Much Ado About Mother
Page 24
“Gay?”
“I mean . . . not in a bad way. Like . . . not even in a gay way, you know?”
“Shall we go inside?” asked Erinn, since she hadn’t the faintest idea.
She clicked on the light but didn’t step inside. Her eyes scanned the room lovingly. Jude stood on the porch, looking in over Erinn’s head. The room had an open floor plan, and every inch of space counted. A small kitchen was fitted into one corner and a bathroom was tucked discreetly into another. There was a wrought-iron daybed that functioned as a seating area as well as a bed and a tiny, mosaic-tiled café table and chair set. Even in this small space, there was an entire wall of bookcases. Erinn turned to Jude.
“Is this gay as well?” she asked as she walked into the room, Jude at her heels.
“Hey! If you’re gay, I don’t care. Really,” Jude said. “I’m, personally, not gay. I’m, you know, metro/hetero. But whatever floats your boat, I say.”
“Thank you. I was so worried it might be offensive to you somehow, if I were gay.”
“Whatever, Erinn. I mean . . . gay is as gay does, right?”
“Well, obviously, that’s true,” Erinn said. “But I don’t do as gay does, because I’m not gay.”
“Whoa . . . you know that old saying . . . something about . . . you’re protesting a shitload.”
“Are you perhaps thinking of ‘The lady doth protest too much’ from Hamlet?”
“Moving on, Erinn,” Jude said. “Your sexuality isn’t the only thing in the world, right? There’s food, the beach, the theater . . .”
Erinn winced and walked around the room, trying to ignore the cretin who was taking up much too much space—and oxygen—in her little sanctuary. She started opening blinds to make the room seem somehow bigger.
“I don’t go to the theater,” Erinn said.
“What do you mean?” asked Jude, trying out the daybed. “Erinn Elizabeth Wolf, the famous New York playwright, doesn’t go to the theater? That’s crazy!”
Erinn almost choked, she was so surprised by this comment. Any use of her full name by someone other than her mother usually meant she was being recognized. Jude had his back to her and was studying a line of books in the bookcase. He turned to look at her.
“Did you realize your initials are E.E.W.? EEEEEEwwwwwwww.”
Erinn tried to ignore Jude’s inept attempt at winning her over with a nickname. But she definitely wasn’t finished with the conversation.
“You . . . you’ve heard of me?” she asked.
“Sure. I was a theater major. You’re in the history books.”
Erinn tried—and failed—to hide her dismay. She was surprised to hear that, at forty-three, she was already considered a relic and consigned to history. She tried not to let on that Jude had delivered a verbal slap.
“Not the history books, exactly . . . but . . .” he said.
“But . . . like . . . you know,” offered Erinn, who could see he did not mean to hurt her feelings.
“Well, yeah.”
Erinn sat down at the mosaic table. Jude continued to look around the room and stopped to admire a photograph. It was a close-up of a wrinkled old man playing checkers.
“This is cool,” Jude said.
Erinn studied the picture, lost in thought, remembering the first time she saw Oscar sitting in the little park across from her loft in Manhattan. He was always so focused on his game. That was nearly twenty years ago . . . by now, he was probably dead, or just another lost New York memory.
“I took that years ago,” she said.
“You took that? Awesome.”
Erinn warmed to the praise.
“Well, I’ve always been interested in the visual arts. I’m actually learning how to shoot an HD camera and I’m thinking of trying my hand at editing, too. I like to keep up on those sort of things.”
“Hmmm,” Jude said. “That’s pretty cool for somebody . . . uh . . . not totally young . . . to be into that stuff.”
“Let’s talk about you, shall we?” Erinn asked as her good will ebbed away.
“Sure,” said Jude, grabbing the chair opposite her. “Well, let’s see . . . I’m in the business . . . television mostly. I mean, in this town, isn’t everybody?”
Erinn looked at Jude thoughtfully. What could Suzanna have possibly been thinking? She’d been hoping to rent to a fellow artist, but everyone who applied seemed to be from television. Erinn realized that her mind had wandered, and she tried to tune back in to whatever it was Jude might be saying.
