“Does Les know about you and Jackson?” Nola asked, still beating away at the egg whites. The New Nola also referred to Sabrina’s father by his first name, Les, and also spoke of their divorce as though it were a major surgery from which she had long recovered.
“I didn’t tell him in person, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sabrina snagged a second cupcake from the platter. “I sent him an email. It was short and to the point.”
“I’m sure that confused him thoroughly,” Nola said dryly. “That was probably the best way, though. Les isn’t exactly the type of father a girl can confide in.”
“Oh, Dad handled it like I thought he would.” Sabrina peeled away the cupcake wrapper carefully. “I believe his exact response was, ‘What the hell, Sabrina? I didn’t even know you got married in the first place’.”
“Good lord,” Nola groaned. “You didn’t even bother to tell you own father you got married?”
“It must have slipped my mind,” Sabrina muttered. The truth of the matter was that she had stopped sharing the bigger events of her life with Les the day she graduated from university with highest honors and he had dotingly said, “Great job! Now, go out there and get yourself a comfy little desk job to tide you over until you find a good man to marry.”
Nola finally put down the bowl and whisk. “Out of all of the people involved in this sad debacle, I can’t help but to feel the sorriest for poor Jackson,” she sighed.
Sabrina couldn’t believe her ears. “Poor Jackson? What about poor Sabrina? How was I supposed to know that Jackson’s idea of adding meaning to my life was joining the Junior League and pulling after-school carpool duty?”
“Because you never loved the man, and because you didn’t love him, you were blinded to the reality of your relationship.” Trust Nola to be blunt. “Divorce is nothing to be ashamed of — See? I can say it! — and I don’t blame you for wanting more than Jackson had to offer, Sabrina. It’s just a shame that you had to figure it out after the eleventh hour. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this.”
“Never trust a man who keeps reminding you that his net worth is more than yours?” Sabrina remembered how Jackson factored her salary into their personal budget as though it were chump change. That’s what it boiled down to in the end. Who held the money card.
Nola shook her head sadly. “I’m referring to your self-inflicted obliviousness, dear,” she said. “But while we’re on the topic of net worth, I recall that you told me you assumed the note for the house. You’re a single woman living on a single income now. Can you afford to keep it?”
Sabrina mumbled an “I don’t know” into her next bite of cupcake. Nola lifted a knowing brow and waited.
“Probably not.” Sabrina sighed glumly and put down the sweet, defeated by her mother’s patient gaze. “I’ve been a renter all of my life, Mom. I always thought that by the time I reached this age I’d be able to afford my own home. I guess I was wrong.”
Nola stopped what she was doing, snapped her fingers and smiled, struck by a light-bulb moment. “Why, you could lease the house and move into Ella’s with me!” she exclaimed. “It’s way too big for just one person.” The café wasn’t just Nola’s place of business; she had turned the boarding rooms on the second and third stories into personal living quarters.
“Thanks for the offer, Mom, but I’ll pass,” Sabrina said, tacking a mental at least for now onto the end of her sentence. There was one thing more pathetic than a thirty-six-year-old woman who leased her home to prevent foreclosure, and that was a thirty-six-year-old woman who lived in her mother’s attic.
“That leaves you with one other option.” Nola’s voice took on a practical tone. “Ask Les for money so you can refinance it and lower your mortgage payments. Heaven knows he owes you some stability.”
“Given the exceptional set of circumstances, don’t you mean?” Sabrina added under her breath. She licked the pad of her index finger and used it to pick up the cupcake crumbs on her plate.
Nola shot her a warning glance that said Please don’t take us down that road again. The words lingered between them silently. She Who Shall Not Be Named. Olivia, the mistress Lester March had kept in the wings for as long as Sabrina had had sentient memory. The woman who eventually became her stepmother after his skeletons conga danced out of the closet.
The woman who gave Les a male heir.
Which made Sabrina the spare, in reverse chronological order.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to bring up bad times,” Sabrina said. “But ask Dad for a personal bailout? No, just … no.”
