A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  “He teaches that men should wait until they’re twenty; twenty-one for girls.”

  “Great.” My sarcastic tone was not lost on him. “Makes sense to me.”

  “Anyway,” he said, giving me a look, “I played the good boy until the end and I waited.”

  “Until you were twenty?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Wow. You really were a good boy.”

  “What can I say? The prophet’s teachings were ingrained.”

  We continued up Fortieth, but then, without any warning, he veered the car over to the side. My body fell against the door as I let out a gasp. “What the hell?”

  He pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. We were on a residential street by now, not far from my house. “What’s going on?”

  “Calm down. Everything is fine.” He unfastened his seat belt, then turned and rested his arm on the steering wheel. He wore a mischievous look on his face that gave me pause.

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  He continued wearing the odd grin, but I soon noticed a bashful glint in his eye.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I never had a chance to really kiss a girl in high school.”

  “And?”

  “Wanna make out with me?”

  I stole a quick glance around the quiet residential streets. “Make out with you? Now?”

  “Just for a couple of minutes. Let’s pretend we’re fifteen and we’re dating. I can’t take you home yet because I want to kiss you; I want to ask you to be my girlfriend.”

  Hearing this, the moment shifted from odd to entirely sweet and innocent. I laughed when he started creeping toward me. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Come on, be my high school sweetheart.” He moved closer, then reached across my waist and unfastened my seat belt. “What do you say? Would you be my girl?”

  • • •

  I woke to the sound of my ringing doorbell. I sat up in bed. Samuel was still sound asleep beside me. I found my phone to check the time—seven fifty. I noticed Bendrix had called, poor guy. Whoever was at the door began knocking again. I returned the phone and grabbed my robe.

  Through the peephole I saw my brother Dizzy’s globe-shaped head. I opened the door and he stepped in, taking up most of the space with his height and girth. He held Hope against his hip; Duncan and Bessie stood on either side of him.

  “Hey-hey,” he boomed.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I have a cookie?” Duncan asked.

  “Me, too!” said Bessie.

  Hope sucked her thumb and continued resting her head on her father’s shoulder. I bit down on my lower lip. My brother showing up like this with his kids was odd. I had a strong feeling I’d somehow goofed. Sure enough . . .

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “No?”

  “You said you’d babysit today.”

  I thought back to dinner at Dad’s a few weeks before. Dizzy and his wife had been talking about their lack of alone time, and, yep, I’d offered to take the kids for a day. But I never wrote it down on my calendar, and if it wasn’t on the calendar, it didn’t get done. Oops.

  Dizzy frowned. “I’ll warn you: If you make me take these kids back, you’ll have to deal with Sharon. She’s been looking forward to this for days.”

  Luckily, it was Sunday and Beth was running the bakery. Samuel and I had no plans. “Nope. I’ve got you covered.” I wiggled my fingers at Hope and she skydived toward me. I kissed her and hoisted her farther up my hip. I thought about the night before—specifically Bailey and the cops. “Have you talked to your mom, by chance?”

  He paused and tilted his head forward. “Now what did she do?”

  “Almost got us arrested.” I heard Samuel’s footsteps. “But I’ll tell you about it later. It’s no big deal. Just Momma Bailey being herself.”

  “Can she be anything but?”

  We were smiling when Samuel joined us. He pulled at the belt of his robe. Sleep dug in the corners of his eyes. “Mornin’.”

  Dizzy walked over and stuck out his hand. “Hey, congrats on the engagement.”

  “Thank you. Good to see you.”

  Dizzy told the kids to say hello and I explained that I was on babysitting duty.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Samuel. “We’ll look after them.” He held up his hand and Duncan gave him a high five.

  If I’d made an imaginary chart of Samuel’s pluses and minuses, all of my concerns were trumped by his love for kids and his desire to start a family. And he was a good man, handsome and kind and trustworthy. You couldn’t get everything you wanted from one person, and I guessed the pluses still outweighed the negatives.

  Bessie took my hand. “Can I have a cookie?”

  I looked at Dizzy. “You have time for breakfast?”

  “I could eat. Sharon is out cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sleeps most of the day. The kids had cereal, but—hey, if you’re offering.”

  “Of course.” I took Bessie’s hand. “You guys can have a cookie later. Let’s see what we can make for breakfast.”

  I kept a basket of toys in the spare bedroom and a small shelf of children’s books for when any of my nieces or nephews were visiting. The kids played while Samuel, Dizzy, and I headed to the kitchen. I put on music and started coffee. When Dizzy heard Ray Brown playing “Out of Nowhere,” he pointed and said, “I haven’t heard this version in years.”

  “I like Ahmad Jamal’s version more, I think.”

  “I think you’re nuts.”

  “Jamal plays it with feeling.”

  “Feeling?” Dizzy said. “Hardly.”

  “You dare criticize the one and only Ahmad Jamal? Who do you think you are?”

  “A man with an opinion.”

  “And a huge ego.”

  “I call it like I hear it, my little sister who does not play the piano nor any instrument and does not know what she’s talking about.”

