Soaring (6 page)

So I closed the door to the fridge and jumped when my phone rang.

I grabbed it from the counter, saw the same number on the screen and took the call.

“Josie?” I asked as greeting.

“Is Wednesday at lunchtime good for you?” she asked back.

I stared at the counter thinking she wasn’t keen, she was
raring
.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.

“Excellent. Noon. Weatherby’s Diner. We’ll be the two blondes in a window booth.”

“Well, if there are two other blondes, so you know me, I’ll be the short, middle-aged brunette,” I informed her.

“Petite,” she stated as reply.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Women are not short. They’re petite. They also are never middle-aged. They’re mature.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that true but firmly declared statement except to say, “Oh. Right.”

She sounded vaguely flustered when she backtracked, “You can, of course, refer to yourself however you wish.”

I felt the need to smooth her fluster and did this saying, “Petite is a nicer word. So is mature.”

“They are, indeed,” she agreed. “Though I also am not overly fond of mature. Why a woman needs to qualify that, I cannot fathom.”

I couldn’t help but agree.

“So I’ll be the petite, mature brunette,” I told her, trying to make a joke. “However, the mature part is just for you and me.”

“And Alyssa and I will be the not-petite, mature blondes,” she returned, and thankfully I could hear the smile in her voice. “Further, you should be aware that as it’s summer, I may have my son, Ethan, with me. And as Alyssa and her husband, Junior, are kind, good-hearted people, they’ve wisely made the decision to copiously populate Magdalene with their offspring. Therefore, she could have a bevy of children with her. They’ll be the ones causing mayhem. I’ll do my best to be certain Ethan doesn’t join in, but he has a mind of his own and his father and I like to encourage exactly that.”

I grinned at the counter. “That’ll be good then as you all will be hard to miss.”

“Indeed,” she again agreed. “Now, do we have a plan?”

“Yes, Josie, we have a plan. I’ll see you and Alyssa Wednesday at this Weatherby’s place.”

“You can’t miss it,” she told me. “It’s in town and town’s not that big. It’s right on Cross Street. But if you have troubles, simply call me.”

She seemed oddly formal, which was quite a contradiction to her cursing, but friendly and totally informal husband.

“I’ll find it,” I assured her.

“Good. We’ll see you then, Amelia.”

“Yes, Josie. See you Wednesday.”

She rang off and I put the phone to the counter.

Lifting my head, I looked at a beautiful space that didn’t look that fabulous with boxes stacked against the walls.

However, apparently, if Josie Spear had anything to do with it, this house sale would happen quickly and I could get started on creating a home I loved that my children were comfortable in.

Until I had that clean palette, though, I wasn’t going to start that project.

Which meant, home from my meanderings to nowhere doing nothing that actually bore fruit as I’d met some people and had plans for lunch on Wednesday, at that exact time, I had nothing to do.

Nothing.

No friends.

No housework.

No job to get to.

No children coming home imminently.

The cable and Internet were scheduled to be installed the next day so I didn’t even have that.

All of sudden, I had the strange feeling of being crushed.

Crushed by the weight of all that was new that was around me.

Crushed by the weight of all that I had to do to make my house a home.

Crushed by the weight of all my mistakes and the effort I knew it would take to remedy them.

Crushed by loneliness. Loneliness that in all my years of being alone I hadn’t even begun the work to make the change from feeling that to feeling
aloneness
and being comfortable with it.

Crushed by the fear of the specter of my parents who were remaining aloof, but they’d tire of that and then they’d invade in insidious ways that could obliterate the fragile embryo of what I was trying to create.

It took effort. It took time. I stood in my beautiful open plan kitchen with its views of blue sea as I expended that effort and took that time.

Then I made a plan.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up the app that found places that you needed that were close, hit the map to let the GPS guide my way and I went back out to my car.

I pulled out of my garage and headed to the home improvement store. There, I gathered so many paint chips I could set up a display in my house.

I then drove to the closest mall, not only so I would know where it was, but so I could buy a few books.

Only then did I go home.

I put the paint chips in a kitchen drawer. I’d go through them after the house sale and when I’d lived at Cliff Blue awhile so I knew what the walls needed (and incidentally, I
loved
that name and determined to refer to my house by its name even on the address labels I would order when I had the Internet).

Instead, I did something I’d never done in my life (though part of it I couldn’t do as in La Jolla I had a house on a golf course, not by a beach). Something I’d never even considered doing.

I spent time with me.

I did this lying on my couch with a glass of wine. I sometimes read. I sometimes stared at the sea.

I then had another glass of wine.

And then another.

As I did it, I realized I liked doing it, reading, sipping, staring at the sea. So much so, I didn’t think to have dinner.

And finally, I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up there hours later, I didn’t do what I would have done simply because my mother would decree it wasn’t appropriate to sleep in your clothes on your couch.

I didn’t drag myself to bed.

Instead, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep in my clothes on my couch.

I didn’t sleep great and woke up with a pain in my shoulder.

Regardless, for some reason, I woke up feeling satisfied.

* * * * *

I waited until Tuesday afternoon to text the kids and let them know I was doing a house sale to get rid of some of the old in order to start anew. I invited them to come over and go through their things should they wish to get rid of anything. And I shared the proceeds would go to the local junior boxing league.

I didn’t want to text them the day before, the Monday after they left, because I didn’t want them to get the feeling with me again being in the same town, I’d suffocate them with pathological communication. Nor that I’d pester them with good intentions.

I just wanted to seem normal.

And I hoped that was normal.

* * * * *

It might have been normal, it might not.

I didn’t know.

Neither of them replied.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, I had lunch and made grand schemes for a blowout house sale to benefit the Magdalene junior boxing league with the yin and yang of breathtakingly beautiful blondes.

