by Nina Bocci
“Oh no, not you, too?”
“Me too, what?” she asked innocently.
“You’re a part of the Dr. Max fan club,” I accused, throwing a sugar packet at her.
She tossed it back, laughing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I plead the Fifth!”
My eyebrow raised silently in questions. “Do tell, nearly married lady.”
“Please. Cooper knows I love him dearly, but Max is really unfairly attractive. Sometimes, I catch myself just staring at him,” she said with a dreamy sigh. “And before you say anything, Cooper does the same thing. The first time he met him he said, and I quote, ‘He’s absurdly handsome, right? It’s not just me?’ ”
“You’re not wrong,” I said, lowering my voice. “And he seems possibly interested. But he also seems like he’s got the interest of every woman in town.”
“You’re not wrong,” she repeated my words back, smiling broad and bright. “You said yes, right? I’ll live vicariously through you.”
“He didn’t actually ask me anything.”
“If and when he does, just say yes.”
I smiled. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now. Dating while I’m here seems like it should be the very last thing on my to-do list.”
Emma laughed. “Dr. Max should be at the very top of your to-do list.”
“This conversation has gotten way off track,” I said.
“Not surprising, I have a way of derailing conversations. It’s a gift.” She gave me a cursory glance. I could tell she was cooking something up in that head of hers. “I’m canceling everything I have for tomorrow.”
“Okay … ?”
“What do you have planned?”
“Let me check my calendar.” I pretended to open and close a calendar. “Nothing. I was just going to hang with Gigi.”
She clapped her hands happily.
“Excellent. I’ll drop you at Gigi’s now. Get some rest, because tomorrow I’m going to give you the insider’s nickel tour of Hope Lake. We’ll see the old stomping grounds, all your old friends, and if by the end you’re not hopelessly in love with this place, I’ll drive you back to New York City myself.”
This was too good to be true.
“Deal.”
4
“When was the last time you saw her?” Emma asked as we pulled into the long, winding gravel driveway up to Gigi’s house.
The words caught in my throat. “Almost two years ago. Once she needed the wheelchair full-time, it was too hard to bring her to visit me in the city.”
Emma frowned. “Why didn’t you, you know, just come here? I get why you didn’t as a kid, but as an adult—”
“Another million-dollar question, Peroni,” I said, trying to bring in some levity. “My mom never liked my career choice. Dare I say, she hated it. After she died, things were hard for months. I couldn’t focus on work, but I had to, because, hello, expensive-as-hell city to pay for.” I paused.
“Surely your dad would have …”
I nodded vigorously. “He offered for ages. Flights to visit him on his trips, cars to pick me up, bus tickets. But my pride got wounded every time I had to ask him for something.”
She touched my hand. “What do you mean?”
“I was a wreck after my mom died. Literally a wreck. Hell, even before she passed, I wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind. Afterward, I didn’t have time to take off from work because it wouldn’t have been paid. I’d go to work, be in a fog all day, and come home. My best friend, Parker, tried helping, but it wasn’t working. She reached my dad through the organization he volunteers with, and they got through to him. He cut his work in Malawi short because I needed help with the funeral arrangements and taking care of all the legal stuff. Her family—well, that’s another story—but they weren’t any help. I had to lean on him so much. I carried a lot of guilt from that. My mom was so imperfect, but she was still my mom, and he swallowed all his anger toward her to make sure that she had a nice service.”
Emma’s eyes were watery, much like mine.
“We don’t have to do this now, Charlotte,” she suggested.
“It’s okay. It’s like therapy, except you’re a lot cheaper.”
“This is very true.”
Rolling my shoulders back, I looked up at Gigi’s big house. “I tried, desperately at times, to prove that I could make it without any support. You don’t think of event planning or floral design as particularly cutthroat professions, but let me tell you, they are.”
“It’s that tough?” she interjected, slack-jawed at my revelation.