  “Watch it,” I said halfheartedly.

  He started to continue, but then the doorbell rang and we all looked at one another.

  From the living room, Bessie yelled: “I’ll get it!”

  “You stay put,” Dizzy called back.

  I went to the door and asked who it was.

  “Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

  Bendrix.

  I swung open the door. He stood tall in a leather jacket and aviator shades. His hair was coiffed and he was clean-shaven. “You look terrible,” I teased.

  He lowered his shades so I could see his eyes, then pushed them back into place. Keeping his gaze glued on me, he raised his left hand and wiggled his finger.

  A man peeked out from the side of the house. “Good morning!”

  My mouth fell open. “Anthony? What? Oh my God! Anthony!”

  I brought him in for a hug. I pulled back so that I could see it was really him. I had to swipe at a tear that was trying to escape.

  Anthony said, “Aww, don’t cry, honey.”

  “Who says I’m crying? I’m just shocked. What happened? You guys made up? You’re back together? Oh my gosh! When did this happen? How did it happen? You guys were so pissed last night—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Bendrix said. “Calm down.”

  “We’re just talking,” Anthony replied. “But it’s a start.” He smiled at Bendrix.

  “I tried to call,” Bendrix said.

  “I know. It’s been hectic here.” I waved for them to come inside.

  Samuel and Dizzy were already in the living room; they walked over and everyone shook hands.

  I hooked my arm in Anthony’s while smiling at Bendrix. “I was just about to start breakfast. Do you guys want quiche? I can make cinnamon rolls, too. I have prepared dough in the fridge.”

 
“Calm down,” Bendrix said.

  I smiled up at him and in a burst of giddiness waved my fist in the air. “Yay!”

  Bendrix rolled his eyes.

  14

  Hesitating Blues

  After spending that morning with my house filled with people I loved, I assumed things would only get better. And they did. Except for a few glitches. For starters, now that Samuel and I were engaged, he and I started going to dinner at the Howards’ at least once a month, and this meant more of the same—silent eating and evil sisters and listening to his dad give lectures on subjects he knew little about. Okay, fine. I knew Samuel wasn’t brimming with love for my family, either. He thought we were too loud, and he still didn’t understand our “cuckoo” familiarity with one another—ex-wives hanging out together and all that.

  And then there was the wedding itself. I knew planning a wedding could cause strife between couples—I was a wedding cake designer; I got it—but Samuel wanted a wedding that was completely different from what I wanted.

  We’d been engaged since May. He wanted to get married that August, which was not the problem. The problem was that he wanted a “small and simple” wedding. His idea of a wedding: exchange vows at the courthouse and invite a few friends and family afterward. Prophet Guess Who taught his followers that weddings and ceremonies should remain “humble.” While I knew only a handful of the Prophet Whodawho’s teachings, so far Samuel seemed to agree with every lesson I hated. In particular, screw small and humble! I wanted a lavish wedding. I was closing in on forty and I wanted to celebrate the fact that I’d met the man of my dreams. I wasn’t a bridezilla, but I was the daughter of Lincoln T. Ross, and this meant: (a) my family was huge, and (b) we needed space to dance and play music. Samuel argued that he’d been raised on the notion that big weddings were only a display of self-congratulation and importance, and an act of vanity. He wanted small and intimate because he hated the idea of standing in front of a bunch of people he hardly knew and “celebrating with a bunch of lookie-loos.” He added that spending so much money on a single day was a waste, and we could take the thousands and thousands of dollars we would spend to rent a space and hire a caterer and a limo and all else a big wedding entailed and use it for our kids’ schooling and college education instead. Or we could use it for a down payment on the house we were going to have to move into once the kids started coming.

  Granted, everything he said made perfect sense. But I didn’t want to make sense. Sense had no place in my wedding. I wanted quixotic romance at its best.

  We went back and forth for days. With no plan, we couldn’t set a date. I was so frustrated with the situation, I even called my mom for advice. And then I remembered why I never called my mom for advice. Once I explained the situation, she sighed and said, “You’re a grown woman, Abbey. You’ll have to figure it out. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  And then there were the wives.

  Rita: “Abbey, no! You can’t possibly go small. It’s your wedding! What are you telling the world about the love you share with Samuel by marrying him in a courthouse? You may as well exchange vows in a bathroom!”

  Bailey: “I don’t give a damn what y’all do as long as the music is good.”

  Joan: “Except to give you business for your cakes, I’m not sure why people marry at all anymore.”

  • • •

  I was thinking about the wedding nightmare one Thursday afternoon at the bakery while working on a five-tier color-wash cake that made me envy the bride and groom and the money they were spending to celebrate their nuptials. A mother and daughter had shown up to discuss the cake, and they knew exactly what they wanted. The color of the cake was going to match the bridesmaids’ dresses, and the design would match the intricate embroidery on the bride’s wedding dress. I had already covered the four tiers in fondant and made the color wash with gel and food coloring. After that I would use a paintbrush to “paint” the cakes the requested soft pink with lavender highlights. I was prepping for the embroidery when Noel walked back. It was five o’clock and we’d be closing within an hour.

