Much Ado About Mother (8 page)

And of course there was the new tenant in the guesthouse who was going to be raising Angora rabbits in Malibu. The one named after the patron saint of the insane: Dymphna. Erinn didn't want to think about her, either. Instead she took a bath and set her alarm. She had to start heading down the coast before dawn. She wanted to get an early start, hoping to miss the spectacular parking lot of a freeway that was sure to greet her as she neared Los Angeles if she waited until a reasonable hour.

She knew she had to get some rest; it was a long drive to Los Angeles. The pressure to sleep usually made her so tense that it became impossible, but this weekend had been pretty intense. Not only working with Tiffany but the producing, directing, and shooting all by herself, no matter how much she got to control the situation, was tiring! She was what she always thought of as “gorilla-tired” from Robert Strauss's wise words about success:

“It's a little like wrestling a gorilla. You don't quit when you're tired—you quit when the gorilla is tired.”

She was asleep in minutes.

In the morning, she packed the car as quickly as possible. She drove until she saw an open coffeehouse. She popped the trunk and pulled out her camera bag.

Another problem with the whole approach to being alone on a shoot—even the Lone Ranger had Tonto—was that every time she stopped to use the restroom, get a cup of coffee, or fill the tank, she had to take her camera bag with her. She never got the hang of leaving her gear in the car and hoping for the best. She could never quite muster the optimism that the gear would still be there upon her return. At the end of the day, Erinn reasoned as she lugged her unwieldy bag through Starbucks, it is better to be a pessimist and have your camera.

As she drove through Malibu, she wondered if Dymphna might be in the vicinity, tending to her rabbits. As she neared Santa Monica, she had some hard choices to make: Go directly to see her mother at the Bun? Go home and deal with Blu Knight? Take the footage to Cary and hope she was in a receptive mood?

Each option was fraught with unpleasant possibilities.

CHAPTER 9

SUZANNA

S
uzanna tiptoed down the stairs from the apartment and into the tea shop's kitchen. She could hear rumblings from the Nook. Eric was obviously at work already, even though the bookstore wouldn't open for another two hours.

As she pulled the oatmeal, sugar, butter, and raisins from their resting places, she thought how perfect it was having her mother around. Suzanna had forgotten how hard it was to get everything ready for the day's menu while simultaneously keeping an ear and eye on the baby monitor. When Lizzy was younger, Suzanna (or Eric) could bring her downstairs without waking her and just check on her in her little basket every thirty seconds. But now that her daughter could escape her own crib, mornings had become increasingly tense.

It may have been years since Virginia had been on baby duty, but you would have thought she ran a preschool the way she was so comfortable and confident around Lizzy. And Lizzy adored her Grammy.

Suzanna stepped into the Book Nook, a plate of homemade cookies in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. It was still early in the morning, and while many people might not think of oatmeal cookies as the ideal breakfast food, she and Eric had always loved them, fresh out of the oven before they had cooled, sitting like little browned soldiers ready to give their lives for the tea-shop customers. She watched Eric pulling books off the various shelves and putting them in a box. He turned and looked at her.

“Hey, Beet!” he said, calling her by her childhood nickname, so given because she turned red at the slightest embarrassment. “I smelled that coffee from across the hall and was hoping it was headed my way.”

Suzanna smiled and handed over the coffee. Eric took the cup in one hand and with the other grabbed her around the waist and pulled her toward him. He gave her a kiss no wife of three years had the right to expect. She balanced the plate of cookies, hoping that they wouldn't spill and ruin the moment.

“Hmmm,” Eric whispered in her ear. “Hot coffee, hot cookies, hot wife. I'm one lucky man!”

Suzanna giggled as she struggled out of his grasp. She put the cookies on the table and leaped up on the counter. Eric studied the books on the shelves, absentmindedly sipping at the coffee. When she had his attention life was good!

“You're usually taking books out of boxes and stacking them, not the other way around,” Suzanna said. “What are you doing?”

“I'm thinning out the shelves. I was talking to Bernard at the meeting last night and he said that one of his neighbors has started one of those Little Free Libraries on his street. I thought I would donate some books.”

