Much Ado About Mother (13 page)

She thought of a country song from a few years back about “Viagra in the water.” It made as much sense as any other explanation.

Suzanna turned around and regarded the tree. Frankly, she wasn't feeling any goodwill toward the thing that was disrupting the peace in her neighborhood. She walked around it several times, dipping under unwieldy branches and getting her footing on the uneven cement. She was lost in concentration when she heard salsa music. She stood riveted to the spot. It was the music Rio always played at the dance studio. She realized she was standing right outside his new venue. She tried to command her feet to walk away but her feet were not going anywhere. Her body turned toward the music as if she had no will of her own.

There was no denying it. She missed the music and the dancing. In a weird way, she missed the woman she had been before she became a wife and mother, when she had no one to worry about but herself. Her mistakes were hers alone. She knew she could no longer make that claim—her mistakes would echo through the Bun like a shotgun blast. But she walked through Rio's door anyway.

The rhythm of the music quickened Suzanna's pulse as she looked around the room. This group was a far cry from the fashionistas that made up most of Rio's past clientele. Rio was showing a boy the quick-quick-slow steps that made up the foundation of salsa. Rio was not a small man, but he was dwarfed by this scowling adolescent, with his enormous tattooed biceps. Suzanna tried not to smile as she watched the two men grasping forearms as Rio tried to force some rhythm into the kid. The music stopped and Rio saw Suzanna in the mirror.

She had never exactly envisioned this moment. She was glad she hadn't because it wouldn't have gone anything like this. Rio merely turned around and looked at her. No smile, no shining eyes, no sign that he was happy to see her in the least.

“Suzanna,” Rio said. “Come in.”

She could feel herself lifting off the ground. She tried to grab onto the ballet barre but it slipped through her fingers. She bobbed around the class of sneering teenagers, three boys and two girls covered in tattoos and piercings—she remembered three of them, Ray, Miles, and Winnie, but Rio seemed to have added two more students. He really seemed dedicated to his new venture. The kids were all too cool to take note that a neighboring shopkeeper was floating near the ceiling.

Rio spoke to the class.

“Suzanna was a former student of mine,” he said. “She was not very good when she started, but tried very hard. You could learn from her.”

POW! Suzanna was back on the floor. Rio put on a song she knew by heart. It was “La Ruñidera,” one of his favorites. She used to listen to it over and over but deleted it from her playlist after the fantasy of Rio ended. It had all been the imaginings of a lost and lonely woman, but she had to admit, she had felt one hundred percent alive in those days before peaceful marriage and motherhood.

With the teenagers feigning boredom and the music pounding around them, Rio put out his hand. Suzanna didn't hesitate for an instant and he walked her onto the dance floor.

Although it had been three and a half years since she'd gone to a dance class, Suzanna had kept dancing. She danced in the Bun kitchen or in stores or on street corners when a Latin beat became too much to ignore. At those times she was glad she'd studied salsa. There really would not have been any way to waltz or tango effectively by herself. She'd also been dancing with Lizzy since before the baby was born. As Suzanna let herself be escorted to the dance floor, she said a silent prayer of thanks that she would not be totally rusty. But dancing by herself, or with Lizzy, was not the same as dancing with Rio.

Suzanna put her left hand on his shoulder and forced herself to look into his eyes. She could hear all his instructions from years ago tumbling around in her head: “Don't let your foot slide,” “Don't look at the floor,” “Tilt your body forward, not backward.” But she decided not to listen. She would listen to the music instead. The tree could wait. Her husband's obsession with the community could wait. Two old guys fighting over her mother could wait. She was dancing with Rio, who was even hotter now that his shiny black hair was tossing around his head.

She would play out this three-minute romance for all it was worth.

It was over in a heartbeat. Applause filled the little studio. Rio, who was still Rio even with a new cause, stood unsmiling as he applauded languidly along with the students. She tried to accept the applause graciously and not like a sponge begging for water. If she were Cinderella, the clock would be ticking. Midnight would strike as soon as she walked out the door. She tried not to feel disloyal to her life. She often thought that if she were her ten-year-old self looking at her adult self, she would be more than satisfied with what she had become. She had the best husband, the perfect child, a wonderful business, loyal friends. She missed her father but her vibrant mother was still stirring things up. But fantasy had always played a part in Suzanna's life, and she found she missed it more than she knew.

