Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  When hell freezes over.

  Rick rattles off at least three different numbers where he can be reached. None of which I write down.

  I hit the erase button and that is that.

  Next I hear my baby’s voice and my heart rises in my throat. My child is everything to me.

  “Ma…” When Lindsay calls me ‘Ma’ it means she is in trouble. “Ma…I’m coming home earlier than planned. I need to talk to you.”

  Lindsay is supposed to be home in a week on her Thanksgiving vacation. Now she’s coming home earlier. My mind races examining all the possibilities. Is she dropping out of college? Is she pregnant? Or is she moving in with the boyfriend she’s been dating for six months? They all seem pretty horrible to me.

  I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. It is late, but this can’t wait until the morning. I pick up the phone and call Lindsay’s cell phone. When voice mail kicks in I leave a message. I call her dorm but the phone in her room rings and rings. Now I am even more upset.

  I gulp my glass of wine, head for bed and try counting sheep.

  Sleep is supposed to be an antidote when life gets in the way. But tonight sleep is not happening. I need to hear my child’s voice. I will be a raving lunatic until I do.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lindsay’s car is in the driveway when I wake up. Without brushing my teeth I hurry to her room, preparing to shake sense into her if I have to. Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath before tapping on her bedroom door. I have no idea what time she got in last evening nor do I care. She owes me an explanation for why she is here.

  I get no response so I knock again, this time louder. When that doesn’t work, I turn the doorknob and stick my head through the crack.

  “Lindsay, baby, wake up, Mom’s here!”

  A gentle snore comes from under the covers. That child is sleeping the sleep of the dead. She’s wound the sheets and comforter around her mummy-style and she looks like a butterfly waiting to come out of a cocoon.

  I sit on the edge of her bed and begin stroking her back through the bulky comforter. Lindsay’s breathing doesn’t change. This isn’t a game. The child is dead to the world. Guilt kicks in. I really should let her rest. Then I reason I am her mother. I’ve been heartsick since getting that message and scared to death. I need to know what is going on.

  “Lindsay!” I shout, this time louder. “Wake up, love.”

  She stirs under the heavy comforter and sighs.

  “Lindsay! Get up this minute!”

  “Ma, can’t it wait.”

  “No, it can’t wait. I want to know why you’re home. I didn’t expect you until next week.”

  “I’ll talk over breakfast, Ma. Make me pancakes?”

  She sounds like a little girl, my little girl. Lindsay has always loved pancakes. I wonder why the delaying tactic. This is making me more nervous by the minute.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes to wash up and be at the table,” I say.

  One blood-red eye shoots open.

  “All right, Ma.” A noisy yawn follows.

  “Fifteen minutes, Lin.”

  With that I march out and slam the door.

  Lindsay is ten minutes later than the fifteen I have given her. But at least she is here, seated and slumped over, sipping on the mug of coffee I have set down.

  I flip a couple of pancakes onto her plate and place bacon on the side. She reaches for the pitcher of syrup, pouring a copious amount on her cakes. It is a wonder the child stays so slim.

  People say we look alike. I’ve always thought Lindsay looks more like her father, handsome player that he is. She is much more slender than me and has a waiflike look to her. There isn’t an excess ounce of fat on that child.

  But we are both high-energy people, our minds constantly racing, our hands constantly doing. Lindsay has smooth caramel–colored skin and tight bouncy curls—that frame a heart-shaped face. She has amber eyes and a smile that is engaging; it literally pulls you right in. That smile is usually a permanent fixture, but not today.

  “What’s going on?” I ask her when she makes no attempt to initiate conversation.

  Lindsay sets down her fork and looks at me. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, Ma.”

  “Try me.”

  “You better sit down then.”

  I sink into a chair before my knees buckle. Please tell me the child isn’t pregnant.

  “I’m waiting, Lindsay.”

  Lindsay puts down her knife and lines it up with her fork. Now I know things are serious. Lin is not what you would call meticulous.

  “I’m taking off for a year, Ma. I’m leaving the country.”

  My heart lodges in my mouth, my gut wants to spill the few bites of breakfast I have taken. “Taking off, as in dropping out of school?”

  “Not dropping out, taking a break.”

  “Lindsay! I can’t support your choice.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s already done. I’m going to Paris.”

  “Paris! Why Paris?”

  “Because I want to give modeling a try.”

  The room sways then steadies around me. I take a deep breath and try putting things in perspective. At least she isn’t trekking across the Himalayas or taking off on safari with some loser. She isn’t running off with a boyfriend she’s known for six months. And thank you, Jesus, she isn’t pregnant.

  I’m still not happy, but what can I do?

  “What are you proposing to live on while you’re there?” I ask.

  “I’ll get paid, plus I have savings from my part-time job. I’ll be living with a family taking care of their two children until my modeling career takes off.”

  “You’re going to be an au pair? That’s what I sent you to school for?”

  “I want to speak French fluently, Ma. Living with a family takes care of major expenses until I get established.”

  She has it all planned out. My shoulders sag and I gulp in a breath. It isn’t so bad. My child will live with a family and hopefully be protected and cared for. Hopefully that family is a stable, functional one. She’ll get paid a salary, and if she gets lucky might even have a new career.

