I pulled out of my garage and headed to the home improvement store. There, I gathered so many paint chips I could set up a display in my house.
I then drove to the closest mall, not only so I would know where it was, but so I could buy a few books.
Only then did I go home.
I put the paint chips in a kitchen drawer. I’d go through them after the house sale and when I’d lived at Cliff Blue awhile so I knew what the walls needed (and incidentally, I loved that name and determined to refer to my house by its name even on the address labels I would order when I had the Internet).
Instead, I did something I’d never done in my life (though part of it I couldn’t do as in La Jolla I had a house on a golf course, not by a beach). Something I’d never even considered doing.
I spent time with me.
I did this lying on my couch with a glass of wine. I sometimes read. I sometimes stared at the sea.
I then had another glass of wine.
And then another.
As I did it, I realized I liked doing it, reading, sipping, staring at the sea. So much so, I didn’t think to have dinner.
And finally, I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up there hours later, I didn’t do what I would have done simply because my mother would decree it wasn’t appropriate to sleep in your clothes on your couch.
I didn’t drag myself to bed.
Instead, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep in my clothes on my couch.
I didn’t sleep great and woke up with a pain in my shoulder.
Regardless, for some reason, I woke up feeling satisfied.
* * * * *
I waited until Tuesday afternoon to text the kids and let them know I was doing a house sale to get rid of some of the old in order to start anew. I invited them to come over and go through their things should they wish to get rid of anything. And I shared the proceeds would go to the local junior boxing league.
I didn’t want to text them the day before, the Monday after they left, because I didn’t want them to get the feeling with me again being in the same town, I’d suffocate them with pathological communication. Nor that I’d pester them with good intentions.
I just wanted to seem normal.
And I hoped that was normal.
* * * * *
It might have been normal, it might not.
I didn’t know.
Neither of them replied.
* * * * *
On Wednesday, I had lunch and made grand schemes for a blowout house sale to benefit the Magdalene junior boxing league with the yin and yang of breathtakingly beautiful blondes.
First, there was the classy, sophisticated Josie, who scarily reminded me of my parents at first. Then I saw her interact with the dazzling but brash, take-me-as-I-come-or-kiss-off Alyssa, who my parents would detest.
After watching that, even if Josie still seemed somewhat formal, it clearly was only part of a complicated personality and the rest was all good.
They’d come without children, which was a little disappointing. They’d also told me there was no way we’d get through this without roping in all the children (apparently, all the junior boxing moms had tons of stuff they wanted to unload and most of them were willing to help).
So blowout house sale it would be.
And two possible friends I would have.
That was good.
* * * * *
It was bad that I waited until Sunday to text my own children again to remind them I was having a house sale, it would be that next Saturday, and they had the opportunity to unload old stuff and jump on new. I shared that it’d make me happy if they replied sooner rather than later as plans were in full swing (and they were, both Josie and Alyssa had jobs, but they also both had more energy than I felt was natural, coupled with a driving desire to make huge amounts of money).
I also invited Auden and Pippa to come to the house sale if they felt like it.
I did this, but again, neither of them replied.
* * * * *
The next week and a half I designed, had printed, put up and gave out fliers, put ads in various papers, opened my door and accepted a multitude of drop offs from a variety of moms of budding boxers. I even talked the local radio station into sharing the event and made plans to offer refreshments (for sale, of course) in order to make this house sale all it could be.
When Alyssa came by to drop off her items and she caught sight of some of the things I was letting go, I also sent Alyssa home with two boxes of free stuff she had to have. We had a good-natured fight over the fact I wouldn’t let her pay for any of it but she only gave in because she left three filled boxes that she intended to pick up on the big day and pay for, which she’d marked on the sides with a Sharpie, “Alyssa’s, touch and you’ll be hunted! Dig me?”
During this time, I let my children be.
* * * * *
Two days before the house sale, I texted the kids to remind them it was happening and again to invite them to come if they wanted.
* * * * *
They didn’t reply.
Chapter Three
Clean Palette
The evening before the house sale, I was in my kitchen, running on empty.
I was ready…mostly.
There were items all over the place with some stacked at the doors to put out in the front yard and on the deck. These items were arranged (and then rearranged, and in some cases re-rearranged) so they were displayed attractively. They all had price tags. There were signs directing folks to rooms with more stuff for sale.
And I was in the kitchen baking.
I’d found some cute plastic bags with happy designs on the sides at a craft store that I’d decided to put my snickerdoodles in and then tied them with big, bright extravagant bows. Same with my chocolate chip cookies. Also with peanut butter cookies with mini Reese’s cups shoved in. They were lying all over the countertop, on tiered plates (plates that were for sale) or on platters (also for sale).
They were all bagged, tagged and ready.
And I was currently working on my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes with pastel flower sprinkles. Cupcakes that were delicious, but with that glossy dollop of white icing decorated with sprinkles, they were also kid magnets.
I’d sell out of those in fifteen minutes.
