Four of the hired help headed back into the Nordstroms’ house. Two members of the catering staff worked to secure the items inside the truck. I rocked back on my heels, in preparation to leave. But before I could drop the slats, I heard a stinging slap. Sven’s head snapped backward. After staggering to one side, he began massaging his jaw. Leesa moved into his personal space. He grabbed her by the wrists. The roar from his throat sounded like it came from a lion at the St. Louis Zoo. She fought his grip and sputtered what I assume were curses.
I'd seen and heard enough. The Nordstroms' quarrel brought back bad memories from my childhood. Creeping away from the window, I crawled into the single bed and pulled the covers over my face. Eventually, I must have dozed off. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning fitfully. At some point, Anya muttered in her sleep. Thinking she might need comfort, I got out of bed and stood over her crib to stroke her hair.
What dreams did my daughter have?
I prayed they were sweet ones. With any luck, she wouldn't realize the tension between her father and me. From the git-go, George had been adamant about wanting a child — and, therefore, insisting that we get married.
But he had never said he loved me. Not even once. More and more frequently, he didn't return home at night. His excuses varied, but the shame-faced way he explained his decision had grown increasingly familiar.
Maybe he regretted his decision for us to become a family.
I hoped not.
19
The next morning, Anya and I were up early. As was our routine, after getting her dressed, we held hands and stepped outside to pick up the newspaper. We had made it to the end of the driveway, when Sven whizzed past us on his expensive racing bike.
George hadn't come home until the wee hours of the morning. I heard him as he crept up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. That struck me as odd, since he'd said he was staying at Sheila's. Of course I knew the reason why: He had lied to me. Idly, I wondered what it might feel like to slap him the way that Leesa had smacked Sven.
But I would never do that in front of Anya. Ever. Instead, I carried on like the dutiful mother and wife I was.
I was picking up the Cheerios that were strewn around our kitchen like confetti, when the crunch of his shoes alerted me to his presence.
"Good morning," George said. "I see somebody has thrown me a parade!"
My daughter gurgled with delight at the sight of her dad. His bloodshot eyes didn't bother her one bit. As usual, he picked her up and gave her a cuddle, a familiar gesture that provoked an ache in my heart. Why couldn't he show me more affection?
Well, duh. Obviously because he was getting it from somewhere — correction, someone — else.
"I thought you were staying overnight at your mother's." I tried to sound casual.
"That was the plan, but she withdrew her invitation." He couldn't meet my gaze. "What's new with you?"
"Not much." I told him about the Nordstroms' party, and on a whim, mentioned the fight I'd seen in the driveway. Watching George's face carefully, I added, "It was a confrontation of sorts. Pretty ugly."
"Hmm." George kept his back to me and busied himself making a new pot of coffee. "Let's hope it blows over. They do seem ideally suited to each other. Same values and all that. Hobbies. Like how they go bike-riding. That reminds me. I think you might enjoy golf. I know you love nature, and there's that saying about how golf is a good walk spoiled. I signed you up for private lessons at the club. If you find you enjoy the game, it might be fun. We could do it together."
A lump forced in my throat.
Bless him, he was trying.
"Sure," I said. "If I can find a sitter."
"Taken care of. Mom will call you later today."
20
Shortly after George left, Sheila phoned me. "Your first golf lesson is at ten. I'll be over in fifteen minutes to babysit Anya."
"Okay." Expecting Sheila to be gracious was like asking a tiger to take small bites while eating. I decided to make the best of the situation. "Anya will be thrilled to see you."
"And I her." With that, my mother-in-law hung up the phone.
Putting my daughter in her playpen, I spent the next ten minutes doing my best to pick up the house. It wasn't easy. Moving boxes cluttered most of the rooms, making it impossible to run a vacuum. Sawdust had piled up on every horizontal surface. The floors and baseboards needed a good scrubbing. By shoving as much as I could in the closets, I did manage to tidy up. My goal of passing Sheila's inspection kept me hopping until the doorbell rang. By the time I answered it, I was damp with sweat, and my hair had escaped its scrunchie to fly around my face.
