by Dee Ernst
I sat up. “The cartoon? I loved that movie. The cute little guy with the nose, screaming, ‘There’s a giant on the beach’, and the two songs…” I actually sang “Faithful, Forever,” the whole first verse, before I realized I was making an ass of myself in front of some guy I didn’t even know.
But Mitch was applauding. “That was amazing. Really touching. A real tribute to one of the great love duets of modern cinema.”
I bowed my head modestly. “Like Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald.”
He nodded. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”
“Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.”
“Shirley Jones and Gordon McRae.”
I put my hand over my heart and closed my eyes. “Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon.”
He laughed. “Them too.”
He liked old movies. And he seemed so nice. “Well, the collection sounds exciting,” I said. “But that seems a long way to travel.”
Mitch shrugged again. “He says he’s got a bunch of original stuff, as well as discarded drawings. Collectors go nuts for that sort of stuff. I could make a bundle.”
I frowned. “By selling the stuff in your store?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve got an internet business that’s really taking off. The stores are fun, and they’re my bread and butter, but the real money in on the Web.”
Three stores. A web site. Real money. He was sounding less loser-like all the time. I was mulling over the faint possibilities when I was rudely interrupted.
Miranda slammed open the door. “Mom, I need to go home this afternoon so I can go with Megan to New York to see My Chemical Romance. She’s got an extra ticket. We’d take the train in, right to the Garden, and then go home after the show. Oh, and I need some spending money, too.”
I turned to my daughter. “Miranda, this is Mitch Wallace. Mitch, this is Miranda, my oldest daughter, who is no way going into New York by herself, and I don’t care if God himself is playing with a heavenly orchestra and full celestial choir.”
“Mom, Megan goes by herself all the time. The train is so safe, you know it is, and besides, you owe me for not letting me go to Green Day last winter.”
I counted to three. “You didn’t go to Green Day because there was a foot and a half of snow on the ground, and the only way to get into New York was by dogsled. I don’t care what Megan does by herself all the time, that’s Megan’s mother’s problem, not mine. And the train may safe for sixteen-year-old girls, but wandering around Penn Station in the middle of the night is not. No.”
“Well, what if you drive me and I meet Megan there? It’s a free ticket, Mom, please?”
“Drive? You want me to drive to New York and drop you off in front of Madison Square Garden, and do what? Sit in my car for three or four hours? And then drive back here?”
“Well, yeah, you’re not doing anything else, are you? I mean, you’ve just been sitting here sweaty and cranky all day.”
“No.”
“Mom, it’s My Chemical Romance. I really love them.”
“Then buy the CD.”
“It’s a free ticket.”
“Then you’ve nothing to lose.”
“It’s not that far a drive to the City”
“Yes, it is, and it costs a fortune to park, and you know how temperamental Johnson gets in traffic. And if you argue any more, you’ll piss me off. No.”
She stomped out. I glanced over at Mitch.
“Johnson?” he asked.”
“That’s the van. It’s been having radiator issues.”
“Why did you name your van Johnson?” He suddenly grinned. “The actor?”
“Yeah. I love old movies.”
“Me too.” He sipped. “Sixteen is a tough age,” he observed. “You have other kids?”
“Twins. Fourteen. That’s a tough age too.”
He whistled. “Twins, huh? Are they identical?”
I sighed. “They used to be.” I heard a familiar thumping on the stair. I looked at Mitch. “I think they waited all day until they saw you come to the door, then drew straws to see who would come down first.”
Jessica slunk onto the porch. “Mom, can you take me up to Sandy Hook? They’re thinking about closing down the nude beach there, and a bunch of us want to go up to protest.”
I looked at her. She had decided not to re-dye her hair Ghastly Black, so there was a wide strip of soft brown at her roots, then black, and then a fringe of what was supposed to have been hot pink, but against all that black had only gotten as far as maroon. Since henna tattoos were all over the Jersey shore, she had three: a chain around her left calf, a spider on her wrist, and a green heart on her cheek. I refused to give her permission for any more piercings after the fourth hole in her left ear, but the fake nose ring looked very convincing. She was dressed in a black, long-sleeved tee shirt, black shorts that came below her knees, and black high-top sneakers. Her typical beachwear.
