Facelift (11 page)

But Marla beats me to my bathroom, so I settle for Izzie’s. Maybe Marla needs to powder her nose. Good thing she didn’t have rhinoplasty. It would make for a slow recovery as she likes to stick her snout in everyone’s business.

Before I can indulge in a hot, steaming shower, the warm spray hitting the plastic curtain, the doorbell rings. Izzie is outside bathing the dog, hosing off the decking, and cleaning up the mess. I can hear Cousin It barking like a gang of robbers is about to storm the house. I wait, hoping Marla will get the door but the ringer sounds again.

“Who could that be?” I wrap a beach towel around my nakedness and hope it’s only FedEx delivery. The deadbolt resists but I wrestle it open. It’s not until the lock clicks that I contemplate my foolishness. It could be Cliff. And toweled up is not the impression I want with my ex. Or maybe it is. But it could be a client. Not professional. Thankfully the man is a stranger. I poke my head out the door opening, edging my body as far back as possible. “Hello?”

A stately gentleman in gray suit and sky-blue tie stands on my front porch. He has silvery, wavy hair and a decisive jaw. He carries a vase of perfect red roses. Even the roses are dressed for the occasion, each with a tiny satin bow tied around the bud. Baby’s breath and greenery fill in gaps between two dozen or more stems.

“Good morning.” His tone is cultured. “I apologize for the surprise visit.”

My towel begins to slip and I secure it in place with one well-placed hand. Squinting against the bright sunlight, I decide he’s not a delivery boy.

“My name is Anderson Sterling. I’m a friend of Marla’s. This
is
the right house, isn’t it?” He glances above my head to the brass numbers screwed into the door frame. “Marla Redmond is staying here, is she not?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Is she available? I’d like to give her these roses.”

“I’ll tell her you’re here.” I close the door, but jerk it back open. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” Again, I close the door, readjust my towel, and digest this new information. A friend, huh? More like a
boy
friend. Odd feelings swirl through me—surprise, indignation, hope. I’m not sure which to latch onto. I decide on hope. Hope that Marla will be distracted by some man’s attention rather than paying attention to my plans for her son.

“Who is it?” Izzie stands in the hallway in her bikini, wet from head to toe, and holding a hairy, muddy towel.

“Someone for your grandmother. A beau.” I whisper the last part.

Izzie blinks and the corner of her lip curls. “Really? That’s gross.”

It isn’t quite my reaction. I don’t trust what impression Marla might make on my impressionable about-to-start-dating daughter. I grip my towel to my chest and knock on my bedroom door. “Marla?”

“Yes?”

I find her sitting at the dressing table. It sounds luxurious but in reality it’s just a bit of counter space with a place for a stool. Marla’s staring at the mirror with a forlorn look. But with her bandages, I’m not sure any other look is possible. She doesn’t turn her head in my direction, but her gaze slides toward me, her one good eye widening slightly. “Is something wrong, Kaye?”

“No.” But I feel the opposite. And I’m not exactly sure why.

She fingers the edge of a silver rimmed tray that holds a couple of bottles of perfume Cliff gave me along with makeup and moisturizer. I notice she’s rearranged things.

“Do you want to shower?”

“There’s someone at the door. To see you.”

Marla’s chin lifts in a tiny gesture of triumph, then she grimaces. She touches the opening of her negligee, gliding her fingers along her neckline. Then I watch her throat convulse. Her fingers probe the edge of the pressure bandage. “Oh! Oh, no. I’m not here.”

Are we reverting to junior high school?

“I didn’t invite him.” Her uncanny sense of who is waiting on the porch makes me suspicious.

“Him?”

“Anderson.” She swivels the stool away from me, but I catch a glimpse of her profile, down-turned and pathetic. A twinge of sympathy pinches me. She puffs out little breaths, her back rounding with each one.

I reach out to her, my hand midair. “Are you all right?”

Slowly, her shoulders straighten. “Yes, yes, of course.” But her hand trembles. “Please tell Mr. Sterling that I’m indisposed.”

“But, Marla—”

“Please.” Is that desperation in her tone? She faces me again. Her lips compress into a firm line of resolve.

“Are you feeling ill?”

“He’s waiting.”

“Then, should I—”

“Tell him thank you, but I’m not ready to see visitors as of yet.”

Or she’s not ready for them to see her. “Are you sure?”

She gives a slight nod.

