“She told you this? That these little periods of confusion go back a ways.”
“Uh-huh. Of course, she wants to live in her house again. And of course she shouldn’t. Not without help. There’s really no way she can afford full-time care in her house. What I’d like to do is take a leave from teaching and move in with Peaches. It’s going to be a long, long time before she’ll need any kind of nursing home. She just needs a companion. Someone to keep an eye on her, help her out with transportation. And I am her legal guardian, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, but he struggled with it. He rubbed the back of his neck. “This isn’t what I want for you, Steph. To be twenty-five and baby-sitting your grandma. You’re too young to give up your youth like that. It’s not a great idea. Your mom will—”
“I grew up in that house, Daddy. I love Peaches’s little house. The one who really can’t do it is Mom. She’s too bossy, too fussy. Peaches would kill her in her sleep.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say this, but…I don’t know if you can. I mean, there are certain standards of…Stephanie, you would have to clean and cook. And we both know you’re better at reading.”
Surprisingly, she only laughed. “I know. I’ve been pretty selfish, haven’t I? Daddy, we’re not going to have Peaches too much longer. Who knows how much lucid time she has left. I don’t want to miss it. I don’t want to regret how I spent this time.”
At that moment, Jake was incredibly proud. “Have you told Peaches?”
“I did. She thanked me for the thought, but I don’t think she thinks I’ll follow through. Isn’t that too bad, Dad? That there were so many times I didn’t follow through?”
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” he scoffed. “You’re just a girl. You got your degree, after all. You’re a good teacher.”
“I am,” she said, sitting taller in her chair. “I don’t think I’ll be away from teaching that long. I have lots of years to teach, but Peaches probably only has a few years at home.”
“What does Grant say about this idea?”
She instantly glanced into her coffee cup. Tears threatened and she fought to hold them back. “I haven’t talked to Grant about this yet.”
Jake lifted her chin with a finger. “Stephie, is there something else you want to tell me?”
“No,” she said. “Except that I will talk to Grant about it. He’s studying for finals right now, but pretty soon, when he’s done with that…School will be out for me, Peaches’s house will be finished, Grant will be on break, Mom and Dennis will be—Hey, you said something about having an opinion about that.”
“I have opinions about everything,” he said.
“On that subject?”
He shrugged. “Better left unsaid.”
“You don’t much like Dennis, do you?”
“Aw, he’s an okay guy, I guess. For a nurse.”
“You’re jealous!”
“Jealous? Me? Ha! I offered to give her away, didn’t I?” But Stephanie was no longer listening. She was distracted by the sight of a young man at the serving counter who was both flirting with a young waitress and paying for his coffee. Jake followed her stare and identified Fast Freddy Rainey. “You know that guy, Stephie?” Jake asked.
“I’ve met him,” she said, watching him carefully. In fact, he hadn’t bothered her lately—no phone calls, notes or flowers—and she was momentarily afraid he’d resumed his pestering and had followed her.
Freddy turned from the counter with his steaming cup and wandered into the café in search of a table. He was laughing to himself, no doubt over some wildly clever line he’d just laid on the waitress. He spied Stephanie and stopped short, sloshing hot coffee over his fingers. His eyes took on an instant panicked gleam as he saw Jake. Jake made the tiniest smile, an almost imperceptible nod, and Freddy began to back away. His heel caught on the leg of one of the café’s wrought-iron chairs and he stumbled backward, spilling hot coffee on himself and a seated patron. He fell into a rack of cups and they went crashing to the floor in a pile of ceramic pieces, but Freddy didn’t stop. He scrambled to his feet and, while looking over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being chased, fled the café.
Jake picked up his cup and took a leisurely sip. “Mmm,” he said. “Your friend is…what? A little shy?”
Stephanie looked at her dad through narrowed eyes. “Something’s going on here,” she said. “Freddy took one look at us and ran for his life.”
“Really? Maybe he mistook me for someone else?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I highly doubt it.”
The Bridal Boutique was crowded with the female members of a wedding party trying on their gowns for alterations. The seamstress was ready to pin up the hems and let in or let out the bodices, as the case may be. In a not at all uncommon response to stress, or perhaps some other biological event, the bride had put on nearly twenty pounds since choosing her gown. And her face was peppered with new acne. And she was mean as a badger.
“Moth-her! Look at this goddamn neckline! This goddamn thing was not like this when I picked it out!”
The seamstress, Mrs. Rodriquez, a woman in her sixties who had been doing this work for many, many years, slowly pulled herself up from her place on the floor where she worked on the hem of the gown, and tried to examine the neckline in question. “This is the same gown, miss, but if you like, we can fix in some lace or tulle—”
“Except I didn’t buy a gown with any goddamn lace or tulle, now, did I?”
“Birdie, Birdie,” the young woman’s mother admonished. “Let’s stay calm and fix these things as best we—”
“I can’t even breathe in this goddamn dress!”
Agatha stood back and listened, unimpressed. There were five bridesmaids in various stages of undress, all picking at each other’s dresses, pulling them into better fits by pinching inches of satin at the sides, the waist, complaining about the style, the color, the fabric. But at least they did so more eloquently than the beast known as Birdie.
