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

  “Your mother-in-law told me to remind you she’s sent along your evening wear.” Howard gallantly helped me climb into the plush interior. There a zippered garment bag and a large shopping bag waited on the seat. Inside were my gown, my wrap, shoes, and another smaller bag marked, “Foundations.”

  Sheila is an early riser, so I phoned and thanked her. She said, “You are welcome. Linnea would like to speak with you.”

  “Miss Kiki? Don’t you worry one bit about Anya. She and I are going to make chocolate chip cookies this afternoon. I got us a movie to watch, and I’m making that child her favorite pot roast for dinner.” In a whisper, she added, “Miss Sheila doesn’t need to know a thing about those cookies, hear?”

  I chuckled and thanked her. Linnea had become my co-conspirator. Sheila harbored bizarre worries about Anya getting overweight. Once privy to my concerns about my child getting too thin, Linnea took charge of the situation, since she’d long since laid claim to Sheila’s kitchen as her own personal territory. The maid became my silent partner, making sure my child’s diet included more than iceberg lettuce, baked chicken, and apples. “What happens in my kitchen, stays in my kitchen, Miss Kiki,” Linnea had told me. “I get to decide what to make most of the time. I been telling Miss Sheila, if she eats too much bunny food, she’s going to grow herself a fuzzy cotton tail. I’ll make sure Missy Anya gets what she needs to keep shooting up like a weed. You know I will.”

  I grinned, thinking about how Linnea had outfoxed my mother-in-law. Or so I thought until Sheila came back on the line. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything about chocolate chip cookies,” she said. “Just this once. Anya shouldn’t make a habit of eating junk like that.”

  Eager to change the subject, I said, “I’ll give you this, Sheila, you sure know how to spoil me. I keep thinking a fairy godmother will descend from the heavens to sprinkle me with pixie dust. But honestly, is all this really necessary?”

  “Trust me, it is. The staff at Spa La Femme have their work cut for them.”

  “What if I get done early? How will I get home?”

  A curious silence followed. In it, I began to put two and two together. “But without my car … I won’t be able to get a ride back until, uh, Howard comes for me.” I stopped. It dawned on me why Sheila had constructed my trip in this one-sided manner. “You think I’ll chicken out. You were worried I’d get to the spa and decide to take a hike!”

  “The thought had crossed my mind. Why do you think I chose a spa out in the middle of nowhere?” With that, she hung up.

  It was so like Sheila to manipulate me. Once again, she’d gotten exactly what she wanted.

  38

  Rather than waste time, I’d decided to bring the Barbara Walters audio book along with me. Popping in a pair of headphones, I cued up the tape on my old cassette player. Snuggled back in the plush seat of the limo, I listened while Barbara offered tips on the fine art of asking questions.

  It was a peaceful drive. The traffic was Saturday light, and the scenery was picture postcard perfect. The limo had promised luxury, and now delivered on its pledge. We glided over hill after hill, up and down two-lane Highway 94 toward Defiance.

  After crossing the Missouri River, we turned southwest. Here our route divided wooded areas bordered with rippling prairie grass, nodding yellow-orange day lilies, and waving white daisies with bright gold centers. Along the way, we passed the two-story stone house where Daniel Boone had dispensed prairie justice to settlers and Indians alike. Several miles later, Howard pulled onto a long gravel drive that ran uphill through a rolling green lawn. Along the way, we were greeted by cloth banners hanging from iron street lamps. This brightly printed flags announced our arrival at Spa La Femme.

  As the drive curved, a Victorian house came into view. I giggled at the pun because La Femme — The Woman — was a “painted lady,” an architectural style known for its elaborate trim and rainbow colors. This grandiose house had pink pastel siding, accented with lavender, yellow, and green trim. An image of a birthday cakes sprang to mind, and my mouth watered.

  We were approaching a rose-colored awning that jutted out from a side door to the house. This canopy extended far enough to overhang a diversion of pavement. While the circular front drive continued its graceful arc, this spur allowed visitors to be dropped off under the shelter of the awning.

