That was the first time Daisy stayed with me in my two-bedroom Old Saybrook condo. Over the next six months, Carole had to be hospitalized a few more times, and each time, Daisy brought her bags to my place. She often hung out in her own home by day, retreating to my spare bedroom each night. I kept an eye out for her, making sure she ate well, talking to her about her mother’s treatments at the Smilow Cancer Center down at Yale, and driving her to visit her mother. When Jason Siegelmann invited her to his junior prom, I took her dress shopping down in New Haven, so that Carole could be a part of the decision-making process. Daisy and I bounced from store to store, and I photographed her in all the dresses. We rushed back to show Carole our finds. The three of us huddled in the hospital room, pouring over the choices, and we were delighted when Carole gave the final vote to the royal blue off-the-shoulder taffeta choice.
I wasn’t a substitute mother for the teenager, because Carole was the real deal, but I played the role of adopted aunt. As an only child, I missed out on having siblings, and as a single, unmarried woman, I never got around to having kids of my own. We just seemed to fall into the arrangement because it worked for all of us.
After the last round of chemotherapy, Carole had begun to rally. She was finally getting back on her feet and taking an interest in living again. Dylan was home again, happily ensconced in his second-grader life, playing soccer and building imaginary space adventures with his Legos. Carole had begun to work again as a freelance editor for a couple of publishers. But she still wasn’t quite ready to handle Daisy’s teenage anxieties and woes, so I figured the best option was to keep her on at Cady’s Cakes. As much as she fought against the requirements of the job, she always pulled through for me in the end, probably because she knew at some point she would need to lean on me when things went bad for Carole.
I guessed something had changed over the last week for Daisy and it was only a matter of time before she would spill the coffee beans. It popped up when we were getting ready to close at six.
“My father called me last night,” she announced. “He wants Dylan and me to come live with him in Bowie, Maryland.”
I took a sharp, involuntary breath. The bastard. Didn’t he know how desperately Carole needed her kids? Didn’t he understand they were her reason for living, for existing? Hadn’t all that already been settled during the custody battle?
“Oh?” I said that one word as calmly and kindly as I could, trying to hide the fact that I wanted to take a big chunk out of Doug Walchuk. That son of a bitch had some nerve pulling a Sir Galahad at this point in time. Where was he for the first few years of Carole’s cancer treatment? Having an affair. Now he had his brand-spanking-new trophy wife and the triplets, a new career as an up-and-coming assistant school superintendent in a good school district in Maryland, and a fading memory of what he left behind in Connecticut -- that disastrous public scandal over his affair with Mimi, the woman on the Board of Education who backed his “school improvement” plan. According to Doug at the time, he and Mimi had to get together frequently for “meetings” to discuss educational issues. Back then, he was just the principal of Miller Elementary, not some hot shot assistant school superintendent. Mimi was the ballot-busting, go-getting educational reformer out to transform Old Saybrook’s school system. Only trouble was those meetings were held in bed or in the back of Doug’s Town and Country van, with the seats removed. Was Doug now so desperate to make his new life look as respectable as possible, he was willing to destroy Carole and the kids?
“I told him I wanted to stay here.”
“Hmm....” I uttered in my most neutral tone. I didn’t want to insert my own opinion into the conversation. Let Daisy tell it her own way. Let the details come out.
“He said that he’s going to ask for custody of Dylan.” There it was.
Bite your tongue. He’s still her father, I reminded myself. I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to speak my mind.
After the scandal broke, Mimi had moved to Maryland, gotten a job as town solicitor near Bowie, and started lobbying to get Doug the assistant superintendent job. After the divorce, he joined his co-conspirator and they married in less than six months. They reinvented themselves as a Maryland wannabe power couple. She was now also a corporate attorney for Lockright, padlock specialists. She made a big point of letting everyone know she was now a busy mother of three, having “given birth” to the triplets through a surrogate. Doug and Mimi spent a small fortune to create the replacement family. Why was he now trying to change Dylan’s custody? Winner take all?
