Much Ado About Mother (4 page)

“That would be wonderful,” the woman said. “Can I leave extra, in case anyone would want to take one with them?”

Suzanna took them and nodded. Flyers had been a bone of contention in their workplace even before Eric and Suzanna were married. Eric loved flyers. He thought the old-school approach of tacking flyers and business cards on bulletin boards and flagpoles kept a community “real.” Suzanna saw them as artificial at best and litter at worst. Eric and Suzanna had reached a nice compromise. Flyers in the Nook, no flyers in the tearoom. It crossed Suzanna's mind that she and Eric had been experts at the art of compromise before they even got married. How many couples could say that?

Suzanna looked at the flyer.

“Alice?” Suzanna asked and looked at the woman.

“Yes, Alice,” she said. “Thank you.”

The woman took two purposeful steps and was out the door. Suzanna realized that Alice had not asked Suzanna's name in return.

“You're welcome,” she said to the closed door.

Suzanna looked at the flyers in her hand. She was annoyed at herself for agreeing to hand them over to Eric. He could foster the community all he wanted, but it was Suzanna who had to go through the outdated pamphlets and multicolored sheets every week to make room for the latest batch of community outreach.

She peeked out the window of the tea shop and watched Erinn pull into an open parking space. It likely wouldn't matter to Erinn that the shop was closed; she rarely came by for tea. She was more inclined to spend hours in the Book Nook, coming in with insane requests for Eric to track down. When Erinn wasn't working, she kept her mind and Eric's time occupied with books. Erinn was much more like their intellectual parents than Suzanna was, although Suzanna (she had to admit) got along better with them. Well, that wasn't really difficult; Erinn couldn't get along with anybody.

Suzanna frowned. She was perfectly happy to have their mother stay with her family in their apartment over the store. Suzanna had always called the living space “the Huge Apartment.” It
was
enormous, with three bedrooms, a spacious bathroom, living room, dining room, and fantastic eat-in kitchen, and there was more than enough room for their mother. As a matter of fact, their mother would be a welcome addition!

She couldn't actually put her finger on the reason, but there was no getting around it. She was extremely annoyed. Erinn always shirked her familial responsibilities. Suzanna always had to be the one to remember birthdays, make holiday arrangements, call their mother. Erinn had been running away from responsibility for years. Now their mother was coming, and Erinn not only had enough room in her rambling house to take in a platoon of mothers, she had an empty guesthouse, too. But instead of stepping up to the plate, she was letting it all rest on Suzanna's shoulders.

No, Mom should stay with Erinn; she'd have her own space in the guesthouse and besides, it was a matter of principle!

Suzanna heard the door creak open in the foyer that joined the Rollicking Bun to the Book Nook. Erinn stepped inside and veered immediately into the Book Nook. Suzanna inched toward the Nook so she could eavesdrop on Erinn's conversation with Eric. Erinn was like a canker sore; if it stopped bothering her, Suzanna would poke it with her tongue until she was aware of it again.

“Hey, Erinn,” Eric said. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you were able to make any headway tracking down my book.”

“Book? Was I supposed to find a book?”

Suzanna smiled to herself. Eric loved to tease Erinn.

“Yes, Eric,” Erinn said. “The Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“Hmmm . . . let me think. Mary Wollstonecraft. New mystery author, right?”

“Good God, no!”

“Mash-up writer?”

“Never! She didn't write
novels
.”

“Oh! WOLLstonecraft . . . the one who wrote
Thoughts on the Education of Daughters: With Reflections on Female Conduct, in the More Important Duties of Life
. . . that Wollstonecraft? Why didn't you say so?”

“I did. I did say so.”

Suzanna couldn't resist. She peeped around the corner to watch Eric deposit a large, battered book in Erinn's hand. He was trying not to laugh, but Suzanna could only see a confused scowl on Erinn's face. She didn't know why Eric bothered. Erinn really had no sense of humor when it came to herself. Or to anything.

Suzanna caught Eric's eye as she entered the room. They both knew what was coming. Years ago, Eric had pointed out that Erinn always said your name by way of greeting. It never failed to be a shared joke between husband and wife.

