A Pinch of Ooh La La (6 page)

The box of cigarettes caught her attention and she picked it up. “Smoking, Carmen? Really? These things will give you wrinkles before you're thirty. And do you want yellow teeth? There are other ways to lose weight. Diet pills are better than smoking, although if you get to the gym now and then, that would be even better. And why aren't you at the party?”

Carmen grabbed the carton. “I'm not in the mood.”

“You're not in the mood for anything lately except moping around.” She kicked the edge of Carmen's foot. “Sit up, Car. Why aren't you at the party? You look like a slug, you know that? What were we discussing last night? You have to think of yourself as a brand. You want attention in life, you have to draw upon positivity. You behave positively and positive things will come to you. It's physics!”

“Physics,” Carmen scoffed.

“Yes, physics. Don't give me that attitude. I don't appreciate it. Just because you're in college doesn't mean I am not your
mother. Whatever you believe comes back to you. It's been proven.”

“So some thirteen-year-old girl sold into prostitution in some poor remote country, chained to a bed, and forced to have sex all day—all she has to do is
believe
someone will save her?”

Dahlia frowned. “Yes, Miss Smarty-pants. If she believed hard enough, it would happen.”

Carmen and I exchanged looks.

“Regardless, Carmen, your dad is celebrating his birthday and you need to get over there and smile and have a good time. Help me out, Abbey.”

I saw she had a point for once. “Maybe she's right. You should eat. Plus the cake's here.”

“She could do without the cake.”

Carmen shot daggers her way. Heck, I threw in a few myself. God, she was annoying.

“I think I'm going to go back to the dorms.”

“No, you're not; you're going to stay and celebrate your father's birthday. I refuse to let you leave. What's wrong with you? Are you okay?”

I waited, wondering if Carmen would tell her.

“I'm fine.”

Dahlia frowned. “Let's go, then. It would kill your father if you didn't at least give him a hug and wish him happy birthday. I don't understand why you wouldn't want to do that. All his other kids are there, and if—”

“Okay, okay! Jesus. Let's go.”

Carmen and I followed while Dahlia clicked and clacked her way across the pathway and to the main house. When Carmen looked at me, I put my arm around her and smiled. I did my best to tell her with my eyes that keeping the baby or not was her decision, but if she kept it, I promised to help her take care of it. She
could even move in with me. Or I could raise the baby for her and we'd never let the child know that Carmen was the actual mother and then she'd grow up and find out that we'd lied and she'd hate me and hate Carmen and have to go into years and years of therapy, but at least we'd have our memories, right?

•   •   •

I
had to wait through most of the night to talk to Dad. I knew I wouldn't have much time, but I wanted to plant a seed in his ear about Carmen, something along the lines of—
Could you spend a little more time with your daughter? She's having unprotected sex and might be pregnant.
Sometime after eleven, Dad rose from the piano and announced they were taking a break but the show wasn't over. He thanked everyone for coming and said they'd start playing again in fifteen minutes. (We'd tried to convince him not to play on his birthday, by the way, but he said he wanted to do what made him happy. He'd promised not to play the entire night.)

I knew it was now or never and pushed my way through the crowd. Dad was standing in the corner of the room and talking to a couple of people I didn't recognize when I rudely butted in and gave him a hug. I smiled and said hello to his admirers, then pulled him—not too forcefully, I hoped—back toward his piano.

Asking Dad for a minute of his time was like asking him for a day. He was spread bare among family, friends, business associates, other musicians who wanted his time, fans, and, let's not forget, his music, the one constant in his life that got his attention at least four hours a day plus any gigs.

Dad was tall, with a high forehead. Except for around the eyes and mouth, his skin was taut and wrinkle free. He'd been practicing tai chi since I could remember, and his soul patch and the shades he wore whenever he left the house were
also permanent markers. As Bendrix liked to say, in the Mount Rushmore of cool, Lincoln T. Ross was up there with the best of them.

He followed my lead when I sat on his piano bench. I decided to jump right in. “I'm worried about Carmen, Daddy. When you get a chance, would you check in on her? Take her out for breakfast or something?”

“What's got you so worried?”

“Nothing in particular.”
Except that she might be pregnant.
“It's just that . . . well . . . she's . . .” I kept tripping on my words because what I really wanted to tell him was the unfiltered truth for once. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, not every child was meant to grow up in a large family with a father who was kind and loving, yes, but who was on tour as much as he was home and who kept marrying and impregnating women—
no offense. And Dahlia? Really, Daddy? What the hell did you see in her? Well, I get what you
saw
in her, but did you have to knock her up? I'm glad we have Carmen, but I wish you'd at least kick Dahlia out of the guesthouse.

