“Maybe I should say something to her,” I said, taking another bite of pie.
“No!” Grandma said. “You can’t! Remember Bill.”
Her favorite brother had shown up in Grandma’s doorway wearing a green hospital gown. Grandma was so upset, she called Bill at two in the morning about her deadly vision and scared the stuffing out of the man. When Bill had chest pains three days later, he refused to go to the hospital. By the time he collapsed and was taken to St. Mary’s by ambulance, it was too late. Bill died in the ER wearing a hospital gown.
Grandma swore she’d never say anything to anyone again. She kept silent when my father showed up in her doorway minus his head and his wedding ring. Grandma never liked Dad. She knew he cheated on her daughter. Heck, the whole neighborhood knew. Mom always forgave my father and took him back. Grandma thought her daughter would be better off without him. Three days later, when Dad was supposed to be at work, an irate husband blew away my father’s head with a shotgun as he slipped out of a hot-sheet motel. The errant wife locked herself in the bathroom and survived.
Somehow, Mom found out that Grandma knew about Dad’s death in advance. She never forgave Grandma—or spoke to her again. Two years later, Mom appeared in Grandma’s bedroom doorway in a hospital gown. She was dying of cancer. Grandma rushed to St. John’s Mercy and begged her daughter to forgive her. Mom went to her grave in stone-hard silence.
My cousin Jimmy wore jungle fatigues in Grandma’s doorway. Grandma wept when she saw her favorite grandson with a seeping chest wound. Then she called the Red Cross and said she needed to get in touch with Jimmy—it was an emergency.
“Does this concern a death in the family?” the Red Cross contact said.
“Not yet,” Grandma said.
The Red Cross dismissed her as a harmless nutcase. Three days later Cousin Jimmy was shot in Vietnam, but we didn’t know about his death for two weeks.
Grandma mourned Jimmy and blamed herself. “I should have lied,” she said. “I should have said his mother had died, and then they would have let my grandbaby come home.” But she was unable to lie about what she saw. It was part of her unwanted gift.
Here’s the weird thing about my grandmother: She looked like a picture-book Grandma. She had a comfortable flour-sack figure and permed gray hair. She put up grape jelly, made apple butter in a big kettle, baked pies with flaky crusts, canned her own tomatoes—and saw dead people in her bedroom doorway.
My grandfather did not stop by Grandma’s door before his heart attack. Grandma believed that was her punishment for her silence when my father was murdered. She found her husband of fifty years dead at the kitchen table, a deck of cards spread out on the Formica top. He’d been cheating at solitaire.
Why did Grandma see the dead three days before they passed over—when they were still alive? Grandma said time didn’t run in a straight line, the way we saw it in schoolbooks. “Time is all around us,” she said. “It’s happening all at once.” That was a pretty fair explanation of quantum physics from a woman who’d never finished grade school.
Much of what Grandma saw didn’t make sense until after it happened. Aunt Leila appeared in the doorway wearing a raincoat and fluffy pink bedroom slippers. Grandma thought that outfit was so ridiculous, she blamed the pickled herring she’d had for dinner. After three Turns, she decided to warn Leila. Grandma’s younger sister lived in a snooty suburb of St. Louis called Ladue. Leila thought Grandma’s town, Mehlville, was low-rent.
“I was wearing a raincoat and slippers? What have you been drinking, Emma?” Leila asked. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that getup.”
But she was. Three days later, Leila overslept, and her daughter, Annie, missed the school bus. Annie could lose her perfect attendance award. Aunt Leila threw her raincoat over her nightgown, grabbed her purse, and drove Annie to school. Aunt Leila was killed driving home when a woman ran a stop sign on McKnight Road. Leila was wearing fluffy pink slippers and a raincoat.
“I should have tried harder,” Grandma wept. “She wouldn’t believe me. Now I’m warning you.”
“What was I wearing in your doorway?” I asked. I couldn’t keep the fear out of my voice. I had a fifteen-year-old daughter. I wanted to see my Sarah go to her senior prom. I wanted to be there when she graduated from college, and at her wedding. I wanted to hold my grandchild in my arms.