“I knew this blue would look nasty with my complexion,” said one.
“The color is okay for me, but could you possibly find an uglier dress?” asked another.
“At a thrift shop, maybe.”
“Check out Birdie’s,” whispered the fourth. “She looks like a beached whale.”
“I heard that!”
“Drug of choice? Chocolate?”
“Are you going to do anything about this?” the bride demanded of the seamstress, towering over the little woman like a bear cowering a pussycat.
“It’s not a problem, miss. The seams have to be let out right here, and right here,” she said, pointing to the sides of the gown. “Then, if you like, a little of the same lace on your train can be applied to the dé-colletage to make it slightly more modest. Here, you slip your arms out, lower the dress, we’ll open the seam and see what we have.”
“We’d better have a perfect wedding gown in one week or I’m going to sue you!”
“Birdie, Birdie,” begged the beast’s mother.
There was the tinkling of the bell to the shop and Agatha went, gratefully. She was a little less grateful when she saw it was Dennis, and he wasn’t smiling. “Hello, Dennis. I guess I should have expected you.”
“Why did you go to the restaurant, Aggie?”
She shrugged lamely but met his gaze bravely. “She called just before lunch, begged me to stop by if only to say hello, and my curiosity got the better of me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And what did you think?”
“Of Charlene? That she’s very beautiful. Very sophisticated. And very much planning a wedding.”
“I had absolutely no idea she was doing that.”
“Well, the women appeared to be having a wonderful time. Until—” She stopped and winced as a shriek came from the back of the store.
“Ouch! Be careful with those goddamn pins!”
Agatha shook her head in disgust, then turned her attention b
ack to Dennis. “Ahem. They were having a wonderful time until your sister’s mishap. Is she all right?”
“She’ll live. As you get to know my sister better, you’ll find she is very unpredictable.”
“And is that likely to happen?” she asked. It was impossible for her to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
Dennis chose not to answer. “I’m on my way to Charlene’s right now. I have no idea what to expect. It might be a very unpleasant evening, but when I leave there tonight, there will no longer be wedding plans in the works.”
She clutched her hands together at her waist and looked down at the floor. She couldn’t help feeling very sorry for Charlene Dugan. But, she reminded herself, calling off the wedding and ending the relationship were two separate issues. Dennis had already said he would stand by Charlene, support her through difficult times with her mother’s illness. And, really, wasn’t that the kind of man Agatha wanted in her life?
This could drag out for a painfully long time.
“Would you like me to call you later? When I leave her house?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze. “Dennis, that’s entirely up to you.”
“If it’s not too late, I’ll call,” he said, turning to go.
“Try not to—” she started. He turned back to her and she was about to tell him to be gentle or to try not to hurt Charlene, but there was another sharp cry from the back. Agatha lifted her hand in farewell and returned to the wedding party in the fitting room.
The bride was standing before the mirror, her wedding gown opened in the back and lowered to her waist so that her arms were free. She wore a miserable-looking corset and girdle. Mrs. Rodriquez gently held the gown by the shoulders so that the bride could slip her arms into the gown and pull it up to her shoulders again.
Agatha had a vision of Charlene, so smart and stylish and fun-loving, crumbling to the floor when Dennis told her there would be no wedding. And Dennis, chivalrous as he was, lifting her up, consoling her, kissing her, holding her, giving in.
“If you could lift your arm high over your head, miss?”
“Like this?” she asked, holding up her arm.
“Perfect. Still now, while I measure and pin.” Mrs. Rodriquez measured the girl’s bust, scribbled the number, and with a mouthful of pins, began fitting the open side seams and underarms together, giving the robust bride a bit more room. “Ouch!” the girl cried out. And to Agatha’s horror, she shoved little Mrs. Rodriquez backward. The seamstress might’ve fallen if she hadn’t been pushed right into a rack of billowing gowns that cushioned her. “I told you to be careful!”
“That will do!” Agatha said sharply. She went to Mrs. Rodriquez, the sweetest little lady in the world, and inquired, “Are you all right, Mrs.?”
“Yes. Sure. But I try to be careful.”
“Of course. You can go home now. And don’t worry, of course you will be paid.”
“Home? You’re sending her home?”
“Go now,” Agatha told the seamstress. “Yes, she’s going home. Miss, I have been doing this work for quite some time. Tensions surrounding even the simplest wedding tend to be enormous, and people naturally have their anxious moments, but I’m afraid you’ve toppled the cart. You will have to finish your event without our help. I’ll be glad to give you the names and phone numbers of other alteration shops, but Mrs. Rodriquez will no longer be able to help you. You’ve treated her quite horribly.”
“How dare you,” the bride sputtered. “The old cow stabbed me! What the hell do you expect?”
“I expect you to leave immediately or I shall call the bobbies and report an assault. Once they’ve made your acquaintance, they certainly won’t doubt the probability.”
“Now, now,” the mother of the bride simpered. “I’m sure if we all calm down we can work this out, smooth over ruffled feathers, make this event as beautiful as all concerned.”
“It’s doubtful, madam,” Agatha said, standing her ground. “I’m not in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. And I don’t think I’ll be feeling better anytime soon.”