A man walked up and shook Dad's hand. “Nice set, man. I can't believe I'm here.”

“Enjoy yourself. This is my daughter. She made the birthday cakes.”

The guy shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.” He turned back to Dad. “I've always wanted to ask about your duet with Chick—”

I put on a wide fake smile. “Would you mind giving us one second, please?”

“Yeah, sure. Good set, man. Happy birthday.”

“Yeah, thank you.” Dad watched the man leave, a grin inching across his face. “I don't know half the people here tonight. Damn good party, though.” He held up his wrist and showed me a thick silver cuff. “You see this? It's from Louis and Charlie.
Nice, huh?” My brothers Louis and Charlie were still in high school.

I complimented the bracelet and tried again to bring up Carmen. “Thing is, I think Carmen could really use some one-on-one time with you. Can you take her to lunch or something?”

“Yeah, baby. Of course.”

But Dad's
“Yeah, baby, of course”
didn't amount to much unless he made a note to himself or you made the appointment with his manager or with Aiko.

“Seriously, Daddy. Don't forget, okay?”

“Something I need to know about?”

I hesitated when I saw the concern in his eyes. Oddly enough, I often felt I should protect
him
when it came to family problems. We all did. We were so busy clamoring for his time, we didn't dare ask for more than the little he could give. We knew he loved us, would do anything for us, and who would dare ask for more? His head was filled with music as it was. “I just wish Dahlia had better parenting skills.”

“Dahlia means well,” he said. “You need to remember, not everyone grew up with people who loved them.”

That was the other thing. If there was a positive side to a situation or person, Dad was going to mine it out and focus on it, which made it difficult to—

“Pops!”

My brother Theo walked in wearing his long coat and carrying his trumpet case. He'd had a gig and told us he'd be late.

Dad stood up from the bench and they embraced as though they hadn't just seen each other the day before.

“Happy birthday, man.”

“We were gonna start a second set soon. How you feelin'? You bring that trumpet of yours?” Total rhetorical question.

Theo looked at him in mock astonishment. “Did I bring
my trumpet?
Did I bring my trumpet?
Does a bird bring his wing? Does a chicken bring hot sauce?” He held up the trumpet case.

Dad laughed and kissed the side of his face. He then held Theo's chin between his fingers and gave it a shake. “Yeah, you brought that trumpet, but are you up for playin' or are you tired already? You gettin' old yourself, son, and I don't want you to pass out from fatigue.”

“I'm ready when you are, old man. I'm ready to teach the old dog a few tricks. You better focus, 'cause I might have to leave you in the dust. I don't care that it's your birthday.”

“You just try, son. My skills may intimidate you. Get that trumpet squawkin' like a dyin' bird.”

They laughed and embraced again.

“We have to get everybody together and jam before the night is over,” Dad said. He smiled at me, then kissed my cheek and gave my hand a squeeze. “I got all my kids together under the same roof. Can't ask for a better birthday present.”

His eyes lit up as he looked from me to Theo. That was Dad. You couldn't stay mad at him if you wanted. Despite any faults, despite all the women, we knew we were loved, and that made all the difference. He grinned at me. “What can I play for you tonight, baby? Next set, first song is yours.”

I ran through the hundreds of songs I could choose from. I settled on “How Deep Is the Ocean,” one of my favorites.

He took his pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote it down. “You got it, baby.”

I gave him a long, hard hug. It was not lost on me that I could ask the one and only Lincoln T. Ross to play me a tune.

•   •   •

“A
bbey.”

“What?”

“Abbey.”

I opened my eyes just as Bendrix pushed my head off his shoulder. It took a second to find my bearings. Joan sat on my left, Bendrix on my right. I traded in Bendrix's shoulder for Joan's and leaned against her and closed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten minutes until midnight,” I heard Bendrix say. “Wake up.”

I snuggled against Joan. Working as a baker meant I often had to be at Scratch by four a.m., sometimes three, so I was usually asleep by ten.

Bendrix again: “Abbey. Wake up. You can do this. We believe in you.” He sounded distracted and like he had no faith in me at all.

I opened my eyes. I didn't want to miss out and could already feel that the quick nap had given me a boost.

The living room was packed wall to wall with people. I saw my brothers Dizzy and Miles laughing with my sister Billie. Theo was making a fool of himself trying to play someone's saxophone: Every few seconds a whale died. Rita and her husband, Doug, and my sister Dinah and her husband sat on the opposite couch talking.