“. . . but, you know, until I can produce my own work, I pick up assignments wherever I can.”
Erinn watched Jude as he picked up the rental agreement on the table.
“Well, I don’t think you really need to read that just yet. . . .” she said, trying to grab the document that would have damned her to her own personal hell should he sign it.
Jude picked up a pen from the table. Erinn watched in silence as he lost interest in the document and started doing curls with the pen, watching his bicep rise and fall with the motion. He was mesmerized. Erinn coughed, hoping to get his attention. Jude looked up and smiled sheepishly.
“I read that you should work out whenever—and wherever—you can,” he said.
“Oh? You read that?”
Jude laughed. “Well, I downloaded a workout video to my iPod so I could listen to it while I was skateboarding. Same thing.”
Erinn arched an eyebrow. Jude suddenly looked up at her.
“What about Tin Lizzy? That would be an awesome nickname for you!”
“You know, Jude, I’m not sure this is going to work out.”
He looked up. “Oh? Why not?”
“Well,” Erinn faltered. “I just think that, if two people live in such close proximity to each other, there should be some symbiosis . . . if you get my drift.”
Jude looked at Erinn for a minute, then smiled.
“Oh, you mean ’cause I’m in such good shape,” he said. “Don’t worry about that. I can help you get rid of that spare tire in no time.”
“No, no, no,” Erinn said. “I appreciate your offer. Although I wasn’t aware I had a spare tire.”
“Oh, big-time.”
“It was more along the lines of, well, I don’t feel we’re . . . intellectually compatible.”
Jude frowned.
“I’m not smart enough to rent your guesthouse?”
He held up the rental agreement and waved it in her face.
“Is there an I.Q. test attached to this?” he asked.
Erinn stood up so fast she knocked the chair over, and stormed out of the guesthouse. Jude sprinted after her, and Erinn wheeled on him.
“I’m sorry, Jude, but clearly this isn’t going to work.”
“Tell me about it. You think you’re some sort of god because you wrote one important play a hundred years ago? Nobody can even make a joke around you? I’m out of here.”
“I assume you can see yourself out?”
“If I can find my way around your huge ego, yeah,” Jude replied, as he walked toward the main house. He stepped over the cat, which was sunbathing on the walkway.
“See ya around, Truck.”
Apparently, Jude had not succeeded in giving her a nickname, but poor Caro did not escape unscathed.
Erinn went back into the kitchen, stung by Jude’s comments. To distract herself, she decided to make a pot of soup. She pulled out her large stockpot, added some homemade chicken stock, and started scrubbing tubers in a fury. Who does he think he is, talking to me that way? she thought. I dodged a bullet with that one.
The phone rang. Erinn wiped off her hands and reached for the cordless, hesitating just long enough to grab her half-moon glasses, and checked the caller I.D.
It was Suzanna.
Erinn put the phone down without answering it. She took off her glasses and returned to her soup.
© William Christoff Photography
Celia Bonaduce is a producer on HGTV’s House Hunt
ers. She is the author of the Venice Beach Romances and lives in Santa Monica, California, with her husband in a beautiful “no-pets” building. She wishes she could say she has a dog. You can contact Celia at www.celiabonaduce.com.
The Merchant of Venice Beach
The Rollicking Bun—Home of the Epic Scone—is the center of Suzanna Wolf ’s life. Part tea shop, part bookstore, part home, it’s everything she’s ever wanted right on the Venice Beach boardwalk, including partnership with her two best friends from high school, Eric and Fernando. But with thirty-three just around the corner, suddenly Suzanna wants something more—something strictly her own. Salsa lessons, especially with a gorgeous instructor, seem like a good start, a harmless secret, and just maybe the start of a fling. But before she knows it, Suzanna is learning steps she never imagined—and dancing her way into confusion.
“The Merchant of Venice Beach has a fresh, heartwarming voice that will keep readers smiling as they dance through this charming story by Celia Bonaduce.”
—Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2014 by Celia Bonaduce LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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First Electronic Edition: May 2014
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3126-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-127-9
ISBN-10: 1-60183-127-7