Doug must have been keeping tabs on Carole’s cancer treatment, and smelled opportunity after she spent three weeks in the hospital with a serious infection a few months back. If there was one thing that stuck in Doug’s craw, it was that Carole still looked like the wronged wife. That’s because she was.
Are you thinking that after all my years with Aunt Pinkie I should have sympathy for Mimi? Let me tell you the difference between the woman who became my adoptive mother and the woman who married Doug. Aunt Pinkie was a good soul, a woman who always put others first, even when she probably should have kept something for herself. She was kind, gentle, and generous in her affection and her protection. Mimi, on the other hand, is a vulture, pure and simple. Not only did she insist that Doug leave Carole in the middle of her first chemotherapy round, she told him that it was better to get out before things got worse.
Why am I talking about Carole and Doug’s marriage? Maybe it’s my own status as the proverbial spinster. Never married. I admit that. I came close a few times, but in the end, I never saw the kind of commitment I know I need from a man. But it was more than that. Carole had no warning that Doug and Mimi were having an affair, other than the fact that her husband was staying out later and longer. When a politically rabid neighbor spotted Doug going at it hot and heavy with the head of the Board of Education on Barn Island, he snapped a photo, which was then circulated to Mimi’s opponent. It became a very ugly situation, especially after Carole’s cancer treatment, also leaked to the opponent, became public knowledge. Instead of honoring his marriage vows and supporting his wife during her illness, Doug took the low road, attached his wagon to Mimi’s political star, and give up his family to start anew. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t often hope that Mimi would find karma biting a big chunk out of her selfish ass.
“Cady, what am I going to do? It’s not like when Dylan went to live with Grandma and Grandpa.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed.
The shop door was locked for the day, the “open” sign flipped. We were almost ready to go. That’s when Daisy often found the courage to share her worries.
“Should I tell Mom?”
I thought for a moment, not wanting Daisy to see how much I wanted to throttle her father. The truth was divorced couples had custody battles all the time, even without cancer.
“This is a tough one. What does your gut tell you to do?” That was the thing about Aunt Pinkie. She always challenged me to think for myself, to examine every detail and make a rational decision when I was faced with a quandary.
“I think my mom needs to know.”
“Good plan. You know, Daze, it may just be that your dad wants to adjust the custody agreement, maybe have more opportunities for visitation with you and Dylan. He is still your father.” It killed me to remind her of that, but looking into the crystal ball of Carole’s future, things looked murky. We had no way of knowing whether Carole would manage the cancer for a decade or succumb within a year. If she did die, those kids were going to need their father, abysmal as he was.
“He sounded like he missed us,” she decided. “He asked me if I wanted him to drive me to colleges and help me apply.”
“Well, you certainly could use the help with that, couldn’t you?” At least the bastard wasn’t completely useless. He could pick up that tab, or at least help Daisy find scholarship money.
“Yeah,” she replied. “When I go off to college, what’s going to
happen to Dylan? Mom isn’t really able to take care of him herself, especially when she has chemo.”
“Hopefully, she won’t continue to need chemo,” I told her. “She may go into remission, in which case your mom could live for years with the cancer. Dylan would have a very normal childhood.”
“But she could also get sick again,” Daisy pointed out.
“It is possible,” I admitted. “It’s hard to predict how it all will turn out for your mom. That’s why you should let her know about your dad’s plan.”
Lord, I hate it when the snakes, rats, and weasels of the world get the chance to save their bacon through fate, not by redeeming their own lacking souls. It’s just not fair, is it?
“Come on.” I put away my disinfectant spray, washed the sponge and nuked it for a minute, and then headed for the office. “I’ll drive you home. And you tell your mom I’ll be around if she needs to vent.”
“Thanks, Cady.”
“You bet, kid.”
