Love on the Lido Deck

by Barbara Oliverio

  After four years learning the event-planning business in San Francisco, here I was back in Denver, organizing some of the events that, once upon a time, I would have been on the guest list for. My business had come along so well that I was able to hire Juliet, who at this moment was snapping her fingers at me attempting to get my attention.

  “Keira? KEIRA! What do you want me to order?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Were you even listening to me?” She pursed her lips. “I said that the Witheroes are not happy that the only choices there are for linens are eggshell and white. I can’t exactly have the country club order brand-new linens, not on the budget we’re stuck with. And don’t get ME started on the fact that eggshell and white are, for all intents and purposes, the same.”

  “Ah. But Patrice Ellington Witheroe must have some reason for her stubbornness on this point. Let me make a call.”

  I picked up the phone and punched in a number I would never forget.

  “Maeve Graham,” answered the familiar voice.

  “Mother, it’s me.” My mouth curled into a smile thinking of my mother probably just getting back from a charity breakfast, slipping off her impeccable heels to put on the comfy pink slippers I had knit for her when I was eight and going through my crafts phase.

  “Keira, my sweet”—I heard the love in her voice—”I was just thinking about you. Can you come over for tea and let me show you the new mare we’ve gotten in?”

  My mother lived on the 35-acre estate that my father had inherited in tony horse country right outside the city. It was where I grew up, and the word home to me always conjured up the sounds of horses in the background. The stables were not as full as they once were, but she still had a number of our own horses as well as some that she boarded.

  “Sorry, Mother, but I am slammed with work.”

  “Oh.” I heard the disappointment in her voice. Then she brightened. “That’s okay, I’ll see you at the Witheroe wedding this weekend, won’t I?”

  “Mother, you’ll see me there but as the event planner, remember? Not as a guest.” Although she had been the source of most of my first leads when I started my own event-planning service in Denver, my mother sometimes forgot that I was the hired help now.

  “Of course, dear,” she paused.

  “Mother, is something wrong?”

  “No, no. I just haven’t had time to visit with you in awhile. I’d like to chat ... you know ... girl to girl.”

  What? Girl to girl? Had she been reading magazine articles on mother-daughter togetherness? We’ve always had a good relationship, but if she suddenly decided to follow some strange trend in family togetherness—eek!

  “Keira? Darling, you called me. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  “What? Oh!” I had forgotten the purpose of my call. Ever since my father died, I felt the need to take care of my mother. I had even moved back home from my own apartment until she found a good manager for the stables. Once she seemed to be back on her regular routine, I moved back to my own digs in the Washington Park neighborhood. At times like this, though, I tended to overanalyze her every word. Was she getting lonely on the estate? Hmm. No, I was sure everything was all right.

  Back to the business of the call.

  “Mother, let me ask you this. Is there a reason why Tish Witheroe is not happy with the country club’s linens for her daughter’s wedding reception?”

  My mother laughed.

  “Keira! Don’t you remember? At Polly’s Sweet Sixteen, the country club decorated with the eggshell cloths, and Tish thought she looked yellow in all the photographs. She completely neglected the fact that she had chosen a dress that perfectly matched the color of Big Bird’s feathers.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Oh, that’s right! Mother, thanks so much! Look,” I continued not more than a little guiltily, “I can move some things around. If you promise some butterscotch brownies, I’ll stop by after dinner tomorrow.”

  “Keira, you may think that making those brownies is work for me, but it’s not. I’ll see you tomorrow, dear. I love you.”

  “Love you!”

  I hung up, tapped my fingers on my desk aimlessly for a minute, then swung my chair around to Juliet.

  “I have it, Jules.”

  “Well, it better be something good.”

  “Tell Mrs. Witheroe that the linens are a shade called, oh, I don’t know, panache. Then make sure that the lighting is a flattering shade of pink. Everything will turn out for the best.”

  “Genius!”

  “Of course,” I sniffed. As if there were any doubt.

  Chapter Two

  I pulled my little car up the long, winding driveway that led to my childhood home, slowing only long enough to put the window down to breathe in the luxurious scent of the many flowering shrubs and bushes that lined the way. Although my mother still maintained a gardener on staff—who wouldn’t with that much property?—she was very hands-on in the selection of the actual flowers and shrubs. She loved the colors and scents and wanted to make sure they were always just so.

  I paused at my favorite place to take in the wisteria that lined the west wall of the house itself. Wisteria are tricky and don’t necessarily bloom every year, and rarely bloom in Colorado at all. This wall was my mother’s pride and joy and the envy of her garden club sisters.

  I must have been parked a bit too long, because a trim figure with a neat ash-blond bob soon appeared on the porch.

  “Keira?” called out my mother in her patrician school tones. “What are you doing, dear?”

  “Just appreciating my wisteria, Mama, as if you didn’t know.” I had claimed the wisteria long ago, and my father told me the reason he planted them was just for me. I smiled when I remembered how as a tiny tot, I couldn’t pronounce the name of the flower but still knew it was mine.

  “Kee-wah’s wist-ee-we-ah?”