I shook my head. “If Bravo wanted to, they could have a successful spin-off for Real Housewives by focusing on all the small businesses they use and underpay, and the staff that works to the bone to make their parties television-worthy.”
“That sounds awful, and also something that I’d hate-binge.”
I laughed ruefully. “If you don’t know the behind-the-scenes, it is entertaining. But so many people don’t see the other side of things. I guess they don’t want to. The shows focus on the lives of the rich and gorgeous, and the incredible designers and caterers who create the lavish parties are ignored.”
“You’re right, I never even thought about that.” Emma looked stricken at the realization. “So work was keeping you there?”
“It’s part of the reason. It’s not an excuse by any means, but my dad understood how important it was for me to prove myself. I was working sixty hours a week or more, and the pay was hysterically bad. I was doing everything I could to get somewhere within the company I worked for, and then— Poof. One incident that wasn’t even my doing gets me fired, blacklisted, and crawling back here trying to figure out what step two is.”
Emma folded her hands on her lap. “Whatever happened, it’s in the past. You’re here now, and we’re going to make the most of it!”
“Thanks, Emma. I sure have missed you.”
“I’ve missed you more. Now, cheer up and don’t focus on anything other than how happy Gigi’s going to be to see you. And that you’ll be staying here with her!”
We sat silently for a few minutes, staring up at her sprawling white Victorian. It was an absurdly large house for an elderly person who was basically confined to the first floor. But I loved it, and I knew Gigi did, too. My father had begged her to consider moving to an assisted-living facility, but she patently refused, citing her staunch independence. It was for that reason that she wouldn’t let him move in.
While Gigi had agreed to let me stay at her house, I didn’t know what type of reception I was going to get from her. I had to just rip off the Band-Aid.
“Okay, I’m heading in,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“She’ll be happy, Charlotte. I promise,” Emma reassured me. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
I waited in the drive until she pulled away, tooting her horn as she waved.
Climbing up the house’s wide, weathered stairs, I smiled at the overflowing flower boxes hanging from the slightly chipped white banisters. On both sides of the stairs, two enormous barrel planters were filled to the brim with vibrant lipstick-pink zinnias, pale yellow petunias, and bright green ivy. Bright blue lobelia blooms poured out of hanging baskets that were placed evenly around the wraparound porch. It wasn’t even June yet and her yard and floral decor were enviable.
It made me wonder who in town was responsible for all the work.
And did they want to hire me?
“Of course, it’s not locked,” I muttered, knowing some things never change. I turned the ornate brass doorknob.
“Gigi, I’m here!” I shouted from the doorway before pushing the doorbell a few times.
I heard the telltale sounds of her motorized chair coming from what I remembered being the kitchen. Sure enough, Gigi zipped through the swinging door on her trusty, ruby-red mechanical steed.
“There’s my girl. Your father told me you were coming,” she said, checking her Apple Watch. Wha
t was a ninety-year-old doing with an Apple Watch?
“Although, that was a while ago. Anything to confess, young lady?”
“Give me a hug first and I’ll share all my secrets.” Dropping to my knees, I took her hand and kissed her delicate cheek.
When I pulled away, a tear slipped out, but I brushed it away before she could see it.
“Let me look at you,” she said, holding my arms out at my sides. “You’re tired. Why?”
I frowned but schooled my features before she noticed. “I’m okay, Gigi. Long night of travel. Long day of nonsense.”
She pulled me down to her, and I sat on the floor beside her chair. She smoothed her hand down my cheek. I leaned into it and smiled.
“How I’ve missed you,” I said.
“You’re here now, that’s what counts.”
I smiled, remembering how much I missed her sweet face and gentle touch. “Did Dad let you in on the news?” I asked, looking up at her kind eyes.
“That you got arrested, yes.”
Welp, so much for that moment.
“No, not that, and it wasn’t arrested, Gigi. My God, you’re a nudge.”
She laughed. “You love me.”
I nodded. It was true. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“That you’re going out with Dr. Reese?”
