Mai Tai'd Up
Page 41
I softened. I couldn’t help it. “I know you think you do—yes,” I said with a sigh.
Shaking out the top sheet, I fanned it up over the bed like a parachute. For a split second, I caught her eye underneath the canopy. She looked tired. By the time the sheet had settled, she looked composed, as usual. We pulled the sheet tight, hospital corners at the bottom. As I smoothed the sheet up toward the top, she tugged a little more on her side, pulling the sheet over just a bit. I tugged it back over to my side, making it the same on both: even.
Point: neither.
“You say you didn’t love Charles,” she started.
I shook my head.” I didn’t—”
“Let me say this, please,” she asked, and I nodded. I stood on my side of the bed, blanket in hand.
“You say you didn’t love Charles, and I can see now that you didn’t. But, Chloe, love is not always the only thing you need to make a marriage work.”
“You said that before, but how is that possible? How can that not be the most important thing?” I asked, sitting down on the bed.
“Because it’s just not.” She sighed, sitting down as well. “I loved your father more than anything in this world.” She studied her hands, rubbing the fourth finger on her left hand absently. Not so absently? When she looked up at me again, her eyes were bright. “And it was absolutely not enough.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding my head once. Pieces were falling into place so quickly I could practically hear them clinking.
“We had nothing in common, Chloe—nothing. Except we were stupid in love. And were for a long time. But at a certain point, once you grow up, once you become parents, you need more than that. You need common goals, common interests, a clearly chosen path of how you’re going to live your life. We didn’t have that, and we grew apart. I didn’t feel appreciated. Your father didn’t feel appreciated. Things happen. You say things you can’t take back. You do things you—” She stopped herself, her gaze focusing as she realized what she was saying. “Well, things happen. But by then, it was too late.”
She looked at me carefully as her eyes began to close off once more. “Love isn’t everything, Chloe, it just isn’t. You didn’t want to marry Charles, and I accept that. But moving up here, starting this new business, it’s like . . . it’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I took a deep breath, then held it, still not sure what I was going to say. I let it out in one long sigh as I stood up and began to shake out the blanket. “I know you don’t understand it, but it’s something I need to do right now, for me. I need something for myself. Just for me.”
“And working with these . . . dogs is what you want to do?” she asked, gesturing for the other end of the blanket.
“Yeah,” I said, handing it to her. “I really think it is.”
She was quiet. We worked in silence, folding the blanket toward the foot of the bed. Then she said, “Remember the Feldings? They lived down at the bottom of the hill?”
“Sure, the ones that handed out toothpaste on Halloween?”
“That’s because the father was an orthodontist.”
“They also got egged every Halloween.”
“Be that as it may, I ran into Mrs. Felding at the market the other day. Their son Stephen is going into practice with his father. He’s back from Cornell, and single as can be. She asked about you and—”
“Mother. Seriously,” I said, staring hard at the floor.
“Chloe. Seriously. Can’t you take a joke?” When I looked up her eyes were bright, but this time with mischief.
I rolled my eyes, but allowed a grin. “I’m going to go put some water on,” I said, walking past her on the way to the kitchen. “Maybe after your bath we could have some tea?”
“If you’d like,” she said, her voice controlled but delighted.
“I’d like.” I smiled, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget you have to jiggle the handle to get the hot to mix with the cold.”
“For goodness’ sake, I’d forgotten all about that. Do you have any idea how many times I tried to get your father to hire a plumber? A real one, not just that caretaker.” She went on and on while she took out her bath products, and I just leaned in the doorway and listened to her.
Until she prompted me to go get the kettle on, so the teapot would have time to warm up.
Chapter twelve
The day of the Fourth of July picnic and parade was one of those picture-perfect California days. Seventy-five degrees, not a cloud in the sky, with a kicky breeze blowing in on off the coast. I spent the better part of the morning with the dogs, playing fetch with a million tennis balls and a racket. Glad my perfect backhand was finally paying off. I paid some bills, answered some emails, avoided two phone calls from my mother, and then managed to get in a quick shower.
My mother and I had spoken a few times since the grand opening party. She wasn’t quite ready to give up on the idea of me moving back to San Diego, believing I’d tire of this “gang dog” thing, but things were less tense than before. And that was a very good thing. And speaking of mothers, today I was going to get to meet Lucas’ mother. He’d called the morning after my parents left, wanting to make sure my head was still on, or if it had been blown out along with the ditty bag. Which he still didn’t quite understand.
“So explain to me once again what a ditty bag is?” he asked.
“It’s just a small bag that might hold things like paper clips or push pins, or you might take it on a camping trip to hold your toothbrush, toothpaste, and bug spray,” I explained. “Or I might have had one that I kept backstage when I did pageants.”
“And what might have been in that bag?” he asked, curious.
“Preparation H and butt glue.”
“I can’t talk to you ever again,” he said, horrified.
“Oh shut up,” I said, laughing, and dropped a piece of bread into the toaster.
“Are you making toast?”
“Nothing wrong with your ears,” I said. “And, yes, I’m making toast.”
“Late breakfast?”
“Or early lunch. Didn’t really eat breakfast this morning,” I replied, gazing out at the driveway, where my parents’ car had been just a little while ago.