“Why not?” Nola finally stopped beating the daylights out of the meringue. “You never were a thorn in his side like the boy was. You flew through college on merit scholarships and never asked Les for one thin dime. You’re due for yours, Sabrina.”
“Asking Dad to help me would complicate things with the partials. I have to see those people at Christmas, remember.” The partials referred to her stepmother and half-brother.
“Damn, but you’re stubborn, Sabrina March. Proud, willful and, right now, self-defeating,” Nola added for emphasis, shaking her head.
“That would be me, all right,” Sabrina agreed lightly. She watched as her mother dumped equal portions of meringue on top of a tray of custard tarts. Using a narrow spatula, Nola shaped them into perfect, semi-circular domes. This could be me twenty-five years from now. Sabrina noticed the traits she and Nola shared. The deep-set, doe-in-the-forest eyes. An irregular rift in the hairline that made their bangs fall over their eyes at a strangely seductive angle. A slope in the small of the spine, which gave both women the appearance of being slightly sway-backed.
The New Nola joined an online matchmaking service (“for silver citizens only,” she made a point of mentioning), dated, and engaged in monogamous relationships that lasted for a year or two before she and her gentleman friend ended things on a chummy accord. She told Sabrina that she didn’t intend to remarry.
“I’ll withhold my thoughts on the partials,” Nola finally said. “But Les is still your father. You should cultivate a relationship with him while you still can.”
Sabrina snagged a bottle of herbal tea from the café’s cooler. “I see Dad twice a year for dental checkups. We email each other, send each other birthday cards, and see each other over the holidays. We’re cultivated.” She struggled with the cap. “Damn!”
“If you say so. Here, give it to me.” Her mother put down the spatula, took the bottle, and popped it open with ease.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Counterclockwise, sweetie.” Nola handed it back to her with a smile. “It’s all a matter of getting the direction right.”
Responsible Housemate Needed ASAP (Cadence Corners-Central Austin)
Date: 11-07, 11:12PM CST
Reply to: [email protected]
Professional female, mid-30s, seeks gainfully employed, same-age peer to share tastefully decorated historic home. Fully furnished except for guest bedroom, adjoining bath (shower only) and unfinished attic. Split space in two-car garage (please keep your side tidy). I have basic cable (if you want a squillion channels, it’s on your dime). Will consider single pet if properly vetted, impeccably trained, non-shedding, under 10 lbs. and crated or boarded in your absence. Deposit is one month’s rent (plus cost of background check). It is crucial to our respective welfares that you pay rent on time every month. No couples, no breakfast cookers (have an aversion to grease smell), no hoarders, no boozers, no indoor smokers, and no illegal drugs.
Contact Sabrina at sabrina@casadimarch… only if you meet the above criteria.
**
From: gsloper@handyrandys…
To: sabrina@casadimarch…
I saw your ad on Craigslist. I don’t have a steady job or nothing and don’t have money for rent but was wondering if you’d trade lodging for handyman’s services. I can do anything, lay carpet, insulation, sheetrock, plumbing, etc. I clean. Greg.
&nbs
p; **
From: luvmyhubby@thedeedsfamily…
To: sabrina@casadimarch…
Dear Sabrina,
I am a single mother of three elementary-school-aged boys. I’ve been out of the workforce for ten years, so it might be a while before I get a job. But I have money left over from my divorce settlement, and that should tide me over for a while. I know you’re probably looking for a single gal without all that baggage. But would you consider me and my kids? The boys could bunk in the attic. They would be happy living anywhere as long as we’re all together. They stay with my ex-asshole, aka, “cheating bastard”, on the weekends, so they would only be there during the week. The boys have a pet (African Grey), but the damned parrot stays with the asshole, too.
Hope to hear from you.
Deanna Deeds
**
From: sl_ackerman@javathehutt…
To: sabrina@casadimarch…
Hey, my name is Seth Ackerman. Me & my GF r looking 4 a room close 2 downtown. Shes 20, I’m 22. No pets, my sugarglidder died last wk. Me & my GF have worked @ the same coffeehouse 4 2 mos so we got $$. Have wkend giggs as a drummer in teh Hostages. Can we use teh garage 4 rehearsal space? U said no drugs, but R U 420 frendly?
