by Didi Oviatt
I wonder what’s holding them up? Hopefully it isn’t Tina. I liked her, but I also want to delay any possibility of my dream coming true any time soon. The little girl who called me C’ma has yet to make a second sleepful appearance, and as much as I’d love to have another little one in my life someday… that day isn’t now.
It’s late afternoon, my kids should be here any minute. The party is in a couple of hours, and I’m still in my pajamas. I finished off a Hoover novel today which nearly sucked the life out of me, I ugly cried and everything. Great book but a bad choice for this day, because it’s made me even more nervous about Blake showing up to the damn barbeque. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would happen in one of Colleen's stories, and now paranoia has crawled under my skin to accompany anxiety. That book and Blake may as well be holding hands and skipping down the road, whistling heart attack, each with a pineapple drink in hand.
I spread a few summer dresses across my bed and stare at them disapprovingly. Too frilly, too cutesy, too young, or too plain, each and every choice is a fail. “Ugh,” I groan and shake my head. I should have gone shopping, I think, but then again, I don’t want to seem desperate. Or feel desperate, either. I tap my foot on the plush carpet before texting Marsha that the front door is unlocked, and then stomping angrily to the shower.
The soap bubbles fresh rose scented, and no sooner than I’m out and smoothing a thick layer of shimmering body butter with a smell to match over my flesh, I hear Dean and Marsha arguing over the television remote. I smile. Listening to the sound of their voices from down the hall, rather than on the other end of a phone receiver, makes me feel more at home than I have since I got here. The hair dryer and curling irons work their magic almost as thoroughly as my makeup does. I secure a towel around myself, walk into my room and stare at the dresses again. Still, the same disappointment consumes me.
I opt for my sexiest black lace panties and bra to make me feel naughty beneath, and cover them up with a simple, yet flattering floral tank top and a pair of jeans that hugs my curves tightly. The best of both worlds. I get to feel naughty yet comfortable all at once, now all I need to do is settle for a nice open toe wedge shoe, and I’m all set.
“Mom!” Marsha shouts, as I walk down the hall. “Wow, look at you. Going on a date?”
Crap, I drop my chin to my chest. I was going for simple, not subtle. I raise my hands to my sides and stare down at my outfit. “What are you talking about, I’m wearing jeans.”
“Noooo,” Dean chimes in, “you’re wearing date worthy jeans and you have extra make-up on.”
I blow a lungful of air through my nearly closed lips causing them to rumble, like a horse, and I plop myself down on the couch between the two of them. It doesn’t feel like two weeks since I saw them in person at all. It feels like we’ve picked right back up on some random conversation we’d already been having for days on end. This very moment reminds me of when they were in their mid-teens and they’d stay with their dad for a week or two at a time. I’d miss them so badly that my bones would ache, but then when they returned home it felt like they’d never left. They’re every bit as much a part of me as my own flesh and bone, like a limb -- or two. Marsha, my right leg, and Dean my left.
“How do you guys feel about going to a barbeque on the beach tonight?” I ask.
Marsha sits up straight and bounces slightly on her tush, “I knew it. You met someone already, didn’t you? It's like a date!”
Dean rolls his eyes at her tenacity before throwing me a side nod. “Who’s the lucky guy?” He wonders.
“No one!” I scold them. “It’s been just under three weeks, my hell. No lucky guy. No date. Just a nice pair of jeans and a little extra makeup so that I can take my grown ass children with me to dinner at the neighbors’!”
Dean leans forward to look around me completely, and locks eyes with Marsha. They stare each other down. The moment’s intense. Their eyes are wide and occasionally one wiggles their nose, and the other gives a light nod. I clear my throat, knowing exactly where this is going. Dean leans back, resumes the exact same position that he was previously in with his attention glued to a shark show, and then they both blurt in unison. “Who’s the guy?”
