Best Staged Plans (20 page)

I banged a right and headed for the pesto in the refrigerator case. Then I hung a left and crossed over to the produce section for a carton of grape tomatoes. I tooled around the produce section until I found a box of prewashed baby mesclun lettuce.

I faced my first dilemma. On the one hand, nothing fakes homemade like a sprig of fresh basil garnishing each dinner plate. On the other hand, and probably a contributing factor to my swearing off actual cooking in the first place, nothing says guilt like trying to ignore an overpriced bunch of herbs as they decompose in your refrigerator.

I found a potted basil plant just to the side of the tomatoes. It was certainly a good alternative, but unfortunately one that required caretaking. I took a moment to remind myself that I was in one of those remarkable and rare free-pass phases of my life. Parents and pets dead and buried, kids flying mostly on their own, grandchildren still long range and conceptual. If it ever happens to you, don’t screw it up by taking in stray houseplants.

I pinched off a stem of basil. It was getting leggy anyway, so you could look at it that I was actually helping the plant. I tucked it behind my ear like a hibiscus bloom.

The pasta surprised me by turning out to be right next to the pasta sauce. Trader Joe’s is constantly moving everything around so you’ll discover new items instead of getting stuck in a rut. At first it drove me crazy, but then I realized I was one of those people Trader Joe’s was trying to save.

I heard the muffled strains of “Chapel of Love” from my shoulder bag.

I held my cell up to the ear not holding the basil. “Hi, honey.”

“Just tell me, Mom, that you’re not going to make Chance eat takeout every night you’re there.”

I lobbed a bag of bow tie pasta into the cart.

“How’s the training going, honey?” I said.

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“Why is this my responsibility? Doesn’t Chance know how to cook?”

“Of course he does. He makes breakfast and sandwiches, and he mows the lawn.”

“I don’t think the lawn counts as cooking, Shannon. And, FYI, I paid for those calzones last night.”

“TMI, Mom—I don’t care who paid.”

“I was simply pointing out that I contributed to dinner. In my own way.”

“Can’t you just fake it a little? For
me
?”

My daughter hung up on me. This was not a new experience. In fact, she’d been doing it fairly consistently since she’d turned thirteen. I almost called her back, mostly because I didn’t want her to think my assembling for Chance had been her idea. I would have liked to establish that I’d already been in the grocery store of my own accord when her call came through.

I also would have liked to pump her at least a little. Were her father and brother making any progress on the house? Were they subsisting on takeout, or had someone picked up the cooking reins? Were they having fun? Did they miss me?

A bolt of sadness hit me like lightning. This might have been my last chance to be a foursome with my family, and I was missing it.

I shook it off. I was losing my groove. I was missing the big picture. It was all about focus and tenacity. And waiting them out. Once Greg knew I really meant it, he’d get his butt in gear, and we’d sell the house and ride off into a romantic sunset together. We’d talk to the kids often and see them on holidays.

Trader Joe’s was getting crowded, so I picked up the pace. I hit the meat section for a package of grilled smoked boneless chicken breasts. They were even sliced into almost bite-size strips. I mean, how good does it get?

Biscuit sections are a helluva lot bigger in the South than they are in New England, so finding that was easy. Here’s a trick for the next time you’re assembling a meal. Buy a refrigerated tube of breadsticks. Pop it open and separate into strands. Loop each strand into a knot, then flare out the ends until they match your bow tie pasta. Place on a Pam-sprayed cookie sheet and sprinkle liberally with the Parmesan cheese that’s probably been sitting in your fridge forever.
Woilà!
People will think you kneaded the dough yourself. Especially if you tell them that you did.

All that was left was dessert. I grabbed some brownies and a package of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Crisps, which, if you haven’t tried them, are like deep cocoa Pringles. They didn’t carry Cool Whip, so I settled for a guilt-free tub of Truwhip, which contains neither hydrogenated oils nor GMOs, whatever they are.

“Ma’am?” the cashier said.

I looked up from swiping my credit card. His silly Hawaiian shirt made me smile despite myself.

He pointed to the basil behind my ear.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me.”