By contrast, Sheila looked like she had just stepped out of a bandbox, as my nana would have put it. (Although admittedly, while I don't understand why this metaphor makes sense, it sounds plausible.) Her silver-white hair perfectly framed her face and contrasted nicely with the huge designer sunglasses she always wore. Her tan gabardine slacks hung perfectly from her slender hips. The pants were topped with a nubby knit ivory sweater. Around her shoulders was a pashmina in glorious fall colors.
"Hi, Sheila, how are you?" I ushered her in, ignoring the less than joyful expression on her face. I knew it would change when she clapped eyes on Anya — and it did.
My mother-in-law walked right past me, straight to her grandchild, and scooped up Anya in her arms. "Darling girl! How are you? Beautiful as ever, I see. Aren't you adorable?"
Smooches ensued. I picked up my purse. The sound of my rattling keys caused Sheila to whirl around.
"Kiki, you are not wearing that to the golf club, are you?"
I looked down at myself. I was wearing my best jeans, a pink cotton turtleneck sweater, and a jacket. "Um, yeah."
"You cannot wear denim into the club. It is not allowed. Really. I thought you knew better."
I raced upstairs to change into a worn pair of black knit slacks. Once properly attired, I hoped to scoot past Sheila and out the front door, but Old Eagle Eyes waited to give me a once-over. "That's not strictly appropriate; however, it will suffice I guess. While you are at the club, take the opportunity to look around at what other women are wearing and adjust your wardrobe accordingly. If all goes well, you will meet suitable people on the course and begin to make friends."
"Friends?" I repeated the word, because I didn't know that she or her son had noticed how lonely I was.
"Yes. Friends. Role models. People in our social circle. Other mothers who can guide you as Anya grows."
"I'd like that."
21
My golf career was blessedly short. It lasted all of one class.
"Hit that tiny ball? Really?" I shook my head as I studied the object on the tee. "And I'm supposed to put it over where?"
"There." Rod Oberman pointed at a spot way, way off in the distance.
"Why?" I squinted in the sunlight. "I mean, why is it so far? How do I guide the ball?"
"The way you hit it will determine the flight path."
"Right. If I hit it. I'm, uh, not good with balls. In college, I got smacked in the face by a softball, volleyball, and tennis ball all in one class."
Rod inhaled and let it out slowly. My teacher — the club’s golf pro — was a pretty boy, muscular but slender. As he strode around the clubhouse, folks kept stopping him to chat. By my assessment, he'd wasted at least a half an hour of our class time as he glad-handed his admirers.
I also noticed he didn't bother to introduce me. Nana would have tut-tutted his lack of good manners. Personally, I was more annoyed at how he acted like he'd been forced to play nursemaid to a sub-human creature.
My husband and mother-in-law were paying him to encourage me to take up a new hobby. Instead, this creep was doing everything he could to make me feel uncomfortable and awkward. I swore right then and there that, if I ever had the chance to teach other people a skill, I'd do my best to make them feel good about themselves — even if they never learned a thing, they would leave feelin
g upbeat.
"You were hit in the face?" His question was rhetorical. "You're in luck. This time, you're launching the balls. There's no chance you're going to get hit. Even if you forget to duck. Only a moron would get hit with a golf ball."
That sounded more like a challenge rather than a reassurance. Okay, two could play this game.
"So, the ball goes over by the flag, right? But I can barely see that flag. You're sure there's a hole over there? On the other side of that hill?"
"Just aim it at the flag. We'll worry about getting it inside a hole later."
I shrugged. "Okey-dokey."
I missed the ball five times in a row. In fact, my club and the ball never did meet in passing. "I don't think this is the game for me. It just doesn't feel like a good fit."
"You don't know much about golf, do you? When you know more, you'll love it." Rod's mouth twisted into a painful imitation of a polite smile. "George told me you like nature. When you see how wonderful the grounds are, you'll fall in love with the sport. How about if we take a tour of the course? Maybe that will calm you down, and you'll see why people get addicted to golf."