“All right.” I turn but she stops me with a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Did you change your mind?”

Her gaze shifts along my oversized towel and bare feet. “You are going to put on a robe, right?”

“He’s waiting outside.”

“No telling what kind of a place he’ll believe this is.”

In an effort to find levity in this bizarre situation, I give her a mischievous smile and bounce my hip a couple of times. “Are you worried I’ll be a distraction?”

Marla turns away from me. “Now you’re beginning to sound like my other daughters-in-law. They have no shame.”

“I was—” But I halt that apology mid-sentence. Her number-one manipulative technique has always been to pit me against Cliff’s brother’s wives. Not this time. God has been teaching me so much since Cliff left, but I never knew I’d be tested with Marla once again. I square my shoulders, confidence growing. Knowing how to handle Marla will only help Cliff and me when we’re once again married. So without another word, I turn and walk back to the front door. With a slight detour past Izzie’s room, I grab a robe from her closet. It’s silky and not my usual comfy fluffy oversized one, but it’ll do.

“What now?” Izzie asks.

“Nothing. Just covering, so to speak, for your grandmother so she doesn’t have to face her boyfriend yet.”

When I open the front door again, I blink back my surprise. Not only is Mr. Sterling still waiting, but he has a male companion. I sense Izzie approaching from behind. But Cousin It sticks her nose under the back of my robe. My “hi” escalates as I bat her nose away.

My gaze shifts expectantly between the two men.

“Hello there.” The shorter man standing next to Marla’s first suitor grins. “I’m Harry Klum. Thought I’d give Marla a visit.”

“Oh, I see.” Is the retirement village she moved into the swinging singles of the AARP? Is the competition so fierce Marla believed she needed plastic surgery? Yet it appears she has the pick of the crop. Or at least an abundance of pickers.

Mr. Sterling stands tall, debonair with firm creases in his suit and shine in his polished shoes. But the other gentleman looks frumpy. Can a man be frumpy? This one is short, a bit shaggy around the edges, the seams of his clothes stretched to their limit. I doubt his faded blue button-down shirt or stretch-waist, warm-up pants have ever been introduced to an iron. He looks familiar though. He holds a bunch of mismatched flowers still bundled in plastic, grocery-store wrapping.

“Well, Mr. Klum . . . Mr. Sterling, Marla isn’t feeling well enough to see visitors just yet.”

The skin between Mr. Sterling’s brows pinches slightly, then smooths out. He offers the crystal vase of roses to me. “If you’d be so kind as to give her these.”

“Yep”—Mr. Klum’s forehead crinkles and remains so—“these too.”

“Of course. And well, thank you, gentlemen. I’m sure Marla appreciates your thoughtfulness and concern.”

The taller man turns and walks toward the black Escalade parked along the curb. When the huge SUV pulls away from the curb, it reveals another—a station wagon with fake wood siding, faded and worn, dating back to the seventies. It must be Mr. Klum’s car.

“Uh, Miss . . .” Mr. Klum shuffles his scarred brown loafers on the concrete.

“Yes?”

“Is she, I mean, Miss Marla gonna be all right?”

“She’s fine. It will take time for her to heal.”

He scratches his mostly bald head, just a few strands of gray hair are combed over the top. “Tell her she’s missed at the village.”

“I will.” When I close the door, juggling the vase and the bouquet of flowers, I find Izzie, Cousin It, and Marla waiting in the foyer.

Izzie stares at her grandmother. “You’ve got
two
boyfriends?”

“I wouldn’t say that, dear. Oooh!” Marla reaches forward and takes the roses from me. “How utterly beautiful.”

“Those are from Mr. Sterling.”

She breathes in the sweet, tender scent that was making my nose itch and touches the little ribbons on each bud. “He has such exquisite taste.” To Izzie, she says, “Always go for the money, dear. It can’t buy you everything you want, but it sure doesn’t hurt.”

“Uh, Marla . . .” I distract her from dispensing any more sage advice by holding out the bunch of flowers, its plastic protection crinkling. “These are from Harry Klum.”

Marla sighs and frowns at the water dripping from the wet paper towel wrapped around the cut stems. The doorbell rings again. A panicked expression widens Marla’s good eye. She grimaces, then shifts her features back into neutral. “Who is that?”

“More boyfriends you’d like to tell me about?” I imagine a busload of suitors from the retirement village pulling up outside. My house, I decide, would make an interesting day trip for retirees.