He held up one finger. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

So much for my life of crime. At least I’d gotten away with the reading glasses.

The cashier reappeared. He grinned and held out another sprig of basil. “For the other ear.”

If I were in charge of the world, Trader Joe’s could be my assistant.

I’d left work early, and it seemed that Chance had worked as late as he possibly could. The combination of the two meant that when he got home the table was set and I’d had more than enough time to bury all incriminating evidence in one of the trash barrels out in the garage.

When my son-in-law walked into the kitchen, I was standing at the sink, wearing his wife’s apron. He stopped. I turned and smiled. If we were in black and white, I might have passed for the star of
The Donna Reed Show
.

“Ha,” he said.

“Can I get you a glass of sweet tea?” I said.

“Ha,” he said again.

“Sit a spell,” I said. “I’ll bet you had yourself a long, hard day at work.”

At the risk of sounding immodest, once I finally convinced Chance to sit down, dinner was a big hit.

“This is amazing, mo’am,” he said.

I dabbed my mouth with a cloth napkin. “Thank you, son. It’s a secret family recipe we’ve passed down through generations. We call it chicken pesto bow ties with halved grape tomatoes and coordinating hand-kneaded Parmesan bread bows.”

Chance took another bite and closed his eyes while he swallowed.

“Mmm-mmm,” he said.

I smiled. “Don’t forget to save some room for dessert.”

If you ever want to assemble a dessert that’s sure to impress, get out your fanciest wineglasses. Spoon some Cool Whip, or Truwhip if you’re feeling virtuous, into the bottom of each one. Crumble some brownies on top of that. Add more Cool Whip/Truwhip. Crush some Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Crisps, or even a Heath bar, with a hammer and sprinkle it on. Continue layering until you reach the top, ending with a nice dollop of Cool Whip/Truwhip. Then grab a bottle of hazelnut liquor from your kids’ liquor cabinet and douse the damn thing within an inch of its life. This might possibly negate the Truwhip benefits, but trust me, it’s worth it.

“Unbelievable,” Chance said. “Can you make this again for my friends when they come over?”

He sounded about twelve.

I patted him on the hand. “Of course I can, son.”

I left Chance with the dishes and went in to call Denise. I’d been putting it off all day.

The muffled notes of Bette Midler’s “Miss Otis Regrets” trilled from my shoulder bag.

“ESP,” I said once I managed to unearth my cell. “I was just calling you.”

“Guess what?”

I went with my most optimistic guess. “You met another guy?”

“Funny. No, don’t tell Josh, but I’m flying in to surprise him this weekend. Can you pick me up at the airport? I’m thinking a pep talk on the way over might not be a bad idea.”

“Does he know?”

“Of course he doesn’t know. I just said it was a surprise, didn’t I? I’ve been thinking it through, and the best way to do this is in person. Neither of us is really a phone person, but the minute we’re actually together, things always click right back into place.”

“When was the last time he called you?”

“I’m not even sure—I’ve been flat out all week.”

Silence hung in the air like smog.

“Why are you doing this?” Denise finally said. “Putting myself out there was your idea in the first place.”

I took a deep breath. “I think Josh
is
seeing someone else. He said she’s an old college friend, but I’m not buying it.”

“Oh, that’s just Melissa. He talks about her all the time.”

If a guy you’re seeing talks about another woman all the time, it’s never okay. Even if it’s his mother.

“Denise,” I said. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

CHAPTER 29

I
’D FOUND THE PERFECT
statement piece for the lobby. It was a twelve-light contemporary chandelier with a clean geometric look. The crisp chrome finish was offset by square-cut crystals and silk shades, providing traditional pops on a modern frame. The shades were available in a deep chocolate color that would harmonize spectacularly with my staging plan.

The chandelier was even designed by Candice Olson of HGTV fame. The line also had smaller coordinating four-light chandeliers that would be perfect for the guest rooms, as well as matching wall sconces with single-drop crystals that would look amazing on either side of each bathroom mirror. I ordered them all from a wholesale online lighting supplier.

