“I’m glad you’re keeping your nephew busy.” Dr. Tanaka rose. “Your mother’s labs should be finished. If you need anything before her next appointment, don’t hesitate to call.”
As Darcy left Tanaka’s office, a low, heated conversation drifted into the corridor. With a groan, she slowed her pace.
In the outer office, she found her mother arguing with the receptionist. The nervous brunette clacked madly on her keyboard.
“Problem?” Darcy asked her mother.
“When is there not a problem? I schedule a morning appointment, then Dr. Tanaka’s staff moves it to the afternoon. I’ve had this problem repeatedly.”
“Is it possible you’re overreacting? Lab days never leave you brimming with sunshine.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to patronize you. But you are retired. You’re available whenever her staff wants to poke you with needles or make you pee in a cup.”
“Why must you resort to vulgar language?”
“Habit?” When Rosalind glared, she tried the reasonable approach. “Why does it matter when you come in? I’m happy to drive whether you have a morning appointment or one in the afternoon.”
“Don’t be obtuse. It matters, Darcy.”
The zinger hurt, but she took care not to react. “Okay, then explain it to me.”
“I’m a morning person, not a night owl,” Rosalind snapped, as if Tanaka and her browbeaten staff, working with malign intent, planned to haul her into the office at midnight. “Why schedule appointments if my physician’s inept staff can’t follow directions? Why not show up whenever I please?” She stabbed a frosty glance at the receptionist. “This isn’t physics. No one has asked you to split atoms. Why aren’t you done yet?”
“One moment, ma’am.”
Rosalind expelled an elaborate breath. “By all means, take your time. Take all the time in the world. I love nothing more than standing here growing moss while you master basic clerical skills.”
“Give her a break, Mother.” Darcy offered the receptionist an apologetic smile. “Please forgive her. She’s not always this rude. Sometimes she’s asleep.”
“You must live for those moments.” The receptionist handed Darcy the new appointment card.
In the elevator, Rosalind plucked at her nubby yellow blazer. “Warn me now if we’re having one of those days. Darcy and her comedy routine. Should I avoid you until dinnertime? Or would you prefer I book you on Comedy Central?”
“If I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities, I am sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay, I’m not. You love giving people a hard time. It’s cruel. I don’t have to like it.”
“The world isn’t up to snuff. Earbuds and text messages—I shudder to consider how the abundant diversions are lowering IQs across America. I’m doing the world a service by pointing out ineptitude.”
Darcy grunted. “More like you’re getting a cheap thrill by pounding harmless strangers into submission. What is the definition of aggressive behavior? It’s been a decade since my last psych class.”
“Darcy!”
“Well, it’s embarrassing. When Elizabeth and I were kids, we dreaded parent-teacher conferences. You never made it through one without insulting the teacher or casting aspersions on the state of modern education. The minute you got on a roll, I ditched for the girls’ room.”
“I was a concerned parent. I paid good money to send you and Elizabeth to private institutions. If one of your teachers wasn’t up to par, I made my displeasure known.”
Yes, you did—while terrorizing the entire staff, Darcy thought. From what Emerson had described in their private conversations, he fared no better. Rosalind continued to browbeat educators far and wide.
Letting it go, she appraised her mother. “How were your labs?”
“I ‘peed in a cup,’ and gave my last drop of blood. Same as usual.” Rosalind’s discerning gaze swept across her. “Why don’t you schedule an intervention with a stylist? You’re beginning to resemble Joni Mitchell after her second divorce.”
“I’m not into primping. That’s your thing. Give me a bottle of mascara and a tube of lip gloss, and I’m good to go.”
“Having your hair styled properly isn’t ‘primping.’ When did you last visit a salon? Before or after that last psych class?”
“A week before I left South Carolina. I’ve been a little busy since then.”
“Poor hygiene is a sign of a disordered mind.”
“I have showered.” Darcy lifted her hand to her mouth, blew out. “And my breath is minty fresh.”
