by Lee Hollis
Now, if she could only get her daughter to see past her new beau’s insincere charm.
But that was a future battle.
The more pressing issue was breaking the news that Heather was no longer an heiress, thanks to Chester.
But on the bright side, the fact that Heather was suddenly penniless just might do the trick in scaring off this D-list Ryan Gosling wannabe.
Chapter 5
When Poppy arrived back home, her head was pounding. Not from too many margaritas, mind you, but from having to endure an achingly long meal with Heather’s obnoxious new boy toy.
She couldn’t help but hope that the fire in her daughter’s latest relationship would quickly burn out, and the whole sickening romance between the two of them would soon become just a painfully bad memory.
However, she also wanted Heather to be happy, and if this egotistical man-child was somehow inexplicably making her smile and feel all warm inside, then who was she to object?
It was not as if Poppy herself had to spend any more time with him.
Or at least she hoped that would be the case.
If, God forbid, Heather were to marry the guy, then there would be holidays and birthdays and Sunday family dinners to contend with, and she just couldn’t bring herself to picture that awful reality just yet.
Poppy undressed, slipped into a baby blue silk nightgown and matching furry slippers, and then padded to the kitchen to pour herself a nightcap. As she sat down and gulped down her drink, enjoying the little kick before bedtime, she made the decision to call Heather first thing in the morning and plan to meet for coffee, this time just the two of them.
Poppy worried if she waited much longer to break the news, Heather was going to find out some other way, and she didn’t want her blaming her for keeping her in the dark for so long. This situation had to be dealt with swiftly and carefully.
She had recorded 60 Minutes while she was out dining with Heather and Matt, and was looking forward to settling into her recliner and watching that adorable Anderson Cooper report on a story about smartphone addiction when her doorbell rang.
She checked the Swiss clock she had picked up on a trip to Zurich a few years ago on the wall. It was almost nine thirty.
Who would be dropping by at this hour?
For a moment, her stomach lurched, as she feared it might be Heather and Matt with a carton of ice cream to share since Poppy had rushed out of Las Casuelas before they had a chance to order dessert.
But she was enormously relieved when she opened the door to find Iris and Violet. Violet carried a covered casserole dish wrapped in tinfoil in her hands. Iris had her checkbook.
“What is this?”
“Chicken and biscuit casserole. My mother’s recipe,” Violet said, handing the dish to Poppy.
“I just ate, but thank you. I’ll have some for lunch tomorrow. So you came all the way over here to bring me a casserole?”
“Yes,” Violet said, twitching and nervous.
Iris sighed. “You’re a terrible liar, Violet.”
“I know,” Violet wailed. “I get so nervous.”
“The casserole was just an excuse. We figured if we told you the real reason we’re here, you wouldn’t let us in,” Iris said.
“Now I’m intrigued,” Poppy said. “Come on in.”
Iris and Violet didn’t need further prodding.
They marched inside and made a beeline for the kitchen, where Iris helped herself to a shot of cognac and Violet poured herself a glass of lemonade from a pitcher in the refrigerator, being the teetotaler that she was.
Or at least that was what she told people.
But usually only before happy hour.
“Are you hungry? I have a chicken and biscuit casserole I can serve you,” Poppy playfully offered, holding out the covered dish.
“No, that’s for you. Now, let’s get down to business,” Iris barked, sitting on a high stool next to the island in Poppy’s kitchen.
“And what business is that?”
“Iris, I thought we were going to ease into it . . . ,” Violet stammered.
“Why? There’s no time. She’s broke. She’s got bills to pay,” Iris argued.
“You do realize I’m here in the room with you, right?” Poppy asked.
Iris nodded and then opened her checkbook and began scribbling. “Will eight thousand be enough to get you through the next few months?”
“I beg your pardon?” Poppy gasped.
“Violet and I have pooled our resources, and we’re going to float you a loan to get you through this rough patch.”
“You’re going to give me eight grand?” Poppy asked, incredulous.
“I knew we should have offered ten,” Violet whispered quietly.
“No! I can’t take your money!” Poppy exclaimed.
“Why not?” Iris growled, personally affronted. “It’s not like we stole it!”
“I just don’t want to accept any handouts. I’ll figure this out on my own,” Poppy said, touched that her two best friends were prepared to be so generous.
“This is not the time to be proud, Poppy. We’re your friends, and we want to help, so stop fighting us on this,” Iris said as she finished signing the check and tore it off the pad with a flourish. She handed it to Poppy, who immediately handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” Poppy said.
“Then what will you do?”
“Look, this is all just starting to sink in. I need to meet with the lawyer again, talk to some debt consolidation advisers, and then go from there. And I appreciate your sweet offer of allowing me to stay with one of you, but I don’t want to be a burden.”
Violet gasped. “That could take weeks. How are you going to feed yourself in the meantime? And what happens when the house sells? Where will you go if you don’t stay with one of us?”
“I can always stay with Heather while I look for a more permanent situation,” Poppy said.
Iris and Violet exchanged dubious looks and then burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“That is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Iris said. “You two will be at each other’s throats before you even have a chance to unpack your bag.”