Joan handed me a cup of steaming chai. “Have some of this. It'll help wake you up.”

“Thanks.” I recalled the evening's events while taking a couple of sips: I had danced with my niece and later Rita; my older brothers had killed it with their rendition of “Pent-up House”; I'd eaten too much of my own cake. And, oh yeah . . .
Damn,
my nineteen-year-old sister might be pregnant.

“You awake now?” Bendrix asked.

I closed my eyes. “Yep. I'm ready to roll. Ready to boogie.”

“Good. I want to show you something.” He held up his tablet.

“
He
responded,” Joan said, as though maybe God himself had made contact while I'd napped. She laughed lightly.

“
He
who?”
I mimicked.

Bendrix swiped to a new page and I saw RelaxinbytheBay's picture. I suppose I'd remembered everything that had happened thus far except that I'd sent a note to a complete stranger on an online dating site.

Bendrix gave me the tablet.

Abbey,

So glad you wrote. You seem intelligent and honest and the qualities you mention in your tagline. Can I give you a call sometime? I'd enjoy meeting if we find there's a connection. (You have a beautiful smile, by the way.)

—Samuel

“See,” Bendrix said. “You had him at hello.”

“Goody,” Joan blurted.

Bendrix and I exchanged looks. Joan never said words like
goody
.

She laughed and I wondered if the brandy had gone to her head.

I reread the message and thumbed through Relaxin's pictures. “He
is
cute; I'll give him that.” I hit “reply” and typed a quick note, telling him I'd like to talk.

“Let the games begin,” Joan said, raising her brows high and taking a gulp of her brandy.

Bendrix put his arm around me. “Good girl.”

Stay as Sweet as You Are

I
was brushing my teeth when I heard the doorbell. My date with RelaxinbytheBay, or rather Samuel, was within the hour, and I was taking my time getting dressed, including a nice leisurely bath. Samuel and I had talked on the phone the night after Dad's birthday party and made a date for the following Sunday. I had no expectations. (Well, except I thought it would be great if we hit it off and he turned out to be the love of my life, but I sure wasn't counting on it.)

I checked the peephole and saw Rita's face, as round as the moon.
Huh.
Out of all the wives, Rita rarely stopped by without a heads-up.

“Hey. This is a surprise.”

She watched me brushing my teeth. “I'm sorry?
What did you say?
”

“I said, ‘This is a surprise.'” I continued working on my upper canines with my toothbrush. For the record, there was barely any paste on the brush by then, and she could understand every
word I was saying; she just didn't like the fact that I dared to open the door with a toothbrush in my mouth.

“Would it be too much to ask that you not greet guests while brushing your teeth?”

“You're family.”

“That may be true, but you look like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.”

“You're exaggerating.” I used my finger to wipe away a tiny dot of toothpaste on the side of my mouth. “Better?”

She stood on the porch as though waiting for something else. It took me a second to figure out exactly what, and when I did, I bowed down low like a court jester before a princess. “Would you like to come inside, Rita?”

“Yes, thank you.” She kissed me near the cheek and stepped inside. She wore a soft pink coat and soft pink leather gloves and carried a soft pink handbag large enough for a small animal to climb into and live comfortably for years. She gazed absently around my living room as though, if she could, she'd quickly repaint the walls and rearrange the furniture. She meant no harm by her internal judgments; she simply thought her decorative and fashion skills were a benefit to all humankind.

Rita's husband, Doug, stepped inside next, grumbling about the lack of parking. He was a hulking six-four, and his height and girth immediately shrank my living room down in size.

“This is a surprise,” I said. “What gives?”

He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Don't mind me. I'm playing chauffeur.” He brushed his thinning blond hair from his forehead and began checking his phone. He had a ruddy round face and gave the impression that somewhere behind his small blue eyes he was remembering a naughty joke.

“Mind if I turn on your TV?”

“Not at all.”

He found the remote and settled in with his arm stretched across the back of the couch. A sports commentator highlighted plays as whistles blew and men in tight pants and helmets chased a ball across a field.

“What's that?” I asked.

“That right there,” Doug said, playing along, “is called football. Those men in the red and white are trying to take the ball from the men in silver and black.”

It was a running joke with Doug and the family that most of us knew absolutely nothing about sports.

“Grown men chasing a ball,” I teased. “Very exciting.”

“That it is. I love my wife like nobody's business, but football is more exciting than watching a bunch of men in tights leap across a stage; I don't care what she says.”