“Can I drive?” I looked at that hopeful little face, eager and attentive. Who was I to crush that spirit? Carole, sidelined by neuropathy as a result of her chemotherapy, couldn’t drive, let alone teach her daughter the fundamentals of being behind the wheel. Would it kill me to give the kid some road time? What was the point of having a learner’s permit if she couldn’t practice her driving skills?
“No texting. No radio. No chatter. You focus on the road, on the other drivers, on what is in front of you and what is behind you. Is that clear?”
“Wow, you would have made a great drill sergeant,” Daisy decided.
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda. I guess I missed my calling. Instead, I’m spending my days baking cakes and making coffee. Are we good with the rules?”
“I guess. Does that mean we can go home on the highway?”
“Good lord, no!” I responded emphatically. “Not in my trusty van!”
As a baker, I often had to buy supplies, and that vehicle was my lifeline. I couldn’t afford to have it in the repair shop. How else would I be able to schlep the bags of sugar and flour, the dozens of eggs, the butter, vegetable oil, or milk? All I needed was a fender bender. And yet, I understood the hopes and dreams of a normal life for Daisy, and I was determined to make sure she got it, even if it meant taking a big, fat chance with my van. We just weren’t going to overdo it.
Once I had turned the key and rattled the knob to be sure the back door of the shop was locked up tight, I tossed Daisy the keys and we crossed the parking lot. The air was crisp on this soon-to-be-spring day, and when the wind came in from the Sound, it seemed to go right through me. I longed for spring, for the first warm days to roll in on a southern breeze. I couldn’t wait to get home, change into my sweats, and curl up on my sofa with a bowl of hot beef barley soup, some crackers, and a good book. It had been a long day and I was bushed. In a way, I rather enjoyed being chauffeured home, stretching my legs in the passenger seat. Daisy made a valiant effort to do it all right -- checking the rearview mirror, adjusting the seat to accommodate her much shorter legs, and then finally finagling with the side mirrors. I let her find her own comfort zone. When she was ready, she put the key in the ignition, turned it, and engaged the stick shift, backing out at about three miles an hour. It was all I could do not to smile.
With the left blinker clicking, she waited for all the cars to pass before she moved forward in a slow roll. Her little body hovered above the steering wheel, the child in her still in awe of her new skills. I had to turn away briefly, so she wouldn’t see me chuckle.
We traveled down the Boston Post Road, heading west, in light traffic. When Daisy got to Sandy Point Road, she turned on the indicator and waited for a line of cars to pass by. With care, she began to turn, and that’s when it happened. From out of nowhere, a car rear-ended us, slamming us so hard that I bit my lip. Luckily, no one was coming the other way, because Daisy’s terrified foot lifted off the brake on impact, and we crossed into the oncoming lane.
“Stop!” I screamed, “use the brakes!” The command didn’t register with the teenager for those few critical seconds. I braced myself against the dashboard just as we went flying into a very solid mailbox post.
“Ouch!” Daisy was rubbing her cheek where the airbag struck. The van was still in drive.
“Put...the van in...park,” I managed to say.
“Cady, you’re hurt!” The young driver started to cry.
“Now,” I insisted. “Park.”
She followed my instruction with shaking hands as I sat back, still feeling the full wallop of my own airbag, not to mention the pain that resulted from the jolt my outstretched arms took when they were sent packing from the dashboard with a very rude thrust. I knew I was going to be in a world of hurt before long, so I tried to concentrate with the little energy I had in reserve.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“I’m so, so, so sorry!” Tears tumbled down those cheeks. “Please don’t die!”
Chapter Three --
“I’m not dying,” I assured Daisy, even though I felt like I had gotten drop-kicked in an attempt to get me through the goalposts of heaven.
My passenger door opened with a sudden whoosh, and a face popped in. I saw a pair of green eyes behind nerd glasses.
“Everybody okay in here?” said the gnome in the tattered raincoat.
“Cady’s hurt bad!”