My mind automatically pictures Blake, and not even the handsome chiseled body and his reflection in the mirror winking at me either. Rather, the impulse of my thoughts goes to his angry, drunken-rage face. The Blake that had just shattered glass on his own patio before looking up to find me spying on him. An angry swarm of bees fills my belly, and I hold my breath. I can feel my nostrils flare and in my right side peripheral I can see the entertained light shining through Marsha’s eyes.
“I’m not having this conversation,” I say, and jump to my feet. I stomp off to the kitchen and shout at them while opening the fridge to stress eat, “How was the drive, anyway? I thought you’d be here hours ago.”
Marsha follows me in and drops herself onto a barstool. Dean remains glued to the show, ready to join in the conversation only if he feels like it.
“Dean was going to bring some chick.”
“Sarah,” he shouts over his shoulder.
“But, after we waited on her for half the day, he finally caved into my impatience and we left her behind.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
Dean shouts again, “What exactly makes sense? It isn’t like she stood me up.”
Marsha shouts back at him, “Just because she texted you every twenty minutes begging you to wait, doesn’t mean she actually wanted to come. She was testing you to see how long you’d actually wait for her. Giving you a taste of your own medicine.”
“Whatever,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t seem too heartbroken, so I leave it as is.
Marsha keeps at it. “You probably broke the heart of some friend of hers, so she was playing you all morning. Wasting my time in the process.”
To that he says nothing, only turns up the volume to the television.
“What about Tina?” I ask neither of them in particular. “I kind of liked that one.”
Marsha does the talking, as Dean is now deaf to anything other than whatever knowledge about great whites is blaring through the front room speakers. “They went out two more times, and she thought she owned him. Needy…”
“Well, that’s too bad,” I shrug.
I recall my dream and consider asking if they’d ever fooled around, but I instantly think better of it.
Marsha convinces me that the store-bought cheesecake I’d planned on taking to Jacklyn and Tyler’s barbeque is a less-than-worthy dish. Apparently, she wouldn’t be caught dead showing up to a social event full of people she’s never met with this less-than-mediocre contribution. I should have known. I suppose this means we’ll be eating cheesecake for the remainder of the weekend, and therefore I’ll need to add another twenty minutes to my gym time for the next several days to make up for it. The extra work I’ve been putting in is already paying off. I can even see a small line forming from my ribcage to panty-line. I haven’t had that in over a decade, so I’ll be damned if I let a cheesecake weekend ruin my efforts. I made that list my first day at Cayucos for a reason; there’s no turning back now. My claws are out, and my heels are dug in. No retreat, no surrender. I’ve already decided that I’ll be taking the first opportunity at an early escape. I’ll make an appearance and then run for it. Get out of there before the possibility of anything Blake should arise.
As soon as Dean finishes the episode that he was glued to on the Discovery channel, the three of us make a quick run to the grocery store. Marsha purchases an entire cart full of food so that she can put together a medley of chips and ‘worthy dips.’ As in freshly baked artichoke, seven layered beans, and my personal favorite -- a seaside bowl that’s packed to the brim with miniature shrimp and southwest seasoning.
The artichoke dip has to be baked and then cooled fully, so it’s bound to make us late. This is fine by me, as well as Dean and Marsha. They both refuse to be early to
any kind of social gathering, especially ones where people are drinking and they’ve yet to meet the hosts.
“It’s better to let everyone else get tipsy before you show up,” Dean says before biting down on a grape from the bowl on the kitchen island.
Once the dips are all finished and the kitchen is cleaned, I retreat to the bathroom to freshen up and give myself a little pep talk in the mirror before going to Jacklyn and Tyler’s house. The moon is nearly full and is beginning to rise, making both it and the sun visible in the darkening sky. Small waves crash against the sand. It crunches under my wedge shoes as we make the short walk to the neighboring condo.
Jacklyn and Tyler have done a beautiful job on their outside decor. The patio is large and surrounded completely with tiki lights, each a foot apart. The music is soothing. There’s a wet bar overlooking the waves, with a table of food to each side of it. There's plenty of seating, most of it wrought iron with plush ocean-blue cushions on top. The only seating that isn’t covered in softness are the rounded benches that circle a small fire pit on the corner of the patio, right as it lines the sandy beach. Best of all there are just enough people here that an early escape may just go unnoticed after all. As nice as it is to be out, making friends, I’ve dwelled on the fear of a run-in with Blake the man-boy far too long to let all reason fly out the window over a good time.