Sent from my SmartPhone
**
From: imloomie@attygen…
To: sabrina@casadimarch…
Hi, Sabrina!
I’m a single professional female, 35 years old, nonsmoker, nondrinker, no drugs — you mean you have to ask? — and no personal drama. I’ve worked as a paralegal for the Attorney General’s Office for seven years and have a perfect credit score. Right now, I live in a small rural community, and the cost of gas driving to work and back is just unreal.
There’s also not a lot for a single girl to do here.
There is one thing you should know: I do pit bull rescue — and sometimes I take in Rottweilers and other large breeds. Sadly, a lot of people dump their precious pups after a biting incident without bothering to work with a professional dog whisperer. This makes me ashamed to be a part of the human race.
Don’t worry, I place my “kids” as quickly as possible and don’t have more than six or seven orphans in my charge at any time. So it’s not like I’m bringing in a zoo. I could keep the pitties in my room or outside, if there’s a yard. I’d love to talk more with in person. It sounds like you’re as picky as I am. I don’t blame you — there’s a bunch of crazies out there.
Regards,
Imogen
CHAPTER EIGHT
One-two-three-four. Creak!
Sabrina bounded up the steps to the Parker house, the ball of her right foot landing on the old wooden porch. It was like going back home.
The Chateau du Parker had in fact been her home when she and Molly were both in college. But even before then, it had been a haven to escape to, far away from the toxic waste of sadness that was CherNola. Sabrina was relieved when Molly decided not to sell the house after her parents’ untimely demise in an automobile accident.
Molly also charged cheap rent.
The craftsman-style house was tucked away in a recessed lot at the end of a dead-end street that was shrouded by a trio of large live oaks. Sabrina ordinarily would have made her visit with Molly a stopping point during a late-night run, but tonight a blistering cold front was steadily blowing in from the north.
The windows were ablaze with a strange greenish-gold light cast by the hideous chartreuse panels Mrs. Parker bought in the seventies and Molly never got around to replacing. Sabrina rubbed her arms briskly. She wished she’d thought to bring a sweater. Before she had a chance to knock, the front door flew open. The next thing she knew, she was engulfed in a squishy hug and the smell of freshly chopped herbs and garlic. Molly had to be one of the most tactile people she’d ever met.
“I’m making spätzel with ham and Dutch apple pie — you’ll stay for dinner, right? I want to be able to tell people that Sebastian and I had guests. Well, at least one guest,” Molly said breathlessly as she closed the door behind them. “First, tell me something. Be honest. Do I look any different to you?”
“Different?” Sabrina asked as she followed Molly into the kitchen.
“You know what I mean. Do I look married?”
“You look absolutely bridal,” Sabrina assured her. From the moment Molly and Sebastian went exclusive, they could have been mistaken for newlyweds. “But how do you feel?”
“Please, Brini.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Are we going to go through this again? I will tell you the second I feel like I might be going out of remission.”
“You know why I have to ask. Right?”
“Because you’re more overprotective than Mom ever was.” Molly smiled. She had a large, mobile mouth and a mane of long, thick chestnut curls that always looked slightly unkempt. Her skin was sun-kissed from puttering in her garden. She projected the vision of perfect health. But Sabrina knew that a walker was stashed in the walk-in closet of her old bedroom.
She’d seen what multiple sclerosis could do to Molly.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Molly fretted. “I haven’t gotten around to tidying up.”
But Sabrina knew the house would look no different, despite her friend’s cleaning efforts. When Sabrina roomed at the Chateau du Parker, she quickly gave up trying to give Molly decorating and organizing tips and abandoned herself to the clash and clutter. Molly decorated whimsically with no reference to consistency. Overstuffed vintage sofas were paired with streamlined IKEA end tables. Framed pieces of embroidery with sappy sayings like “I Hope You Dance” hung next to lithographs of abstract art. Throw rugs in all colors were tossed on the scuffed pine floors. Every square inch of kitchen surface was covered with Sebastian’s books and papers, quilting magazines, patchwork pieces and masses of tiny sewing stuff.
