to be.” He nudges me with his broad shoulder. “Don’t worry, there’ll be lots of lifeguards around who can save you if you start to drown.”

  “Terrific.”

  Isabel plops down beside Gabe on the sofa. “I bet you could get some of your clients and friends from church to make pledges, Mom.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I tip my head in the direction of her bedroom. “Can I have a word with you, Iz?”

  “Sure.” She follows me. “What’s up?” Her gaze is innocent and oblivious to the pounding of my heart that pumps fear through my veins.

  I clear my throat. “Terry called. Lily won’t be able to make it Saturday.”

  Her face collapses. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “She’s back in the hospital.” I hesitate, then decide I should reveal my concerns. Better to prepare rather than delude ourselves that all will be well. When it might not. “It sounded pretty serious.”

  Her face blanches. “Which hospital?”

 
After I answer, she grabs Gabe and they head out to visit Lily.

  I stay at the house, keeping the other volunteers working and finalizing the schedule with Jack’s help when he arrives with burgers and fries for everyone. After a while, all the kids drift back to their own homes, leaving Jack and me alone.

  He catches me glancing at the clock on the mantel again. “They’re fine.”

  I rub my hands along my thighs and push up from the floor where I copied the schedule onto poster board. “Oh, sure. I know.”

  “You trust them, don’t you?”

  “As much as any parent trusts a teen. Or teens. And driving.”

  “Gabe’s a safe driver.”

  “It’s everyone else on the road that worries me.”

  He studies me for a moment. “That’s not what you’re worried about.”

  “You’re right. It’s Lily . . . and Izzie.” I pace across the room. A shiver ripples through me and I decide to distract myself with another subject. “How’s the house sale going?”

  “We had a Realtors’ tour come through today. You’ll be glad to know they all deemed the house beautifully decorated. A real showstopper.”

  I’m not sure if it’s his words or that warm gaze that makes my skin tingle.

  “And I forgot to tell you, a friend of mine needs to sell his house and will be calling you for your services.”

  My gaze slips sideways toward the clock.

  “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Does Isabel turn into a pumpkin then?”

  “It’s her curfew. And hospitals close up for visitors after . . . what? Eight or nine o’clock?”

  “They may have stopped somewhere for dinner. Or to talk. Does Gabe know Izzie’s curfew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’ll have her back here.”

  “I hope so.” The words aren’t completely out of my mouth when my cell phone rings. I recognize the cell number. “Hi, Gabe.”