“Douglas,” Rita said halfheartedly. They both knew going into their marriage that Rita would never like football. Once a year, however, she dressed in her finest silver and black and went to a Raiders game, and Doug, who would never like the ballet, would put on a tux and attend the annual gala for the Oakland ballet, which he and Rita helped fund.

He shot up and held his hand toward the TV. “Catch it! Catch it!
Yeah!
Curtis Randolph is killin' 'em tonight.”

Rita and I exchanged looks:
Silly game. Very silly.

Doug was an investment banker with a gift for making money but no real interest in keeping it. He handed most of it over to his wife while using what was left for his favorite hobby, making his own beer with the original marque Doug's Beer. Mostly he liked food, and he prided himself on his ability to put away three servings of Bailey's gumbo and eat a cream puff from Scratch in two bites.
Speaking of which . . .

“Say, Abbey, you have anything I can snack on?” Doug asked.
“One of your chocolate chip cookies or something like that from the bakery?”

“Sure, help yourself.”

He hoisted himself up and started toward the kitchen. I, meanwhile, excused myself to wipe my face and put away my toothbrush.

When I returned, Rita was still standing in the living room. I explained that I was happy they had stopped by but I had to leave within the hour.

“Yes, that's why I'm here. We were in the neighborhood and I remembered you had your date.”

Doug bellowed from the kitchen: “In the neighborhood by a long shot. My wife is just putting her two cents in when no one asked, nothing new. She's as cute as she can be, but try not to pay her any mind.”

Rita looked at me and shook her head. “I'm only curious about what you're going to wear.” She pitched her voice toward the kitchen, adding, “And we
were
in the neighborhood. We had drinks with friends.”

Doug walked past with a small plate loaded with cookies from Scratch and chips from the grocery store. He paused when he reached Rita. “If you call Lafayette ‘in the neighborhood,' I'd like to stop by LA before we head home.” He continued to the TV with a chuckle.

Rita gave me a look:
My silly husband.
She loved him, though. After all, she liked to be looked after and he liked to look after her: perfect match.

“You came all the way here to see what I was wearing on my date? I'm not some thirteen-year-old schoolgirl going to her first boy-girl dance.”

“I realize that. I was there for your first dance, and you should be grateful I talked you out of those bell-bottoms, and
you should be grateful I'm here now. So, what are we planning to wear?”

“We? I don't know about you, but I know what I'm wearing and it has nothing to do with you. Believe it or not, I've been on a few dates before and I've managed just fine.”

“Oh, really? You, who's been single for how long? Sweetheart, that's exactly why I'm here. Something isn't working. You want a man? You have to attract a man. I haven't seen you in a dress since Dinah's wedding.” She glanced over her shoulder at Doug. “Isn't that right, honey? When was the last time you saw Abbey in a dress?”

“Yeah, a long time ago. Fumble. . . . Fumble!
Fumble!
”

“You remember how pretty she looked in her bridesmaid's dress?”

“Yeah, real pretty. Get it! Get it! Interception! Run! Run!”

Rita held me by the shoulders. “Let me help you. You need male energy in your life, and I don't mean Bendrix or your brothers.” She chucked her head toward Doug. “You need
that
kind of male energy, and I can help you get it. We'll do something with that hair of yours and find a nice dress. There must be one dress in that closet of yours.” She held my chin between her fingers and examined my face. “And we'll put on a little lipstick and eye shadow. It'll be fun.”

Doug shouted from his seat, “You idiot! What kind of stupid call is that?”

•   •   •

A
fter Rita and Doug left, I stared at my reflection in my full-length bedroom mirror; Rita's version of me stared back. I had on heels that I'd unearthed from my closet and a dress I'd worn to a friend's engagement party. Rita had curled my eyelashes and added enough mascara to make my eyes look wide and awake. Blush brought out my cheekbones, and my wild
tumble bush—sometimes known as hair—had been curled and was held back from my face by two stealth bobby pins. The dress paired with the shoes made my legs look longer and gave my hips some curve. I turned slightly to the left so I could see the ass I'd forgotten I had.

Avery had never cared about things like high heels and straight hair, and we'd both liked dressing funky and making a statement with our clothes. After I bought the bakery I'd made my fashion statement with the assortment of clogs I wore in every color. My hair was rarely out of a ponytail.

The woman in the mirror stared back at me. She would turn heads. She was sexy and confident. The woman in the mirror knew what she wanted and went after it. She didn't care if she found love or had babies, because she needed no one; no, the woman in the mirror knew it was only a matter of time before she met the perfect guy, and she would give birth to her child while wearing full makeup and heels.