  As we pulled up, I removed my earbuds and put the cassette player and tape back into my purse. Two matrons in white dresses and orthopedic shoes raced down the steps. They stood like tin soldiers with hands clasped behind their backs à la parade rest. All I could assume was that a sort of electric eye at the foot of the hill had alerted them to our approach.

  After throwing the limo into park, Howard hopped out and opened my door. Both the matrons rushed forward, one took me by the elbow. The other retrieved my bags. I juggled my purse, slinging it over my shoulder.

  “I’m Suzanne, and I’ll be taking care of you today,” said my minder. She gave off a sense of efficiency, and her fragrance was strongly lavender.

  Before she could hustle me away, I thanked Howard. “You’ll be coming back for me.”

  “Yes, Miss. Not to worry. Suzanne has everything under control. She knows your schedule.”

  In response, my minder glanced down at a handsome gold watch pinned to her left breast. “Leave it all to me, Mrs. Lowenstein. Come right this way, we’ve been expecting you.”

  Behind us, the engine of the limo revved and Howard drove off into the proverbial sunset. For a second, I wondered if Sheila had committed me to a sanitarium. Yes, we were getting along better, but I still didn’t completely trust her. Why should I? Suzanne’s firm grip on my elbow brought back unpleasant memories of a time when Sheila had tried to have Anya taken away from me. Something about the authoritative manner of my new minder set off my internal alarm bells.

  Best to face this head on. “I’m just here to have my nails done. And my hair. That’s all.”

  Suzanne sent me a broad smile. “Oh, I think we’ll be doing a bit more than that!”

  Ten minutes later, I stood in the middle of a locker room. I was naked as a jay bird. Other women were also shedding their clothes. We were too embarrassed to strike up conversations, but there was none of the hoity-toity attitude I’d expected at a place as obviously exclusive as this. Nudity is a great equalizer. It’s hard to proclaim your status when you’re wearing nothing but your birthday suit.

  Suzanne held open a fluffy white bathrobe, and I gratefully slipped in. Fabric slippers were provided for my feet. Under Suzanne’s instructions, I closed the door on my locker, pinning the key to my robe. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t like my locker held anything of value. Inside was the old cassette player, the tape, five bucks, a pack of gum, Chapstick, and a dingy wad of tissues. On the hook inside the metal vault, a thief could see my well-worn shorts (made by cutting up a pair of jeans). a pair of Keds, and a tired Reebok T-shirt that had once been George’s. Truly not worth the effort to steal, much less to cart away.

  I joined a group of other stuffed bathrobes in the waiting room. There we avoided each other’s gaze, like bashful sheep before getting shorn.

  Suzanne kept disappearing and popping back up. This time she re-appeared clutching a clipboard and ink pen. “Please fill out this intake form.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Um, isn’t this a bit extreme for a manicure?” I pointed to my bathrobe. I didn’t want the other women to think I was silly. Of course, we’d all seen each other buck naked moments ago; silly was a relative term.

  “A manicure is definitely on the list but first we need to exfoliate you,” Suzanne chirped like a cheerful parakeet.

  “Ex-what me?”

  “Exfoliate.”

  “Isn’t that what Agent Orange did? In Vietnam?”

  Her face clouded with confusion. “We don’t have any Agent Orange, but Helga can put citrus oil in the body scrub.”

  “Scrub?” I played Little Mi
ss Echo as I scuffed my way along like an octogenarian on her way to bingo in the parlor.

  At the threshold of a white-paneled door in an endless row of the same, Suzanne handed me off to Helga, a woman whose musculature and false teeth were ample proof she’d once played hockey for the Boston Bruins. In guttural tones, Helga explained she’d give me privacy, and in return, I was to take off my bathrobe (of which I’d grown rather fond), lie face up on the leather bed, and cover myself with the proffered white sheet. A small pair of panties made from material like kitchen wipes were waiting for me. The smell of bleach and eucalyptus filled the air. It wasn’t comforting, but it did clear out my sinuses.