The elevator slid open. Rosalind marched outside at a brisk pace that belied her poor health. As she rounded the side of the building, Darcy hunted for signs of the progressive neuropathy Dr. Tanaka had described. Her mother’s gait appeared balanced. She wasn’t favoring her left or right foot. In a bow to looking her best, she’d even selected two-inch heels in a darker shade of yellow to complement her natty blazer.
“Darcy, hurry up.” Rosalind veered across the parking lot in the direction of the Mercedes. “If you can’t pick up your feet, I’ll call an Uber. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I’m coming!”
She was sprinting across the lot when a woman in a clingy pink dress got out of a black SUV. She sashayed into the aisle between the rows of cars with her purse flapping open as she rooted around inside the large bag. As she came forward, Darcy realized her plump features and curly brown hair were familiar. She was trying to place the woman’s face when a strange thing happened.
On a gasp, the woman spotted Rosalind. She halted abruptly.
Her chunky gold necklace leaped off her bosom. It clipped her jaw. Spinning around, she raced back toward her SUV. In her haste, a sandal flew off one pudgy foot. Darcy watched in stunned disbelief. No danger lurked in the empty lot. It dawned on her that the woman was frightened of . . . Rosalind.
The startling deduction sent Darcy’s glance winging to her mother. Rosalind’s eyes lasered the woman’s back.
In a gesture astonishingly out of character, Rosalind cupped her hands around her mouth. “That’s right, run! You’re a coward and a harlot.”
The gibing sent the other sandal whipping into the air. The woman, picking up speed, cast a frantic glance over her shoulder. A mistake.
She rammed into the side of her SUV.
Rosalind shot a fist into the air. Triumph! She slid into the Mercedes’s passenger side. “That’ll leave a goose egg.” She snickered. “Justice prevails.”
Darcy gaped at her. “What is wrong with you?” Through the windshield, she watched with relief as the woman slapped a steadying hand onto the hood of the SUV. One of the straps had broken loose on her clingy dress. At least she hadn’t been knocked out cold.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel good. Better than good.”
Darcy’s synapses lit, and the name fell into place. “Wait. Isn’t that Morgan Harbert?” Thirty pounds heavier and older than she remembered. She jammed the key into the ignition. “That is Mrs. Harbert, right? You and Dad used to play doubles with the Harberts.”
“I’m shocked you remember her.”
“Well, I’ll never forget her now!”
“She laughs like a hyena. I dreaded inviting her to cocktail parties. The minute someone told a joke, it was like listening to fingernails screech down a chalkboard.”
“Care to explain what that was about?” In the rearview mirror, Darcy glimpsed the injured Mrs. Harbert with her hand pressed to her brow. A goose egg, indeed. She hobbled across the lot in search of her sandals. “Why did she run away when she saw you? She was scared.”
With an enigmatic smile, her mother gazed out the window.
“Fine. Keep your nasty secrets. I’m not interested.” Prickly with curiosity, she pulled onto the street. “I’ll just stay shocked. If she hadn’t run away, would you have put up your dukes?”
Her mothe
r chuckled.
Not the response Darcy expected. “Word to the wise, sister. Get thrown in jail for assault and battery, and I won’t bail you out.”
More silence. At least her mother had stopped chuckling. If she’d kept it up, Darcy would’ve been left speechless.
“Do you have any errands before we head back?” she asked. “Latrice told me she’s all set on ingredients for tonight’s dinner, but maybe there’s something else you need from the store?”
“Lilies.”
“What?”
Snapping open her purse, her mother retrieved a lipstick. “Do not order lilies for my funeral. Or gardenias. There’s nothing more depressing than huge drifts of sickly sweet bouquets festooning a casket.”
Darcy swerved toward the curb, righted the Mercedes. “What are you talking about? You almost wrestled Mrs. Harbert in a parking lot, and now you want to discuss flowers?”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought. Order colorful bouquets. Ideally scentless.” Rosalind flipped down the visor, uncapped the lipstick. She rimmed her mouth in shell pink. “Something fresh and lively, for Emerson. I don’t want him overly upset.”
