by Laura Alden
“Please, Beth?” Ruthie asked.
“Yes,” Winnie said. “Please stay.”
“What about her?” I nodded at the computer. “Darlene, did you say please?”
A heavy sigh made the computer’s speaker go all fuzzy. “Fine. Pleeeeeeease?”
Any victory over a sister, no matter how much I loved said sister, was a good one. “Yes. Thank you.” Pete pulled out a chair, and I sat primly as Marina took the chair next to the laptop. “Okay, what’s so important?” I asked. “Did I manage to win the lottery without ever buying a ticket?”
All eyes, even Darlene’s, swiveled around to focus on Lois, who put her folded hands on her lap and started talking. “I began to be concerned . . . well, years ago, really, but more so since you became secretary of the PTA. It’s even worse now that you’re president.”
Marina’s shoulders hunched forward and she looked at the floor. “I’ll take the blame for that. I’m the one who convinced you to be PTA secretary in the first place. I thought it would do you good to get out of the house.”
“This isn’t the time and place for blame,” Gus said. “This is about what’s best for Beth.”
Ruthie stirred, her gray hair and lined face showing every one of her seventy-one years. “We’re worried about you.”
Yvonne looked at me apologetically. “We all are.”
“It’s getting scary,” Summer said, “watching you. You’re not eating, you’re not getting outside, you’ve got these blue smudges under your eyes all the time, and when was the last time you did anything other than—”
“Wait a minute.” I waved her to silence. “This is an intervention.”
A large collective breath blew through the room.
“Exactly,” Darlene said. “Anyone else would have known it the second you walked in the room. You really don’t watch enough TV, kiddo.”
I watched everything that was worthwhile, but this probably wasn’t the time or place to start a Downton Abbey fan club. “Interventions are about addictions, and I’m not addicted to anything. I have maybe one glass of wine a week, I don’t smoke, and I certainly don’t do drugs. What on earth are you intervening about?”
Silence.
“Right.” I hitched forward in the seat and stood. “Well, since there’s clearly nothing wrong here, I have a lot to do tonight.”
“Bingo!” Marina called.
I sat down hard and blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“You have a lot to get done.”
Of course I did. Dinner, laundry, a driveway to shovel, and there was a whole slew of details left dangling for next week’s PTA in Review event. After the PTA had voted to hold an event to celebrate the group’s eightieth anniversary, we’d eventually decided to have a summary done of each decade by someone who’d been there. Or as close as we could get. The kids would be with Richard this weekend, so maybe that’s when I’d catch up—
“She’s doing it now, isn’t she?” Darlene asked.
“Doing what?” I asked.
But all the other heads in the circle were nodding. “You get this special look,” Marina said, “when you’re working on your mental To Do list.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, you do, too,” Darlene said. “We all know it, so quit with the denial. You’re as bad as Bill thinking Max was going to be a scientist. The kid’s had English Teacher written all over him for years.”
It had taken a combination of Darlene, me, our mother, and the passage of time to soothe the troubled waters at our physicist brother Bill’s house when his son, Max, had announced his intention to attend a liberal arts college. Everything had worked out, eventually, but it had taken a long, long time.
“You’re wearing yourself to a frazzle, hon.” Winnie’s hands gripped each other. “We don’t want you so busy that you don’t take care of yourself.”
“And you’re not,” Marina said flatly. “You haven’t in years and you’re so darn preoccupied with saving the world you don’t even eat right. What did you have for lunch today, anyway?”
“I had lunch.” Sort of. I slumped down in the chair, wanting to pout and cross my arms, but settled for staring at the floor. “I’m busy. Everybody’s busy. How can we not be? It’s the way life is these days.”
“Have you ever considered you’re carrying it a bit too far?” Gus asked.
No, I hadn’t. I was trying to be a good mother and a successful business owner, not to mention trying to steer the PTA in a constructive direction. Then there was church and church choir . . . The list went on and on, and there wasn’t any way to make it shorter.
“You’re tired,” Ruthie said. “It’s all through your bones. I can see it.”
My bones straightened and my chin went up. “I could do with a little more sleep, sure, but who couldn’t?”
“When was the last time you got eight hours of sleep in a row?” Gus asked.
“No working adult gets that much sleep,” I said.
“Seven, then.” He waited for my answer. “How about six?”
“When was the last time you did?” I challenged.
“Last night,” he said calmly. “Winnie makes sure I get my beauty rest.”
“And, boy, does he need it!” his loving wife said.
A laugh ran around the room, lowering the tension a small notch.
“You haven’t looked rested since September,” Yvonne said softly. “Ever since . . .”
I looked away. Ever since that dark September night I’d almost been killed. Ever since I’d been instrumental in catching a murderer but had had to endure the black feeling of betrayal. So many nights I’d woken, sweating, gasping with fear from how close Jenna and Oliver had come to growing up without their mother.
“Don’t get sick on us, Beth,” Lois said. “We can’t do without you.”
“Your children need you,” Summer said.
“We need you,” Marina said, her voice catching.
Pete kept quiet, but reached out and touched my arm.