Tyler is tending to the barbeque and as we make our way into the small welcoming crowd, he waves me over. “Carla,” he beams. “Glad you decided to come! I’m not supposed to tell you, but Jacklyn and I have had an open bet about it.”
I chuckle and eye him suspiciously. “Who bet what?”
He quietly makes the notion of a zipper over his lips and then tosses his invisible key to the side. “This must be the twins that we’ve heard so much about?”
I introduce Dean and Marsha, who are as comfortable as can be. The first thing Dean notices is Tyler’s Trojan’s hat, which happens to be his favorite college football team. He even has the exact same one at home, which he now wishes he would have worn so that they could be the twinners. The two hit it off, like peas in a pod, talking about football and college aspirations. Tyler was once interested in the medical field but changed career paths shortly after starting college. Engineering comes naturally to him, so it wound up being a much better fit.
Marsha and I join Jacklyn and arrange our armloads of food on the empty spaces of her finger-food table. I munch on a few items, knowing that I’ll be more satisfied after having left the party early, if I’d have tried out a few of the finger foods first. Jacklyn’s aglow, the social break from life with newborn twins really is exactly what she needs, especially with her babies all safe and secure inside, being cared for by trusted loved ones. She takes Marsha and me around, introducing us to all of her friends and urging us to help ourselves to any food as well as the wet bar. Marsha opts for a light spritzer, only a splash of gin. I’ve brought my own beverage. Turns out that pineapple recipe was just the ticket; I’ve been hooked. But a little goes a long way, so I mixed my own tumbler to last me the duration of the night.
The small fire pit is calming, its flames dancing to the music, so I take a seat and engage in a small conversation with a lovely group of ladies swapping shopping tips. I’m soon up to speed on every upcoming shoe and handbag sale from here to LA. About twenty minutes into listening to an intent conversation about the use of fringe on bikinis between Marsha and a young woman with pixie blonde hair and six-inch stilettos, I glance across the patio. My gaze instantly locks on his. The world around me stills, as if time suddenly teeters the edge of nonexistence.
He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t smile or glare. He just stares, with a glint of wanting in his hungry eyes. He takes a sip of his beer without averting his gaze in the slightest, and I find myself mirroring his action. The cool pineapple zing that comes from my tumbler works its way down my throat, reminding me that even my beverage somehow revolves around the man that seems to be feasting on my soul through merely a look. The small circle of people around him continue to talk, unfazed by his lack of attention. Marsha, as she sits casually to my left, is a completely different story. The sound of her voice makes me gasp, granting my lungs the oxygen that I’ve deprived them for however long I’ve been staring back at... Blake.
“Wow, mom,” she says and jolts me with her elbow. “Who’s the babe?”
I continue to stare, our locked eyes remain intact, except now there are several more people looking in his direction due to Marsha’s inquisitive nosiness. Blake smiles, obviously enjoying the sudden attention at my expense. Two gorgeously deep dimples sink into his cheeks and despite my seated position I can still feel my knees weaken. I squirm a little and clear my throat, still refusing to look away. If this is the game he wants to play, then so be it. The stubborn woman in me won’t let me back down, especially now that I’ve sort of been made into a mockery. I can practically feel every woman around this fire pit staring back and forth between him and myself. I’ve been dreading the possibility of this moment for days, yet now that it's here I’m… What am I? Enjoying it? Who are you, Carla?
“Mom?” Marsha questions, her voice rising a tad bit with excitement.
I smirk, back at him, not at her and I pull my brows slightly together before I narrow my lids and tilt my head to the side. I’m not going to lose this little stare down to embarrassment. Not this time. I don’t know these people, and I don’t owe them any explanation. I lean toward Marsha and quietly try to pacify her. “I don’t know who he is.” I feed her a fraction of honesty. “We’ve never met.”