“Little Free Library? Isn't that the organization that puts up little boxes all over small towns in America? You can grab a book anytime you want?”

“That's the one,” Eric said, pulling a copy of
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
off a shelf. He turned to Suzanna and held it up. “We have three of these.”

She nodded toward the box.

“Go for it,” she said.

“I think it's an awesome idea,” Eric said, adding a Charles Dickens and an old Abbie Hoffman to the box. “You can take a book or leave one. It brings the community together.”

“I think that's great,” Suzanna said. She picked up a cookie, but Rio suddenly flitted through her mind and she put it back on the plate.

“Speaking of Bernard, we ran into his nephew Christopher at the pier. He said you guys were working on . . . well . . . that thing. How is it going?”

Eric stopped loading the box and stood up, thinking.

“Oh, you mean the historic landmark designation? It's causing some hard feelings around here. It's a tough one. I'm not sure how this one is going to shake out.... I can see both sides.”

“So . . . all of Venice is getting involved?”

“No . . . I wouldn't say that,” Eric chortled. “But everyone on the block seems pretty into it. It would just be easier if everyone were on the same side.”

Suzanna tried to digest that last sentence, but it really offered nothing. She tried again.

“Everyone on
this
block?”

“Of course, on
this
block. Do you think anyone else would spend one night a week fighting to get a tree declared a historic landmark?”

Wow, Suzanna wished she had paid more attention. A tree? Not a building? Who would care enough about a tree to get it declared historic? Was that even possible? And, for that matter, what tree?

“These things can . . . get out of hand,” Suzanna said, hoping that was the right response.

One of the lovely things about Eric was that he really didn't seem to notice that she wasn't in the loop about this tree thing or half of his other town projects. There were days when this would have bothered her. On those days she took it to mean
he
wasn't paying attention enough to know she wasn't paying attention. But today it was working in her favor so she felt more forgiving.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course it's an uphill battle for both sides.”

“I guess so,” Suzanna said with such false enthusiasm that Eric stared at her. She toned it down. “I really need to know more about this—I think there are some holes in my understanding. Why not start at the beginning and catch me up?”

Eric looked like a kid who was just offered a new beach cruiser bike.

“Well,” he said, sitting on the counter next to her, “you know that the deodar cedar tree in Mr. Clancy's Courtyard is in jeopardy, right?”

“Of course I knew that!”

“Mr. Clancy wants to pull it up. He says it's taken over the place and has made the stores in the back so dark he can't rent them. He's practically renting the back space for next to nothing to some dancer who is working with underprivileged kids.”

Suzanna's radar was on full force.

“Mr. Clancy was trying to draw attention to the fact that he can't even get a decent rent for the place with the tree blocking the light. He thought it would make him look like a hard-edged businessman, but everybody thinks he's a hero coming to the aid of the kids.”

Suzanna tried to keep her face neutral.

“He's trying to get the city to pull the tree up. Says the roots are rippling the Beach Walk and making it hard on the bicyclists. The city says it's his problem. To compound that, most of the vendors over there love the tree and are trying to save it.”

Suzanna might not know anything about the tree or its roots, but she was well aware that the Beach Walk in front of her store was cracking and uneven. She'd found herself nearly thrown from her own bike a couple of times. How could Eric be siding with the tree? Was Eric siding with the tree?

“Bicyclists have rights, too, don't they?” she asked carefully.

“Of course they do!” Eric said. “But they aren't supposed to be on this part of the Beach Walk anyway. They have their own path.”

Unfortunately, there was no arguing with that.

“So, on one side you've got Mr. Clancy, who sees the tree as a liability. On the other side you have locals who want to save the tree. They want to get it declared a historic landmark.”

“What makes it historic?” Suzanna asked.

“The cedar actually has a number of things going for it,” Eric said. “To be designated a historic landmark, a tree has to represent a specimen that is particularly rare in the Los Angeles area and has to possess special horticultural significance.”

“And does it?” Suzanna asked.

“Sure!” Eric said. “How many cedar trees do
you
see on the Beach Walk?”