Fifteen
Without really thinking too much about it, Charlene threw herself into preparations for a spectacularly erotic evening. It was the least she could do, and odd though it may be, something she hadn’t done before. Not that she and Dennis weren’t romantic. They were very romantic. Also very civilized. Decorum was a word that came to mind. Or tame.
She went first to her favorite lingerie shop where she purchased something small, silky, lacy and red. Something meant to be worn briefly, then tossed. Before she could sign the charge slip, she added a long red silk robe to the purchase; she didn’t want to catch a chill.
Then she went to her famous gourmet grocer where she procured, from the deli chef, Dennis’s favorite—chicken and pasta Alfredo, Caesar salad, Boston cream pie and a really nice bottle of Chardonnay.
Then home to set the table in china and crystal, silver and candles. This was going to be very special, and no one appreciated classy table appointments like Dennis. She found herself looking forward to this dinner, to time with him. He was, above all, a good date, a good friend. They had had many a pleasurable evening together in the last five years, two to three times every week.
There was comfort for Charlene in routine. There always had been. Since childhood it had always produced grave anxiety in her when she didn’t know what was going to happen next. A by-product, no doubt, of having an unreliable though desirable father.
But their comfortable routine would change, she thought as she placed the linen napkins beside the plates. They would be together, as Stephanie would put it, twenty-four-seven. Hmm.
She went to the master bedroom, laid out the red silk on the bed and drew a bath. As she soaked, relaxing into the bubbles and scents, she decided that they would live there. It was the only possible solution because Charlene couldn’t give up this master bedroom and bath, and preferred her soft bed to Dennis’s hard one. And the neighborhood was a good one; the property values were rising. Dennis would come around. He’d always been one to compromise if it made her happy…unlike Jake, who would argue with a million dollars.
Scat, Jake! Out out out! Not tonight, she admonished.
As the sun slowly sank, she warmed the Alfredo, put on some nice music, moved the Chardonnay and bucket to stand beside the place that Dennis would occupy at the table and placed the corkscrew there for him. Next she lit candles. The only electric light she was going to allow tonight was the small one over the stove. Otherwise, it would all be candlelight.
She went to the bedroom, threw off the terry robe and donned the red concoction. She looked in the mirror. Well, Dennis would probably not consider it ridiculous, but to her it seemed absurd. Those dimples in her thighs would not turn her on.
Once, twenty-five years ago, she had put on a candy striper’s uniform for Jake and he had chased her around their little apartment all night long. It was possible Stephanie was conceived that night. It was the last night she’d done or donned anything so risqué.
The robe was an excellent idea, she decided, pulling it over the itsy-bitsy nightie with a single purpose.
At six-forty-five she made sure all the lights were off but that one, all the candles flickering from bedroom to dining room. She sat at the table, waiting. It was beautiful. Romantic. Meaningful.
Artificial.
Then she knew. In a split second she knew. It was all wrong.
It was like falling from a forty-story building and having your life flash before your eyes, but for the first time she understood that it wasn’t like a movie in fast-forward from birth to death, but rather a total life, seen all at once. Charlene at ten, waiting at the corner for her dad to come back and finally going home in the dark, disappointed; Charlene at seventeen, graduating from high school, Peaches alone in the commencement hall; Charlene at twenty, pregnant, standing over her father’s casket; Charlene at thirty, getting her law degree, Peaches, Jake and Stephanie cheering; Charle
ne at forty, lonely, her child raised and gone, drawing up a list of qualities she would like in the perfect man and seeing them produced before her very eyes in Dennis. Finally, Charlene at forty-five, sitting in red silk and candlelight in a desperate attempt to be saved by marriage, to break the family curse of single women hooked on fallible men.
Suddenly remembering something she had known all along, she realized what she had done. She had recreated, with stunning accuracy, the life she’d had with her father! The minute she saw the resemblance of Jake to her father, she divorced him. But kept him in her life, on her terms, at arm’s length. How often had she slept with him over the twenty-five years? As often as her father had come home during her youth? The life she thought she was freeing herself from, she had embraced. Had she really wanted to change the legacy, she’d have allowed Jake to be the husband and father he wanted to be—present, devoted and faithful. The things he’d ended up being anyway.
And Dennis? The perfect man? Certainly, but not perfect for her. Not who she wanted, really, but who she thought she should want.
Oh God, what have I almost done? she asked herself.
She stood up abruptly, almost panicked enough to run. First she would get out of the red, then she’d turn on some lights, then—
But the doorbell rang and, before she could even consider not answering it until she’d changed her clothes and her mind, she heard his key in the lock. Busted.
Dennis came into the foyer and just stood there as if letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, looking stately and handsome in his cream cashmere sweater and tan pans.
He didn’t say anything. Charlene couldn’t tell if he saw her standing by the dining table. She took two steps and turned on the chandelier light. Now it was certain he saw her, in all her glory. And she could clearly see his face. All that was there was disappointment. He was sorry for her that she’d made this dreadful presentation. This wasn’t what he was looking for at all. When he said he wanted to talk to her, “talk” was exactly what he meant.