  In some ways, I envy her. A lifetime ago, it seems I was young, carefree and thought I could take on the world. Now I am happy to be alive, in good health and with a business that pays the bills.

  I place an arm around Lindsay’s shoulders and kiss her cheek.

  “If it makes you happy, baby, go live in Paris. It’s every woman’s dream.”

  But even as I give her my blessing I already feel the loss. What if she falls in love with the city and never comes home?

  You have to cut the ties sometime. Lindsay is nineteen. She’s always had a good head on her shoulders. I need to let her go without guilt or recrimination. But all I want to do is hug her and cry.

  Lindsay stands and places her plate and cup in the sink. She does an elegant neck roll. Her wild black curls are standing straight up, and her honey complexion has a tinge of rose to it. She is still only half-awake, I can tell.

  “You think I can go back to bed now, Ma?” she asks, glancing at the kitchen clock. “I only had three hours sleep and it was a long drive.”

  “Of course.”

  I have things to take care of myself. I want to speak to my banker about the possibility of a loan. I’ll need money for marketing. I am also beginning to think that maybe it is time Wife for Hire has an office outside of my home.

  We go our separate ways. Lindsay back to bed and me to Chase Bank.

  After an hour of grilling by one of the vice presidents of the bank I leave feeling optimistic. I’ve never been much of a borrower but maybe it is time to expand. Wife for Hire was started with my own savings. And I’ve always prided myself on having minimal overhead. It is time to adjust my thinking.

  I will need a major advertising campaign to keep abreast of the competition. That kind of thing costs money. Money I do not have. But if I can bring in more business and hire mor
e people, I will be able to pay off this loan in little or no time.

  I have a client’s Jaguar to pick up from the shop. It is one of those jobs I’ve not been able to delegate, as he trusts me implicitly. My head still filled with marketing ideas, I drive to the Jaguar dealership in nearby Valley Stream. After parking my Land Rover, I drive his vehicle back to his house and the dealership’s courtesy transportation picks me up.

  I am plowing through the parking lot of the dealership at a pretty rapid speed, looking for the exit, when I am forced to brake quickly. Heart palpitating, I roll down my window.

  “You jerk. What if I’d run you over?” I ask a man who has popped out of nowhere. Then I feel bad for yelling. What if his car has broken down and he’s looking for help?

  He stares at me with a silly smile on his mug.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask as he comes closer and I hit the button until my window is almost up. He could be a lunatic.

  “No, things couldn’t be better.” He presses his nose against the window pane and says in a deep voice, “I saw you get into your car. I wanted to meet you.”

  I should be flattered, instead I am wary. He is presentable enough in his expensive black wool coat and leather gloves. But what does he really want?

  “You were willing to risk being run over?” I ask, “Because you wanted to meet me?”

  “I knew you would stop.”

  Cocky. Every bone screams player!

  A business card sails onto the passenger seat next to me. “Call me sometime, will ya?”

  He is crazy. This is New York. He could be a serial killer for all I know.

  Like a bat out of hell, I peel out of there. I have a few more errands to run and then I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off to spend with Lindsay. We’ll have a late lunch and maybe take in a movie.

  I am slowly beginning to come to terms with Lindsay’s decision. And I am determined to spend as much time with her as possible before she leaves. She is at a critical time in her life and still needs her mother. Or so I convince myself.

  When I pull into my driveway it looks as if there is a party on the block. Cars are parked in every available slot and rap music comes from inside my house. The neighbors must be fuming.

  In my absence, Lindsay has decided to have a party. I enter to find her friends lounged around my home-entertainment center, munching on popcorn and chips.

  “Hello, Ms. Ingram,” they greet in unison.

  “Where’s Lindsay?”

  Several fingers point to the kitchen before heads bopping they return to their music.

  My baby is frowning, concentrating on something on the stove. She has whipped up some snack but I can’t tell exactly what from the smell.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, my arms folded.

  “Ma, most of my friends can’t afford to go away to college. We see each other when we can. We’re just hanging out. You know everyone here.”

  On second glance, I recognize several who were fixtures when Lindsay was living at home. I soften.

  “Have fun, baby. I’ll make myself scarce and give you guys your space.”

  When I begin walking away, Lindsay stands in my path. She throws her arms around me, squeezing so hard I barely can breathe.

  “Thanks for being understanding, Mom. You’ve always encouraged me to have an adventurous spirit. If nothing comes of this modeling business at least I can say I tried it.”

  I hug her to me. “I’ll always support your choices, love. Always. I have your back. Just promise me you’ll get a degree. You’ll need something to fall back on if this doesn’t work out.”

  “I promise I’ll graduate college. I love you, Mom.” Lindsay gives me another squeeze. Her promise is all I can ask for.

  Before I make a total fool of myself I head for the staircase. Upstairs in private I can cry.

  My mother was never this supportive. She comes from a time when women didn’t dare dream. She kept drumming into my head to be content with what I have, regardless of how little. While I might have been content, I was always hungry and I had big dreams. And even though I got pregnant at nineteen I didn’t let that hold me back.