“No, I’m not,” I disagreed with more forcefulness than necessary. “I’m just banged up.”
“I trained as a medic,” said that serious face. “Two tours of Afghanistan, one tour of Iraq. I’ve seen it all. Now, what hurts?”
“My shoulder.”
“Can you wiggle your fingers very gently?” He was now kind, reassuring, asking me to check this body part or that. There wasn’t any of the acidity in his voice that I heard at the shop earlier. It was as if he were a different person, totally focused on helping. I could see people all around the car. A buzz seemed to fill the air as people compared notes on what they had seen.
“He hit them and then took off!” said a man.
“What a terrible thing to do!” a woman responded.
“I think it was deliberate. He had to know there were injuries!” How could he not know, I wondered.
“Did anyone get the license plate?” That was a good question, I thought. Forget about that pain. Push it away. Think of the car insurance and car registration. In the glove compartment. Your driver’s license. That’s in your wallet in your pocketbook.
“It’s okay,” the experienced medic promised me. “Just rest. We’ll get you to the hospital and the doctors will patch you up.”
“The van!” I groaned with dismay. I had the Henslacker wedding on Saturday. “How am I going to bake my cakes?”
“I’m so sorry,” Daisy sobbed.
“Why?” There it was, that sharp tone again. The man leaned past me and focused on the young girl. “Don’t you know it wasn’t your fault? That driver sped up before he struck you from behind. I saw the whole thing. You did nothing wrong.”
“Really?” I could hear the hope in her voice.
“Really. Here come the EMT’s.”
Three hours later, I was driven home from the emergency room by Walter Jackson, my morning guy, the man who came in to Cady’s Cakes at five every morning to get things going at the shop. Daisy had insisted on staying with me, and now she wanted to fuss over me. I just wanted to go to bed and let my head stop spinning. The doctor had prescribed a muscle relaxant and at the moment, all my bones had melted, leaving only a Gumby-like structure to hold up my aching body.
“I might be a little late,” I warned Walter, “but I’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“Boss, I can handle it with Darlene. Why don’t you take some time to rest?”
“Too much to do,” I insisted. I was thinking about the special orders that needed to be filled.
“Maybe you could come in later in the day, after you get some rest.”
“
Maybe.” At the moment, the pain was about to drop me to my knees, and I had only gotten as far as the bottom step of the front entry. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and started climbing. Carole joined us just as Daisy produced my keys from her pocket and opened the door. I couldn’t wait to sink down on my sofa and just forget about everything. But that was not to be. Walter and Daisy accompanied me up the stairs to the second floor.
“We should get you to bed,” Carole insisted. “Daisy, find Cady a nightgown. I think we can take it from here, Walter.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” she responded, sounding quite confident.
“Don’t you worry about the shop, Cady. I’ll take care of everything until you’re back on your feet.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine in the morning. The doctor said it was only bruises and contusions.”
I caught the three of them exchanging glances. Walter patted my hand on the way out.
“Trust me, boss. I can handle it. We won’t embarrass you.”
“We?”
“I’m going to help him,” Daisy announced.
“It’s a school day,” I pointed out. “And you can’t afford to miss any time. Your education comes first.”
“I only have half a day tomorrow. School assembly. I’m not missing anything important. Besides, you need my help.”
“How about if I handle the cash register from eight to eleven?” Carole offered. “I just have to pour coffee and bag muffins, right? I can handle that, especially if Darlene will be there. Daisy can take over when she gets out of school.”
“I can’t ask you to work for me,” I told Carole, shaking my head. “You’ve got to conserve your energy.”
“I’m fine. Besides, it’s about time I was able to do something good for you, after all the help you’ve given me and my kids. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I looked at that face and instantly recognized her expression. She was no longer “Cancer Carole”. She was a woman on a mission, to help me keep my business afloat. That purpose gave her strength she hadn’t shown in a long time. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Charleston with a Clever Cougar: A Dance with Danger Mystery #6 Page 2