Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Over one shoulder, Brita carried a bulging fabric bag. Over her other arm, she had a woven basket. To my surprise and delight, the woman gave me a hug.

  It had been so long since someone had held me that I worried I’d burst into tears. Instead, I melted into the warmth. For a split second, I thought, “This is the reward I’ve needed. The mothering I’ve never had. I really do want more women friends in my life.”

  “Lo?” Anya sang out from her playpen. I led my visitors into the great room, where the fire glowed merrily without smoking. Zoe trotted over to Anya, who rewarded the Lab with a handful of Teddy Bear Grahams.

  “All I need to do is throw the pasta into boiling water,” I said. “The salads are prepared. The places are set. I didn’t know what time you usually eat.”

  Brita smiled at me. “I brought dessert. A lingonberry torte. I’m happy to eat whenever it suits you, dear. This is very sweet of you. I know you have both hands full with unboxing and taking care of Anya.”

  We decided to open the bottle of chilled white wine that I’d selected to accompany our food. I put my feet up on a box and enjoyed the crisp flavor of apple with a hint of flowers I couldn’t name. Brita pulled out her needlework.

  “May I see it?”

  She handed the hoop to me. I marveled at the tiny stitches. “What is this?”

  “French knots. I’m using them on a drawstring jewelry bag. You make them by looping your thread around the tip of your needle. Let me show you.”

  She twisted her wrist, directing the silver tip of the needle in a clockwise direction three times. The size of the finished knot would be determined by the number of twists and by the size of the thread. “You try,” she said as she handed the hoop to me.

  My first knot appeared and promptly disappeared.

  “You have to make sure the needle doesn’t re-enter the same hole it came out of,” Brita explained.

  Slowly I got the hang of it. “Do you always use a hoop?”

  “Yes, the tighter the fabric is the easier it is to work the knots.” Taking the piece from me, she held it up to the light. “See those lighter areas? Where the light shines through? Those need more knots. They aren’t packed densely enough.”

  I added more to the area I’d started. “This is sort of soothing.”

  “Yes, I find it to be. There’s a rhythm to it, isn’t there?”

  We went online and looked at a variety of sites with patterns and examples of using French knots.

  “Are you hungry yet?” I asked. When Brita said she was, I started a pot of water. She picked up Anya and brought her into the kitchen. From her command post in her high chair, my daughter threw Cheerios over the tray for Zoe to lick up off the floor.

  “After we left you this afternoon, we saw Bart, the Bergens’ black cat, come flying out of your garage.” I stirred the pasta and checked that the sauce wasn’t getting burned.

  “Did you really?” Brita poured us both a glass of water. I liked how she made herself at home. “He’s a beautiful animal, isn’t he? Although one might argue that particular black cat really is bad luck.”

  “Why? Because he keeps running off? I bump into Mr. Bergen nearly every day, while he’s out searching for Bart. I’ll need to remember to tell him I saw the cat in the garage.”

  Brita inhaled sharply. “I would prefer that you don’t. It will only upset the man.”

  “Why? He must be accustomed to Bart’s wandering by now.”

  Brita sat rigidly in her chair. “Well, it’s rather a long story and a sad one. You see, Anya isn’t the only person who had a close encounter with Sven on his bike.”

  “No,” I said. “I imagine not. The way Sven took curves and rode so fast, everyone would be fair game. Did he come close to hitting Bart? Is that why the cat races into the garage for shelter?”

  She responded with a shake of the head.

  I grabbed our salads out of the refrigerator and served first Brita and then me.

  “More?” She offered me another glass of white wine. When I nodded, she poured me a glass and refilled hers as well. “I need a full glass or two for this story.”

  “Really?” I sipped mine, savoring the taste and the cool of the liquid, as it washed over my tongue.

  “Yes. You see, just last year Sven rode his bike too close to Alma Bergen, while she was looking for Bart. He nearly clipped her.”