“What?” Between getting detained and seeing Gigi, I had forgotten all about it. “It’s nothing, just a walk. Dr. Max told him?”
“Apparently so. Then your father told me. By the way, I heard dinner was involved, too.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“This day has been the worst,” I lamented.
Gigi patted me on the head like I was her favorite pooch. “Oh, don’t forget that you knocked poor Henry to the ground. Yes, he mentioned that, too. Poor Henry, right in the balls, huh?”
“Gigi! You don’t say balls!”
“I don’t? I’ll have to remember that. Nads? Nuggets? Meatballs? What’s the term these days. I’m not in the know.”
“This isn’t happening.”
“Oh, but it is. You nailing poor Henry in the testicles was the highlight of the morning. I think they lit a candle for him at the daily mass.”
“God, the whole town must know.”
“You’re not wrong, unfortunately. Gossip burns through this place like a wildfire through dry brush.”
“That’s concerning. Dad didn’t tell you anything else about me?”
Gigi smiled, her gray eyes twinkling. “My darling, he always talks about you, so you’ll need to be more specific. But first, what good news do you bring for me?” She pulled me closer, forcing me to look in her eyes.
“You’ve got a new roommate!” I feigned excitement.
“Oh, he did mention that. I couldn’t be happier. I need someone to dust the ceiling fans for me.” She squeezed her thin fingers through mine. “Oh, and how are you with laundry?”
“You’re a regular comedian, Gigi.”
She beamed, though her eyes were a bit watery. “I try.”
Holding hands on her front porch, we sat silently watching a hummingbird land on a bright red feeder. Suddenly, with the wind blowing through the front door, Gigi’s demeanor shifted. With her eyes glued to the fluttering bird, she whispered, “This is your house, Charlotte. You stay, you leave; you’re welcome here as long as you need to be. Get your feet back underneath you.”
Embarrassment bubbled up in my stomach. I didn’t want to admit all my failures. Disappointing my father was hard. Disappointing Gigi, who only ever championed me and my frivolous dreams, was devastating.
“Gigi, I—” I began, but she held her hand up to stop me.
“Not now. We’ve got time. All summer to mend fences.”
I smiled, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Summer. I could handle that length of time. A finite amount of time.
She always understood me. “You’re the best.”
“You say that now. I’m being literal. You’ll have to mend the fence out back. The deer keep coming in and eating all my apples.”
I laughed. “Never change, Gigi.”
She patted my hand. “Okay, enough of the sappiness. I’m too old for all this sentimentality. My heart can give out at any moment, and I’m not going out like this.” She paused, waggling her eyebrows. “Anything interesting to report? I have to live vicariously through all you young people.”
“ ‘All you young people’? What does that mean? Male suitors?”
She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Some. I’m irresistible, what can I say. It works for the old guys with money, why not me? Now tell me, what sort of excitement rained down on the town upon your arrival? Suzanne hasn’t stopped talking about it, but she embellishes. I want to hear your side.”
“Suzanne? Suzanne. Why do I know that name?” I asked, scratching my chin.
“My neighbor, Suzanne Mancini. You remember her, right? Loud, great cook, busybody, and my best friend.” I vaguely remembered her name, but I couldn’t place her. Confusion must’ve been evident on my face.
“You must remember Mrs. Mancini!” Gigi insisted, inching her chair up to the still-open doorway.
I shrugged. “The name rings a bell, but I’m drawing a blank.”
She sighed and continued to rattle off relatively ridiculous descriptors. “A couple sandwiches short of a picnic, often inappropriate, runs the senior social circuit around Hope Lake. She taught you how to play gin rummy.”
A memory surged up like a wave.
A flash of an oval table in a bright yellow kitchen with pennies and playing cards splayed across the table. Gigi sitting at the counter teaching two other kids how to play chess, boys about my age. The house smelled like fresh-baked cookies, and a burst of happiness exploded in my chest.
