“Is Christopher there?” Mom asks. “I was hoping to congratulate him in person.”
Oh, no way is that happening. How stupid does she think I am? “No, Mom. Christopher and Anna are setting up a playhouse for Antonia and Sunshine.”
“Shh. Now she’ll know I’m here!” Donovan whispers to me, his eyes stern.
“Oh, is Donovan there?” Mom asks. “Let me talk to him.”
“No, Mom. Donovan is helping.”
“Oh, I’ll just try his cell in a few minutes then.”
“Turn off your phone so it goes to voicemail,” I whisper to Donovan. “She’s going to call you.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Thanks for nothing!” He then motions for my phone. “Let me get it over with while I’m half-crocked.”
I hand the crazy man the phone, concerned that he may need a new shrink. “Hi, Mom!” Donovan says a little too brightly. He then contorts his face as if gagging, causing me to chuckle. “Yeah, Mom. Everyone is fine. We were going to call you a little later.”
“Liar!” I whisper, swatting his arm and giggling.
“I don’t know. I think we are having ham because Lily always says you are what you eat, and you know what she’s like.”
“Hey!” I say. He reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me close and stealing a nibble off of my ear before putting his hand on my head and shoving me away, causing us both to snicker. It might be time for us to stop drinking those Pumpkin Pie Martinis.
“No, Mom, Lily and I are horsing around. She’s not only an amazing cook, she’s become quite the bartender.”“Don’t mention alcohol to a cranky lush with Cirrhosis!” I whisper fervently. Donovan's face contorts again, but this time it’s an exaggerated look of confusion. “What?” I ask.
He puts his hand over the receiver. “She’s laughing and calling me James again.”
My forehead scrunches as I baulk and leave. “I’m out of here. I’ve had enough crazy for the day.” Seriously, why on earth does that man try so hard?
Inside the kitchen, Anna searches a cabinet. “Can I help you find something?” I ask. She jerks at my voice.
“Oh, sorry,” she says timidly. “I just thought I’d try to lend a hand. Is there anything I can help with?”
Yeah, like I want her touching my food. “No, thanks. I think we are all set.” Donovan emerges from the library with his head hung low. “Hey,” I say to him. “You okay?”
He digests thought before he speaks. His flaring nostrils and grimace of irony tell me he’s a kaleidoscope of anger and confusion. “I’m fine,” he groans. “It’s just hard knowing Mom’s suffering. I also hate that a part of me feels she’s getting what she deserves.”
“Donovan, remember how she always told us you have to lie in the bed you make?”
“Yeah, but…” Donovan darts to Anna who has her hand over a pot of simmering stew. He yanks it back just as she releases, sending a large handful of salt flying over her shoulder. “Seeking luck?” he asks with a broad smile.
“I was only trying to help. It tasted a little bland.”
Donovan’s grip on her wrist tightens. “Anna, we’ve talked about this. I don’t know what it is with your taste buds, but you need to lay off the salt.” His eyes land on me. Could I have possibly screwed up more? I never should have let you go. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Have another one of those drinks ready.” I follow him to the door and he stops me. “Actually, cut me off indefinitely. People like me shouldn’t drink.” His eyes return to the road ahead as if it is paved in hot coals before walking away.
Chapter 26
Gastric ulcers grow like fertilized bamboo as the phone rings. My task of verifying that Mom’s will is up to date feels like I’m burying a body before God has taken the spirit. Hopefully she won’t answer and will neglect calling me back. If I’m really lucky Godzilla will attack California, making it impossible for all calls to get through and planes to take off for the next decade.
“Hello?” a weak voice answers.
Damn. “Hi, Mom. It’s Lily.”
“Lily, dear! How is Christopher?”
Some things never change. “Everyone’s great, Mom. Look, I really don’t want to have this conversation, and it’s unfair to beat around the bush. I’ve been put in charge of making sure your final wishes are upheld. Would you please verify that the latest copy of your will is in your safe deposit box? We don’t want any question when we retrieve it.”