“If you’re aiming for a happy event, stop overreaching. He’s eight. He will be upset.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t worry. He won’t let me down.”
The conversation’s morbid turn made Darcy suddenly defensive. She wasn’t ready for talk of endings, or the goodbyes they would entail. “In point of fact, you’ve molded your grandson into your diabolical image. That doesn’t mean he won’t cry an ocean of tears.”
“I’m not diabolical.”
“You were to Mrs. Harbert. Did you send her a psychic message? Something really scary? I’d like to know why one mean look from you made her take off in a hurry.”
“Oh, leave it alone. You’re fathoms out of your depth.”
“Apparently.” Darcy forced her unwilling heart to approach the more upsetting topic. “If you want my opinion, Emerson is too young to attend.” Rallying, she added, “If I mention the better option, you won’t jump out of the car, will you? Every time I bring it up, you head for the exit.”
“I’m not going on a transplant list. Stop bringing it up.”
“The Tin Man got a new heart. Look what it did for him.”
“I’m nothing like the Tin Man. If you’re in the mood to watch a classic, tell Emerson when we get home. He loves The Wizard of Oz.” Rosalind studied her fingernails, frowned at a chip in the beige polish. “At my funeral, please seat my grandson by Judge Mandelbaum. He has a lively wit and a fondness for children. He’ll keep Emerson in good spirits.”
Darcy snorted. Judge Isaiah Mandelbaum? The portly jurist possessed a stern demeanor and a fondness for cigars. During childhood, Elizabeth had been terrified of him. Darcy had mostly been wary. The stench wafting from his severe black suits had made her sneeze.
“Mother, please. Must we discuss your funeral?” Pain shifted through her chest at the words, an agony she wasn’t prepared to feel. “You’re doing great. We have to begin making some changes on the home front, but nothing crazy. Let’s put off the heavy stuff until later.”
For once, her mother’s eyes were free of rancor. “We have to talk about it at some point,” she said.
“Not yet. There’s still lots of time.”
The road wound higher, past a hilly section of Metro Park and a subdivision of attractive homes. Darcy planned to take Emerson to a craft show in Cleveland Heights tomorrow, Handmade Heaven. When she and Elizabeth were in high school and, later, home during the long summer breaks from college, attending the fair had been a favorite July pastime. Tomorrow she’d bring Emerson home with his arms loaded with funky, handmade toys.
July was a carefree month, not a time to ponder the uncertain future.
She asked, “Are you scared?”
Rosalind dropped the lipstick into her bag. “Not yet.”
She clicked the purse shut.
Darcy hurried back into the kitchen. The others were already in the dining room. Bending over the platter, she breathed in the delectable aroma.
“The turkey smells heavenly,” she told Latrice. The expertly carved slices were drizzled with Latrice’s famous gravy. “I can’t believe you went to this much trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all.”
“Roasting a whole turkey and making all the trimmings?” True, people dealt with life’s speed bumps in various ways. For Latrice, that meant devising lavish dinners more common in the holiday season. “If I haven’t told you lately—you’re incredible.”
“Your opinion, not mine.” A note of distress laced the housekeeper’s voice. She began scooping mashed potatoes into a china bowl. “How was Rosalind’s appointment with Dr. Tanaka?”
“Okay, I guess.”
The housekeeper gave her the once-over. “You look frazzled. Mind explaining why?”
“It’s been a strange day.” An image of Morgan Harbert face-planting into her SUV flashed through Darcy’s brain. “I’d rather not go into it.”
“Fine by me. Did you get a chance to bring it up?”
“We only talked for a minute, on the drive home. She still won’t consider the procedure.”
The news slowed Latrice’s movements as she finished scooping potatoes. The spoon clattered into the porcelain holder by the stove. She gripped the edge of the counter.
“What is it?” Worried, Darcy rushed over. Latrice wasn’t usually quick to tears. She appeared ready to break the habit now.
“I’m mad at myself. Furious, to tell the truth.”
“About what?”
