When Jo told her about the adventure with Benito the cook, Kate whooped with laughter. “Oh, Jo, you didn’t try to feed her gourmet mac and cheese?!”
“Sugar, I’d have fed her truffles dug with my own hands if I knew she’d eat them.”
“Get her boxed mac ’n cheese. The orange powdered stuff, in the blue box with the cartoon characters. That’s what kids want.”
Kate confirmed that kids ate freaky things. She suggested apple slices dipped in peanut butter for lunch. For lunch? Why not? Fruit and protein. She rattled off some tricks: Call broccoli “trees” and cauliflower “snow trees.” Play “shoot the pea into her mouth” at dinnertime. Make bologna faces. Avoid fancy sauces. Keep things pure.
Jo’s hand cramped over the yellow pad. She shook it out. Kate was still talking.
Clothing sizes mean nothing. An eleven-year-old can fit into a size eight if she’s slim. Go by weight more than age. Don’t get fixated on jeans or fancy shoes or tights; some kids just don’t like them. Try sweatpants, simple cotton Tshirts, things that are sturdy and will wear well. Buy sneakers and shoes a half-size bigger. Kids grow in spurts, and you never know when it’s coming.
“You know,” Kate said finally, “we’ve been talking nearly an hour. You’re making me feel like a freakin’ genius.”
“Taking care of this kid is worse than pampering some runt pig for the 4-H fair.”
“You poor soul. It isn’t like that at all.”
“Jesus save me.”
“Tell me you’re not sipping wine.”
“Perrier.” Jo eyed a bottle in her glass cabinet. “Though the Jack Daniel’s is winking at me.”
“Resist. You’ve got to be on your toes.”
The line crackled, then went silent again. Jo knew Kate was still there; she could hear her breathing. Could hear her across thousands of miles, and wished—wished with an ache—that she were sitting right here beside her.
“You know what really burns me about this, Kate? In my real world—the working world—if you do something well, then you get a raise or a promotion. You move up, you feel appreciated, you feel valued. And if you suck at your job, well, soon you’ll be pounding the pavement with a lot of motivation to do better next time. But at home, here, playing ‘mom’? Strangers glare at me if Gracie cries. People roll their eyes at me if she plays in the grocery aisle.”
“I hear you.”
“I mean, really, where’s the payback? Someday, at Tess’s wedding, I’m sure she’ll raise a toast to you and Paul—but that’s, what, thirty seconds of validation? And where are the limits? Honestly, if a kid goes to Harvard, then her mom did exactly what she was supposed to do, no big deal. But if the kid ends up smoking cigarettes behind the machine factory, then the mom is scum of the earth.”
No, those weren’t tears in Bobbie Jo Marcum’s eyes. Bobbie Jo Marcum was a tough son of a bitch, a Mistress of the Universe who, through creative wizardry, was responsible for a good number of the commercials on major network TV stations. Bobbie Jo Marcum was no longer the ungrateful young girl who nursed a resentment because her mother worked two jobs yet wouldn’t buy that pretty china doll for her birthday.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Jo.”
“Oh, honey, don’t put me in your league.” She glared at the tissues, across the room, through blurring eyes. “What this Kentucky girl owes you is an apology. A great big spanking one. And as soon as you get your tanned ass back here, I’m serving it up to you in a frosted glass with a rim of salt and two cherries speared on a swizzle stick.”
“Jo…”
“No, don’t make it easy on me. I’ve been an unforgiving, arrogant bitch who’s just beginning to understand what you’ve been going through. And I’m simply not going to be able to do this without your help.”
Kate hiccupped. Her voice was raw with tears. “You have no idea how much I need to hear that right now.”
Beside her, on the table, Jo’s cell phone began to ring.
“Holy cow, Jo, you’ve got a real job. How are you working with all this going on?”
“Working? What’s that? Oh, is that the cell phone that’s ringing every five minutes, and my team screaming we’re going to lose an account because I haven’t shown my face in the office more than twice in the past ten days?”
“I take it you didn’t hire the barefoot nanny.”