  I did as I was told and assumed the position. The ceiling was papered with posters of Tom Cruise, Antonio Banderas, and George Clooney. This was instantly and deeply shaming. The last thing I wanted was for these hunks to witness my flabby self, especially when wearing Handi Wipe® undies. A quick rap on the door announced Helga was baaaa-aaaack, and she’d dressed for the occasion wearing one huge, stiff mitten. In the other hand was a large metal bowl. She loomed over me, a mess of gooey orange paste on that glove. After looking me up and down, she said, “I exfoliate you. We take off dead skin.”

  When last I checked, all external skin is dead. Helga must have read the same biology text, because she scrubbed me with a vengeance, ridding me of this important outer covering. I gritted my teeth as layers peeled away. Between forceful strokes, she scooped up more of the nasty mix and slapped it on me. Fortunately, I have a high pain threshold. I could tolerate the sanding down of my upper arms, hands, forearms, and shins, but when she began grinding down my inner thighs, I yelped in pain.

  “Could you lighten up, please? You aren’t refinishing furniture.” I tried to inject levity, but Helga’s fierce countenance told me my attempt was wasted.

  “No, is better this way. Better for the mud and seaweed.”

  “Mud? Seaweed?”

  “Makes skin glow. Removes toxins. Drink this.” A whisker on her chin drooped as she handed me a white mug filled with clear liquid. I was grateful for any excuse for the sanding to stop, so I did as I was told. The liquid was acidic.

  “What is this?”

  “Hot water and lemon. Natural diuretic. You are bloat.”

  “I am a boat?”

  “Bloat. Like balloon.’

  “I am?” This was news to me. I felt fine. Or rather, I had been feeling fine until she peeled off that top coat of skin.

  “When was your last fast? Your last detox?”

  “Never. I don’t drink much and I don’t do drugs.” When she frowned, I mumbled, “Either would be welcome right now.”

  “Chemicals in food and alcoholic beverages build up inside you. Clog your plumbing. Americans do not eat enough fiber. You need colonic and diuretic to cleanse insides. Alas, we have no time for colonic today.”

  I had a vague idea of what a colonic was, and the thought made me wince. Here I thought people went to spas to relax. Silly me!

  Helga took my empty cup. Playtime was over. Back to the main event: torture by scrubbing. However, the lecture wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. “Your skin is dull. You need detox each spring. Also, sauna to sweat out impurities. And you must sauna with no clothes on. No towel, either. Is not sanitary. Finish with jump into cold water. I know you do not. Next comes apply mud and seaweed. But first, you urinate.”

  39

  I can pee on command. That’s how it works when you are part of a family of three girls. We never left the house without a mandatory piddle-check. Mom would ask, “Did you go? And you? And you?” Once we were in the car, if Dad was driving, it was straight on ’til morning. There was no stopping until we needed gas. Such deeply ingrained habits never leave you. Even today, you point me at a toilet and I will produce. I will sit down, shut up, and get the job done. This time, I’ll admit to taking my time in the restroom. I figured if I took long enough Helga would go away. But a hesitant knock on the door told me I was making life tough for other clients.

  “Uffda,” Helga muttered. “Stand here.”

  She commenced slathering on a concoction of brown mud and green seaweed. The plant life had obviously been rotting before getting added to the mix. I willed myself to go far, far away mentally, as Helga finger painted me, touching everything but my little paper panties with a brisk, business-like authority. As she worked, I turned into an Al Jolson clone. Once she judged me “done,” Helga wrapped plastic wrap around and around my body, pinning my arms to my sides. With the slick new covering, I resembled a giant salami, and I smelled even worse.

  “Now you rest.” Her bulging muscles came in handy as she lowered me onto the bed. The head was slanted higher than the feet, allowing me to view ten dark toes strapped together by the plastic.

  “Rest?” I croaked. Her nasty mud mixture was drying on my face. Moving my mouth took an effort.

  “Is hot in here, ya?” Without waiting for a response, Helga opened the window at the foot of my bed about twelve inches. This allowed me to stare at the outside world, although my vision was blurred by a pair of sheer curtains. Each gentle breeze lifted the fabric enough to provide tantalizing glimpses of freedom.

  “I cover your eyes,” and as a coup de grâce, Helga lowered a silk bag full of beans onto my worried brow.