Things were different now, she told herself. She would walk out, accepting the closure that this dance afforded. She felt so light and happy, she gave Rio a spontaneous hug.

“I still need to see you, Suzanna,” he said.

Cinderella had nothing on her. Suzanna raced out the studio door as the clock struck midnight in her heart. She had to get back to her life before anyone knew she had been to the ball. As she ran through the courtyard alone, her toe caught on something and she sprawled on the cement, skinning her hands.

As she sat collapsed on the ground, looking at her bleeding palms, she was feeling less than neutral about just about everything.

CHAPTER 14

ERINN

W
illow Station was a strange place. An old railroad station that went the way of old railroad stations, it was turned into a local museum in the 1980s. Although it was a remodeled, cavernous space that never seemed to have enough artwork to fill it, new artists from all over the country vied for its attention. In the up-and-coming art community an exhibit at Willow Station carried bragging rights, not to mention much-needed exposure and offers to be hung in art galleries of varying reputations.

The art exhibit currently causing a stir at the little museum was called
POP! Culture
. It featured various artifacts made from the pop-tops of soda and beer cans and ribbons of aluminum cut from the cans themselves. The artist, Alice Albert, billed herself as an environmental-fiber-and-metal artist, which Erinn found gratingly pretentious. But Erinn was on her best behavior. It wasn't every day a handsome neighbor asked her out, and it certainly wasn't business as usual to be on a double date with her mother.

Virginia put on her glasses and peered at a shawl made from the pop-tops. The shawl draped and folded as if it were made of cashmere.

“We've got to get Dymphna up here to see this,” Virginia said to Erinn. “I think she would find this fascinating.”

Erinn tried to shake off the feeling that her mother found raising Angora rabbits a much higher calling than following Blu Knight around with a camera.

“Virginia, come look at this,” Bernard said.

Virginia went to stand next to Bernard as they studied a miniature train set, every tiny detail made from pop-tops and aluminum ribbons. Erinn considered herself an expert on body language and tried to read the signals, but when her mother leaned into Bernard to whisper something and he laughed and put his hand on her mother's waist for an instant, Erinn turned quickly away. Body signals were one thing, smoke signals another.

Erinn looked around the room for Christopher, who was standing in front of a large aluminum moose head, complete with mounting board. Erinn shot her mother a quick backward glance; maybe her easy chemistry with a member of the opposite sex would rub off on Erinn. She stepped lightly into the spot next to Christopher.

“She's really an incredible artist, isn't she?” he asked, although he sounded gloomy.

“Well . . . yes . . . she is,” Erinn said. “Although I don't understand why she would choose this particular medium. With her talent, it seems as if she's limiting herself.”

Christopher turned to her, his intense eyes looking into hers.

“I disagree. I think she took a medium that inherently puts confines on an artist and stretched the boundaries. I mean, she made a shawl and a moose head. How can you call that limiting?”

Erinn was more than comfortable in heated debate—and she did think that this Alice Albert was wasting her time in such a frivolous medium—but had learned from sad experience that trouncing an opponent on a first date wasn't usually the best-laid plan. Although she wasn't quite sure she could trounce Christopher anyway. He certainly had his own viewpoint.

Virginia and Bernard were suddenly at their side. Erinn gave a soft sigh of relief. Mother as backup was always a good idea.

“I love, love, love this exhibit,” Virginia said. “What a talent.”

“I agree,” Christopher said, looking coolly at Erinn. He turned to his uncle. “Do you think we could ask if she wants to put some of her work up in our studio?”

“We can ask her,” Bernard said. “She's heading our way.”

The group turned to watch a severe-looking woman in her forties walking toward them. She wore a black turtleneck tucked into fatigues, which in turn were tucked into black combat boots. Her stern look was offset by a wide, toothy grin.

“Shit,” Christopher said. “It
is
her.”