“Jessica, you won’t even show your navel. What do you care if they close down the nude beach or not?”
“God, it’s not about me, it’s about the freedom to express yourself.” She put her hands on her hips. “Listen, I know it’s hot, and you’re probably cranky, but try to think of somebody other than yourself. A lot of people use that beach every day, and it’s not fair to close it.”
“It’s also not fair that I have to drive up there and sit around and watch a bunch of naked people carrying signs, either. No.”
She looked horrified. “Mom, we aren’t going to be naked.”
“Of course you are. It’s a nude beach, for God’s sake. As a show of solidarity, everyone will have to be nude.”
“But that’s gross.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve seen some of the people who go to that beach. Lots of old guys. Gray and pudgy.”
“The women,” Mitch added, “are pretty gray and pudgy too. I remember going there as a kid, hoping to see a bunch of hot girls, and everyone was about sixty and sagging.”
“That’s really disgusting,” Jessica said. She looked at him with interest. “Who are you?”
“Mitch. Who are you?”
“Jessica. And you really used to go there? I mean, you’re not just trying to gross me out?”
“I really used to go there,” Mitch continued. “And when there were young girls around, all those old men got, you know, excited.”
“Yuck,” she growled, then skulked back into the house.
I gave him a look. “Did you really used to go to the nude beach?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Never. I’d have been too embarrassed. I was kind of a nerdy kid.”
“Well, good bluff,” I said as I gazed at Mitch approvingly. “Very well done.”
He shrugged. “No problem. I was just following your lead, which was quite good.”
I tried to look modest. “Well, with three of them, I’ve developed skills beyond those of mortal man.”
“I take it that was the evil twin?”
“You could tell?”
He nodded. “The cloven feet were a dead giveaway.”
I sighed. “Yes, that’s usually what does it. Here comes her bizarro world counterpart now.”
“Mom.” Lauren looked apologetic. “Mrs. Wilson is volunteering at the soup kitchen on Thursdays, and I told her I would help in the morning, but I saw her just a few minutes ago and she’s going over now, so can I drive over with her? I can always walk back if I want to leave before she does.”
“Honey, you don’t have to walk. Just call me, and I’ll pick you up. Unless you want to throw one of the bikes in the back of her car? Then you can bike home.”
She brightened. “Great idea. Thanks, Mom.” She smiled at Mitch. “I’m Lauren.”
He nodded. “Mitch.”
“Nice to meet you, Mitch. Okay, Mom, I’ll call if I’m going to be late.” And off she bounced.
Mitch whistled softly. “Wow. I bet she makes you crazy in a whole different way.”
I laug
hed. “Oh, God, yes. Another drink?”
He nodded, and as I was pouring. I saw his eyes go over my shoulder and his eyebrows go up in surprise. “Wow,” he said. “She looks like a million bucks.”
I turned. Patricia was standing outside, wearing a yellow sundress and sunglasses, looking cool, sleek and beautiful.
I looked at Mitch. “You,” I told him, “are not even close.”
I stood up and flew out the door. I hadn’t seen her all summer. I gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad to see you,” I gushed. “But how on earth did you find me?”
She smiled knowingly. “I just got a new car and it’s got one of those GPU things in it that tells you where to go. Very nice. And the voice sounds just like Cary Grant. I had to pay extra for that, but it was worth it.” She was following me onto the porch.
Mitch had stood up. Such a gentleman. “Actually, it’s a GPS. Hi, I’m Mitch Wallace.”
She took his hand. “Patricia Carmichael.” She was looking around. She’d never been to the shore house in all the years we’d been friends. “This is charming, Mona. I could live on this porch. Of course, I’d need something to cool me off.”