“You got me there,” Suzanna said.

“They got the idea from a Santa Monica designation of a cedar,” Eric said. “So, there is some precedent.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Suzanna said. Reading Eric's frown she added, “For a very good cause.”

“It is a good cause. If you don't fight for the trees, who will fight for you when the time comes?”

“So . . . you're with the pro-tree people?”

“I'm with everybody,” Eric said in his “All You Need Is Love” voice. “I'm just trying to keep peace in the neighborhood.”

It was sometimes hard to believe that Eric had been a finance major.

Suzanna couldn't figure out a way to work Rio into the conversation; the tasty bit about the dancer and his cheap rent had come and gone, so she said, “What's the next step? For the tree?”

“Bernard and his nephew are the two most dedicated to the cause right now. They are trying to get a bunch of signatures together to raise awareness. They want to make sure Mr. Clancy can't chop down the tree before they can get the paperwork in. It's a pretty long process.”

Virginia glided into the room. She had Lizzy on her hip and Piquant at her heels. It was so normal having her there; it was as if she'd lived with them forever.

“Eric is trying to save a tree,” Suzanna said.

“I'm a neutral party,” he said, throwing up his hands.

“Already know all about it,” Virginia said. “Eric filled me in last night.”

She handed Lizzy to Suzanna and spoke to Eric.

“I've been researching this whole thing. The fact that Santa Monica has set a precedent will be helpful for the locals who want to save the tree. They've saved the Fifth Street tree, the Miramar Fig on Wilshire Boulevard, and a eucalyptus with a double trunk on Twenty-second.”

“That'll be great news for Bernard and Christopher, right?” Suzanna asked.

“Don't be so sure of that,” Virginia said. “Trees get old and tired. People could turn against that tree before you know it. Some little sapling shows up and it's all over.”

Suzanna looked at her mother.

“I'll make sure Bernard gets the information,” Eric said. “His hook is that Venice is full of palm trees but this is the only cedar on the entire Beach Walk. Sounds like it will fit right in with the other landmarked trees.”

“It should, but make sure they understand they've got an uphill battle ahead of them,” Virginia said. “This is one ugly tree we're talking about.”

“I know,” said Eric. “But they're determined to try.”

“I was over there yesterday and suggested that Bernard and Christopher take some glamour shots of the tree. No Photoshop, but make it look as pretty as possible. I volunteered to go with them, if they liked the idea.”

“I thought we haven't taken sides,” Suzanna said. She could feel the dollar bills racing away from her front door if she alienated half her neighbors.

“I don't have a side,” Eric insisted. “Your mother is free to make up her own mind.”

Suzanna saw Eric's right eyebrow twitch, a sure sign that he was annoyed. He wanted their establishment to stay neutral—could he possibly think it was OK for Virginia to take a stand? Suzanna thought not, but since she and her husband had different approaches to this sort of thing, she wasn't quite sure. She used to believe that everyone said what they thought, but now, being married to Eric, she was more aware that different people had different styles. In her own family, if you wanted someone (such as your mother-in-law) to remain outside the fray, you'd say, “Knock it off and keep your head low.” But Eric's family might very well say, “You're free to make up your own mind,” and, somehow, you would figure out that displeasure was being expressed. She would try to grasp this elusive approach—as if it were a goose feather floating on the breeze. As soon as she thought she could pluck it out of the air, wave it triumphantly, and shout, “I've got it!” Eric would blow it out of her hand and she'd be left with nothing.

“I just want to be helpful,” Virginia said, but Suzanna knew her mother couldn't resist an underdog. “I thought maybe down the line Christopher or Bernard could do an oil painting of it; we could auction it off.”

“There is no ‘we' here, Mom,” Suzanna said. “Eric and I are staying out of this.”

“I'm sure the boys will appreciate your support,” Eric said. “But my goal is to make sure there isn't a rift in the community at large. We need to keep things as friendly as possible.”

Eric was talking to Virginia more than Suzanna. Suzanna was a little hurt, but she knew that she had brought this on herself, by her rather consistent lack of interest in this sort of thing.