  Brita’s voice trailed off. She had turned her attention to her salad. I offered her freshly ground pepper, which she refused. Once I could see she was ready to eat, I excused myself to finish our main course.

  I stirred the cheese sauce one more time, drained the pasta, and tossed the ingredients together. After I served Brita, I served myself and put a smaller amount on a plate for Anya.

  “Go ahead and eat while it’s hot,” I said. “I have to wait until Anya’s is cool enough for her.” Using a fork, I spread the pasta out, hoping it would cool faster.

  “This is delicious.” Brita smacked her lips appreciatively. “So is the salad. What are these white chunks?”

  “Hearts of palm.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had them before. What a nice texture and taste!”

  I wanted to get back to what had happened with our neighbors. “You were saying that Sven rode too close to Alma?”

  “Yes. Did you know that Talbot Bergen worked for Monsanto? Or maybe it was some other firm. Boeing? McDonnell Douglas? I can’t recall. A brilliant man. In his day at least. Not as much now. Growing old is hard. We all lose so much. Life piles up and wears you down.”

  “Mr. Bergen does seem to be a little lost. What exactly happened between his wife and Sven?”

  “A bit of a mishap, actually. Alma didn’t realize how close Sven was to her, until he was about a foot away. She jumped back — a startle reflex, really — and tripped over the curb.”

  “Gee, and I thought we had it bad because he’d put a scare into Anya. At least I didn’t trip and he didn’t hit the stroller.”

  “Right.”

  “I assume that’s where she was, if Sven rode his bike too close to her. She couldn’t have been on the sidewalk.”

  “You’re correct. She was in the street and jumped backward. All because of that silly cat.”

  Brita’s vehemence surprised me.

  Anya picked up strands of pasta and put them in her mouth eagerly.

  “It’s that open garage door,” I explained. “I’ve seen it go up by itself. I wonder if the safety sensor needs to be adjusted.”

  Brita cocked her head and stared at me. “I hadn’t considered that. You might well be right. The last time I was down here it seemed fine.”

  “When was that?”

  “A year ago. Sven invited me to come for Thanksgiving. He offered to pay for my gas so I could drive down. I would have noticed the door going up automatically. I don’t remember seeing the cat in the garage, and I would have, because Zoe would have perked up with curiosity.”

  “I think Bartholomew follows field mice into Sven and Leesa’s garage. George warned me that new construction such as ours can disturb their burrows. The tunnels offer them protect. After they’re destroyed, the rodents seek shelter. Maybe Bart is trying to do you a favor by acting as a feline exterminator.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brita chewed her food thoughtfully.

  “I wonder if Alma even realizes how often her cat runs over to your brother’s property? Since the Bergens face north and the Nordstrom house faces south, Alma might not know how often it happens.” I picked up another mouthful of pasta.

  Without looking up, Brita pulled her lips in tightly, like a purse drawn by its strings. For a minute, I worried she’d found a bug in her food or something equally unpleasant.

  I lifted my glass and asked, “Did Alma hurt herself? Tripping over the curb?”

  “Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact she fell down hard.”

  “Oh.” I refilled our glasses. Brita pushed back her chair and rested her hands in her lap. She looked misera
ble.

  “Sven swore to me that he wasn’t really that close. He told me that he had control over his bike. But Alma spooked, like a horse does. Later we learned that Alma couldn’t see or hear well. She was vain and refused to wear a hearing aid. I think she had blind spots in her field of vision. Sven and his bike appeared to her out of nowhere. Alma overreacted, lost her balance, and fell.”

  “Uh-huh.” I’d heard this before.

  “She landed hard on her side,” Brita said, “and cracked her hip on the pavement.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “Painful, yes. But...” Brita turned a wobbly smile at me. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Just a child. A mere child.”

  I would have objected, but her tone was kind.

  With a dry laugh, Brita shook her head. A trembling hand lifted a napkin to her eyes. Wiping them, she continued in a quivering voice, “Kiki, you’re too young to realize this, but a broken hip in an elderly woman is a death sentence. Alma died two months after her fall.”