  “Exactly, Kee. Always your wisteria,” my father affirmed.

  I pulled the car the rest of the way into the rounded drive in front of the house, jumped out, and leaped up on the porch to embrace my mother. Mmm. Arpege. As sweet as the flowers were, the scent of my mother’s classic perfume was always home to me.

  “Well, sweetheart, they aren’t doing as well as they should this year. William has been babying them, but I’m afraid he might have a bigger job on his hands than he thought.”

  “What? They’re gorgeous!” I walked her over to lean across the rail to get a better view.

  She shook her head.

  “He’s been working especially hard. I wish I had Marco D’Agostino here to advise him,” she said, referring to my friend Alexandria’s father, who ran a nursery back East. “These gardens are just an indulgence for me, I’m afraid, but I do so love them out here in front.”

  I nudged her.

  “Trying to hide the ponies in the back?”

  She smiled. “Now, you know I love everything about those horses! Sometimes, though, even with as great a manager as Martin, the stables seem so ... big and unwieldy.”

  What was this? My mother was sounding like a wistful heroine in a bad romance novel!

  “Mother! What’s up? You sound like Camille making her dying speech.”

  Wait ... she wanted to talk to me ... girl to girl ... oh no ... could she be ...

  “Mama, you’re not ...”

  She saw the panic in my eyes and immediately hugged me.

  “No, sweetie, I’m healthy as a horse.”

  I gave her a friendly punch on the arm. “Ha, ha. You’d think that joke would have worn out its welcome in this house!” Well, she had diffused the situation with one of my father’s favorite corny sayings, but it only made my heart catch. What was up with me? Next thing you know, I’d be weeping uncontrollably, and THAT was just not my style!

  “Keira, come in, because those brownies are not going to eat themselves.”

  We walked through the marble foyer past the elaborate living room down to th
e elegant kitchen, which had not changed much since I was a little girl.

  “How’s Rose?” I asked, referring to her live-in cook.

  “She went to visit her oldest daughter. You remember Tessa? She graduated nursing school and is working in a hospital in Nebraska.”

  “Oh, right.” I considered. “So it’s just you tonight? What did you have for dinner?”

  My mother laughed.

  “You needn’t worry, Keira. If I can operate the oven to make brownies, I can operate the rest of the equipment in the kitchen to make my own dinner.” My mother’s grand party days had slowly diminished over the years, and Rose had not had to prepare as many elaborate meals as she once did, so she was really less of a cook and more of a companion to my mother.

  “So where are these brownies, lady?” I joked as I climbed onto one of the high stools surrounding the maple counters.

  My mother unwrapped a tray of delicious-smelling treats and brought them over, along with a pitcher of fresh iced tea, and sat next to me. I grabbed a brownie and took a big bite.

  “Mmm. Mother, these are sooooooo good!”

  “Always your favorites.” She picked up one, too, and took a bite that was considerably more dainty.

  We sat in a companionable silence for a minute before I took a chance on opening this “girl to girl” talk she wanted to have.

  “So,” we both started at the same time and burst into nervous laughter.

  “You go,” I said.

  “No, you,” she said.

  More silence.

  “This is ridiculous, Mother.” I felt like we were in a bad sitcom. “You said you wanted to talk to me ‘girl-to-girl.’ Now, unless you’ve taken your cue from endless episodes of some program on the Lifetime Channel, something is up. Spill!”

  She dabbed at her mouth delicately with her napkin—private Catholic girls’ school training had not been wasted on Maeve Graham—then cleared her throat and dropped a bomb on me.

  “Keira, I’ve been dating a nice gentleman, and it’s becoming serious.”

  I was dumbstruck.

  “Keira? ... Keira! Say something!”

  I paused. I wanted to make sure that just exactly the right mature, calm words would come out of my mouth. Then I spoke.

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? HOW CAN YOU BECOME SERIOUS WITH SOMEONE? DADDY HASN’T BEEN DEAD ALL THAT LONG. I FORBID IT!”

  Um. Perhaps not so mature.

  “You forbid it?” To my mother’s credit, she was very calm.

  I mentally stepped back. After all, I had gone to private Catholic girls’ school as well. I could be ladylike.

  “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”

  Oh. Yes. That was soooo much better.

  My mother cleared her throat.

  “Keira! Listen to yourself. You sound like you are five years old.”

  “I do not!”

  Just kept getting worse! I jumped off the stool and ran to the window and looked out across the back grounds. That didn’t help. All I saw were the stables. Daddy’s stables. I whipped around.

  “Mother,” I started patiently. “Who? What? Why?” I trailed off.

  She walked over to me, looped her arm through mine and walked me over to the small bay window seat where we spent many cozy winter mornings.

  “Here. Sit.” She sat down and patted the seat beside her.

  I plopped down, staring straight ahead, my green eyes blazing.

  “Keira, baby, do you really think your father would want me to spend the rest of my life alone? Was that the type of person he was? He and I had discussions about things like this long ago. We each decided that the best way to honor the love we had for one another if one of us died would be to find another companion in life.”