  “How many left?” I asked him.

  “Under ten. Say, there’s a woman here. She says she needs to talk to you.”

  “A client?”

  “Nope. I asked, and she said it’s a”—air quotes—“‘personal matter.’”

  I grabbed a towel and followed him out front. Phyllis stood near one of the booths in the front, staring up at the Shelton Lynn painting. She wore her usual skirt-and-blouse combo and a pair of flats. She carried a shopping bag from which protruded a white box made for a suit or dress. She turned when I said her name. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “This is a surprise.” Truly.

  “I wanted to see where you work and thought I’d surprise you.”

  Noel asked if she wanted anything.

  She stared briefly at the tattoos lining his arms. “Just a coffee. Decaf.”

  She returned her gaze to the painting. We always showcased various local artists, but I’d bought Shelton Lynn’s mixed-media piece outright. The canvas was a spattering of oils with a provocative gash of spray paint down the center. It was one of the first paintings I’d bought for the bakery.

  Phyllis continued to stare. “I’ve never understood art. What is this called exactly?”

  “Untitled.”

  “He should have called it ugly. Because that’s what it is!” When she broke into laughter, I instantly saw the bitchy side of her personality that she’d passed down to Ruth and Esther.

  I kept my voice as even as possible. “Sometimes the artist doesn’t want to feed the viewers’ interpretations of the piece, and the fewer clues or hints, the better. By not giving a title, the artist is saying, take whatever you want from the work.”

  “Sounds like you know something about art.”

  “I have a master’s degree in art history.”

  “Oh, really? Samuel didn’t tell us that. I don’t know, Abbey. I never understood the point of art.” She walked past the next two paintings, puzzled by it all.

  “Humans have been creating art since the beginning of time, Phyllis. It’s what makes us human. It’s a form of expression.”

  “Well, I know that, but that doesn’t help me understand it. What I do get,” she said, turning on her heels and walking toward the display case, “are those beauties over there. Everything looks so good,” she said, peering inside. “What would you suggest?”

  “What about a slice of coconut cake?”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  I asked Noel to bring everything to my office, and Phyllis followed me to the back, stopping short when she saw the cake I was working on. I told her a little about the process.

  “These brides today. Spending so much money. You know, Joseph and I had a small wedding.” She raised both hands. “No fanfare.”

  Ah . . . so that’s why you’re here. Samuel ratted me out. Okay.

  I forced what I hoped was a pleasant enough smile, then led her into my office.

  Noel brought the cake and coffee. When he was gone, she leaned in and whispered, “My children would never. They learned what was allowed and not early on.”

  I assumed she was referring to Noel’s tattoos. Frankly, half of my family, including Bailey, had one tattoo or another, but I didn’t feel like defending body art on top of everything else.

  Phyllis leaned in close and touched my arm with her fingertip. “I tell you, we wonder why the youth are as lost as they are. Parents don’t raise their children.”

  I bit down on my lip to keep from saying anything. I wondered if I should tell her off, but I didn’t feel it was the time or place. She was my future mother-in-law. What I needed, I thought, was some innocuous NPR host to do the dirty work. Where was Terry Gross when you needed her?

  Terry: Phyllis Howard, welcome to Fresh Air. Can you tell us, P
hyllis, what made you decide to lock your child in a closet for hours at a time?

  Phyllis: Is locking a disrespectful child in the closet abuse? I don’t think so. Samuel needed to learn that when I told him to do something, I meant business. I don’t care what they say about all this time-out madness they teach these days, Terry. Look where our leniency with our children has put us as a country and as a people.

  An hour too late, I said, “I was given time-outs, never spanked, and I turned out fine.”

  “You’re an exception.” She switched to her fairy godmother voice. “Now, let me taste this cake.” Subject changed, she sliced into the cake. “Absolutely delicious. I’ve always had a sweet tooth. I’m so lucky you’re going to be my daughter.”

  She noticed the photo of Samuel and me on my desk, taken on our last trip to Yountville. Samuel stood behind me with his arms around my waist.

  “May I?” she said, already reaching for it. She stared at the photo for a moment. “My son loves you, Abbey. And the more time I spend with you, the more I understand why. Abbey, I wanted to talk about the wedding. Samuel mentioned you two are having trouble deciding what to do about the ceremony. I just hope you can at least try to see things from his side.”

  “I wish he hadn’t said anything in the first place. We’ll figure it out.”

  “You’re going to be a wife soon. I know you’ve been alone for many, many years, but now that you’re getting married, you’ll have to learn to share your life and to compromise. A marriage can never work without the two Cs.” She beamed and gave my arm a knowing push. “You want to know what the two Cs are, don’t you?”

  Let me guess, Phyllis. Coitus and cunnilingus?

  “Cooperation and conciliation. And your future husband, my one and only son, my oldest and beloved—all he wants is to make sure his new family is financially secure. He’s a corporate lawyer, Abbey. I would think you’d trust his financial know-how. And I’m sure he’s told you that he wasn’t raised to make a show of things. He was raised to save his pennies and spend wisely.”