Back to Life (6 page)

“He’s late, this spiritual guru of yours, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay here and be whispered about without standing my ground. It’s stifling in here.” I pull at my collar. “No wonder
there are few men in here. It’s like open season. Answer me this: would you feel safe letting Hamilton run loose in this group?”

“Excuse me, I am marrying the man! Of course I would!”

“Tell them that.” I nod my chin toward all the women surrounding Hamilton, who have appeared in the doorway.

“This is a desperate group.” Haley stands to go stake her claim. “I trust him implicitly, of course. It’s the women I have issues with.”

I watch Hamilton smile gently at one of the women. It’s a friendly smile, not one of flirtatiousness at all, but she doesn’t know that. She only knows what she sees—what she wants. Haley walks over, and like the Red Sea, the group parts as Hamilton lays eyes on Haley. It’s obvious to everyone what they have. What they don’t have. What I don’t have.

“I’m going back to the Trophy Wives Group,” I say aloud, not that there’s anyone to hear. I sneak out the back door and lean up against the wall, trying to settle my rapid pulse. Ron is gone and he’s not coming back. He took a part of me with him, and I don’t know that I’m coming back, either. I’m not ready to commit—not even to a sickly goldfish at this point. I didn’t even get any pancakes for my trouble.

I wander down the hall to where the Trophy Wives meet on Sunday mornings. I open the door a crack and peer in to see the women I’d call my group. Bette is there. She’s older, the leader of the group. Her husband died years ago and she never fit in with the married groups with her kids, so she started this collection of misfits. Women come and go as life circumstances change, but Bette never has. She spots me and excuses herself from the circle of familiar women.

“What happened?” she asks me. “You’re supposed to be in the singles’ group today. Where’s Haley?”

“Bette, don’t make me go back there. You know I don’t fit in with
those young, innocent women.” I clutch the edge of the door with more desperation than I care to show.

“You’re always welcome here, Lindsay,” Bette says, while keeping a tight grip on the door, subtly battling me.

“Just not today?”

“You have to at least try, Lindsay. You can’t go on forever clinging to the mistakes you made, not allowing God to cover them. I know you’ve had issues with your mother, but this feeling of failure seems to follow you. You always go back to it.”

“So you’re not letting me in?”

“No.” She shakes her head, looking down. “No, I’m not.” She pulls the door shut, and I stare at the doorknob, feeling like a lost puppy with nowhere to call home.

Jane

I
’m done.” I exhale with vigor into the phone. If I have stress in my life, I definitely want Hamilton Lowe to know it. “When can you come by and pick it up?” I ask. I keep my voice low, to hide my disdain for the man whose job I’m doing. He knows as well as me, he’ll have to check everything I’ve done anyway—nothing more than a useless step to slow down the process and keep me locked away in California. Away from my art, away from my freedom, and closer still to my secrets being exposed.

I suppose I always did love living dangerously.

“I’m having dinner with my fiancée,” tequila-worm lawyer says. “I’m afraid I don’t work on Sunday.”

“Some of us should have that luxury.” Definitely didn’t hide the disdain that time. “In case you weren’t aware, I’m anxious to get back to my home. I do believe I’ve done my part.” I gaze down at
the stack of paperwork understanding instinctively that Ron had no idea how quickly I’d get through it, or he wouldn’t have bothered.

“Not quite. We did start probate months back after Ron’s death, but we will need to allow for any creditors to come forward on certain accounts. I need to have access to you in case anyone questions the will during this last phase of probate. You’d be the one to answer those. We can meet first thing in the morning to discuss the details. Say, my office at nine? Did you need a ride?”

That’s a lot of words for someone telling me to take a hike.
I can see from previous billing, Ron paid the man well enough to make house calls.
“I’ll take a cab.” I relent. It’s not like being in the girl-wife’s condominium is uplifting. I long to go back to the comfort of my home. Something about L.A. puts me into feeling I need to accomplish everything within a small time frame, as though I’ve entered a different plane where life is on warp speed.

“While I have you,” Hamilton continues. “I’ll need your son’s decision on the Pacific Palisades home. He will be taxed as soon as the transaction is complete, as the house is worth over one million, which is California’s inheritance limit before taxes must be paid. The house wasn’t included in the trust. Ron Jr. can pay the house taxes at the rate which Ron did, being his son, but the inheritance tax is separate.”

“He’s a teacher.”

“So he won’t be keeping the house?”

I stare at the receiver, wondering if Hamilton really does think the world can afford luxury living. “Yes, well, right now he’s not interested in the house, it seems.”

“My best guess on what it’s worth now is about three and a half, maybe four million. So that leaves taxes on approximately two and a half million to three million. I’ll need his decision on putting it on the market.”