  I turned to her. “But—”

  “No. Let me finish.” Her tone became firmer, and her own green eyes bored into mine.

  “I’m not a child, dear. I’m past sixty. I can make my own decisions. Your father has been dead nearly ten years. I’ve been through a mourning period. Russell has come along and is a fine man.”

  Hmph. Russell. What kind of name is that? Sounded more like a vacuum cleaner.

  “Keira, I know you. I know exactly what’s going on in your head. You’re judging him by his name right now.”

  My head drooped down guiltily. If anyone could read me, it was my mother.

  “But—”

  “Keira.” She shook her head. “You need to calm down. This is not about forgetting your father. This is about me making the best of the rest of my life. Can you at least see that and be happy for me?”

  I pulled my legs up and hugged them close. I managed to calm down enough to be polite.

  “I’m sorry, Mama, but you have to admit, you sprang this on me kinda fast!”

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  “Well, how would you have me do it? Send you a save-the-date to tell you I had some news, then run a PR campaign?”

  I gave her a wry look. If there was any doubt as to where I got my sarcastic tendencies ...

  “No. But you have to admit—”

  “Yes, I admit this announcement was pretty quick. But now that the Band-Aid has been torn off, so to speak, do you have any questions? And I mean thoughtful questions,” she amended when she saw the look in my eye.

  I thought for a moment.

  “Okay. Where did you meet this Russell?”

  “Keira. Please don’t call him ‘this Russell’ like he’s a crook of some sort.”

  “Well, now that you mention it. How do you know he’s not after you for your money? It’s not exactly a secret that you’re wealthy.”

  “Right, Keira. He found my name in ‘Rich Widows Monthly.’ We’re all posted in there.” My mother shook her head at me.

  And my friends think I’M the snarky one!

  “We met at church, if you must know.”

  Right. Like men out to troll for rich widows wouldn’t haunt churches.

  “He is the new director of family development programs at the archdiocese, and Father Anthony had him over for dinner at the rectory with those of us on the parish council.”

  Oh. Rats. Who could argue with that pedigree?

  “How long have you been dating?”

  “Six months.”

  I jumped up.

  “SIX MONTHS! AND YOU’RE SERIOUS ABOUT HIM? Not to mention I’m just hearing about him!”

  “Keira! Again, we’re not children! We are intelligent enough to enter into a serious relationship. We’ve both been married before. He was widowed about the same time I was. And why would I need to bother you with all the gentleman callers I’ve had that weren’t serious when you’ve been so busy?”

  I guiltily ignored the last part of that statement and pulled myself together.

  “Does he have children?” I asked patiently.

  “Why, are you worried that I’ll love them better than you?”

  “Well, I WASN’T, but now that you mention it—”

  “Calm down,” my mother said, smiling. “He doesn’t have children. And you know I couldn’t love anyone better than you.”

  She pulled me to her, laying my head on her shoulder.

  Hmm. Except this Russell character.

  She said quietly, “I would love him differently is all.”

  Love him. How could she even dare to use that word for anyone but my father? We sat quietly for a moment, then I raised my head to look at her.

  “Mother, you know I only want the best for you. This just hit me pretty hard! I’ll really be happy, really. Just give me some time.”

  “I know, baby, I know.”

  At that moment, we heard the doorbell ring.

  “That will be him.”

  “What?” My eyes were like saucers.

  “I asked him to come over so you could meet.”

  “Mama!”

  She got up, prettied herself in the mirror in the powder room off the kitchen, and with a girlish spring in her step started to walk th
rough the house to answer the door. Well, no getting out of this meeting now. I stood up to make myself a bit more presentable, making sure my blouse was neatly tucked and pulling my ponytail a bit tighter.

  I heard laughter approaching and imagined my mother’s boyfriend? sweetheart? gentleman caller?—I couldn’t even think of the correct term! I pictured a kindly widower with distinguished graying hair, the type of man you see on the golf course dressed nattily in a muted polo and tasteful khakis. I stood expectantly and watched my mother walk in, followed by the man who, let’s face it, could one day be my stepfather!

  “Keira, this is Russell Shaw. Russell, this is my Keira.”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  This guy was—what?—10 years younger than my mother! I was expecting polo and khakis, and he was in designer jeans. Gray hair with a receding hairline? Oh no, he was years away from gray. His full head of light-brown locks were shorn in a super trendy cut. And those shoes? Definitely not Naturalizers!

  I caught my mother’s stern look in the corner of my eye and pulled my debutante self together.

  “Sorry.” I gave myself a mental shake of the head. “Pleased to meet you. Would you join us for brownies and tea?”

  I ushered him to the counter.

  “Thank you, Keira.” He sat down, but I didn’t need to worry about serving him. My mother fluttered around with a sparkle in her eye and a skip in her step.

  “Russ, do you want to forego tea and have coffee in your usual cup?” she asked.

  His usual cup? He’d been around long enough to have a USUAL CUP?

  “Thanks, May-May.”

  Whoa! May-May? What was she, all of a sudden? A character in a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical?

  I pulled my phone conspicuously from my pocket.