  “You are comfy, yes?”

  No. Not really. I was hogtied, and I couldn’t see a thing.

  “Sleep. I come back. No one will bother you.” The door clicked softly behind her.

  Alone? I was all alone? Was this good or bad? Did it matter? I wasn’t sure, so I decided to give myself over to the experience. I did my best to relax.

  Within minutes, my skin began to itch. First here, then there, and soon, all over. From the area of the window came the putt-putt-sputter of a motor. The smell of gasoline filled the air. An angry hum crescendoed and receded. I could only surmise that a lawn mower was traveling back and forth in front of my window.

  Did I mention that I’m allergic to fresh-cut grass?

  Yes, I am.

  Very, very allergic.

  The itch inside my nose demanded relief. My eyes watered like crazy. Snot began running down the back of my throat. At this rate, I would drown in my own juices before Helga returned to rescue me.

  With a whiplashing motion, I flipped my head and tossed the silk bean bag to the floor.

  Now I could see – and what I saw was even more distressing. The goo on my body had congealed into a semi-hard shell. I imagined a chocolate Easter egg, and I was the creamy center. As it dried, the mixture had glued my armpits shut. I was frozen like that little tin soldier. Small pieces of grass drifted through the window. It rained down like confetti in a ticker tape parade. Attracted by the static electricity of the plastic wrap, these grass particles floated over and stuck to me. Blade by blade, I was turning into a chunk of sod.

  My nose ran and dripped with abandon, and no amount of sniffling could restrain the flow. No sound came from beyond the door where Helga had disappeared. She was probably taking a steroid break.

  The sound of the mower grew more insistent. Vaguely, through the fluttering curtains, I made out the form of a man. He paced back and forth outside the window, pushing the mower. Only his shoulders and torso visible as he did his job.

  “Help!” At first, I directed my call toward the other treatment room.

  Silence. A big echoing silence.

  That itching sensation became overpowering. The urge to scratch made me twitch. My whole body jumped and wiggled. I had no control over my movements. Worse yet, the narrow bed could scarce contain me. I spasmed and…

  Rrrrr-rip.

  I came un-stuck from the leather surface.

  This was a good news/bad news sort of situation. I was free, theoretically, and my body began a slow inexorable slide. But I was also out of control, heading toward the open window. Spatial intelligence kicked in. I calculated height, width, and shape of the opening.

  At this rate, I
was going to slide out of the open window!

  40

  My slide had started slowly, but I was picking up speed. My feet slipped off the end of the bed. The plastic wrap kept my legs rigid, and quickly they protruded like a shelf. With the pads of my toes, I bumped the wooden molding around the window — and held on for dear life.

  I was balanced there, gripping with my toes and feeling the pressure of my weight growing, growing …

  “Help!”

  No response.

  The mower motor continued its drone, as the lawn guy headed away from the building.

  “Help me!”

  My toes were getting tired. Those ten pinkies were all that stood between me and the great outdoors.

  The mowing man had swung back around. The sound of the motor grew louder and louder.

  How many more passes would he make?

  One of my feet slipped. I wiggled my toes in the fresh air. At this rate, I might even collide with the mower man.

  “Help!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  I needed to get his attention! But he couldn’t hear me over the noisy engine.

  “Help!” I yelled to the door Helga had used.

  No use.

  I lifted my head and gave my best blood-curdling scream toward the open window: “Heeeellllllppppp!”

  The mower sputtered, cycling down to a stop. A thin sliver of sunburnt face appeared between my toes. Soft grey eyes peered in. “What the…? You all right in there?”

  “Yes! No! I need help!”

  I took quick stock of my situation. I looked a little like Mystique, the X-Man creature. Except instead of blue, I was brown. I smelled bad. I was riper than ripped, and more fluff than buff, and I was naked except for a pair of Handi-Wipe panties.

  Wow.

  Can you say, “Hot-hot-hot?”

  All this zipped through my mind, at the speed of a sneeze. And that promptly followed.

  “I’m aller…hachoo…allergi…fresh grass….help?” I sniveled, trying to control the snot streaming down my face. Just call me Booger Queen, I thought.