“No. But I may have someone.” Latoya (“Mom named me before the Jackson girl went all freaky”). She was a student at a community college uptown, working on getting her teaching certification. She’d taken a semester off to make some money because she was paying her own way. Jo had liked the frankness of the girl, her no-nonsense toughness. And she possessed that quality that had been left out of Jo’s own DNA—the ability to charm a child in a millisecond. “Gracie, girl, that’s one kickin’ haircut you got there.” Gracie had beamed. Jo had hired Latoya on the spot. “I’m trying her out tomorrow. Then I can get a few hours in at work.”
Not that it mattered. The Kenyan singer hadn’t worked out, and the dearth of ideas coming out of her crew made it pretty much a non-issue. Her work nemesis’s idea of using Miss Sure I’ll Do Some Blow as the great “Mystery woman” was the only idea anyone had—and so it was on. Jo had had a moment of inspiration last night, when she woke up on the couch to the noise of an all-night music channel. In the video, a raven-haired vixen writhed to the updated beat of a funky sitar. When Jo heard the same music blaring from Latoya’s iPod later that afternoon, she realized that her muse had finally woken up: The perfect face of Mystery was an up-and-coming Indian-American pop singer whose single was only now hitting the airwaves. Jo had found the perfect face for Mystery—but too late.
Which was pretty much, in Jo’s estimation, a guarantee that they wouldn’t get the account for which she’d been fighting for six straight months.
“Jo,” Kate said, misinterpreting her silence, “Grace will survive. Kids are pretty tough.”
“Yes, yes, I know. If she doesn’t crack her head open sleepwalking tonight.”
“Just go with your instincts.”
Instincts were precisely the problem. Jo could smell a business opportunity from three thousand miles, but she didn’t have a single mothering instinct. “Kate, you know it should have been you.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Maybe Rachel could see the future, and see how I’m fucking up my family so badly right now.”
“You needed a vacation.”
“Moms don’t get vacations.”
“Don’t tell me that! I’m booked for St. Lucia in February.”
“I’ll take Grace for that week. In the tiny run-down apartment I get after Paul throws me out on my ass.”
Jo cradled the phone against her shoulder, hearing loud and clear the insecurity in her voice. “You haven’t spoken to him recently?”
“I’ll have a chance soon.” Kate blew her nose. “I’ve changed my flight. I’m coming home the day after tomorrow.”
“What time are you coming in?” Jo scribbled the flight number and arrival time in the margins of the pad. The plane arrived well after the scheduled pitch meeting. She’d need to get the hell out of the office after they screwed up that deal anyway. “Listen, how about I pick you up?”
“Why? Do I need moral support?”
Jo weighed the value of a little white lie. Jo could give her a few more days of peace. After all, if Paul wasn’t returning Kate’s calls, then there wasn’t a darn thing Kate could do from halfway around the world.
Then again, Kate deserved to be warned.
“Sugar, I spoke to Paul today.”
“Oh, God.”
“Strap yourself tight, Kate. After that plane lands, you’re in for some serious turbulence.”
After she hung up the phone, Jo realized she’d made a colossal mistake warning Kate about the extent of Paul’s fury. She shouldn’t have burdened her. Paul and Kate had ties that ran deep—but Jo knew enough about relationships to understand that, th
e tighter the ties, the more they chafed under pressure.
One of the better reasons never to get married.
The TV swelled with music as Cinderella rode off into the sunset in the Prince’s carriage. Gracie stirred on the couch. Jo mentally shook herself. She couldn’t think about Kate right now, not when another problem loomed: getting Grace to go to bed—and actually sleep.
She scanned the six pages of notes she’d taken. Routine. That’s what Kate had emphasized. A solid, predictable bedtime routine.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, rising from the stool, “did you like that one?”
“Too much mice,” Gracie said, yawning, “and not enough Cinderella.”
Jo grabbed the remote and flicked off the TV. Gracie had flopped back down on the couch. One of her socks lay on the floor beneath the coffee table.
“What d’ya say about a nice bubble bath and a book before bed?”
“Okay.”