“I think I’m capable of living with my daughter for a couple of weeks, while I look for a place,” Poppy said, trying to convince herself.
Iris was having none of it.
She stared down Poppy, whose confident exterior began to crack almost instantly. She knew Iris was right. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and find a place really fast, like in a week or so.”
“You know, on second thought, I bet Heather will love having you stay at her place. I get the feeling she’s been lonely lately, and the company would surely do her good,” Violet said, always in search of a positive note.
“That’s not a problem anymore. She has a new boyfriend,” Poppy sighed, not even making an effort to hide her scorn.
“Uh-oh. So you’ve met him?” Iris asked.
“Yes. Tonight. But I’d rather not talk about it,” Poppy said.
“That bad, huh?” Iris shook her head sympathetically.
Violet snatched the check out of Iris’s hand and tried shoving it toward Poppy again, who adamantly waved it away.
“I appreciate the thought, but you girls need that money, and I wouldn’t feel right taking it. Stop worrying about me. I can find a way to buy my groceries.”
“How?” Iris asked, challenging her.
“I’ll think of something . . . ,” Poppy said, knowing her worry lines were probably showing on her forehead.
“What about a babysitter?” Violet piped in excitedly.
“I haven’t done that since I was sixteen years old,” Poppy said.
“Not a babysitter, really, a companion. I’ve seen a lot of postings at the senior center where I take my self-defense class, looking for a part-time paid companion for wealthy elderly people who need to be looked after during the day, until a family member can come home and take over
at night, after work.”
“What would I have to do?” Poppy asked.
“Prepare lunch, take him or her for a ride in the car, play Scrabble once in a while, maybe light water aerobics in the pool once a week. It sounds like the easiest job in the world,” Violet said.
“I could do that,” Poppy agreed.
Finally, some hope.
Perhaps she had found a temporary solution to keep the lights on in her home . . . her home that was about to be sold by the bank for a fraction of its value.
Looking after an eighty-year-old a few times a week.
Seriously, how hard could that be?
Chapter 6
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?” Clifford Wentworth screamed over the phone at Poppy.
Poppy stood outside the elegant multimillion-dollar home nestled against the mountain in the tony area of Las Palmas, just west of downtown Palm Springs. Her cell phone was clamped to her ear.
“I was in the kitchen, making her a sandwich for lunch, and she gave me the slip,” Poppy said, out of breath, having frantically searched inside and outside the expansive property. “I caught a glimpse of her running past the window outside, near the pool, and came out to catch her, but now she’s gone again!”
“You were tasked with keeping an eye on my mother for three days a week, not with playing hide-and-seek with her!” Clifford huffed angrily.
“I know, Mr. Wentworth, but she’s very difficult to corral.”
Poppy was just being polite.
Estelle Wentworth, the eighty-nine-year-old matriarch of a wealthy family who had made their fortune selling sandwich condiments was a living, breathing nightmare to behold.
Poppy had actually been afraid she might be bored when she accepted the position as a companion to the spry octogenarian three days a week, while her son and his wife flew back east to take care of the family business in Pittsburgh.
But Estelle had turned out to be much more than just a handful.
She was demanding, paranoid, and perhaps certifiably crazy.
Estelle believed that Poppy was a spy for her older sister Janet, who left the family business to start a rival company, and she was convinced that Janet was using Poppy to try to steal company secrets for her own company’s gain.
The only problem with that theory was Janet had been dead since 2004. And the rival company she started had gone bankrupt after the 2008 financial crisis and was no longer in existence.
On her first day at the fancy Las Palmas estate, Poppy had tried to entice Estelle with some board games, only to be pelted with Monopoly pieces when Estelle began to suspect Poppy of trying to cheat her out of Park Place, which she was convinced rightfully belonged to her.
A shopping trip to El Paseo in Palm Desert had resulted in Poppy having to beg the manager of Ann Taylor not to call the police when Estelle tried walking out of the store wearing a plaid split-neck drawstring dress she had only moments before taken into the dressing room to try on.
In fact, that wasn’t the only store where she had attempted to shoplift that morning, but when Estelle first tried walking out of El Paseo Jewelers with a diamond necklace she hadn’t paid for, Poppy simply chalked it up to her forgetfulness, which undoubtedly came with her advanced age. But after the Ann Taylor incident, Poppy was now convinced the old bat was a full-blown kleptomaniac.
Since shopping was no longer an option on their list of activities, Poppy had decided to take her to a movie.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t made it past the first five minutes of the film, once Estelle realized Dame Judi Dench was in the cast. The old woman had a peculiar hatred for the Oscar-winning legend, and she spewed a litany of insults at the screen at the top of her lungs, claiming Judi had once brazenly stolen a boyfriend of hers while she was studying abroad one summer in London during the 1950s.
Not caring whether or not this was true, though based on her privileged, colorful past, there was no reason to doubt her, Poppy dragged Estelle out of the theater so the other patrons could enjoy the rest of the show without having to listen to a cranky old woman yell four-letter words at the screen.
And then there was Estelle’s aggravating determination to drive.