“I told you,” Bernard said, shaking his head.

“I know you did. But I didn't believe it.”

Erinn and Virginia looked at each other, mystified. Did they know this woman?

“I saw her picture outside,” Bernard said as the woman continued to advance on them. “There can't be two people in the world sporting those glasses.”

“Christopher? Is that you?” the woman said, reaching out with both arms to envelop Christopher in a hug. A hug that Christopher did not appear eager to return.

“I can't believe it's you!” Alice Albert said.

“It's me,” Christopher said, disengaging from the hug. “This is such a surprise.”

“You know me,” Alice said, smiling at the group. “I'm always full of surprises.”

Virginia put out her hand. “Hello, I'm Virginia Wolf.”

Alice burst out laughing. “No . . . no you're not! Your name is Virginia Woolf? Priceless!”

Virginia forged ahead, “This is my daughter, Erinn.”

“Erinn Wolf? Erinn
Elizabeth
Wolf?” Alice's eyebrows shot skyward. “The writer? Impressive.”

Erinn didn't answer. Erinn Elizabeth Wolf, the writer, seemed light-years ago. There was an awkward silence, so Virginia continued. “And this is Bernard.”

“We know each other,” Bernard growled, startling Erinn and Virginia.

Christopher seemed to wake from a trance.

“I'm sorry,” Christopher said. “Everyone, this is Alice . . . my ex-wife.”

Erinn tried to hide the jolt that went through her, but she felt her mother's hand on her forearm, steadying her.

“I think I'd heard that you had a little studio around here somewhere,” Alice said. Then turning to Erinn as if they were co-conspirators against bad little boys, she told her, “It's been five years, but you hear things through the grapevine, you know.”

Erinn tried not to stare accusingly at Christopher. Why would he bring her to an art gallery to meet his ex-wife? Even if he wasn't sure it was his ex-wife and just wanted to check out the situation due to morbid fascination, why bring Erinn?

Her spirits plummeted. He had no interest in her! She was making a fool of herself getting her hopes up like that. All she wanted to be was gone.

“You changed your name,” Christopher said. “Did you remarry, Alice
Albert?
”

Erinn tried to hear if he sounded hopeful or dejected by his own question.

Alice snorted.

“No, I just wanted to be free of preconceptions my past might have laid on me. Don't get me wrong, when you work in beer cans, you get your share of offers.”

To Erinn's well-trained ear this was clearly a well-rehearsed line.

“So I went with Albert,” Alice continued.

“As in Camus,” Erinn offered.

“You got that right, sister,” Alice said, giving her a high five, which surprised Erinn. “Good guess.”

“Are you showing in any local galleries?” Virginia asked after another dreadful silence.

“No, not around here,” Alice said. “I have a gallery in Sedona and one in Santa Fe, but haven't cracked L.A. yet. I'm hoping this exhibit will help.”

“Best of luck to you,” said Bernard. “We'd better go.”

“I really would love to show my work in your gallery,” Alice said, the brassy shield slipping.

“No, you really wouldn't,” Christopher said.

“I would!” she said, her eyes overly bright. “I really need to show in Los Angeles, Chris.”

Christopher handed Alice a business card. “Come over after the exhibit and we'll talk.”

Alice peered at it over the top rim of her glasses.

“B and C Studios, Mr. Clancy's Courtyard.”

“That's us,” Bernard said.

“Anywhere near the Rollicking Bun? I left some flyers there a while ago,” she said. “I'll give you a call in the next couple days, when all this winds down,” she added, gesturing at the entire studio.

Erinn thought that was a tad grandiose after Alice had practically thrown herself at Christopher, but she held her tongue. She offered to buy their foursome a nightcap, but when they arrived at the Four Seasons in Marina del Rey, she realized she'd made a tactical error. Willow Station, and an aluminum-can-art display, was pure funk, and she had lurched the group into elegance. It was as if they'd changed lands at Disneyland too quickly and hadn't quite regrouped.