That sounded like a grand idea, and Rod's voice was friendlier than it had been. However, when I wanted to stop and pick up a bird's nest that had fallen to the ground, he was not happy.
"There could be bugs on that."
"I'll put it in a garbage bag and spray it with bug killer, when I get home."
"But, in the meantime, they could crawl around in the golf cart and get on us."
"Nah. Not likely," I said. "That would be a long, long hike for itsy-bitsy bugs."
I wanted to add, "Boy, are you a wuss." But I didn't. Instead, seeing the look of panic on his face, I gave in and left the bird nest on the ground.
"Can I drive the golf cart?" I asked.
"I think it's best that I do the driving," he said smugly. That annoyed me, because I thought zooming around in that little doo-jobbie would be fun.
"Stop!" I yelled, as we came over a crest. "Look at that! Over there!"
"What?"
"Wow. I've never seen a daisy that small. It's, like, dollhouse size. Drive over there, please." I stood up to see the flower better.
"Not a good idea," Rod said. "It's just off the fairway. We could get hit."
"Wait a minute. You said that only morons get hit."
That's when a golf ball smacked him in the eye.
But I have to give it to him. He was right. Only morons get hit with golf balls.
That night, I overheard George talking to his mother on the phone. "Rod's lucky he didn't lose an eye. They're telling me he'll survive. I guess Kiki will never be a golfer. Hey, it's okay. Saves me money on club fees, equipment, and clothes."
22
Since golfing wasn't my cup of tea, I redoubled my efforts to whip the house into shape. The next day while I washed dishes by hand, I hatched a plan. First, I would tackle getting all our boxes unpacked. We'd moved to this house from a small apartment, and really there weren't all that many containers. But they were bulky and big. Right after George left for work, I put Anya in her playpen. I figured I'd tackle the boxes one by one. Getting them emptied, broken down, and moved out of the open space would go a long way toward making our new house a home.
Two hours later, my muscles ached from lugging the boxes around. I'd opened four, all with kitchen items inside. Rather than put these directly into the cabinets, I figured they could do with a good wash.
While I finished up, Anya grew more and more fussy. I couldn't blame her. She'd been in her playpen for a long time. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. What we needed was a nice ride in the car, the old BMW convertible that George had impulsively purchased.
Where to go? The pots and pans had left black marks on our white enamel sink. I had tackled them with Comet, but they still thumbed their noses at me.
"Home Depot, Anya. What do you think? We could even pick up a few pots of mums while we're there."
I was backing out of our garage, when Sven Nordstrom careened behind me on his bicycle. While I waited for him to pass, he slammed his bike into the curb. The abrupt stop threw him over his handlebars and onto the grass. As a final punctuation to the metallic clatter, there came the hollow sound of an empty Gatorade bottle rolling into the gutter.
“Anya, I’ll be right back.” Turning off the car and leaving the door open, I ran to see if Sven was badly hurt.
"Mr. Nordstrom?" I circled around his prone figure, trying to get a good look at his face. He was staring straight ahead, and he seemed stunned.
"It's me, Kiki. Your neighbor. Can you get up?" To my surprise, he didn't try to extricate himself from the tangle of metal tubes and wheels. "Sven? Are you all right? Should I call someone?"
"Help." His voice was weak.
I dialed 911, raced back to my car to check on Anya, hoisted her onto my hip, jogged back to where Sven was, and waited for help to arrive. And it did, quickly. After flagging down the EMTs and offering up what few details I had, Anya and I retreated to an out of the way vantage spot across the street.
“Ride?” Anya chirped and pointed at my waiting BMW. Although she fought the restraints of the car seat, she dearly loved any trip by automobile.
“Not yet, sweetheart.” I bounced her on my hip in an attempt to quell her restlessness.
“Ride!” she demanded.
“In a minute, honey.”