  65

  I dropped my fork. “Alma Bergen is dead? You have to be kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not.” Brita stared at me with such concern that I realized how unhinged I had sounded. “Why would that be so astonishing?”

  “Because Talbot Bergen made it sound like Alma would invite me over! She’s dead? You’re telling me that his wife is gone?”

  “Yes. I’m not surprised to hear he invited you over. I think he’s losing his grip. Just yesterday I spoke to Talbot. We bumped into each other while I was walking Zoe. Talbot’s still as feisty as ever, but he seemed confused.” She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “Because you are young, you might not realize how much men depend on their wives. Not only do we live longer, but we also help them to live longer. We’re caregivers. We monitor their health. We feed them properly. The list goes on and on. I imagine he has dementia.”

  This litany filtered through my experience, finally reaching the layer of my own marriage. Was I important to George? Did I give him a reason to get up in the morning?

  Doubtful.

  My soul-searching must have shown on my face.

  “You haven’t been married long,” she said as she reached over and patted my hand. “As the years go on, you’ll see what I mean. Our husbands may be rulers of the universe at work, but once they walk through that front door, they are little boys again. Dependent on us to make life easy, comfortable, and predictable.”

  “One might think that because Alma was older by five years, Talbot should have expected her to go first. But I happen to know that he married an older woman on purpose. You must remember, he was — is — a scientist. He’d done his research. He hoped to never face the twilight of his life alone. Besides, Alma never acted like the older of the two. She was vibrant. Lively. Engaged. Alma was Talbot’s lifeline to the world at large. She would invite people over to eat. She was a one-woman Welcome Wagon, extending a helping hand, bringing over treats, and asking how she could help. Yes, Alma was Talbot’s link to the world outside his lab.”

  “Was Leesa that for Sven?” I was turning over pieces and trying to see how they fit.

  “No. But Sven was that for Leesa. In their marriage, the roles were reversed. He was the adult, and she was the child. I believe he kept her from growing up. Even now, she’s lost without him. She’s been adamant that Sven’s cremation be done immediately. When I asked why, she said she couldn’t stand to think about the decay. That’s all that mattered to her! How he would look!”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes, she’s really something, isn’t she? I explained I’d take care of it all. Finally, she agreed, as long as she didn’t have to look at his remains. I had no idea how expensive it would be to ship his body back to Minnesota. The transport alone will cost me $2000. The money will have to come out of savings.”

  “Can you afford that?”

  “I’m on a fixed income. To cover an expense this large, I’ll have to make economies, but I’m bound and determined to manage. May I make myself at home and start coffee? I’d like a cup of decaf with my dessert. How about you?”

  66

  Brita stayed about an hour longer. We discussed cooking, doing hand embroidery, and her long trip back to Minnesota. Zoe’s presence delighted Anya, especially when she managed to say, “Zo-oh,” and call the black Lab over. Brita and I applauded my daughter’s precocious efforts at animal handling.

  By the time I locked the front door behind my guest, I was tuckered out. Anya could barely keep her eyes open, too. Although I rarely think about it, I’m an introvert. I need alone time to recharge my batteries. I’ve read up on the differences in personality types, and extroverts scoop up energy interacting with other people, whereas I get depleted. Maybe that was one reason it had been hard for me to make new friends. Each person drained my batteries, even as I craved the support of friendship.

  Brita had left behind the lingonberry torte. Only a mighty effort on my part kept me from finishing it off, but I did manage a modicum of self-control. I wrapped the leftovers carefully and put them in the refrigerator before carrying Anya upstairs to bed.

  “Doh? Zo-oh?” She pointed to the foyer. “Bye-bye?”

  “That’s right, honey. The dog’s name is Zoe, and she’s gone bye-bye. You liked seeing her, didn’t you? I promise that one day we’ll have a dog. Or a cat. Or both. You would like that, wouldn’t you, sweet pea?”