“Hmmmm,” she hums. I can only imagine the wheels in her head turning, and I don’t want to imagine the conversation she’ll be having with Dean later at my expense.
The pixie blonde breaks into the conversation. “That’s Blake Aspen.” She talks hushedly to Marsha, giving the rest of the women an irritated look, the subtle hint to go about their own business. I make a mental check note to thank her for the discreteness later, and I listen closely, my eyes still locked on his. “He lives a few condos down and practically every girl in Cayucos has been trying to nail him since his wife took off on a whim a few years ago.”
“Hmmmm,” Marsha repeats, the amusement oozing from the coyness in her throaty voice. She nudges me again and begins quizzing her new friend. “And have any of these ladies succeeded?”
“Nope.” The pixie haired woman straightens her back and grins. “He’s like a vault. A playful, sexy, mysterious vault.”
I think of the girl he’d thrown over his shoulder at the beach. She’s must be one of the unsuccessfully hussies that he’s oh so playful with. The thought makes me cringe.
“What happened with the wife?” Marsha continues to dig around.
“No one knows. They got married young, and she just took off. She doesn’t have any family around here, so once she left, she never came back. For a while people speculated that her disappearance was an actual disappearance. You know, like the real kind. But she has a couple of friends who claim she calls them to check in here and there. They wouldn’t say where she went, but according to law enforcement it doesn’t matter. All they care about is that she was never actually missing.”
“Weird,” Marsha says pinching her face up tight.
“Blake, in the meantime,” she continues to gossip quietly, “hasn’t been with anyone since. She must have done a real number on him.”
I continue to watch him as he finally breaks eye contact and throws an arm playfully around a young friend to his side. I take another sip of my depleting drink. It’s running low way too early in the night, probably the reasoning behind my bravery. Nonetheless, it gives me more reason to stick with my plan of retreating to my condo the first chance I get. I refuse to give Marsha the satisfaction of further mockery. Instead I shake my head, more to myself than to her and I immediately squash the situation before it has a chance to turn into a bigger one.
“Well,” I say matter-of-factly, “The wo
men around here can keep trying for all I care.” I clear my throat a second time and switch the cross of my thighs from my left to right leg on top, trying my best to regain an ounce of composure. “What were you saying about the two-piece you found at Zoe?”
Both of them instantly snap back to their previous conversation without missing a beat, but I’m not completely oblivious to the lingering looks coming from across the patio. The sun continues to lower beyond the shoreline, which heightens the tiki lights’ illumination all around. Jacklyn soon takes a seat at my flank and passes around shots of tequila and sliced limes to toast in the summer. I gulp mine down with a cringe, allowing the heat of it to fill my throat before biting down on a lime to help wash the taste away. Without overthinking it, I hold out the shot glass for a quick refill. Maybe it’ll loosen me up as Blake continues to consume my thoughts from across the way, his gorgeous blues stabbing into me like an ice pick with every sneaky glance.
I’m able to hold a light and upbeat conversation with Jacklyn and a small group of her increasingly tipsy friends for nearly an hour. The very last drop of my pineapple rum sloshes around the bottom of my tumbler, and I debate whether I can retreat completely without being noticed just yet. It’s possible, as Dean and Marsha have now joined a moonlit game of beach volleyball. Blake is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he left too, without trying to talk to me. What a blessing that would be.
I lean toward Jacklyn and tell her just loud enough to be heard over the music. “When my kids are finished with their game, will you tell them I went back home to lay down? I’m not feeling well,” I lie. “I think I had too much to drink, too fast.”
Surprisingly, I’d love to stay and chat longer, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The alcohol is kicking in and the lighthearted ambiance of the evening is making for an outstanding time. However, this may be my only opening for a smooth escape. I can’t pass up the opportunity to get away, before my seeming admirer braves some sort of an encounter. My mind wanders to the look on his angry face the last time I’d witnessed him having too much to drink. In a strange way, the thought turns me on, and for a fleeting moment - that is what scares me.