“Oh, I didn’t see you,” Grandma said. “I just had a feeling.”
I took a deep breath and relaxed. Grandma’s “feelings” were right maybe half the time. I had a 50 percent chance of escape.
In 2006, Grandma “had a feeling” the St. Louis Cardinals would win the World Series and talked me into getting season tickets with her. She was triumphant when they won. Of course, she also thought the Cards would win in 2008. They had a miserable season. The Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series against the Tampa Bay Rays.
I took Grandma to the race track twice because she “had a feeling.” The first time, she won twenty-seven dollars. The second time, she lost fifty bucks on broken-down nags in what I called the Dog Food Trifecta—all three of her horses came in last.
Still, Grandma might be right this time. I fortified myself with more pie and asked, “Well, if I didn’t stop in your doorway, what’s going to happen?”
“I’m not sure,” Grandma said. “But it involves you and Angela and a crime.”
“Angela in a crime? No one is more honest than Angela. She keeps our books and insists on an independent audit every year. Besides, our design business doesn’t make enough money for her to steal.”
“I didn’t say she was stealing,” Grandma said. “Your Jack is working late a lot lately, isn’t he?”
“Jack’s architectural firm won the renovation project for the old NorCo shoe company building. They’re turning it into loft apartments. His proposal is due in two weeks.”
Why the sudden shift from my business partner to my husband? Oh, no. Jack wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Angela was no angel, but she wouldn’t have an affair with my husband. Would she?
I put down my pie fork. “Grandma, Jack is working late. And he doesn’t like Angela. She’s not interested in him, either.”
“That’s what your father used to say, until—” Grandma said.
“He was shot,” I interrupted. “Jack is nothing like my father. That’s why I married him.”
“But what about Angela? She’s a good-looking woman.”
“Much better looking than me,” I said.
“Francine! I would never say that,” Grandma said.
“No, but you think it, like everyone else. Angela has a boyfriend. Actually, he’s a friend with benefits.”
“What’s that?” Grandma said.
“It means she likes him, and she sleeps with him sometimes when she feels like it.”
“In my day, we called that a husband,” Grandma said.
“I’d better go,” I said. “It’s getting late, and I need to get home before Sarah.”
“You worry too much,” Grandma said. “She’s not a little girl anymore.”
“She’s a teenager, which is even more dangerous.”
“Sarah’s not using drugs, is she?” Grandma asked.
“No, she’s just surly. I can’t do anything right.”
“She’ll grow out of it,” Grandma said. “Take her some apple pie. Do you think it’s boy trouble?”
“She says boys are gross,” I said. “I’m happy she believes that for now.”
“So many young girls get in trouble,” Grandma said, as she put half a pie in a Tupperware container. “I’m thankful Sarah’s still a child.” Grandma handed the pie to me.
I kissed her forehead. “I guess I’m overprotective,” I said. “But Sarah is a young fifteen.”
“She doesn’t dress like a young girl,” Grandma said. “At Thanks-giving, she was wearing an outfit that made her look like—”
“A slut,” I finished.
Grandma’s lips tightened into a
thin, angry line. “I would never say that about my great-grandbaby. But that short skirt and belly-baring top did make her look older than her years.”
“That’s how girls dress now, Grandma,” I said. “It looks slutty by our standards, but I didn’t want her to be what I was in high school.”
“What? An A student?” Grandma said.
“A nerd,” I said. “Thanks for the pie. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
Grandma followed me to her front door. “Francine, if you need money for anything, you can always come to me. I only have a couple hundred in the bank, but I own this house. It’s not worth much, but the land is valuable. Some developer wants to build another subdivision on this road. He’s made an offer for that lot across the street and my five acres.”
“Thanks, Grandma, but where would you live? You keep your house and your independence.”
“Okay, but the money is yours when you need it. Lawyers are expensive.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” I said. “Where did that come from?”