To Jo’s surprise, Grace scampered upstairs and stripped down to her birthday suit without the abashed look she’d given her yesterday while trying on clothes at the stores. Testing the water, she let Grace sit in the bathtub as it filled, while she gathered the clothes for the cleaners and scrounged through her linen cabinet for some bubble bath. She had bath salts and bath oils and shower gels—and massage oils and personal lubricants, pushed to the back like her love life. She was about to give up on the idea of a bubble bath altogether when she read the back of the shower gel and realized it could also be used for bubbles.
She hoped Gracie didn’t mind the scent of passion fruit. Squirting it into the tub, she went to fetch a swim Barbie from the pile of bags. By the time she returned, Gracie was chin-deep in bubbles.
“Oops. I probably put in too much, huh?”
Gracie smiled.
Gracie smiled.
Unwilling to risk the rare good will, Jo backed out of the room and let Gracie play in the tub. While on the phone with Hector, she glimpsed the little girl through the doorway, making beards with the bubbles and covering her shoulders like Cinderella’s big puffy sleeves. Water splattered all over the tiles and sloshed onto the floor. Jo was thrilled with the peace. She let Gracie play until she complained that the water was too cold, and then she took her out, poured warm water all over her to wash off the bubbles, and wrapped her in one of her huge towels. Only when Gracie was dressing did Jo realize that her collection of Ruth Rendell crime fiction, with the blood-splattered covers, would not be the best reading material for a seven-year-old.
Then her gaze fell on a photo album gathering dust on the bottom shelf. She bit her lip and wondered. It might be a good idea. It might be an all-out disaster.
Follow your instincts.
Oh, Lord, help this child.
“Hey, kiddo,” Jo said, coming around the door as Gracie wrestled into her nightgown, a blue silky thing she’d chosen herself. “I thought we could read a book before bed.”
She shook the dress down, not meeting Jo’s eye. “My mother used to read me The Poky Little Puppy.”
“Well… I’m afraid I don’t have The Poky Little Puppy. Or many books like that. Maybe you and I can go to the bookstore tomorrow to pick out a few.”
“Okay.”
It seemed to be the kid’s favorite word. “But I do have something else you might like.” Take a deep breath. “It’s about your mother.”
Gracie stilled. “Really?”
“Yes.” She pulled the photo album from behind her back. “From when your mother and I were in school together, long before you were born. We were both a lot younger. Not as young as you, but young like… like Latoya.”
Jo lowered herself to the floor, bracing her back against the bed. Grace plopped down beside her. The photo album opened with a crack.
Once upon a time…
There was a girl named Rachel. Fit and strong and full of life. She had hair like yours, Gracie. All brown, except hers was curly when it was long. It’s a mess in this picture because she just finished rowing a boat in a race. That’s her and the crew team after beating the regional champs. Sarah, Kate, and I had joined her on the road trip—not so much for moral support as to meet the Dartmouth guys. Yeah, that’s Sarah Pollard, she hasn’t changed at all, has she? All that clean, saintly living. And this is Kate—Mrs. Jansen. Do you remember her? She has a boy named Michael about your age. That’s her right there. What’s your mom doing in that picture? Well… she’s drinking from the victory cup. It’s a special game you play after winning.
Look, Grace, here’s another. Did your mother ever tell you she started a rock-climbing club? That’s how we all met. We all had different reasons for joining. Kate—Mrs. Jansen—she’s a real bookworm, and I think she just wanted something to get her outside. Sarah’s from Vermont and an outdoors kind of girl. She drifted into it but she stayed because we all got along so well. I joined because… because of your mother. I meant to go to a meeting for future businesspeople. I ended up in the wrong room. But your mother and I, we got to talking. She convinced me to join. She told me I was the kind of person who needed to stand on mountaintops once in a while.
For perspective.
Just give me a minute, Gracie. I’ve got something in my eye.
Look, here we all are again, climbing up a sheer face of stone in the Shawangunks. There’s Kate. Doesn’t she look like a Texas cheerleader? We’re all laughing because her harness is digging into her bottom. She’s got powder on her hands to help her grip. If you look closely, you can see Sarah at the top, sunburnt, the sky pink beyond her hair. Look at this one, Grace. There’s your mother, framing us all in for a hug. We made a pot of brown beans over a fire that night, and it got burnt so badly on the bottom we had to chip it out with our knives.