“Suzanna,” Erinn said.

“Erinn.”

Suzanna caught a wink from Eric. God, she loved that man.

“I've come to talk about Mother,” Erinn said.

“Come on in,” Suzanna said, putting the pamphlets down and ushering her sister toward the tea shop. “I'm just cleaning up a bit. I'll get us some tea.”

Suzanna steeled herself for a conversation with her sister. Erinn was a writer; she was
good
at conversation. But Suzanna was on her toes . . . she was not going to give in.

“I got a job,” Erinn said.

“That's great news,” Suzanna said. She started stacking delicate dinner plates on a sideboard. “You'll have enough money to keep the guesthouse free for Mom.”

“That's true.”

“It is?” Suzanna looked up, startled. She felt guilty that she had been thinking such unkind, un-sisterly thoughts. She felt the anxiety she'd been carrying in her shoulders suddenly ease.

Erinn walked to the sideboard and took the glass dome off a cake platter containing gingerbread, a specialty of the house. She took a plate from the top of Suzanna's stack and tipped a slice delicately onto it. She sat at one of the small tables and started to eat.

“It's true that I'll have enough money . . . but it's too late. I've already rented the place,” Erinn said. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“To who?” Suzanna could feel her teeth clench.

“
Whom
. . . to whom.”

“I said ‘whom'!”

Erinn gave her younger sister her long-suffering smile.

“Well, I guess it's settled then,” Suzanna said. “Mom will stay with me.”

CHAPTER 5

ERINN

T
he drive from Suzanna's tea shop in Venice to Erinn's home in Santa Monica was only a few miles, but Erinn castigated herself the entire trip home.

Erinn got out of her car and walked to the front door, digging in her purse for her house keys. She was proud of the work she had done restoring her home, but she could see that it was, once again, getting that down-at-the-heels look. Shabby but not quite shabby chic. Erinn knew the meandering front walkway by heart and was so used to the routine of lost keys that she never had to look up. Feeling the key chain in her hands, she pulled them out of her bag and held them in the air, triumphantly.

“And I have found Demetrius like a jewel . . . mine . . .”

Erinn stopped midquote as she stared at the tiny woman sitting on her step.

“Mine own . . . and not mine own,” said the woman in a hushed whisper. “
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
act three.”

“Act four,” Erinn said.

“Is it?” asked the woman. She put tiny fists up to her mouth in dismay. “I always get everything wrong.”

“No, no, that was very . . . close,” Erinn said, amazed that anyone could or would finish a random Shakespearean quote.

“My name is Dymphna,” the woman said, anticipating the question. “Dymphna Pearl.”

Erinn shook the offered hand. Erinn was the smallest woman in her family, several inches shorter than both her mother and her sister, but her hand closed completely around Dymphna's diminutive and calloused one. “I've come about the guesthouse.”

“The guesthouse?”

The fists returned to Dymphna's mouth.

“Is it already rented?” Dymphna asked. “I knew I waited too long.”

“Oh! No, it isn't rented.”

“Thank goodness!”

“I was selling the last of my sheep and it took longer than I thought it would,” Dymphna said. “My luck hasn't been very good these last couple of years—so I figured the place would be long gone.”

“Your sheep?”

“Yes,” Dymphna said. “I'm a shepherdess.”

“In Los Angeles?”

“No, of course not,” Dymphna said. “In Malibu.”

“Oh, yes . . . Malibu, land of sheep,” Erinn said, instantly regretting her sarcasm. Who was she to judge this woman's ridiculous career choice?

“Well, I
was
a shepherdess,” Dymphna said, her eyes filling with tears. “But it got too expensive. It took everything I had and I failed.”

Dymphna, who had stood up to greet Erinn, collapsed back onto the front step, put her head in her lap, and sobbed. Erinn patted her tiny shoulder awkwardly. She was never good at moments like this, moments that required tact and a few soothing words.

Erinn searched her brain for something, anything, to say. She suddenly remembered Massimo, an Italian cook who had once rented the guesthouse and who used to rhapsodize about lamb.

“I hope you got a good price for the meat,” Erinn said.

Dymphna stopped crying instantly and looked fiercely into Erinn's eyes.