They ordered a bottle of wine. Even though Erinn had issued the invitation and in her mind was the host of the event, Bernard took control of the smelling, tasting, and testing of the cork with a hearty sniff. Erinn and her mother exchanged a brief look. They were, after all, from Napa Valley and knew that a discreet thumbing of the cork to see if it was dried out was all that was really needed.

The conversation bumped and swirled with as much small talk as the four could generate but it finally turned to Alice Albert.

“You didn't know your ex-wife was showing at Willow Station?” Virginia asked in much more mellow tones than Erinn could have mustered.

Christopher shook his head.

“No,” he said. “When I saw that someone named Alice Albert was hanging at Willow Station, it didn't ring any bells. Even the artwork is very different from anything she'd ever done. But then I saw the flyer at the Nook and thought it might be her.”

Erinn wanted to ask why he'd decided that it would be a good idea to walk Erinn down Humiliation Highway but he seemed to read her mind.

“I know it was probably awkward for you this evening,” he said. “And I'm sorry. I just wanted backup.”

This wasn't working. She caught her mother's sympathetic gaze and sat up straight. She was not the sort of wilting flower to be undone by this insensitive man. She looked him dead in the eye.

“I'm guessing it wasn't a civilized divorce,” Erinn said.

She heard Bernard snort and take a sip of wine.

“We were both very young,” Christopher said, clearly not disturbed by her bluntness. “We met in art school. She was a great artist and wanted a life I couldn't give her. For her, it was about the art and only about the art.”

“And you feel you owe her?” Virginia asked gently.

“I do,” Christopher said, looking relieved to be understood. “Don't get me wrong, she wanted out of the marriage. But I didn't hang around to see that she was OK.”

“Well, that wasn't your job any longer,” Erinn said.

“Marriage is complicated,” Christopher said. “So is divorce.”

The conversation shifted uneasily to the idea of Alice showing at Bernard and Christopher's studio. Erinn had to admit that Alice's work would definitely fit in with their eclectic tastes.

But no use sugar-coating it: Erinn didn't need the competition.

“She was a brilliant student,” Christopher said. “Alice had some very interesting insights.”

“For example?” Virginia asked, always interested in people's college experiences.

“She said that if Cecilia Beaux were as pretty as Mary Cassatt,” Christopher said, “
she
would have been the famous one. Even in the early twentieth century, art was still parceled out according to the male perspective.”

“I think that's absurd,” Erinn said, sipping her red wine. “The paintings that made Mary Cassatt famous were painted when she was older and looked like a basset hound. That's just rhetorical rambling.”

“Rhetorical rambling is rhetorical rambling,” Christopher said, laughing.

“Alice said that we needed to celebrate the women of the Industrial Revolution because they were clearly the artists of the textile factories. She wanted to do her thesis on it but couldn't find enough research to support her cause,” he continued, clearly warming to the subject of Alice's intelligence. “It enraged her.”

Virginia and Bernard were nodding sagely. Erinn found her temper rising, since this “observation” was commonly cited by rookie scholars debating art and history in coffeehouses nationwide.

“That, of course, depends on how you define the Industrial Revolution. One could argue that it started with the invention of the wheel,” she said.

It was as if her companions had turned to stone. The waiter walked by.

“Check, please,” Virginia said.

When the foursome finally got back to the Beach Walk, Christopher took Erinn's hand and asked if she'd like to go for a walk. She hesitated. She was pretty sure the evening had gone on long enough for all of them. She certainly didn't want Christopher to feel obliged to take her on a pity walk.

“She'd love to, Christopher,” Virginia said, gently nudging her eldest daughter forward. Erinn wasn't sure whose romance her mother was trying to foster—Erinn's or her own. Erinn watched as her mother and Bernard headed across the sand to the ocean.

Christopher took Erinn's hand and they walked in silence down the quiet Beach Walk.

“It's hard to believe this place ever settles down,” Christopher said. “It's so crazy during the day.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Erinn said. “It can be pretty crazy at night, too.”

She knew she sounded as if she was pouting but she couldn't help herself. Christopher halted and stood in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to look into her eyes. Erinn wished it were darker, but the floodlights from a nearby store filled the area with light. She had no choice but to look back at him.