  I was born an overachiever. I saved the few pennies I had for an allowance to open up my first lemonade stand. Then I took the profits and started a neighborhood car-washing business. When I was too pregnant to work, the money I got from Kane, my ex-husband, I saved. And I went back to college as soon as I could, because I knew without a degree I was powerless.

  But now I am beginning to think the world is conspiring against me. My business is at risk. My daughter is leaving for a foreign land. I need a break?

  I have one foot on the top step when my cell phone rings.

  “Roxanne Ingram,” I say in my business voice.

  A woman sounds damn close to being hysterical. It takes some effort to make out what she’s saying, but trust me it’s not good.

  “I can be in Lawrence in fifteen minutes,” I say in a rush.

  The clown; that lovely rotund man I hired to entertain at a four-year-old’s party is scaring the kids. The mother wants him gone.

  I make the drive to the Five Towns area in ten minutes flat. I am there in time to see tearful mothers rushing to their cars tugging kids by the hand.

  On the front lawn, an obviously inebriated clown is being sat on by the birthday boy’s dad and a man I presume is a neighbor. They are pummeling him in the hopes he will stop singing “Happy Birthday.”

  This is going to cost me big-time. I leap into action, apologizing profusely and taking full responsibility for the debacle. I had checked the clown’s references and he had come up clean. But no one wants to hear that right now.

  Eventually the clown is taken home to dry out by a tearful and apologetic wife. The client is reimbursed for the entire party and I promise to pay for a puppet show in the coming week. The whole thing sets me back several hundred dollars.

  A small price to pay if I don’t get sued. It sure looks as if the world is conspiring against me.

  I decide to drive over to Margot’s. I need comforting and soothing.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next few weeks go by, and business comes in dribs and drabs. Since Thanksgiving is fast approaching, things are bound to pick up. I see John, the ex-military guy, my only match from speed dating a few times. But the more I see him the less interested I am, and a good thing, too, because he turns out to be a weirdo.

  He keeps insisting on afternoon dates and always seems to have someplace to be afterward. I am beginning to suspect he might be married or just cheap. One day out of the blue he e-mails to tell me he thinks we should be friends. Right after that announcement he begins calling again.

  I’ve played therapist for more than my share of men and I’ve vowed I would never do it again. Listening to all that drama about the ex done them wrong saps your energy and makes you irritable. In the end what you have is a dependent man who can’t cope with life’s ups and downs. Been there. Done that. Wouldn’t do it again. Let John invest in a therapist.

  The phone rings. It is Margot with an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. She wants me to bring Lindsay along. It will be six of us, including the couple next door and Margot’s niece from out of town who invited herself.

  Margot isn’t a great cook but she is smart enough to know it. She has the Thanksgiving meal catered by a local restaurant. That afternoon we sit around downing large goblets of wine. Wine makes it that much easier to be with people you barely know especially when you’re single.

  I make it through the day telling myself this is fun. With Thanksgiving over with, preparations for Christmas begin. I am starting to worry about my business. I want the competition out of the way.

  Margot comes back from meeting Karen Miller and Tamara Fisher, the owners of Service Not Incidental, all elated. I am pissed. She is impressed with their operation and talks nonstop about their facility. I question her relentlessly and take notes, but I am resentful and angry and feel us
ed. How can two young women, fresh out of college, afford a renovated Victorian home and all the trimmings?

  Margot had been offered beverages and snacks while they interviewed her. She’d been given a tour of the business and shown their state-of-the-art computer equipment, complete with customer-relationship-management software. Service Not Incidental is all about personalized service they say. There the customer reigns.

  Margot doesn’t have one negative word to report. Her description makes me want to see the operation myself. I plan to drive by their business later just to see what is going on. I decide to take a deep breath and calm down. I continue checking my e-mails, alternating back and forth between personal and business until the phone rings.

  “Wife for Hire. This is Roxanne.”

  “Ms. Ingram, this is Alexandra calling on behalf of Mr. Carlo DeAngelo.”

  My heart literally skips a beat. I’ve moved up in the world. Mr. X’s assistant has identified him by name. Usually Alexandra calls on behalf of DeAngelo Creations, which leaves a lot of room for your imagination. I mean, what exactly does he create?

  I clutch the receiver and listen to a long list of duties Mr. X needs help with. I am already calculating how much each will cost. This is an unexpected Christmas bonus, and much needed I might add. I want to kiss the man.

  “There’s also something else Mr. DeAngelo would like help with,” Alexandra says.

  “Name it,” I say excitedly.

  “He’d like you to take care of Bacci.”

  “Bacci?”

  “His cat. He’s Mr. DeAngelo’s pride and joy.”

  X has a cat? If anything I picture him with a dog; an exotic breed like an Afghan or English Boxer. A cat doesn’t seem to go with him, but a pet says he is human. Of course there is no way I am going to turn down this opportunity.

  “What kind of cat is Bacci?” I ask, just so Alexandra will know I was listening and am interested.

  “A stray. Mr. DeAngelo found him starved and almost frozen to death going through his garbage cans.”