“Just a feeling,” Grandma said.
Grandma had bought the green three-room rambler when Mehlville was still the middle of nowhere. New highways had made the suburb more accessible and the land more valuable.
I worried all the way to my next stop, my Maplewood design office. I tried to remember what I knew about Angela’s “friend with benefits.” His name was Allan, he was a CPA, and Angela had redecorated his office in what we privately called “clubby classic.” Allan wanted leather wing chairs, forest green walls, and hunting prints. Not terribly innovative, but most people didn’t want an innovative accountant. I gathered Allan wasn’t much more exciting outside the office. Angela had said he was a presentable escort and “okay in the sack, but he won’t set the world on fire. Besides, I like them young, you know what I mean? Allan’s my age. He’s too old for me.” She’d laughed.
Lately, Angela had been uncommonly cheerful. Her pale complexion had the glow of a well-loved woman. Maybe she did have a new boyfriend. Good for her.
I knew Angela didn’t have time for an affair with my husband. She was too busy mentoring Megan, the new intern from the university’s design school. Thanks to Angela, we got the school’s best young talent working for us. Interns were good at tracking down online resources and running out for paint samples, material swatches, and coffee. They were low-paid errand girls, but they got terrific recommendation letters and experience. Our firm, Smart Women, was a good name to put on their resumes.
I didn’t like dealing with the college students. The girls showed up late, hungover, or not at all. They needed constant attention. They whined that their parents didn’t give them enough money. I’d worked my way through college and thought most were spoiled brats. Angela said working with young talent was invigorating. She could have them.
Even my own daughter, who wanted to be an interior designer, would rather work with Angela. Sarah said all I did was criticize her. I only suggested a few small improvements. I was happy my daughter wanted to follow in my footsteps. Sarah’s rejection hurt, but maybe we needed a buffer for now. We’d just had a fight over the October cell phone bill. Sarah had text-messaged another two hundred dollars onto it.
Sarah must have cried on Angela’s shoulder. Angela told me many parents had monster texting bills from their kids. She e-mailed me some family phone plans with unlimited text messaging. “Sarah needs to stay in touch with her friends,” Angela said. “It’s harmless. All the kids do it.”
Exactly what Sarah had said. I didn’t want to reward my daughter for running up bills, but maybe I should look into those plans. I’d spent hours talking on the phone to my best friend, Sue, when I was in high school. I couldn’t remember a word we’d said, but those calls were vital to me at Sarah’s age. My daughter was a good kid. Heaven knows what I’d put my mother through when I was fifteen.
Smart Women, our interior design office, was close to my home. Ten years ago, Angela and I had bought an old two-story brick building on Manchester Road for a good price. We’d created an amazing office with lots of natural light, open space, and hardwood floors. Smart Women was close to three major highways and the rich areas that used our services. Maplewood, an older suburb, had become trendy, and our property value skyrocketed.
It was dark when I parked my Lexus in back of the building and slipped quietly through the side door. I could see my daughter and my design partner standing over a drawing board. I knew they were working on the McDaniels vacation condo at the Lake of the Ozarks. The overhead lights turned Angela’s red hair into fire. My daughter’s long blonde hair was spun gold. Sarah seemed older in the dim light, and I could see the young woman she would soon become. Both women were dressed in black sweaters and pants. I watched the scene without making a sound.
“We could use a beachy theme in the great room, which has the best view of the lake,” Angela said. “What about a conversation group of wicker chairs and a white couch facing those big windows? We could use the blue accent pillows.”
Ordinary, I thought. The McDaniels would want something more stylish. That’s why they hired Smart Women.
“What happens when one of the McDaniels’ boys visits?” my daughter said. “The condo only has one bedroom. That couch won’t stay white if the boys crash on it. I go to school with the youngest, Judson. He’s a slob. I’ve seen him eat spaghetti out of the can. Maybe we should think about a pullout sofa to give the room flexibility.”
“Good idea,” Angela said. “What do you think of coral for the sofa?”