“You haven’t gone to my safe deposit box yet?” She sounds freaked. “You didn’t misplace the key, did you?”
“No, Mom. We will retrieve your will when the proper, respectful time comes.”
I sense her hand brushing me off. “If you had bothered to get it you would know that it is current. Everything goes to Graham and Sunshine.”
Two out of three, huh? Dementia is an evil beast. What a horrible thing to forget a grandchild exists. “That’s a great idea to leave everything to the grandchildren. Since trust funds for Graham and Antonia are already established, why don’t you leave everything to Sunshine?”
“I wouldn’t want Graham to think his grandmother does not love him. He should be included.”
“Okay, so everything goes to Graham, Antonia, and Sunshine.”
“Oh, no,” she says, as if giving a warning. “Nothing goes to Antonia. I will have no association with that demon spawn.”
“What?” I choke. That comment was so far over the line it jumped past the equator and landed at the South Pole.
“Then again, I suppose it is not her fault,” Mom continues. “I don’t blame you for not telling her, but have you at least told Christopher?”
“Told Christopher what?” My mortification makes it sound more like a demand than a question.
“Oh, Lily, please! You gave birth to her eight and a half months after you were here for Christmas. You and Donovan claimed that you had visited friends that morning. Christopher and Anna were off with Graham so you could have done anything you wanted and did. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured this one out yourself.”
My emotions take over, causing my diplomacy filter to fail. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve tolerated a lot of your bullshit, but this has gone too far!”
“Lilyanna Beckett, watch your language!”
“Eccles! It’s Eccles, Mom. It’s been Eccles, faithfully, for ten years.”
“Faithfully!” she mocks. “Then explain why Antonia looks just like Donovan. Christopher must be blind if he can’t see the truth. I thought more of him than that.”
Sadly, both sides of me know that her suspicions are not unfounded, because when there is no protection, it doesn’t take a male moment of pleasure for the little swimmers to release.
Damn it! We stopped! How much longer will I feel this guilt? Or is the question, when will I accept my error?
My voice booms like dynamite. “Antonia looks like Donovan because they are related through me, or have you forgotten that Donovan is your child too?”
“Sharing genes never mattered to either of you before.”
My brain is about to boil out of my skull. After over a decade of keeping my emotions in check and being a dutiful daughter, despite my better judgment, I finally let her have it.
“The hell it didn’t! Why do you think Donovan and I split? It had nothing to do with your twisted plan to keep us apart. We both wanted families and weren’t willing to involve a child in a web of lies. The only thing you have ever had a hand in with us is brutally destroying and nearly killing your son!” I manage to stop just short of calling her an evil, manipulating cunt. God, I don’t want my family to be this way.
Mom responds by plunging the jagged knife in even deeper, dragging it across my chest, then heading for the salt. “If that is how you choose to see it then obviously you are a terrible parent! I hope that someday karma will bite you in the ass and you will have to lock up your uncontrollable brats. Maybe if you had been beaten like Donovan your tone would be more respectful.”
God, please bring me my 1950’s subservient mother back. Who is this delusional woman filling her body?
“You don’t deserve Christopher!” she berates. “I don’t want to see you again unless you spare him of who you are. They would have a better life without you. In fact, don’t come home for Christmas, any of you! Just let me die the shamed woman I am. Hopefully someday you’ll find the same fate!” Hearing her phone fly across the room with a blood-curdling slam, she again banishes me from her life.
Smack!
My vegetable cleaver lands on a clove of garlic, smashing it to a pulp before I drag the knife over it, smearing its smelly goodness over the wood cutting board. This is much like how I kill spiders, not giving them a chance at mercy. If the creepy bastards cross into my territory, they asked for it.
Smack!