I liked the woman in the mirror, appreciated how put together she was, that she was the type who'd get her nails and toes done every two weeks and visit the beauty parlor weekly to keep up her hair. But no, the woman in the mirror was not me.

I was a woman who wanted to wear jeans and a vintage top. I was a woman who heeded her parents' advice and knew it was best to be myself. I was a woman who was savvy enough not to overly romanticize a single date with a stranger. In fact, I was a woman who was prepared for the date to go poorly and who knew she'd go home afterward and call her best friend and give him details while changing back into her sweats; then she'd curl up with a glass of wine and watch a movie. Besides, I was a woman who wanted someone who loved me for me.

I checked the time. I had roughly fifteen minutes to change into a different outfit and get to the restaurant. I took off my
high heels, tossed them back in the closet, and unzipped my dress. If the date didn't go well and Samuel turned out to be a bore or a jerk or an ass, I'd at least be comfortable. Sorry, Rita.

•   •   •

D
uring our chat on the phone, Samuel and I had agreed to meet at Bucciolio's, an Italian restaurant we both liked. The dating site recommended that people meeting for the first time should stick with coffee or lunch, but our phone chat had been pleasant enough that we'd decided to go for dinner; we'd even joked that if there wasn't any chemistry we'd at least get a good meal out of the evening. Now it was a matter of seeing if he came close to looking like his picture and if he knew better than to pick his nose or do any number of other things that could make the date go wrong.

I'd told Samuel I owned a bakery but hadn't told him it was within walking distance of the restaurant where we were meeting. I paused in front of Scratch's dark windows, then walked up to the sign hanging from a blue ribbon on the inside of the door. I'd made the sign with my niece, Mykaila, who was ten at the time. On black construction paper I'd drawn two silhouettes of a woman in an apron. Mykaila had cut the silhouettes and pasted them on either side of heavy paper, then painted
fermé
(French for closed) on one side and
ouvert
(open) on the other. It was a happy time. I was only a day from opening and everything was in place. Mykaila and I had the bakery to ourselves and took our time working on the sign while eating chocolate chip cookies.

I thought about how far I'd come since that afternoon as I continued walking. I had a lot to be proud of. My business was booming and I could bake the hell out of a cake, a cookie, a pie—you name it. I was fine. I was woman—hear me roar! Did I really need to date? Except for sex (oh, how I missed it at times!), did I really need to bother? I mean, cupcakes and wedding designs I
understood, but men? Men were an entirely different species when you got down to it. And if Samuel was as normal as he sounded on the phone and as good-looking as he appeared in his photos, and I liked him, he might not like me, and then I'd have to deal with the awkward
I'll call you
as his parting shot. Blech. Dating: Who needed it? My comfort zone was my comfort zone for a reason, and if I wanted to spend my life growing my career and not worrying about having a family and all the rest, that was my prerogative. I caught my reflection in a store window and played with my hair before checking the time on my phone. Prerogative or no, I was running late, and I told myself to clam it and deal.
Get over yourself, Abbey. Let's do this.

The host greeted me while I searched the restaurant (wood tables, open kitchen, a full bar lit up like Christmas) for Samuel. I was saying a little prayer that he'd at least somewhat resemble the photo he'd posted on the Web si—

There.

A table near the left wall.

His skin was the same dark brown as Dad's, and it glowed warm and soft under the dim lights. Skin you could lose yourself in, I immediately thought. He sat up straight as he read the menu; his shirt was crisp and his jacket was draped neatly behind him on his chair. And there, right below his perfectly kissable lips, was the Cary Grant cleft in his chin as promised in his photos. He was so gorgeous, so fiiiiine, as Bailey would say, my first impulse was to crawl into his lap and say,
Marry me?
My second impulse was to run home as quickly as possible and change back into the dress. I could hear Rita in my ear then:
I told you! I told you!

I started to take a step backward, but as soon as our eyes locked, I knew it was too late to turn and run.

It was when he began to stand from the table that I saw Ella
Fitzgerald, enshrouded in a golden light and magical pixie dust, floating down from jazz heaven. Not the skinny Ella but the Ella who'd dwarfed Louis Armstrong in size. She wore a yellow dress that flowed around her feet as she drifted to and fro behind an unknowing Samuel. When music began to play, she beckoned me forward and said in her surprisingly girlish soprano,
He's so handsome! You are so lucky! Don't be afraid. Come say hello!
She then began singing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”