“It’s spaghetti-colored,” my daughter said, then paused. “I meant that as a joke, Angela. I love the color, and we can keep your blue accent pillows, too. You’ve made the room vibrant.”
I was so proud of my daughter. Sarah was smart, talented—and tactful. I could see my daughter’s name on our letterhead in a few years.
In the meantime, I was hungry. I tiptoed out and carefully shut the door so I wouldn’t disturb them. Then I called my husband. It was only five thirty, and Jack was still at work. I asked him if he’d like to meet me for dinner at Acero, his favorite Maplewood restaurant.
“I was just finishing up,” Jack said. “I should have this project done before the deadline. Probably tomorrow night.”
“Good,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get a bonus.”
“Only if the clients like it. Are you serious about Acero?”
“My treat,” I said.
“Could I order the mushroom ravioli with black truffles?”
“You can have whatever your heart desires,” I said. “Including me.”
“You’re dessert,” he said. “Black truffles first.”
Acero wasn’t a spaghetti-and-meatballs Italian restaurant. I ordered the grilled skate wing in browned butter. The meat looked like a large, plump wing. It was hard to believe it came from such a prehistoric-looking creature as the raylike skate.
“This is heavenly,” I told Jack.
“Maybe it’s an angel wing,” he teased.
We finished dinner and drove by Smart Women on the way home. The lights were still on. “Our daughter is working with Angela tonight,” I said. “That means we have the house to ourselves.”
“Are you propositioning me?” Jack asked.
“Absolutely. I’m a smart woman, remember?” We hurried home.
Sarah walked in the door at eight o’clock. Jack and I were watching a movie in the media room, holding hands. We’d had an hour to make love.
“Hi, honey, how was your day?” Jack joked.
Sarah smiled at her father and said, “Good. I worked with Angela on the McDaniels’ beach house, and we came up with this cool idea for the great room.”
Our daughter talked a mile a minute, the way she did when she was happy. Then she kissed her father good night, ignored me, and went upstairs.
She’s going to be upset when Angela dies, I thought meanly. But maybe I’ll get my daughter back. Sarah will have to work with me.
&n
bsp; I slept badly that night. In my dreams, a ghostly Angela pleaded with me not to let her die. I woke up drenched with sweat and went to the kitchen to fix a calming cup of tea. I couldn’t save Angela, and she wouldn’t believe me if I told her she’d soon be dead.
I was trapped, and she was doomed. I wished Grandma had never told me about Angela. I knew her supernatural knowledge was a dark burden, but I didn’t want it, either. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night.
The next day, I was tired and preoccupied. At work I botched an order for upholstery fabric, gave the wrong number for my trade discount to a wholesale house, and spilled a mug of coffee all over my desk.
“What’s wrong?” Angela asked. “You look pale.”
So did Angela. Maybe it was her new light pink lipstick. It was a shade I hadn’t seen since the 1960s. It must be back in style, or Angela wouldn’t wear it.
“I’m probably coming down with the flu,” I said.
“Why don’t you go home?” Angela said. “I can finish up here.”
I was glad to leave. I couldn’t meet her eyes, knowing she had one more day to live. Trouble was coming, and all I could do was avoid it. But I was worried about my daughter. What if Sarah was with Angela when my partner died? What if Sarah was hurt, too? Or caught up somehow in Grandma’s mysterious crime? I had to keep my daughter safe tomorrow.
When school was out, I called Sarah on her cell phone. “Hi,” she said, her voice sullen.
“Sarah, your father should be finishing his big project tomorrow. I thought we could take him out to dinner to celebrate.”
“Can’t, Mom,” she said. “I’m rehearsing for the school musical, remember?”
“Right,” I said. “I forgot.”
What musical? When did she tell me that? “You never talk about your part,” I said.
“I’m in the chorus and a crowd scene. Big whoop.”
There it was again, that surly teenage voice. I tamped down my anger. If Sarah was at school, she wouldn’t be around Angela on a dangerous day. I called my husband at work to invite him to dinner tomorrow night.
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