It was his touch that did it. Dear Pete, who deserved so much more than I’d had time to give him. “All right,” I said, deflating. “I’ll make it a priority to get more rest.”
“Oh, yeah?” Darlene asked, her sarcasm riding high. “Going to put that on one of your lists, are you?”
Marina, sitting next to the computer, flapped it shut with a bang. “We were hoping to help with your lists.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We want you to take it easy,” Lois said. “We’re all going to pitch in a little.”
I started to puff up again. I was doing fine, thanks so very much. I didn’t need their charity. I could run my own life without their interference. This kind of help was help I could do without.
Pete took my hand in his and squeezed it gently. For a second time, my anger deflated. If I kept hanging around with him, I’d never be able to sustain a good mad. “How?” I asked cautiously.
“For one thing,” Ruthie said briskly, “I can help with your dinner menu. Every night you leave the store, I’ll put together a nice, healthy family meal. Jenna can run over and pick it up. All you have to do is put it on plates and Bob’s your uncle.”
I smiled at the old-fashioned expression. And a meal from Ruthie every night sounded like heaven, but . . . “I can’t afford that.” A dinner out every night? Not a chance.
“Won’t cost you a dime,” Ruthie said. “Jenna eats like a horse, but you don’t take in enough to keep a bird alive, and Oliver doesn’t eat much more than that. It’s my contribution, hon, and I’m glad to do it.”
Comprehension dawned. “Each of you has a contribution?”
“Sort of,” Lois said.
Marina carefully opened the laptop again. “We’re listing contributions,” she whispered. “Now, be nice.”
Darlene grinned. “Ready? What I’m going to do is keep Mom off your back about coming up for winter break.”
“You . . . will?” I hated driving up t
o Mom’s in February. Every time I did, there was a horrible snowstorm and the drive took twice as long as on dry roads and the tension left me exhausted for days. Mom didn’t see it that way, of course; she just wanted to see the grandchildren.
“We’re hiring extra help for the inventory,” Lois said. “No arguing. It won’t cost hardly anything, and I’ll take care of it all.”
“And I know the PTA in Review is your baby,” Summer said, “but I have someone lined up to take over the legwork.”
Winnie said she had plenty of time to stop by twice a week to help with my housework, Gus said he’d come over with his pickup and plow blade to take care of the driveway when it snowed, Marina said she’d pack lunches for the kids, and Pete said he’d help put away the Christmas decorations that still festooned the house and get my car’s oil changed and the brakes fixed.
Tears stung at my eyes. I didn’t deserve friends like this. “Okay, I admit I’m tired. Maybe I am trying to do too much. Do we have a time frame?” I asked. “A couple of weeks?” There was a lot of shifting in seats.
Gus quirked up a small smile. “Two months would be ideal.”
“Two months!” Not a chance. “That’s too long. I’m a little run-down, but two months is excessive. You guys are great to want to help me, but that’s too much to ask.”
Gus waved off everyone else’s comments and concentrated on me. “What would you think is suitable? We’ve all committed to two months.”
“Well, I really think one would be more than enough.”
Marina snorted. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? Those bags will take more than a month to go away.”
“Fine,” I almost snapped. “Six weeks. And not a day longer.”
“Six weeks?” Marina hmm’d, looked at the ceiling, looked around the circle at the other faces, then nodded. “Deal.”
Pete squeezed my hand, Gus clapped me on the shoulder, and Winnie tugged on my other hand and pulled me onto my feet for a hug. As she did, I watched Marina and Lois exchange a slapping high five.
I suddenly got the feeling that it might be a very long six weeks.
Chapter 2
That night Jenna and I went home with a pile of foam containers heavy with mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, turkey and gravy, and a small paper bag of hot rolls. Marina’s DH brought Oliver home and during our meal Jenna and Oliver told me that Mrs. Neff had told them that they needed to start taking better care of me.
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, she did, did she?”
Oliver nodded, his eyes open wide with concern and his spoon filled with mashed potatoes. “Are you sick? When we’re sick, you put us in bed and read to us and put cool cloths on our foreheads and bring us ice cream.” He looked at his overflowing spoon. “I guess mashed potatoes are kind of like ice cream. Vanilla, anyway,” he said uncertainly.
I laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not sick. I’m a little tired, that’s all. You don’t need to take care of me.” I ruffled his hair. “I’m the mom. I take care of you, not the other way around.”
“My friend Alexis said she makes dinner once a month at her house.” Jenna stuck her knife into the butter dish and put a generous amount on a roll. “Maybe that’s something I should be doing?”
I blanched. The few times I’d tried to give Jenna cooking lessons, the results hadn’t been what anyone might call outstanding. It was one thing to worry down an overcooked biscuit, but a whole meal? “That’s a lovely idea, honey, and maybe someday we’ll do that, but Mrs. Ruthie is taking care of meals for us.”
So that was another thing to add to my To Do list: teach Jenna how to cook. It wouldn’t do to send her off to college without knowing how to fend for herself. She was already doing her own hockey laundry, and I had plans to teach her simple mending tasks. I added these to my mental list, then sighed and erased them. No list making was one of the requirements for the next six weeks.