People in California rattle off these numbers like they’re simple math. They have no clue that the rest of the world is lucky to get enough water or rice for their day. They’re too busy buying expensive clothes with someone else’s name sewn in the collar and diversifying capital—Ron’s favorite pastime and the reason his will was such a bear.

All this money and not a speck of common sense about living the good life.

“I’ll speak with him tonight, but he’s a schoolteacher, so my best guess is the obvious. He won’t be able to pay the taxes, so I think the house will need to go on the market.”

“I’ll just need his signature to verify that. See you in the morning, then.”

I hang up, disgusted Mr. Lowe has a date so I’m stuck here even longer—perhaps probate is the official reason, but the lawyer having a date is not improving my attitude.

There are pictures of Ron everywhere in the house. Pictures of him in front of the Eiffel Tower. Pictures of him on a gondola in Italy—or maybe Las Vegas, one can never tell these days. In every shot, he smiles at Lindsay and she beams at him. “Good for you Ron. You managed to find your happiness.”

The amount Ron left us with was more than generous. More than his waifish wife ended up with, surprisingly, but she probably doesn’t need much to survive. Maybe six hundred dollars a year or so for food, and that much a week for shoes, judging by her closet. Yes, I riffled through her closet. It’s human nature to know what makes another person tick—maybe not something we’re infinitely proud of, but the curiosity is there, all the same.

Lindsay doesn’t seem to want the mansion, and I can’t begin to understand why. I would think the closet space alone was enough to call her name, but according to all the paperwork I’ve been
through, she asked that the house not be left to her. She married for money after all, why wouldn’t she take it? I mean, at ten years of marriage, she did pretty well, considering. Asking questions will only prolong my departure, so I’ll keep my secrets, and she can keep hers. We generally pass each other casually in the house, offering a smile and move quickly on to our destination. We’re two people who would have never met in life, and yet we were married to the same man. Life has a funny way about showing irony.

The phone rings. I secretly hope it’s Hamilton Lowe, and he’s been ditched by his lovely fiancée. “Hello, Lindsay Brindle’s residence.”

“That you, Jane?”

My throat tightens. His voice. He hasn’t changed an iota. He still thinks all his problems stem from other people, and in those two words, I hear the accusations in the role he’s placed me—the villain to his innocent victim. Some people never take hold of the damage they cause. The truth, when it gets close to touching them, must be taken out and destroyed. The lie protects him.

“Jane, I know you’re here,” he says. The man has the consistency of snot, but when he speaks with all the charm of a luxury-car dealer, I can’t help but question my perspective. Maybe I have it all wrong—never mind that he’s been in jail for most of his natural-born life. I hold onto these facts before my heart softens even a smidgen.

His voice doesn’t bring the fear it once did, but I’m worried that, though all these years have passed, he’s still nursing the same wounds. I slam the phone down just as Lindsay walks in the front door and I wander out of the kitchen. She pulls her key from the door and looks down at Kuku on the cool tile at the entry. I know she wants to say something about her precious condo, but she doesn’t. She simply steps over him, and the cat mews his annoyance.

The phone rings again, but I don’t make a move to press the button on the cordless sitting right in front of me. Lindsay runs for the kitchen phone, and I panic. “Don’t answer that!”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.” It’s is the only explanation I can think of.

She looks at the phone. “California Department of Corrections?”

Stellar.
She has caller ID. What does one say about getting a call from your local jail?
I have a pen pal?

She puts the phone back in its cradle and shrugs. “Whoever this is…He doesn’t know where I live, I hope?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Unless you’re listed. Besides he and the California Department of Corrections have a long-standing relationship that isn’t about to end soon. They do give them a dime here and again to spread their joy.”

She nods. “Any other friends you plan to look up while here?”

“Lindsay, I—”

“It was a joke. Maybe a bad one, but I’ve had a bad day. I’m sorry, all right? My address isn’t in the book, only the telephone number. How does he know to find you here? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Did you eat yet?”

“I did. I walked down to the bakery.”

“That place is a lifesaver when I haven’t been shopping.”

Which, judging by her pantry and waist size must be every waking moment.

She drops her purse on the kitchen counter. “I have to plan a wedding shower. Could there be a worse person for that? What do they think, I’m Snow White and there are birds singing at my feet?” she asks. “It took me six months to sell Ron’s car; how organized can I be?” She looks me straight in the eye. “Everyone on the planet has to see his death certificate. My life’s work has become proving he’s
dead—it doesn’t exactly make me want to whistle a happy tune, you know?”

We look at each other and start to laugh.

“Sorry,” she says. “Bad day.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. I worked on the will every day this week—me, who only has to worry if I have enough yellow ocher to get through a sunset painting. Finding names and addresses from years ago…are they kidding me?”

“I’m too old to plan a bridal shower,” Lindsay says.

“Well, I don’t know. You seem very organized. I thought I might eat off your floor when I first got here. Of course, with the dust around my front door, a clean floor isn’t really a viable option unless someone mopped it continuously. Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll plan a lovely shower.”