Again the cleaver mutilates a clove. The splat is then minced with heavy thuds that slam grooves into my cutting board and dull my knife. That woman’s words haunted me all night. I’ve strived to find virtue in her only to be rudely insulted time and time again.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Christopher flops onto a stool across from me at the kitchen bar, interrupting my slaughter. Dreamily he rests his chin in his hand, his head tilted to the side with his long, soft-brown hair shadowing his hooded gaze. His presence brings me back to the best part of my reality.
“Coffee,” he mutters.
“What? You hate coffee.”
“Coffee,” he repeats, barely conscious.
His natural glow brings out my smile and causes my anger to dissipate. “Seriously, who are you? Since when do you drink coffee?”
“I don’t. The stuff is bloody awful, but I’m at the end of me rope. The one night I had time to sleep and someone kept me awake with her tumbling and sighing. Then she finally gave me some peace at 4 A.M. by getting up, only to come down here and make a ruckus. After an hour I’m surrendering to the enemy.”
“I’m sorry, darling.” I say with a pouty lip. “How about some strong black tea instead?”
Suddenly his eyes pop open, and the blue orbs in front of me dazzle. “I’ve a better idea. There are still items in that nightstand of yours we have yet to use.” Reaching across the bar he puts his hand on mine, halting my chopping before guiding me to the stairs. A few steps up the collage-lined stairwell, I tug back on his hand.
“Come here,” I say, motioning with my finger. “Look.” Inside a collage from our first year together, I point to a picture of him jousting with a drumstick on his first Thanksgiving. “You know what I remember most about that day?”
“How I almost cut off me finger when I tried to carve the turkey?”
I chuckle. “No, though looking back that was rather entertaining. What I remember most is what happened after you left. You called to wish me good night and said words that changed my life forever.” He steps down behind me and enrobes my waist. Our eyes blur over the collage as the memories flow. “You said Grace wanted me to be the daughter she never had. It scared the breath right out of me. I had never thought much about us in the long term, but when you said that everything changed. It was one of the biggest moments in my life, and it ultimately led to our marriage. I love you, and I love my life with you. You bring so much light into my world.”
Christopher kisses my head and tightens his hold. “I didn’t think it was possible to love you any more than I did then, but now I know love was only beginning to grow. I love you more now than ever, and I know that tomorrow I will love you more still.”
With a little nudge, he takes me up the stairs, reminding me of the beauty of our marriage.
Thanks to my amazing husband and two of his Martinis, when Donovan and crew arrive relaxation is no longer alien to my universe. However, about an hour after their arrival, I concede that no matter how enjoyable the day is, a sense of incompleteness will follow me. An eraser rests in my hands, but can I dare the risk of smearing the shadow, thus extending its depth?
I cower in the library. The phone in my hand feels like it’s my own voodoo doll. Just shy of pressing the call button, every muscle in my face clenches, and tears begin their descent. I miss my Mom. I miss my real Mom—the one who loved her children. The one with whom I played with dolls. The one who played old records and danced around the house like a teenybopper. That beautiful woman who tried to be both a 1950’s housewife and my teenage best friend. I love her, and I miss her.
Can I possibly take it if this call goes the way of the last one? I don’t want that to be my last memory of her, but I can’t take another betrayal. The whole situation is so incredibly wrong.
My hand remains on the device as I set it down, as if the hesitant touch will transmit my message. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I love you.” With a deep swallow I remove my hand and walk away. It’s time to hold my children.
Chapter 27
“Good morning, boss!” Jenny cheerfully sings as I pour my coffee.
I’m not buying it for the price of a poppy seed.
My eyes refocus on my notes for the Anthem Records anniversary party we are co-catering in three months. “Good morning, Jenny. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
“Umm, it was all right, but a little disappointing,” she claims with a faint pout.
I am so playing into her hand and know it. “And why was that? Too much studying? Still can’t decide between Art History and Marine Biology?” I ask, scribbling fake numbers onto a notepad.