First, there was the classy, sophisticated Josie, who scarily reminded me of my parents at first. Then I saw her interact with the dazzling but brash, take-me-as-I-come-or-kiss-off Alyssa, who my parents would detest.

After watching that, even if Josie still seemed somewhat formal, it clearly was only part of a complicated personality and the rest was all good.

They’d come without children, which was a little disappointing. They’d also told me there was no way we’d get through this without roping in all the children (apparently, all the junior boxing moms had tons of stuff they wanted to unload and most of them were willing to help).

So blowout house sale it would be.

And two possible friends I would have.

That was good.

* * * * *

It was bad that I waited until Sunday to text my own children again to remind them I was having a house sale, it would be that next Saturday, and they had the opportunity to unload old stuff and jump on new. I shared that it’d make me happy if they replied sooner rather than later as plans were in full swing (and they were, both Josie and Alyssa had jobs, but they also both had more energy than I felt was natural, coupled with a driving desire to make huge amounts of money).

I also invited Auden and Pippa to come to the house sale if they felt like it.

I did this, but again, neither of them replied.

* * * * *

The next week and a half I designed, had printed, put up and gave out fliers, put ads in various papers, opened my door and accepted a multitude of drop offs from a variety of moms of budding boxers. I even talked the local radio station into sharing the event and made plans to offer refreshments (for sale, of course) in order to make this house sale all it could be.

When Alyssa came by to drop off her items and she caught sight of some of the things I was letting go, I also sent Alyssa home with two boxes of free stuff she
had to have
. We had a good-natured fight over the fact I wouldn’t let her pay for any of it but she only gave in because she left three filled boxes that she intended to pick up on the big day and pay for, which she’d marked on the sides with a Sharpie, “Alyssa’s, touch and you’ll be hunted! Dig me?”

During this time, I let my children be.

* * * * *

Two days before the house sale, I texted the kids to remind them it was happening and again to invite them to come if they wanted.

* * * * *

They didn’t reply.

Chapter Three

Clean Palette

The evening before the house sale, I was in my kitchen, running on empty.

I was ready…mostly.

There were items all over the place with some stacked at the doors to put out in the front yard and on the deck. These items were arranged (and then rearranged, and in some cases re-rearranged) so they were displayed attractively. They all had price tags. There were signs directing folks to rooms with more stuff for sale.

And I was in the kitchen baking.

I’d found some cute plastic bags with happy designs on the sides at a craft store that I’d decided to put my snickerdoodles in and then tied them with big, bright extravagant bows. Same with my chocolate chip cookies. Also with peanut butter cookies with mini Reese’s cups shoved in. They were lying all over the countertop, on tiered plates (plates that were for sale) or on platters (also for sale).

They were all bagged, tagged and ready.

And I was currently working on my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes with pastel flower sprinkles. Cupcakes that were delicious, but with that glossy dollop of white icing decorated with sprinkles, they were also kid magnets.

I’d sell out of those in fifteen minutes.

Guaranteed.

I’d made big vats of lemonade and iced tea I was going to put in my fancy crystal (for sale) and not-as-fancy-but-still-fancy glass (also for sale) drink dispensers. I had bottles of water chilling in the fridge in the garage with bags of ice in both my freezers that I was going to put into attractive buckets and also sell.

Now, it was eight o’clock and I’d been going nonstop since the day before—no, actually for the last week.

I’d dropped into bed the night before at midnight. But I needed to go to bed that night and I’d needed to do that two hours ago.

Instead, I was arranging glossy frosting blobs on cupcakes and I had a dozen more in the oven baking.

Those were the last ones.

Then I’d get a glass of wine, a shower and hit my bed.

If after that last dozen I had all that in me.

On this thought, my doorbell rang and for once, I didn’t exult in the beautiful chimes.

No, I fought the urge to throttle whatever late-arriving mom of a budding boxer who was going to dump a load of crap that I had to tag and arrange after eight o’clock the night prior to the big day that we’d advertised I was opening my doors at seven in the morning.

I dropped the spoon in the bowl and made my way to the door, seeing through the shadowed panes there was more than one body out there and one of them was not a mom of a budding boxer, but the dad of one.

That figured and I should have known.

Men didn’t know any better.

I flipped the locks, opening the door arranging my features so they were pleasant, not murderous, and then completely arrested.

“Hey,” Mickey Donovan greeted, standing at my door looking unfairly attractive in a pair of faded jeans, a beat up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, another five o’clock shadow adorning his strong jaw.

He had two other beings with him, two beings I didn’t take in because first, Mickey was grinning, second, he looked unfairly attractive in his casual clothing, and third, he was holding a huge box filled with stuff I knew I would need to tag and arrange, which meant wine and shower were out. It was going to be tag, arrange and
bed
.

“Jesus, did heaven crash into your living room?”

I moved but only to blink.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Amelia, darlin’, whatever you’re doin’ in there smells like it could only come from the hand of God.”

Wow.

That felt good. So good. Unusually good.

Abnormally
good.

And it felt good because I loved to bake. I’d fallen in love with it all the way back in junior high school home economics class.

However, when I’d taken over my parents’ vast kitchen in order to enjoy my newfound hobby, my mother moved immediately to curtail these activities.

“We have staff to do that kind of thing, Amelia,” she’d rebuked. “Not to mention, a lady should do all in her power to shy away from sweets.”

Unfortunately, years later, when these tethers were severed and I might have been freed to bake at my leisure, more were tied because Conrad had felt the same.

“You’re gonna give me a gut, little bird,” he’d told me after the second time I’d baked him cookies. He’d then given me a meaningful look. “And you want to avoid getting one too.”