“How could an eight-year-old boy pick up on his grandmother’s symptoms, and I never noticed them? Oh, I made comments when your mother seemed tired, and she’s seemed tired a lot since last year. It’s not like she’s getting any younger. When she took the leave of absence from her judgeship, I believed her ridiculous lies. Needing a few weeks’ rest—what a heap of nonsense. Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why didn’t I make her tell me the truth?”
“Because you couldn’t. The great Rosalind Goodridge seldom brings anyone into her confidence.”
“I should’ve been quicker on the uptake. If we’d found the disease sooner, she’d have better options.”
“Fair enough, but that doesn’t mean you’re at fault. If it’s any consolation, she loves you. Even if she doesn’t know how to show it.”
There was proof enough in Rosalind’s will. The lengthy document left the bulk of her estate to her two surviving heirs. The will was also chock-full of bequests to charities and foundations, generous gifts the wealthy judge continued to fuss over—and it also contained instructions regarding her loyal employee.
Darcy was to pay off the mortgage on Latrice’s house in Chagrin Falls. She was to provide her with a monthly stipend for the rest of her life. The money to fulfill both provisions was already deposited in a fund at Goldman Sachs.
Rosalind had even penned a note thanking Latrice for her years of service—and terminating her employment. She’d never have to work again.
Latrice, oblivious to the largess, stared absently at the fragrant bowl of potatoes.
“I can’t bear this,” she said. “Your mother needs to get on the transplant list. There’s so much to live for . . . why does she dig in her heels?”
“When I figure it out, I’ll clue you in.” Darcy resisted the urge to offer a long, rocking hug. If she did, they’d both start crying. They never allowed themselves to fall apart when Emerson was in the house.
Instead, she hoisted up the platter of turkey.
Latrice picked up the mashed potatoes. “Don’t you give up, child. There’s too much at stake. I’m putting my trust in you to wear her down.” On the way out of the kitchen, she shook the sadness from her features. From over her shoulder, she whispered, “There’s still time to change her mind.”
They went into the dining room. Samson and Emerson had already carried in the side dishes of fres
hly baked bread, cranberry sauce, honeyed yams, and tossed salad. From opposite sides of the table, they gazed rapturously at the good eats.
At the head of the table, Rosalind frowned. “At last. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
“Nothing, Mother.”
“You’re no help to Latrice if you delay her in getting dinner on the table.”
“Relax. We were just talking.” She set down the platter. “You’re hungry?” It was a good sign. “You hardly ate yesterday.”
“I’m happy to make up for it today. I love turkey and all the trimmings.” The judge regarded her talented housekeeper. “I do appreciate this. Thank you for going to the trouble.”
“My pleasure. If you want turkey again next week, just say the word.”
“You’re too kind.”
Darcy hovered behind the chair to her mother’s right. “When Elizabeth and I were kids, Latrice ate dinner with us in the kitchen. It would’ve been stupid to set the dining room table for two little girls. Why doesn’t Latrice dine with us now? We’re all family here, and I’m tired of feeling like a cast member in Driving Miss Daisy.”
Listening intently, Latrice placed the bowl of potatoes in the center of the table. She made no attempt to hide her smile as her eyes met Darcy’s. Quiet affection flowed between them. To Darcy, it seemed the perfect reward after a very strange day.
Rosalind, her fingers poised above the bread basket, froze.
Emerson pulled his ravenous gaze off the turkey. “Aunt Darcy, what an exceptional question! Why doesn’t Latrice dine with us? I’ve been pondering the same thing for ages.”
“Please stop imitating my speech.” Rosalind smoothed the napkin across her lap. “You can’t have pondered anything ‘for ages.’ Not until you have a passing familiarity with compression socks and proof of membership in AARP.”
“But it is a good question. What do you think, Samson?”
“This is your grandma’s house.” Swallowing, he gave her a respectful nod. “Ma’am, I believe the decision is yours. Where I come from, whoever pays the bills makes the rules. Plain and simple.”
The Road She Left Behind Page 19