With dinner coming to us already cooked, cleanup was a short task. In no time at all the dishes were washed, dried, and put away. It was barely six o’clock and the rest of the evening stretched out ahead with glorious emptiness. Smiling, I started a load of laundry. Doing a couple of loads of clothes hardly counted as work, not with dinner so easy. It felt good, not having the weight of a thousand chores on my head. My friends were right: I did need a rest and—
“It’s my turn!” Oliver yelled.
“It is not,” Jenna shouted.
“Is, too!”
“Is not!”
Before the litany transmogrified into a physical attack, I marched into the family room. “What are you two fighting about?”
“She’s using the computer!” Oliver stood in front of his sister, rage showing in his wide stance and balled fists. “It’s my turn!”
“But, Mom,” Jenna said, turning to me, “we only take turns when it’s for playing. I need to use the computer to look up stuff for my homework. That doesn’t count as a turn, right?” Papers and books were spread across the coffee table as she sat comfortably on the couch with the computer on her lap.
From the minute my former husband proposed buying a laptop for the kids for Christmas, I’d known this moment was coming. Richard had chuckled when I’d pointed out the problem of two kids and one shiny new toy. “Why on earth would they fight over using the computer? I’ll make sure the parental controls are installed—that’s the important thing. Don’t worry so much.”
Technology was a wonderful thing. Sometimes.
I looked from one flush-faced child to the other. “If you can’t learn to share the computer, you know what’s going to happen.”
“You’ll take it away,” they said in unison.
Jenna kept going. “I have to use it for my science project. He just wants to play.”
“Why can’t she use the computer in the study for her homework?” Oliver asked.
“Why can’t he use the computer in the study to play?” Jenna countered.
I made a T with my hands. “Homework is more important than playing,” I said, and Jenna smiled. “But since homework is so important”—I picked up the remote and turned off the television—“you shouldn’t let TV interfere with your concentration.”
“But, Mom—”
“No ‘buts,’” I said. “Oliver, I know you have math homework. Go upstairs and take care of it.”
“Alexis gets to use her computer in her room,” Jenna said.
Hooray for Alexis. “And you don’t, do you?” My calm gaze locked on hers, and she soon blinked, turning away.
“No,” she muttered. “I have to use the computer where you can see what I’m doing and make sure I’m not sneaking off into some social networking site and making friends with people who could be bad guys.”
It was for their own protection—they were too young to have to know that mistakes made now could last forever—but I didn’t expect them to understand for a few years. Like maybe twenty. “Exactly.” I looked at my son. “Did you have something to say, Oliver?”
“Just that . . . that . . . it’s not fair!” He stomped off up the stairs, each small foot thudding down on the oak risers with all the force he could muster.
I sighed and went back to the nice, quiet laundry that had no interest in computers. Not even the socks.
• • •
The next morning, Lois had just served me a second cup of tea when Mary Margaret Spezza bustled in.
“Give it over,” she barked, “and no one will get hurt.” She held out her hand.
Mary Margaret and her husband, Lou, owned a fellow downtown business. Made in the Midwest had opened strong last summer and had had the typical fall lull, but then it had caught the eye of a Chicago magazine and been featured in an article in their December issue.
All the downtown merchants had benefited from the ensuing uptick in the tourist trade, and I wasn’t alone in having a greatly expanded e-mail list. Hopes were running high for a good year of retail, and much of it was due to the energy of the fiftyish woman
standing in front of me. Her black curly hair was as unruly as ever, and her stout body looked as if it could stand up to a category-five hurricane.
“Give it over?” I asked. “Okay, sure. Here.” I tried to give her my tea mug, but she ignored the offer and settled into the guest chair.
“Your To Do list for the PTA in Review. We know you have one, so hand it over.”
I stared at her. “You’re the one Summer recruited?”
Her smile was wide. “You bet. Business is slow at the store. Lou’s happy enough putzing around, doing inventory, but that tiddly stuff drives me nuts. He’ll get along faster without me, God’s honest truth, and I’m glad to help.”
When I’d discovered that the Spezzas’ daughter and family would be moving to Rynwood next summer, I’d mentioned the local PTA and Mary Margaret had practically begged to become a member. Since it wasn’t the Tarver PTA’s policy to turn down any member—if you could breathe, attend meetings, and pull some committee duty, you were a keeper—Mary Margaret had instantly become an integral part of the group. Some rumbled that she was a little too enthusiastic, but I’d rumbled right back that enthusiasm was better than apathy, and the rumblings had faded away.
Now I dug around on the desk for the PTA in Review folder. Since it was bright red it wasn’t hard to find, but I flailed about anyway, making pointless motions whose only purpose was to give me time.
Finally, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I pulled the folder from where I’d known it was all along, right underneath Rick Riordan’s new book, and held it out to Mary Margaret, who took it with alacrity.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked.
“Can’t wait to get going,” she said, paging through my notes. “You’ve made a great start.”
A start? Everything was almost done. Representative speakers for each of the decades had been chosen, time limits had been given, e-mail invitations had gone out, Tarver’s gymnasium was reserved, and the refreshments had been chosen.
“You don’t have anything about decorations,” Mary Margaret said.