“I didn't raise them for food!” Dymphna said.

Dymphna stood up again. Standing on the step she was just eye level with Erinn. She wore a flowing skirt, petticoat, a fitted waistcoat, buttoned boots, and several scarves. Erinn thought she looked like someone who had lost her way and needed directions to a Steampunk Convention. Erinn took a step back. You couldn't be too careful around these would-be renters, and this diminutive—and overdressed—woman didn't seem to be an exception.

“I'm raising them for their wool,” Dymphna said, an edge of pride in her voice.

“You
were
raising them,” Erinn corrected.

Dymphna looked as if Erinn had slapped her. She seized fistfuls of skirts in her little hands and held them to her eyes as she sobbed. Erinn looked around the yard and tried to think of a way to get this woman-child off her property. When she couldn't think of anything, she just waited until Dymphna calmed down. Finally, Dymphna dried her eyes on her skirt.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “The pain is just very raw.”

“I can well imagine,” Erinn said, although she couldn't imagine it at all.

“May I see the guesthouse?”

“Oh!” Erinn felt a surge of panic. “I'm sorry! It's rented.”

“But you said it wasn't rented.”

“Did I?” Erinn asked. How was it that she could tell lie after damning lie to her sister just an hour ago and yet couldn't think of anything to say to this . . . shepherdess. “Oh, well, it's potentially rented. It's not a done deal. I'm waiting for a credit report.”

Dymphna brightened.

“Well then, you might as well show it to me,” she said. “I know all about lousy credit ratings.”

Erinn let out an audible sigh. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath.

“This way,” she said, leading Dymphna around back.

They threaded their way over the cobblestones through the side yard, which was full of hot pink and white mandevilla plants. Erinn watched as Dymphna took in the beauty of the plants. This was one of Erinn's secret tests for potential renters: Did they appreciate the artistry of the landscaping? As they entered the backyard Erinn tried to imagine how the yard and guesthouse must appear to a first-time guest. To her own eyes, the space took her breath away every time. The cobblestones continued from the side yard and cut a serpentine path up to the front door of the guesthouse, a beautifully replicated Victorian with a small porch and a varnished red door. Erinn noticed that Dymphna seemed more interested in the yard than the house.

“This yard is exquisite,” Dymphna said. “Although you seem to have some brown patches in the grass.”

“Well . . . I . . . I just can't seem to get anything to grow in those spots this year. Believe me, I've tried,” Erinn said.

“It's brown patch disease,” said Dymphna, looking sideways at Erinn. “I know what you're thinking . . . .”

“You're thinking that you can't possibly have brown patch disease because it's Santa Monica and it's not hot enough. But it's unseasonably warm so I think that's what it is . . . the ground is kind of freaked out.”

“I could cure that with cornmeal and molasses if I end up living here.”

Erinn's phone rang in her jacket pocket.

“Excuse me for a minute,” she said, relieved to have a respite from the Paula Deen of Landscaping. “Here is the key.”

She handed Dymphna the key and walked toward the back porch of her own house.

“Hello?”

“Erinn, hi! It's Cary!”

Erinn sat down at her patio table with a thud. Cary was the supervising producer on the last two shows she had worked on, but it had been months since Erinn had heard from her. Maybe there was a new job. Could it be that she might have a job and a tenant by the end of the day and not have to admit to her sister that she'd been lying just to get out of housing their mother for an unforeseen amount of time? Erinn glanced up and watched Dymphna through the window of the guesthouse.

“Hello? Erinn? Are you there?” Cary's voice brought Erinn back around.

“Yes!” she said, a little too loudly. “Hi, Cary. It's good to hear from you.”

“Well, I've been thinking about you lately. I would love to see you.”

“And I, you,” Erinn said, wincing as she remembered Suzanna's admonishment not to say arcane things like “And I, you” instead of “Me too.”

“Well, that's good, because I'm right around the corner!”

“On Montana?”

“No . . . the corner of your house.”

Erinn looked up to see Cary, all six feet of her, loping into the backyard. Erinn, shocked, stood up and came down the porch stairs to greet her old boss. Erinn was not a hugger by nature but she knew there was no escaping Cary's exuberant embrace.