“Today I’m leaning toward Geology.” Her fingers toy along the antique display case that holds the day’s goods. “Thanksgiving was a little uneventful, and it got me wondering. Are you having your annual New Year’s Eve party this year?”
I view my sketch of a cake shaped like a record with a critical eye. This is a terrible idea in light of my generous budget. “It wouldn’t be an annual party if I didn’t. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t. With everything going on here, and—”
“Lily, that’s not funny!”
“What? Do I need to work on my bedside manner?” My lips purse to suppress laughter at the poor girl who slumps in disgust with herself. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, yes. Obvious is indeed the word. So is discernible, translucent, palpable… Yes, we are having a party. Yes, I will invite Julian. I thought you were sneak attacking him when he came in for his Thanksgiving mousse cake and boldly slipping him your number tucked into a cream puff?”
Jenny turns sulky, making it harder not to laugh. “We were so busy I didn’t get the chance. Robert helped him.”
My throat emits a groan at the thought of Robert’s feminine flamboyance versus Julian’s masculine charm. “I’m sure Robert loved that way more than Julian did. Jenny, why is it you fall apart over guys like Julian, yet when celebrities like Johnny Depp come in you are totally calm and collected?”
“Because Julian is real and Johnny isn’t,” she says as if her odd statement is common fact and shouldn’t faze me.
“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Depp would love to hear this.”
Jenny shakes her head at my obliviousness. “The personalities of movie stars are often best left in my mind where I don’t feel I have to be a perfect ten to get their attention. So, if you’d invite Julian to your party…”
“Fine! I’ll try to sway Julian to come. If he has to work you can pretend I insisted you pack a plate and bring him food.”
She gets all touchy-feely while grabbing my arm, jostling me as she bounces. “Have I ever told you you’re the best boss ever?” she asks, skipping off without waiting for an answer.
“Only seven times in the last two weeks. I must be slipping.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Christopher screams from the basement. “Two weeks? Are you bloody kidding me?”
Christopher yelling is something that happens about as often as a fish guts itself. Quickly his fire is extinguished. “No, I’m very sorry,” he continues. “Two weeks is perfectly fine. We appreciate the opportunity. Kindly send over the co
ntract, and I’ll sign it immediately.”
This sounds bad. Is he now leaving in two weeks?
“That deceitful yob!” Christopher bellows as he storms up the stairs. “Mike came in and did a buy-on with his new band! They are paying to play our spot on the tour. We just lost all of the non-West Coast dates!”
Chapter 28
The Croissant Karma Police are after my staff and me with a vengeance. The pins on our dough sheeter won’t stay in place. Half of the time I run it the top roller smashes onto the bottom one, thus ripping hard butter through the delicate layers of dough. Since today is Friday, I can’t get a guy out to fix the machine until next week, killing a large part of our weekend sales.
Trying to dissect the maladies of the laminator myself, I’m now covered in grease thanks to the stripped gear that is the cause of misery. Hysterics tempt me to dive into it as I take a call from Cindy, who sounds like Kathleen Turner impersonating Fozzy Bear. She’s just the latest flu victim, along with Jenny and Robert. I’m about to call a temp agency or drive to Hollywood and grab a crack head off of the street when Donovan calls. I beg into the phone without even a hello, “Please, please say you’re calling because your afternoon just freed and you would love nothing more than to bail out a helpless damsel and sell cookies!”
“Right, Lil. You don’t even know the meaning of the word helpless.” Despite the sarcasm, his shaky voice prepares me for the pool of emotions he is about to hurl me into.
“How bad is she?” I ask in enquiry of our mother.
“Remember the time I called you in school about Dad? It’s that kind of bad.”
My chin meets my grease-covered apron in memory of the call I got while in a Confectionary Arts class informing me of our father’s imminent passing, only then I was covered in chocolate. It seems fitting that I am now doused in a slippery mess. “How long?” I ask, hating myself for hoping there won’t be enough time to get to her.
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