“Lots of curly hair, sort of stout and sturdy, with long pink nails, and a laugh that made you giggle right along with her.”
“Yes! That’s her. I’m so glad you remember!”
“Not really, she’s just walking across the yard right now.”
“Suzanne. I thought we said tomorrow?” Gigi called, but the woman ignored her.
“Look at you,” she said, wheezing a bit as she slowly climbed the stairs. She was decked out in a lime-green tracksuit with white stripes down the legs and rocking an old-school pair of Stan Smith Adidas. I balked at how fashionable this woman was when I looked like I hadn’t combed my hair in days.
“I’m so happy to see you again. I heard you were here and baked cookies for you! Just like I used to do when you were little,” she explained. I looked down at her empty hands, confused.
“Oh, I ate them. And then my dog, Whiskey, well, he got the rest. I’ll make more tomorrow. I just wanted to say hello and welcome you back to Hope Lake. It’s wonderful to have you home.”
I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Thankfully she turned to Gigi. “We have our meeting tomorrow. I’ll see you guys then.”
Mrs. Mancini pulled me into a crippling hug before descending the stairs with care. “That was …”
“She’s a lot to take in. I’m ticked about the cookies, though.”
“What meeting do you have tomorrow?” I asked, watching Mrs. Mancini’s dog, a Saint Bernard, greet her at her side door. He was wagging his tail, his large body shaking with delight.
“Senior citizens meet twice a month to discuss old-people things. She’s hosting tomorrow, so I’ll need some help over the gravel,” she explained, as if it was just a normal day out and about.
I supposed that it was. She could zip herself down the road if she wanted to. No one said she had to be stuck in this big old house all day. Maybe people picked her up in a fancy van, or something. There was so much that I didn’t know.
The guilt continued to bubble, reminding me that I had missed out on a lot of time with her. I was going to apologize again, when she zipped her chair closer to me.
“So you really got arrested?” Gigi asked in a maniacal whisper, rubbing her hands together expec
tantly. “Was it because of Henry? Or did you assault another poor handsome man in the short time that you’ve been here?”
“You’re ridiculous. It was a misunderstanding regarding the lack of a license … and some other things,” I added quickly.
“If you’re already riling up the town, this summer is going to be fun!”
I sighed. “I’ve made quite the name for myself with the policemen in town. I wasn’t arrested. I mean, there were no cuffs. I promised to stay out of trouble.”
“Too bad. Cuffs could have been fun. Trouble is fun.”
“Gigi!” I said, feeling my cheeks burning.
“What?” she said, shrugging. “Prude.”
With a practiced flair, she pushed the steering stick on her wheelchair and hit the gas. She made a perfect circle turn and headed back toward the kitchen.
“I hope you ate already, because I burned lunch!” Gigi wasn’t much of a cook, something I assume I inherited from her. Luckily for her, my grandpa Stanley did all the cooking. At least until he passed away nearly twenty-five years ago. After that, my father took over either cooking and bringing it over, much to my mother’s annoyance, or they grabbed takeout together.
“I can make you something. I ate with Emma,” I called from behind her. She left me in her dust.
“I was just teasing. No need to put yourself out, cookie. I ordered Chinese. It should be here soon. Besides, you cook as bad as I do.”
I shrugged and followed her into the kitchen. “You’re not wrong.”
* * *
AFTER CLEANING UP her lunch, Gigi said it was time for her programs. I assumed that meant daytime television talk shows or soap operas. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Gigi was addicted to the Queer Eye reboot and Netflix crime dramas.
And if it wasn’t murder shows, it was murder books.
“This one is good. It’s based off of a podcast that NPR did. Fascinating stuff. This is about Jack the Ripper. Oh, and this is about the Golden State Killer,” she prattled on, handing me each book and insisting I read them. From the top of a stack on her nightstand, she took her newest favorite.
“This is your bedtime reading?” I asked, holding up a book about Belle Gunness, who was apparently a rare female psychopath. “How do you sleep at night?”