Look at all these mountaintops. Pages and pages of them. Lots of chances for perspective. We were so bad with the camera, I can hardly tell who is who, and we’re all just a bunch of silhouettes against the rising sun. Look—there’s your mother. Do you know what she’s doing? She’s heading into the bushes with a roll of toilet paper. When you camp, you have to go to the bathroom outside! Just ignore the rest of these pages, Gracie; we got silly as the night went on. That’s why there are so many bad shots of thumbs and half-heads.
Except for that one. Boy, your mother sure did have a smile.
Gracie ran a finger across the close-up of her mother. Rachel had been such a strong spirit, such a fierce presence, and there she was, fixed on photographic paper, so very full of life. How could Rachel be gone from the earth? It still didn’t fully register with Jo—a part of her still expected to get a phone call from her, from some exotic port. Then, noticing how Grace sat unmoving, how her little pink finger lingered on the photo, Jo wondered how this small bundle of a girl could handle the void when it was threatening right now to swallow Jo up.
Grace… let me show you one more.
Jo shuffled through the pages until she reached the one she wanted. Look at this, she said. Do you recognize anyone? Yes, that’s me, and that’s Mrs. Jansen, and there’s Sarah. Why are we dressed up like black-and-white bunnies? It was a Halloween party. We thought we’d go as black-and-white Easter bunnies. Can you guess who that is in the middle? Yes. It’s your mom.
As Tinker Bell!
A laugh burst out of Gracie, a bigger sound than you’d think a little girl could make. It was a spontaneous eruption of pure hilarity, so unexpected and unfettered that Jo couldn’t help it, she laughed right along with her.
Gracie keeled over against her shoulder, her belly heaving, and Jo let it happen. She slipped her arm around the little girl and squeezed her. Grace’s warm, damp hair soaked her shoulder, and Jo felt the vibrations of Grace’s laugh shiver her very bones. The scent of passion-fruit bubble bath rose from her skin, and Jo breathed it in as a strange, warm bubble swelled in her chest, fragile and very, very frightening.
… and they all lived happily ever after.
With shaking hands, Jo closed the book. She left the ph
oto album on Grace’s bedside table as she swung the little girl’s legs under the covers. She shut off the light and left the door ajar to the hallway. Padding barefoot down the stairs, Jo strode directly to the kitchen, where she perused her choices in the liquor cabinet.
A little Kentucky bourbon should do it.
She poured a healthy swig, thinking of her own youth. Most of the fairy tales Jo remembered were less Disney and more Brothers Grimm. The fundamental lesson being: When a mother dies young, Lord help the orphans. More often than not, they’re eaten by the witch in the forest.
Or shuttled among foster homes, where tired foster mothers try earnestly to absorb another lost soul into a motley collection of wounded, abandoned creatures they have tried to forge into a family.
Jo closed her eyes as the bourbon seared her throat. It wasn’t working. The memories were stronger than the alcohol. She poured a little more, but then just stared at the amber liquid in the glass. She suspected there wasn’t enough bourbon north of the Mason-Dixon Line to help her forget what it was like to be the unwanted one.
She’d never given much thought to all those women before. At the time, they’d just been a series of strangers: authority figures foisted upon her to make sure she stayed in school, ate decent meals, learned her Bible, and stayed away from those boys who smoked cigarettes and drank applejack around the back of the machine shop. They must have been good souls to take on such a thankless burden. But as an abandoned, orphaned twelve-year-old, she’d convinced herself never to bind up her emotions with any other soul. Like her mom, these foster mothers might be here today, but gone tomorrow. So she’d been the prickly, unapproachable one. She’d completely shut them out. That way, she’d never get hurt again.
Groaning, Jo closed her eyes and slid her head onto the countertop, still gripping the glass. It’d be better for poor Grace if wolves raised her. They roamed in packs. They cared for their young. Better a pack of wild wolves—than a woman who’d forgotten how to love.
Proper Care and Maintenance of Friendship (9781609417291) Page 18