I hoped Candice Olson got a big percentage. Maybe she’d be so grateful that she’d invite me to appear on the show to help her transform a room. From there all it would take was a single brilliant appearance to land my own staging show.
All the World’s a Stage with Sandra Sullivan
?
Sandy Sullivan Stages
? I mean, if HGTV gave me my own show, they could call me whatever they wanted.

A lot of HGTV show episodes seemed to be taped in Atlanta, so it wasn’t even that much of a pipe dream. I knew my stuff. I had a sparkly personality. I could look pretty damn good for my age when I focused. And I’d recently read that one in four Americans had appeared on TV, so I was due.

I’d find a hip loft apartment, and when I wasn’t too busy working on my next episode, I’d meet Shannon for lunch. Or even a Zumba class. I’d have to log a lot more Zumba hours if I were going to be on camera.

I had a small plastic container of chicken pesto bow ties with halved grape tomatoes beside me in the car, along with two Parmesan bow tie breadsticks wrapped in foil. If I saw the homeless woman today, I’d give them to her. Otherwise I’d eat them myself for lunch, the way I’d ended up eating the spinach calzone, and figure out another way to work off Denise’s penance. I mean, you can only do what you can do.

I cruised down the block, half-looking for the homeless woman, half-looking for a parking space. Just past the hotel, I turned my head and saw a narrow alley I’d never noticed before.

A sign-less signpost marked the opening. I clicked my blinker and took a quick left. The alley was closely flanked by a brick wall on the hotel side and by a building on the other side.

I rolled the length of the alley and stopped. The alley opened to a hidden parking lot—small, square, and nondescript. A few weeds sprouted up through the cracks in the asphalt, and a single silver Corvette was parked in one space of the faded white parking grid. A little bit of weeding and some fresh paint on the parking spots would work wonders. And then I’d put two big chocolate pots filled with annuals on either side of the back entrance. I wondered if it led directly to the kitchen, or if guests could use the back door to access the hotel.

Three mismatched Dumpsters sat at the far end of the lot. They were a necessary evil, so there wasn’t anything to be done about them. I hoped the flowerpots would be enough to distract the hotel guests from registering their unsightliness.

Just as my toe touched the accelerator again, I saw something move between the two Dumpsters closest to the hotel. I hit the brakes, bracing myself for a raccoon or even some southern varmint I’d yet to hear about. How big were possums?

A woman hoisted herself up. She picked up a big piece of cardboard and folded it carefully into neat sections, as if she were folding a quilt. When she was finished, she slid it under one of the Dumpsters. Then she leaned over and picked up a garbage bag.

The homeless woman.

She walked stiffly to the far end of the parking lot and cut between two buildings. After she disappeared from view, I just sat there. I put the rental car into park. I put my hands over my eyes.

It’s not like I didn’t know what homeless
meant
. I’d just never really taken the time to think about what it
entailed
.

Instead of passing her by, the way I’d passed so many homeless people in Boston and Atlanta, and well, just about every city I’d ever been to, I’d bought a homeless woman a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I felt better immediately. And she went back to sleeping between two Dumpsters.

I was spoiled and entitled, and my problems were so ridiculously insignificant. Maybe I even made them up just to have something to occupy my time as I lived my spoiled, entitled, ridiculous little life.

So my husband was dragging his feet about selling our big comfortable house. So my son wasn’t quite ready to leave the bat cave. So my daughter hadn’t stayed around to keep me company and had left me to cohabit with her perfectly nice husband in another comfortable house. So my best friend’s boyfriend might be screwing around on her. They both had houses.

It’s not like I’d missed the memo that homelessness was an epidemic. There was nothing new here. But I was crying anyway, hot tears streaming down my cheeks and racking sobs coming from someplace deep within. Maybe it was my soul. If I still had one.

Finally I pulled into a parking place.

“What were we thinking?” I said to the GPS before I unplugged her.

Then I went to find the homeless woman.

I found her sitting on the sidewalk, right in front of my eyes, yet blending into the scenery, as if she were invisible.

I handed her the chicken pesto and the bow ties. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Any way I can get it,” she said.