Guaranteed.
I’d made big vats of lemonade and iced tea I was going to put in my fancy crystal (for sale) and not-as-fancy-but-still-fancy glass (also for sale) drink dispensers. I had bottles of water chilling in the fridge in the garage with bags of ice in both my freezers that I was going to put into attractive buckets and also sell.
Now, it was eight o’clock and I’d been going nonstop since the day before—no, actually for the last week.
I’d dropped into bed the night before at midnight. But I needed to go to bed that night and I’d needed to do that two hours ago.
Instead, I was arranging glossy frosting blobs on cupcakes and I had a dozen more in the oven baking.
Those were the last ones.
Then I’d get a glass of wine, a shower and hit my bed.
If after that last dozen I had all that in me.
On this thought, my doorbell rang and for once, I didn’t exult in the beautiful chimes.
No, I fought the urge to throttle whatever late-arriving mom of a budding boxer who was going to dump a load of crap that I had to tag and arrange after eight o’clock the night prior to the big day that we’d advertised I was opening my doors at seven in the morning.
I dropped the spoon in the bowl and made my way to the door, seeing through the shadowed panes there was more than one body out there and one of them was not a mom of a budding boxer, but the dad of one.
That figured and I should have known.
Men didn’t know any better.
I flipped the locks, opening the door arranging my features so they were pleasant, not murderous, and then completely arrested.
“Hey,” Mickey Donovan greeted, s
tanding at my door looking unfairly attractive in a pair of faded jeans, a beat up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, another five o’clock shadow adorning his strong jaw.
He had two other beings with him, two beings I didn’t take in because first, Mickey was grinning, second, he looked unfairly attractive in his casual clothing, and third, he was holding a huge box filled with stuff I knew I would need to tag and arrange, which meant wine and shower were out. It was going to be tag, arrange and bed.
“Jesus, did heaven crash into your living room?”
I moved but only to blink.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Amelia, darlin’, whatever you’re doin’ in there smells like it could only come from the hand of God.”
Wow.
That felt good. So good. Unusually good.
Abnormally good.
And it felt good because I loved to bake. I’d fallen in love with it all the way back in junior high school home economics class.
However, when I’d taken over my parents’ vast kitchen in order to enjoy my newfound hobby, my mother moved immediately to curtail these activities.
“We have staff to do that kind of thing, Amelia,” she’d rebuked. “Not to mention, a lady should do all in her power to shy away from sweets.”
Unfortunately, years later, when these tethers were severed and I might have been freed to bake at my leisure, more were tied because Conrad had felt the same.
“You’re gonna give me a gut, little bird,” he’d told me after the second time I’d baked him cookies. He’d then given me a meaningful look. “And you want to avoid getting one too.”
I thought, when the kids came, I could indulge, kids being kids and liking cookies and glossy, frosting-topped cupcakes with sprinkles.
But I’d been wrong. Conrad had acted like any sugar they consumed was akin to feeding our children poison.
In fact, he told me it was poison, “And should be avoided at all costs, pookie.”
Thus I’d been reduced to sneaking them cupcakes, cookies, pies and cakes when their dad was away at conferences.
Other than that, I’d buried that part of me.
And I had to admit, when I’d started baking hours ago, no matter how tired I was, I’d lost myself in it.
It was just that now the fatigue had settled deep, I wasn’t enjoying it as much.
Regardless, Mickey was right. The house smelled like a bakery. Sugary and sweet.
And heavenly.
Thus I decided right then I was going to bake again. For me. For the kids.
In fact, the next time they came maybe I’d get them to stay home and in my presence for more than five minutes, bribing them with cupcakes.
“Earth calling Amelia. You there, babe?”
I shook my head sharply and focused on Mickey, who was calling me, laughter in his deep voice, that and his saying my name with that laughter doing things to me I refused to feel.
“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“I bet it has,” he murmured, his eye on me dancing (something I refused to see). He hefted the box in his arms an inch. “Junior called, said the big day was tomorrow. You didn’t tell me.”
I didn’t and not because I was avoiding him (which I also was) but because I completely forgot.
“I didn’t, Mickey,” I admitted. “I’m so sorry.”
He kept grinning. “No apologies, babe. Not lost on me your house has been a hub of activity the past week. But the kids and I had a troll through our place and thought we’d pop these by to do our bit.”
“And to get a cupcake.”
This came from one of the beings with him and I finally gave my attention to the boy and girl that were standing on either side of Mickey. Taking them in, I saw that Mickey and his ex-wife had flip-flopped what Conrad and I had created.
This included his daughter clearly being the oldest and looking a lot like her father, except female, shorter and very curvy to the point of being a little plump, still carrying what was probably some pre-adolescent baby fat.
His boy had dark blond hair, but luckily got his father’s blue eyes. He also had a body that had yet to declare its full intentions seeing as, at a guess, Mickey’s daughter was around thirteen or fourteen and his son was maybe ten or eleven.