I grinned. “Coming up.” I went back into the kitchen, grabbed another glass for her Mojito, and was back on the porch in time to hear them laughing over something that somebody said that I hadn’t heard because I was in the kitchen, and I felt a twinge. Of what, I wasn’t sure. But it was a definite twinge.
“Thank you, darling,” Patricia said, floating over to the table. “I’ll pour. You look done in, poor baby. The heat is ghastly. How are the girls?”
“Good,” I told her. “They were hibernating in the air conditioning upstairs, until they realized Mitch was here. Then they trooped down here like little soldiers.”
“Yes, well that’s understandable. God forbid something should be happening and they’re not in the loop.”
“I’m really glad to see you, Patricia, but what the hell are you doing down here?”
“My goddaughter is getting married in December, I think I told you that, and her insufferable mother is throwing her a shower this weekend. The whole mess is in Philadelphia, and although it’s not exactly on the way, I so infrequently get down this far I thought I’d swing by.” She took another long sip and settled herself in a chair. “This is heaven. You can hear the ocean from here.” She tilted her head dreamily. “Heaven.” She took a sip of her drink. “A Mojito, right? How splendid.”
“Thanks,” I said modestly. “It’s Doug’s recipe.”
Patricia leaned forward. “Well, it’s yummy,” she said. “Are you married, Mitch?”
Mitch shook his head. “Nope.”
She looked thoughtful. “Are you gay?”
Mitch smiled. “Nope again.”
“Then what is it? You’re attractive, and well-spoken. You aren’t one of those hopeless types still living with your parents, are you?”
I closed my eyes and groaned inwardly, but Mitch was laughing.
“Actually,” he told her, “my parents live with me. I’ve got a big old Victorian, complete with an old barn and a guest house. A few years ago, my Dad had a pretty bad heart attack. I had the whole guest house done over for them. Everything’s on one level, handicapped accessible, ‘cause my dad has a real problem with steps now. So they live behind me, and I can keep an eye on them. My Mom still bakes me cookies every Sunday. It works out well for all of us.” He shrugged. “I just ended a relationship with a woman who’d been telling me for eight years she didn’t believe in commitment, and she broke off with me to marry her boss. I think I have bad taste in women.”
Patricia looked sympathetic. “Yes, well, I’m sure there’s a twelve-step program for that.” She smiled, then frowned as a shrill voice made it’s way around the corner of the house.
It was Vicki, tottering up the steps and through the screened door on very high heels.
“Mitch, are you here?” She was wearing a float-y sort of sleeveless dress and a huge sunhat. “Did you find Mona?”
Mitch did not look thrilled to see his sister. “No, I’m not here. And I’m still looking for Mona. Any helpful hints?”
She had that ‘Oh, you silly thing’ look on her face. “I just stopped by Scott’s house, and you know what he told me?”
Mitch thought a moment. “’Luke, I’m your father?’”
She was still being patient, and she waved the book that she was holding in her hand. “No, Mitch.”
He frowned. “Luke, I’m your mother?”
“No,” she said flatly, patience apparently gone. Although Patricia looked highly amused. “He said you turned down his invitation to dinner tomorrow night.”
Mitch explained. “I was walking to the beach, and a bleach blond guy in a Speedo comes running out from a forest of pink flamingos and insists I stop by for hand-rolled lobster chimichangas. Of course I turned him down.”
Vicki made a tut-tut noise. “Not very friendly of you,” she scolded. “Especially since I’ve heard he makes killer chimichangas.”
“He does,” I said to Mitch. “The lobster ones are to die for.”
Mitch frowned. “But he didn’t even know who I was. Why would he run out in the middle of the street to invite a total stranger to dinner?”
I thought. “He probably liked your legs. Scott’s like that.”
“Anyway,” Vicki said loudly, “it was rude. You shouldn’t be rude to my neighbors.”
I looked apologetically at Mitch. “She’d right. Rude is bad.”
“Bleach blond guy,” Mitch said very slowly, as though trying to explain physics to a first grader. “In a Speedo.”