“How’d it go with your mom?” he asked, his voice careful.
Shaking out the top sheet, I fanned it up over the bed like a parachute. For a split second, I caught her eye underneath the canopy. She looked tired. By the time the sheet had settled, she looked composed, as usual. We pulled the sheet tight, hospital corners at the bottom. As I smoothed the sheet up toward the top, she tugged a little more on her side, pulling the sheet over just a bit. I tugged it back over to my side, making it the same on both: even.
Point: neither.
“You say you didn’t love Charles,” she started.
I shook my head.” I didn’t—”
“Let me say this, please,” she asked, and I nodded. I stood on my side of the bed, blanket in hand.
“You say you didn’t love Charles, and I can see now that you didn’t. But, Chloe, love is not always the only thing you need to make a marriage work.”
“You said that before, but how is that possible? How can that not be the most important thing?” I asked, sitting down on the bed.
“Because it’s just not.” She sighed, sitting down as well. “I loved your father more than anything in this world.” She studied her hands, rubbing the fourth finger on her left hand absently. Not so absently? When she looked up at me again, her eyes were bright. “And it was absolutely not enough.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding my head once. Pieces were falling into place so quickly I could practically hear them clinking.
“We had nothing in common, Chloe—nothing. Except we were stupid in love. And were for a long time. But at a certain point, once you grow up, once you become parents, you need more than that. You need common goals, common interests, a clearly chosen path of how you’re going to live your life. We didn’t have that, and we grew apart. I didn’t feel appreciated. Your father didn’t feel appreciated. Things happen. You say things you can’t take back. You do things you—” She stopped herself, her gaze focusing as she realized what she was saying. “Well, things happen. But by then, it was too late.”
She looked at me carefully as her eyes began to close off once more. “Love isn’t everything, Chloe, it just isn’t. You didn’t want to marry Charles, and I accept that. But moving up here, starting this new business, it’s like . . . it’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I took a deep breath, then held it, still not sure what I was going to say. I let it out in one long sigh as I stood up and began to shake out the blanket. “I know you don’t understand it, but it’s something I need to do right now, for me. I need something for myself. Just for me.”
“And working with these . . . dogs is what you want to do?” she asked, gesturing for the other end of the blanket.
“Yeah,” I said, handing it to her. “I really think it is.”
She was quiet. We worked in silence, folding the blanket toward the foot of the bed. Then she said, “Remember the Feldings? They lived down at the bottom of the hill?”
“Sure, the ones that handed out toothpaste on Halloween?”
“That’s because the father was an orthodontist.”
“They also got egged every Halloween.”
“Be that as it may, I ran into Mrs. Felding at the market the other day. Their son Stephen is going into practice with his father. He’s back from Cornell, and single as can be. She asked about you and—”
“Mother. Seriously,” I said, staring hard at the floor.
“Chloe. Seriously. Can’t you take a joke?” When I looked up her eyes were bright, but this time with mischief.
I rolled my eyes, but allowed a grin. “I’m going to go put some water on,” I said, walking past her on the way to the kitchen. “Maybe after your bath we could have some tea?”
“If you’d like,” she said, her voice controlled but delighted.
“I’d like.” I smiled, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget you have to jiggle the handle to get the hot to mix with the cold.”
“For goodness’ sake, I’d forgotten all about that. Do you have any idea how many times I tried to get your father to hire a plumber? A real one, not just that caretaker.” She went on and on while she took out her bath products, and I just leaned in the doorway and listened to her.
Until she prompted me to go get the kettle on, so the teapot would have time to warm up.
Chapter twelve
The day of the Fourth of July picnic and parade was one of those picture-perfect California days. Seventy-five degrees, not a cloud in the sky, with a kicky breeze blowing in on off the coast. I spent the better part of the morning with the dogs, playing fetch with a million tennis balls and a racket. Glad my perfect backhand was finally paying off. I paid some bills, answered some emails, avoided two phone calls from my mother, and then managed to get in a quick shower.
My mother and I had spoken a few times since the grand opening party. She wasn’t quite ready to give up on the idea of me moving back to San Diego, believing I’d tire of this “gang dog” thing, but things were less tense than before. And that was a very good thing. And speaking of mothers, today I was going to get to meet Lucas’ mother. He’d called the morning after my parents left, wanting to make sure my head was still on, or if it had been blown out along with the ditty bag. Which he still didn’t quite understand.
“So explain to me once again what a ditty bag is?” he asked.
“It’s just a small bag that might hold things like paper clips or push pins, or you might take it on a camping trip to hold your toothbrush, toothpaste, and bug spray,” I explained. “Or I might have had one that I kept backstage when I did pageants.”
“And what might have been in that bag?” he asked, curious.
“Preparation H and butt glue.”
“I can’t talk to you ever again,” he said, horrified.
“Oh shut up,” I said, laughing, and dropped a piece of bread into the toaster.
“Are you making toast?”
“Nothing wrong with your ears,” I said. “And, yes, I’m making toast.”
“Late breakfast?”
“Or early lunch. Didn’t really eat breakfast this morning,” I replied, gazing out at the driveway, where my parents’ car had been just a little while ago.
“How’d it go with your mom?” he asked, his voice careful.