Marla takes a step backward. “I’m not here.”

That’s usually Izzie’s line. Maybe Marla will prove to my daughter how immature that response is. Or its validity.

“Yes, you are.” I place my hand on the knob. “But don’t worry. I’ll cover for you.” Again.

“What will you say?” She edges around the corner into the hallway and out of sight.

“That you’re resting.”

“Okay.” She disappears.

“Or whacked out on medication.”

Izzie grins at me.

Marla pokes her head around the corner again. “Kaye—”

“Kidding. I’ll just tell him the truth.”

She points a shaky finger at me. “Don’t you dare.”

No, no. We wouldn’t want to speak the truth. At least I know I’m not the only one that lies to myself. Obviously God has more work to do with me.

But the comparison with my mother-in-law unsettles me.

Chapter Eight

The second I open the door, I scold myself for not checking through the peephole first. Standing in my daughter’s bathrobe is not the way I want to greet a suitor of a younger generation. Or
any
generation, I suppose. Whereas I was amused with Marla’s suitors and maybe a little irritated for the benefit of her dearly departed husband who I adored, this
new
visitor puts my mother-bear instincts on full alert.

Propping a hand on a hip in a motherly defensive move, I stare at Gabe. His gaze dips and instant sunburn scorches his face. I follow, glancing down at Izzie’s robe, which has gaped open, revealing too much cleavage. I clutch the opening in a fist.

“Is Isabel home?”

“Are you and Izzie going for a run?”

“Yeah.” She brushes past me and out the door. She’s already changed into shorts and a tank top. “Bye, Mom.”

“Wait!”

She turns around, walking backwards away from me, but doesn’t slow her pace. “I’ll be back later. Don’t worry.”

That usually translates into parental language as
WORRY
. Actually I was going to suggest she take Cousin It for protection and for the dog to expend some energy. Then all the questions I should ask before Izzie goes off with some boy, like to see Gabe’s driver’s license and check police records, cause a pileup in my brain like a traffic jam. I step out of the doorway to wave them down, but they’re already running down the street, their long legs matching each other stride for stride.

“It’s good for Isabel to see boys.” Marla stands behind me in the foyer. “She’s certainly old enough.”

I close the door, harder than I normally would.

“She’s pretty enough to have them lined up around the block if she’d only take a little care with her appearance.”

Slowly I turn and face my ex-mother-in-law and give a tolerant half smile.
Don’t say anything, Kaye. Do not engage the enemy.
It’s a debate I can’t win. “I better go take a shower.”

“Yes, you should. Before any more visitors arrive.”

Like Cliff. My half-smile congeals.
Keep walking, Kaye. Just keep walking.

“Are
you
seeing anyone, Kaye, besides that man who was here the other night?”

That stops me. “No, no I’m not.” I regret my defensive tone. But I truly hate that question. I hear it all the time from old acquaintances, which implies I’m a loser if I haven’t latched onto someone since Cliff left. “Besides I told you, Jack’s a client.”

“Really.” The way she says that word is more like
of course.
“It’s been two years.”

“Fifteen months.” What’s the deal? Is there a time limit on letting go of a marriage vow? God doesn’t have time limits, does He? Nothing is impossible with Him.

“That’s plenty of time to get back in the game. Of course, you’re probably still pining over Cliff. That’s understandable. He’s quite a catch. But honestly, he’s interested in”—her gaze trails over my scantily clad and lumpier than usual form—“greener pastures.”

My shoulders stiffen and my eyelids prickle with sudden tears. She hit the bull’s-eye with that remark. I scramble to come up with a crushing reply, but I don’t have one. Which only makes me feel even more inadequate.

“And, I hate to say this, Kaye, but that may be your problem.”

“Oh really?”
Kaye! What are you doing? Be quiet. Disengage. Retreat! Retreat!
I cross my arms over my chest as if that can protect me and can’t seem to stop myself from asking, “And what’s that?”

“You have let yourself go in the past year. Why, I was actually stunned when you came to my house a few months ago. Stunned. Not that you were ever modelesque in appearance. But you presented yourself well enough before, or so . . .”

My hand automatically reaches up to touch my hair, which I haven’t had cut in a while and my roots are showing at least three inches worth. I slap my hand down to my side. “Well, I should take a shower. So I’ll be more presentable.”