Vicky would not be swayed. She scowled at him, then she turned to Patricia and amped up her smile. “I’m Vicki Montrose. Thrilled to meet you.”
“Thrilled? Really?” Patricia chuckled. “I’m Patricia Carmichael. But I can’t imagine why you’d be thrilled to meet me. I’m barely famous.”
Vicki faltered, but just a bit. The she handed me the book in her hand. “I saw this and thought of you. Maybe we could try out a few of the recipes.”
I looked at the title. “Mocktails,” I read slowly. “What are ‘Mocktails’?”
Vicki simpered. “They’re drinks. They have no alcohol in them, but they taste like the real thing.”
Patricia, who was pouring again, whipped around. “No alcohol? Making drinks with no alcohol? Whatever is the point?” Her eyes narrowed at me. “Who is this person?”
Vicki managed to look sincere and condescending at the same time. “Well, it’s just that people around here seem to drink an awful lot, and since I’ve been hanging around with everyone, I’ve been drinking an awful lot too, and I don’t handle drinking as well as some other people, so I thought with a ‘mocktail’ I could look like I’m fitting right in, but not wake up with a splitting hangover.”
Mitch hauled himself up and put down his empty glass. “That’s what club soda is for, Vicki. And I’m sure Mona is thrilled by your suggestion that she’s a raging alcoholic.” He looked at me. “I’ve got to get going, but can I ask you something?”
“Ah, sure.” I said. “I’ll walk you out.” We walked off the porch and around to the front. The heat was brutal. Drops of sweat rolled down my back.
“Look,” Mitch said. “I’ll be back up here from Virginia next week. Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”
I squinted at him. “I’m sweaty, cranky, and apparently have a drinking problem. Why would you want to have dinner with me?”
He grinned. “You’re the first woman I’ve met who can sing ‘Faithful, Forever’.”
I grinned back. “Good enough. You want my phone number or anything?”
He pulled out a cell phone and entered my number. Then he waved and walked down the street, where he got into what looked like a gull-winged Mercedes. Silver. Very shiny. I started back to the house when Vicki came whizzing by, waving frantically at Mitch’s disappearing car. I went back o
nto the porch, sank into a chair, and looked at Patricia.
“I like your hair,” she said.
“Thanks. It usually looks better without all the frizz, but I like it, too.”
“And how are things going with the rich, ugly guy across the street?”
“He had some sort of computer-systems related emergency and left yesterday, along with his sons. The girls are bereft.”
“What about before he left?”
“Things were fine. I mean, he’s good at what he does, and I can appreciate it. That’s the beginning and the end. When I leave at the end of the summer, it will all be over.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe before the end of the summer?”
I sighed. “Maybe. Mitch seems like a very nice guy.”
“He’s forty-two. A good age.”
“How on earth do you know how old he is? You were only with him for two and a half minutes.”
She looked smug. “Darling, if nothing else, I know all the right things to say. And the right questions to ask.” She made a face. “That’s his sister?”
I nodded.
“He might be worth it.”
I nodded again. “Yes. He might”
She sighed. “I finished the rough draft.”
“Did you?” Patricia is one of the few people who read my books as they are being written. She loves the idea of seeing each version change. She also likes reading the manuscript before anyone else. Because I trust her judgment, she gets every draft. MarshaMarsha always waits for my books to be released, but Patricia likes to read them hot off my computer. “What did you think?”
“It’s the best thing you’ve ever written. It’s one of the best things I’ve read this year. Really wonderful, Mona. Sydney is a terrific character, and it’s great story.”
Patricia is not just my best friend, she’s my most honest critic. “Oh, Patricia, thank you.” I took a breath. “I’m really worried about it’s tanking.”
“Why? It’s wonderfully written, funny, real, and it brings tears to the eye. Not my eye, of course, but I can sense the potential. Why on earth would it tank?”
“I’ve had a loyal fan base for years. This is not what they’ll be expecting. What if they’re upset?”