As the ambulance pulled away from the curb, I spotted the empty Gatorade bottle that had rolled away from Sven Nordstrom’s bike. The plastic container nagged at me, as it lolled there in the gutter.
George and I are both big into recycling. That bottle tickled my conscience. We agreed that people who toss trash into the environment should be fined. Once, when following a litterbug, George had hopped out of the car and returned an empty soda can to the guy who'd thrown it on the road. I'd sat there, shaking with fear, since Missouri is a concealed carry state.
“Ride!” Anya’s voice grew ever more insistent.
But the empty bottle nagged my conscience. Crossing the street one more time, I reached down and swooped up the Gatorade container.
“Ride, ride, ride!” Anya screeched in my ear. Her patience had hit its limits.
I carried her directly to her car seat, where she shocked me by eagerly sinking into the contraption. After fussing with the various buckles and straps to keep Anya safe, I tossed the empty bottle into the footwell below her feet in the back seat. Finally, I climbed in and keyed the engine. I turned my head in time to see my contrary little miss grinning at me, her two new teeth gleaming in an adorable parody of a jack-o-lantern.
23
First I drove us to our local Home Depot. Having a task to keep me occupied seemed like a useful — even necessary — diversion. Worrying about Sven Nordstrom wasn’t going to do anybody any good.
"Down. Down. Down!" Anya fought me as I tried to wrestle her into a shopping cart.
Her new favorite thing was to toddle along beside the cart, holding onto it for balance. George thought it the most precious trick ever. I disagreed. I worried, because she tended to pick up anything and everything she found that sparked her interest. She took after her mother, I guess. I’ve always been attracted to the idea of turning trash into treasure. I love crafts of any kind.
As Anya wobbled her way around the store, I kept a careful watch on my baby and on other shoppers. We took up nearly the whole width of an aisle. Other patrons in a hurry found us a cumbersome challenge.
But Anya was having a blast. Her newfound freedom brought a drooling smile to her face. Twice she shrieked with pleasure. I did my best to ignore any reactions other than those who clearly saw my child as the too-cute-for-words baby she was.
In the cleaning products aisle, I picked up Comet and read the label. Soft Scrub, too. I had used both on the sink, but the black marks hadn't budged. Was there a new and improved version of these old standbys? Or an unknown-to-me product that could really
provide tons of oomph?
I waved to a guy wearing an orange vest and described my problem. Running a beefy hand over his big belly, he wagged his head. "Beats me, lady. Comet didn't take it out?"
Behind me, a woman cleared her throat.
"Am I in your way?" I reached for Anya's hand.
"No, you're fine. What you need is ZUD®." A pair of elaborately made-up eyes locked onto mine. How she could see anything through all that mascara was a mystery.
"ZUD?" I repeated slowly. At the edge of my peripheral vision, the man in orange backed away.
"The name's Mert. Mert Chambers."
"I'm Kiki. Kiki Lowenstein." I offered my hand for a shake, as I tried to place where I’d seen Mert before.
"Nice to meet you,” she said, with a nod that sent her multitude of earrings swinging.
“You work on my neighbor’s house. The Nordstroms’ place, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Been there for nearly two years. Got the job after they canned their old housecleaner. Are you the family that moved into the house cattywampus from theirs? Kinda, sorta across the street?”
"That’s us. This is my daughter, Anya," I said. "I’m having a heck of a time getting the house in shape. You’re saying that ZUD will work on stained white enamel? How do you know?"
"Because I take pride in being good at what I do. Now let me tell you how to fix your problem. Take home a can of this here ZUD. Wet your enamel sink. Sprinkle this on. Let it sink in for ten minutes. Scrub it. Rinse. I bet that mark will disappear the first time you use this."
The words were no more than out of Mert's mouth, when Anya let out a terrified cry.
24
My daughter sobbed so hard that I couldn't tell what was wrong. Not at first. Only after I shifted her from my right hip to my left did I glimpse something bright orange inside her nose.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 6