“My girl, Aisling,” he said, jerking his head to the girl. “Said starting with the Ash, but spelled Irish with an a, i and s.” This came out practiced and I knew he’d given his girl a beautiful name but one many messed up. “Cillian, also spelled Irish,” he stated, jerking his head the other way, to the boy. “Spelled with a c not a k.”
“Got it,” I mumbled. “Ash with an a, i, s and kill. I’ll be certain to get that right on your Christmas card.” This made Mickey smile, Cillian grin and Aisling’s blue eyes twinkle like her dad’s. “How about the three of you come in, drop that and get a cupcake?” I invited.
“Awesome,” Cillian decreed and raced in, straight to the kitchen, something that caused a pang around my heart, most likely because I wished just one of my own children had done that.
“Thanks, uh…Miz…” Aisling said, allowing that to hang.
“Miz nothing,” I replied on a smile to her, moving out of the way. “I’m Amelia.”
She looked to her father as he shifted into the house, then nodded to me and followed him.
I closed the door behind them and repeated my invitation. “Help yourself to a cupcake. Or a bag of cookies if you prefer.”
Aisling wandered toward the kitchen.
“Just sayin’,” Mickey started and I looked to him to see he’d put the box on the floor at the lip of the top step to the sunken living room. “My kids aren’t allowed to call adults by their given names.”
“Oh,” I murmured, feeling rattled, thinking I’d put my foot in it.
“Not a big deal,” he said quietly and quickly, then came another of his easy grins. “She wouldn’t have called you Amelia anyway. She woulda probably avoided calling you anything until the go-ahead was given to call you Aunt Amelia, which is how they address their elders that they’re tight with.”
It would seem that Mickey was kind of strict with his kids.
I didn’t know how to take this outside of reminding myself it wasn’t mine to take in any way. So I just nodded.
“And also just sayin’,” he went on, talking lower, “you’ve worked your ass off, that’s plain to see.” He tossed a hand toward the room. “So we’ll unload this and tag it. Not cool for us to dump last minute shit on you.”
It felt good he noticed.
I still didn’t think it was healthy for him to hang around (this being healthy for me), so I assured him, “That’s very nice but I’ll be okay. Your box is small, it won’t take too long.”
He didn’t look assured and he didn’t look this for a while and this was because he did it studying me.
Then he asked, “You doin’ okay?”
I thought that was an odd question so I answered, “Sure.”
He kept studying me as he continued, “You eatin’?”
It was then I realized I hadn’t had anything except licking the spatula of cupcake batter since I had my Cream of Wheat that morning.
“I’m fine, Mickey,” I told him.
He didn’t stop studying me for several moments before he looked to the kitchen, murmuring, “It’ll be good this sale gets done, you can settle in and then relax.”
He was wrong.
I had been relaxing a good long while.
Now I needed to kick my own behind for a variety of reasons.
“Yes, it will,” I fibbed and kept on doing it. “When tomorrow’s done, it’ll all be good.”
“Help with that,” he stated. “Sunday, I’ll get in the food and the booze and you come over. I’ll fire up the grill, cook some brats, some chicken. You kick back with a beer and shoot the shit with me and my kids, get as loose as you want.” He awarded me another grin with dancing blue eyes, something I wanted at
the same time I wished fervently he wouldn’t keep giving them to me. “You need me to pour you into my truck to drive you across the street at the end of the night, won’t be any skin off my nose.”
As good as his comment about my house smelling like heaven felt, that invitation felt the same amount of bad.
A bad I wasn’t allowed to feel.
A bad that I felt because no man who was interested in a woman in a certain way would bring his kids over to her house on the spur of the moment then invite her over for a Sunday cookout to “kick back” and “get loose.”
A man who was interested in a woman would carefully time and meticulously plan such meetings with progeny, and they would happen only after he knew he wanted the woman he was inviting to be invited again.
And again.
Until she stayed, maybe forever.
Or, at least, that was what I would do with my kids.
And that was what Conrad did with them. Unfortunately, when he started these endeavors, he’d still been married to me.
“Jesus, Amelia, you asleep on your feet?” Mickey asked and again I jerked to attention and focused on him.
“Sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I’ve got my mind on a million things.”
Before Mickey could reply, “I don’t know what to pick!” was shouted from the kitchen.
We both turned that way to see Cillian standing amongst the sprinkled cupcakes and bags of cookies looking like he’d just been let into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but hadn’t been given the go ahead to make a glutton of himself.
“Take whatever you want, Cillian,” I called.
Cillian’s eyes grew so huge at this offer I nearly burst out laughing.
“Miz…uh…hey!” Aisling called back to me. “You want me to finish frosting these?” She pointed at the unfrosted cupcakes.
“She’s good at that shit,” Mickey muttered, his voice sounding further away and I turned then tucked my chin to see him crouched by his box. He tipped his head back to catch my eyes. “Let her do it.”
“I…” I looked to Aisling and suggested, “How about we do it together?”
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