“Tell me about Paris.” Sabrina pulled a bar stool up to the counter and checked it for stray stickpins before she sat down.
“That can wait.” Molly stirred something simmering in a large skillet. “I want to hear about my wedding reception first.”
Sabrina gave her a brief rundown of the events, describing Cybil and Shuck’s reaction in great detail when she announced the elopement. She told Molly about the part where Gage stepped in and omitted the rest. Sabrina was sure that the vague dénouement would pique Molly’s curiosity, but her friend seemed to be paying more attention to transferring tiny sizzling dumplings into a serving dish.
“I turned into the most profligate shopper in Paris,” she confessed, putting the sauté pan in the sink. “I discovered the most delightful fabric stores in Montmartre. Come see.”
Molly had converted Sabrina’s former bedroom into a combination sewing space and repository for spare furniture. Half-finished quilts were strewn over a bed, along with cotton batting and quilting blocks. Molly took craftiness to a whole new level. She had a particular flair for taking throwaway clothing — scraps cut from antique dressing gowns, kimonos and saris — and stitching them into intricate, asymmetrical patterns. Sabrina, whose prowess with a needle and thread began and ended with sewing on buttons, was in awe of her best friend’s skill.
“First things first.” Molly dug around in an ancient rucksack and produced a small carrier bag. Sabrina’s eyes widened when she saw the Les Salons Du Palais Royal Shiseido logo.
“Rahat Loukoum,” Sabrina breathed as she clasped the Serge Lutens bell jar to her bosom. “I forgive you completely for ditching me at your wedding.”
“I knew you’d be a pushover for the perfume. But that’s not the only reason I asked you to come over tonight.” She gave Sabrina a worried look.
“No dodging, Molls. I beg of you.”
“No dodging,” Molly agreed. She took a deep breath. “Your house.”
“What about it?”
“Brini, you’re in deep.”
“You’ve been talking to Nola,” Sabrina grumbled.
“I always talk to Nola, remember? Sit. Talk to me now.” Molly pulle
d one of the quilts away and patted the side of the bed.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sabrina told her as they sat. “I should have never asked Jackson to sign over his interest. It’s just that simple.”
“Well, Sebastian and I put our heads together,” Molly said. “I think we might have a solution to your cash flow problem.”
Sabrina was moved. “That’s sweet, Molls. But unless you’re planning a bank heist, I’ll have to put my home on the market. I can’t find anyone to lease the spare bedroom to — at least no one sane.”
And no housemate would be permanent, she reminded herself. There was the future to consider. It was unrealistic to assume that one person would rent a room from her for a long period of time. Sabrina would have to rely on one stranger after the next. Each would come into her home with her own quirks, habits, and possibly a lot of terrible furniture.
She couldn’t abide it.
“Sebastian and I found you a boarder — a good one,” Molly announced with a smile. “We’ll both vouch for him.”
“Him?”
“I know, I know. Having a man in your personal space isn’t what you want right now. But it is a solution, Brini. He’s gainfully employed, and he’s as honest as the day is long. He won’t make any passes.”
“Why not?” Sabrina wondered aloud. “Is he gay?”
“No.” Molly giggled. “He’s old-fashioned.”
“Just how ‘old-fashioned’ are we talking about?” Sabrina asked. “Mr. Darcy? Professor Bhaer?”
“Think Richard Collier in ‘Somewhere in Time.’ Sebastian’s known him since forever. Can you imagine any of his friends taking liberties?”
That was the problem. One already had. “Do I know him?” Sabrina asked.
“Hmm.” Molly tilted her head and studied the corner of the room. “I don’t think Sebastian and I have introduced you to him. Actually, I’m sure we haven’t.”
“So what’s his story?” Sabrina asked, resigned.
“The lease on his place is up, and he wants to rent something that’s less expensive. It’s as simple as that. Talk to him,” Molly cajoled.
Something About You (Just Me & You) Page 8