She hovers over the phone. “I’m a widow. What do I know about romance and party games? Besides, of course, how to put a quick end to both?”

“You planned a funeral. It can’t be that different. Food, flowers—just change the color scheme.”

Lindsay starts to giggle. “Did you just tell me to change the color scheme?”

“Black to pink. It can’t be that much trouble.” I wink at her. As young as she is, Lindsay possesses a fire in her belly, and I don’t believe there’s much in life she couldn’t accomplish.

She shakes her finger at me. “You have a wicked sense of humor, Jane. I do like that in a person.”

The doorbell rings, and Kuku decides to move himself. He’s not used to all this activity.

Lindsay opens the door. It’s my son. Again. I don’t know that I saw this much of him when he lived with me. All six-foot-four
inches of him, and he’s wearing a suit.
Why on earth would my son even own a suit?

“You planning my funeral?” I ask him from across the room.

He pulls flowers from behind his back, and I rise with a smile on my face before I watch in horror as he hands them to Lindsay. “For giving my mother a place to stay while she’s here. She wouldn’t last a day in my place. Not that it isn’t clean—just small.”

“She’s no trouble.” She looks back at me. “Ron would have wanted it that way.”

I notice she doesn’t call him, “your father,” and my stomach plummets with the knowledge she could ruin me at any moment. But I catch her gaze, and something’s there. Something that says we understand each other. I look at a rattlesnake on my path in the same way—with mutual respect. Lindsay is deeper than I first gave her credit for. Unfortunately, my son didn’t miss this insight either.

“What are you doing here, Ronnie?” I look to my watch. “It’s late, isn’t it? You’ll be having to get up early to get to the classroom.” I look at Lindsay. “He’s a teacher.”
Couldn’t afford one of your shoes on his salary, much less a pair. No matter what Ron left him, he’ll never live like this.

“Come on in. I’ll put these in some water, and then I’m going to go upstairs with the phone book so you two can have the place to yourselves. I have a wedding shower to plan.”

“You’re getting married?” Ron asks, his voice higher pitched than normal. I’m sure he’s just worried about his father’s memory. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Um, no. I tried marriage once, remember? My best friend is getting married.”

“She’s marrying the lawyer I’m meeting with tomorrow about the will.” I add, “It’s all one big, happy family around here.” I half
expect Kuku to meow after what I’ve said, but if my comments are catty, no one seems to notice.

“Does Lindsay know about the Pacific Palisades house being left to me?”

My heart sinks. Did I teach this boy nothing? One good game of poker, and he might learn to keep things to himself, instead of offering up information like it’s candy.

Lindsay smiles. “Don’t worry, Ron told me he’d put it in another trust. We discussed it, and besides, it’s none of my business where he leaves his money now, is it?” She lays the flowers on the island counter, pulls the phonebook toward her chest, and starts for the stairs. I watch her every move, wondering why she doesn’t tell Ronnie that she asked specifically to be left off the will for the Pacific Palisades house. What could she be hiding?

I pick up the flowers and hunt for a vase. Lindsey turns around and finally meets my son’s eyes, focusing on him as though he’s an actual person. “You look like him.” Then she looks at me, and I shrug. “He was bald by your age, though, so I guess you didn’t inherit that.”

He rakes his hand through his thick brown hair. “I guess not.”

“It has been nice meeting both of you. I’m only sorry it didn’t happen when Ron was here. He would have loved to see you both. I know he would have.” Lindsay sees the newspaper on the console table and places it on top of the phone book. “I should look for a job, too. Have a nice time and make yourself at home.”

“About the house—”

Ronnie, shut up, son!

Lindsay’s expression softens. “Ron left his money where he wanted it left. I have no right to question a thing. I mean, no plans. I have no plans to question anything.”

“You weren’t after his money, then?” He steps closer to her, and my own heart pounds at their proximity. “You really loved him?”

She swallows visibly. “Ron lived a good life, Ronnie. It’s been a very trying day. If you’ll excuse me.” She makes like a chased cat, scurrying up the stairs.

“I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” Ron mutters under his breath. I swallow my guilt. He’s a man now, and still, the hole where his father should have been leaves its mark. He wants to know more about the myth I created. That Ron and I created. How can I say I love him and lie to him every day of his life?

“No, sweetheart. She did have a hard day, and I think Lindsay has secrets of her own. But look at the pictures around here. She’s right—Ron had a good life.”

He watches the stairs, as though she’s still there, an apparition in his head. “She’s undeniably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I can’t find my tongue when she’s in the room.” He slaps his forehead. “She must think I’m a complete idiot.”

“I never noticed. I’m sure she didn’t.” My stomach roils at his obvious lack of understanding. “What about Xena, Warrior Princess?”