She hadn’t been allowed to drive since she was eighty-four.
But driving was her favorite pastime, and she missed it terribly.
Poppy had once found Estelle trying to pickpocket her car keys from her front pants pocket and had had to slap her hand away.
When they had stopped for lunch at Spencer’s, a picturesque spot with a sunny patio at a tennis club near Estelle’s home, Estelle tried conning the valet by telling him that the Ferrari he had just driven up to the restaurant entrance belonged to her. She was actually behind the wheel and ready to take off before Poppy realized what was happening and quickly intervened.
All that had happened on day one.
After she had got home and made herself a drink and plopped down, exhausted, in her recliner to catch up on the day’s news, Poppy had contemplated quitting.
Why put herself through another day of torture?
But her bills were still unpaid, and she couldn’t face herself in the mirror if she quit a job after just one day, so she’d resolved to stick it out.
And now it was eleven o’clock in the morning on day two.
And she had lost her.
Poppy’s sole responsibility was to look after an eighty-nine-year-old woman, make her lunch, and keep her mind occupied for a few hours, and she was now nowhere to be found.
Poppy had dreaded calling Estelle’s son Clifford in Pittsburgh, but she’d felt she had no choice. She had to tell him his mother was missing. He was not at all pleased to be bothered. Poppy had the feeling Clifford found his mother to be a nuisance, but he had to keep her happy so his position in her will would remain secure. When he interviewed Poppy for the job, he’d taken great pains to explain how it was his personal mission to be a devoted son looking after his dear mother. Poppy didn’t buy it for a second, especially since he was pawning her off on a paid caregiver to keep her out of his hair. But at least he put on a good show and made it appear as if he actually cared.
“She couldn’t have gone too far! I mean, she’s eighty-nine!” Clifford yelled over the phone. “It’s not like she can outrun you!”
Poppy wasn’t so sure.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement inside the house. She whipped around to see Estelle waving at her from the kitchen window, contentedly eating the tuna sandwich Poppy had prepared for her.
“Wait! There she is! She’s in the kitchen!” Poppy yelled, racing over to the large sliding glass door and grabbing the handle to open it.
It was locked.
“Oh no . . . ,” Poppy said quietly.
“What? What’s happening?” Clifford demanded to know.
“She locked me out.”
“What? You have to get inside! She can’t be left alone! There’s no telling what she’ll do!”
“Is there another key hidden away somewhere in case you get locked out?”
“No. Nobody has ever been stupid enough to get locked out of the house before,” Clifford said, letting the words hang there in order to make Poppy feel like an even bigger imbecile.
“Well, I don’t know what to do!” Poppy wailed, peering in the kitchen window, trying to locate Estelle, who had suddenly vanished again.
“I’ll call the housekeeper. She has a key. She can probably be there in ten minutes. In the meantime, make sure she stays inside the house and doesn’t try to go anywhere!”
Poppy heard a rumbling sound.
She tried to make out what it was and where it was coming from.
“Poppy, are you still there?”
The rumbling stopped, and then she heard a car engine roaring to life.
Oh, dear God, no.
The rumbling sound had been the garage door opening on the front side of the house.
Clifford’s prized Rolls-Royce
was parked in there.
Estelle had found the keys and was hell bent on going for a joyride.
Poppy gasped and raced around the pool, out the gate, and around the house, toward the street.
She could hear Clifford screaming faintly through the cell phone that she clutched in her right hand. “Poppy, what’s going on? What is she doing?”
Poppy couldn’t bring herself to raise the phone to her ear and tell him as she helplessly watched Estelle Wentworth speed out of the garage in a vintage 1972 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, tires squealing, make a sharp turn onto the street, and broadside an unsuspecting Mercedes that happened to be passing by, minding its own business.
Clifford heard a honking horn, the grueling sound of crunching metal, and the angry yelling from the driver of the Mercedes and pretty much surmised what had just transpired.
Poppy stood in the driveway, sick to her stomach, but on some level relieved her career as a caregiver was about to come to an abrupt and merciful end.
At least she wasn’t going to have to quit.
Because she heard the faint voice of her employer, Clifford Wentworth, screaming through the cell phone from Pittsburgh, “You’re fired!”
Chapter 7
Poppy pushed off from the tiled wall of the pool and swam through the cool chlorinated water, alternating between freestyle, breaststroke, and backstroke, before touching the other side with her hand and turning her body around to head back to the other end.
After ten laps, she hauled herself up the metal ladder, water dripping off her turquoise one-piece swimsuit, and padded over to Iris and Violet, who were comfortably ensconced in some plush cushioned patio chairs around a round glass table that was shaded from the blazing sun by a giant yellow umbrella. Iris was drinking a Bloody Mary, and Violet was sipping an iced tea, and the two were embroiled in deep conversation. Other than a rotund, abnormally hairy, balding retiree who was wearing a far too small swimsuit that showed off way more than was appropriate for polite society and who was snoozing on a lounger nearby, none of the other residents of Violet’s gated condo community were anywhere to be seen, so the ladies mostly had the pool to themselves.