  After bathing her and putting her in the crib, I fell asleep on the twin bed in Anya’s room, but not before reviewing every word of my conversation with Brita. Tomorrow, I planned to Google how breaking a hip could kill an older adult woman. It didn’t make sense to me, but Brita had sounded sure of herself.

  I also wanted to Google Talbot Bergen and find out more about his background. My mind flitted back to what Brita had said as she’d hugged me goodbye.

  “You are a lucky woman, Kiki. You might not realize it, but you are.”

  “Why do you say I’m lucky?”

  She stroked Anya’s curls. “Having a child is one of life’s greatest joys. You’ve already discovered that your heart lives outside of your body. No one understands his or her parents until becoming a parent. But even more than that, having a child is a life-affirming event. It’s a badge of womanhood. For those who’ve tried and failed, it’s the ultimate deep wound, a repudiation of all other accomplishments.”

  I’d grown accustomed to the long words that Brita used as a natural part of speech. Big words were her currency. But after two glasses of wine and a busy day, I couldn’t follow her drift.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “Could you explain yourself?”

  “Leesa can’t have children. Ever. It’s a biological impossibility. I don’t know the particulars, just the end result. She’s channeled her frustration into an alternate form of perfection. It’s like an apple that’s perfect on the outside and rotten at the core. Only, she’s constantly polishing that exterior, trying to prove that she’s okay. When you moved in, seeing your adorable daughter must have been a crushing blow to her ego.”

  Lying on my back, I ran my hands over my jelly-belly. Because I’m short, Anya had stretched my muscles and skin to the max. I doubted my gut would ever go back to normal. Not that I’d ever been flat-bellied, but I’d never worn a spare tire around my waist, like now.

  Maybe instead of hating that roll of flesh, I should bless it. I should remember that it had sheltered, nurtured, and fed my daughter for nine months. I should recall that this part of my body had served as an incubator for the most adorable chick ever.

  Was Leesa more desirable, just because she was thin?

  Our culture put such a premium on being slender.

  But she hadn’t given birth, so her body had never been put to the test or pushed to the limits of its endurance. What had my ob/gyn said about the rigors of labor? “It’s like driving a Ferrari into a concrete wall at 100 miles per hour. Giving birth is
that rough on a woman’s organs.”

  Yet, I’d come through that car wreck with a beautiful, healthy child. Every step of the way, my body had known what to do without help from my conscious mind. Wasn’t that praiseworthy? Unlike the missteps while learning to walk or talk, my body had mastered pregnancy without any practice. Pretty nifty stuff, when you thought about it.

  Leesa’s perfect body had failed her, while mine had done me proud.

  Why did I even bother to compare myself to Leesa?

  Maybe because we lived in a culture where women were encouraged to compare themselves to each other? Where women’s looks were assigned numbers, like, She’s a ten? Or where women competed with each other publicly and were awarded prizes on the basis of their looks? Where public figures remarked on how attractive or unattractive women were — but kept mum about the looks of men? Where the ages, and sometimes the weights, of women were a common part of their biographies?

  What a cruel way to judge another human being — and, yet, didn’t I do the same? Could I enter a room and not size up my “competition”? Could I mingle with other women and not find myself evaluating how attractive they were?

  How did I benefit from such silly behavior?

  I didn’t. I only hurt myself by thinking these thoughts.

  And yet, I knew better. But I’d still done it! I railed against such sexism, even though I secretly participated by judging myself and other women, holding us up to an impossible standard.

  How much rougher would I be on myself, if I couldn’t have a child and wanted one? Wouldn’t I feel let down? Angry? Confused? How would I channel all the energy, the tsunami of guilt, disappointment, and anger?

  Might I not focus on the aspects of my body I could control, like my looks? Wasn’t that what Leesa had done? Wouldn’t it become my obsession?

  But honestly, I, too, was obsessed with my looks in a twisted sort of way. My focus was putting myself down and beating myself up.