“I know this is crazy, but I was in the area and I just thought I'd stop in. I hope you're not busy.”

“Oh, not at all. Not. At. All.” Erinn tried to convey in three words how desperate she was for a job.

“This place is such an oasis of calm,” Cary said grandly as she climbed onto the porch and looked around the yard. “It really is just a perfect, perfect spot.”

“I have brown patch disease,” Erinn said, not wanting her life to seem too perfect. Cary blinked in surprise, and Erinn, worried she may have overplayed her hand, added, “But I can cure it with cornmeal and molasses.”

“What in God's name are you talking about?” Cary asked as she sat down at the patio table, suddenly looking very serious. “Erinn, we need to talk. I have a show coming up and—”

“I'll take it,” Erinn said, sitting down across from her old—and maybe new—boss.

“You don't even know what it's about.”

“I don't care!” Erinn said. “I mean . . . well, I've always enjoyed working with you and I'm sure this time won't be any different.”

“It's not me that's the problem,” Cary said. “It's a pilot for a reality show called
Red, White, and Blu
—spelled B-L-U, because it will be starring Blu Knight. Does that name ring a bell?”

This situation was exactly why Erinn didn't like face-to-face conversations. If this discussion were taking place on the phone, like it should, she could be madly pecking away on the Internet until she found out who or what Blu Knight was and not look as out of touch as she knew she was.

“No,” Erinn admitted. “Should it?”

“She was a minor celebrity back in the day,” Cary said. “Somehow, she's gotten one of the networks interested in doing a reality series or at least a pilot with her. She's trying to make a comeback.”

“She's trying to come back as a minor celebrity?”

“No, as a shoe designer. She wants to make high heels that suburban moms will wear to make them feel fabulous or some such horseshit.”

“Well,” Erinn said, “you know I'm always ready to help. All I need to do is charge the batteries for the camera.”

Cary looked down at her perfectly manicured nails and said nothing. Erinn could sense that there was more to the equation than the batteries—there had to be! Why was Cary on her back porch instead of calling Erinn's agent, Mimi Adams, about this?

“There is one little thing,” Cary said, but then said no more.

“It can't be all that bad,” Erinn said.

“That all depends.” Cary looked at Erinn. “You see, Blu has fallen on hard times. . . .”

“We need to shoot the pilot in Blu's house and at the shoe factory, you know, a day-in-the-life sort of thing.”

“And let me guess,” Erinn said. “She doesn't have a shoe factory.”

“That,” Cary said, “and she doesn't have a house.”

“Well, with a wide-angle lens, we can make her apartment seem like a house. Leave that to me.”

“She doesn't have an apartment, either. She's homeless.”

All the puzzle pieces fell into place. Cary might need a good producer and camera op, but more than that, she needed a place for this Blu person to live. And how incredibly perfect that the guesthouse was currently empty. No wonder Cary was waxing poetic about Erinn's perfect oasis! Talk about horseshit!

“I know you're probably thinking . . . ,” Erinn started carefully.

“Don't say anything until you meet her,” Cary said, motioning to a figure at the edge of the house.

From the shadows of the side yard appeared an awkward child in shorts and a T-shirt. As the girl got closer, Erinn could see that she wasn't a child, just the size of one, only with huge breasts, a surgically induced pout, and hair extensions. Even as small as she was, she was wearing six-inch see-through platform shoes the likes of which Erinn had only seen while channel surfing (and quickly surfing past) movies in the middle of the night.

Cary beamed her best showbiz smile.

“Blu!” Cary said. “I thought I asked you to stay in the car until I called you.”

“It's hot in the car. I didn't want to frizz.” Blu shook her red-and-blond-striped curls.

Erinn started to panic. Yes, she needed this job badly, but she could never work with this little spoiled starlet, let alone rent her the guesthouse.

A door slammed and all three women turned toward the guesthouse. They watched as Dymphna carefully locked the front door and walked toward them.

“That house is a riot!” Blu said. “It's so small.”

Erinn bristled.
What a horrid person, what a philistine not to see the beauty and detail in the miniature house.