Better Than Your Dreams

by Dee Ernst

  “How’s the Basking Ridge project coming?” I finally asked him.

  He made a face. “The homeowner is a lunatic. Changing his mind every five minutes. Then the wife screams at him about money. I’m having both of them sign off on every change, because it’s costing them a fortune. The good news is, her nephew is on staff at Architectural Digest, and she wants a cover story.”

  “Wow, that’s great. Hitting the big time.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe.”

  “No, really. Think of all the higher-end clients you could get!”

  “True. But the higher-end clients I’ve got now are a pain in the ass to work with, and I can’t wait to get out of there. I’m not sure I want too many more like them.”

  I laughed; then the spotlight hit the piano, and a scruffy young man sat down to play. Ben and I had heard him a few times before, and he was a delight. Unfortunately, as I crossed my legs, I snagged my expensive stocking on something and felt a run climbing up the back of my leg. The garter started to dig into my thigh, and the sweat drying in the middle of my back was starting to itch. I kept my head fixed resolutely in the direction of the music, even though I couldn’t see much more than the backs of just about everyone else in the bar. Ben, a head and a half taller, smiled throughout, his head nodding gently to the music.

  I finally slipped into the ladies’ room and collapsed into a stall. I shrugged out of my coat, letting the cool air wash over my semi-naked body. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of relief. Then I cautiously opened my eyes.

  I had not one, but two runs in my stocking. Both garters holding up said stockings were digging into my flesh. There was a rash on both arms from the heat, and the lace under my boobs was damp from sweat. My satin tap pants had rearranged at the back seam, giving me the world’s biggest wedgie.

  Boy, was I a picture of irresistible booty or what?

  I eased my foot out of my left shoe. A blister roughly the size of Duluth was on my little toe. How was I going to walk back to Ben’s? I clenched my teeth and forced my foot back into the shoe. Maybe I could snap off both heels—hadn’t it worked for Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone? But Michael Douglas had done it with his machete—all I had was a nail file in my purse, and it didn’t look up to the job.

  I made my way back to the table and forced a smile. “Ben, I think I need to start home. I’m more tired tonight than I thought.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He drained his beer.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have just stayed home.”

  He smiled. “No. It’s always good to see you, Mona.”

  I silently thanked him for saying that. At least I didn’t feel like a complete idiot.

  We got up to leave. I thought I was walking just fine, but Ben grabbed my arm.

  “Why are you limping? Are you okay?”

  “It’s just the shoes.”

  He stared at my feet. “Do you want me to get the car?”

  Gratitude pushed embarrassment out the door. “Please. Would you? That would be great.”

  He steered me back to our table. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Not wanting to appear totally incapacitated, I was waiting for him outside when he returned. I hobbled over to his car and got in gratefully. As I did, the coat opened up to my thigh, flashing black nylon and little red bows. Ben stared at my leg as I rearranged my coat and calmly fastened my seat belt.

  “What exactly are you wearing?” he finally asked, putting the car in drive and heading back to his house.

  I cleared my throat. “Just some black underwear.”

  He shook his head. “No, Mona, really. What are you wearing under that coat?”

  “I told you. Black underwear. Just black underwear.”

  We pulled into his driveway. He shut off the ignition and turned sideways to look at me. “So I’m guessing you had some sort of definitive plan for this evening?”

  I cleared my throat again. “Possibly. Or I could have just forgotten to put on clothes before I left the house.”

  He took a deep breath. “I thought we agreed we were taking a break. If I had known you were planning something like this—”

  “I know. And I feel really stupid. And I do apologize for not taking your wishes, well, very seriously.”

  “But?”

  I swallowed. “I miss you. I was going to walk in the front door, drop my coat, and you’d be so overcome with lust that you’d forget about everything else.”

  He laughed softly. “Mona, I’ve got to hand it to you; that probably would have worked. Which is why I wanted us to go out instead of having a drink in the house. I’d eventually be overcome with lust no matter what you were wearing.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “I still need to clear a few things in my head before we go any further. Okay?”

  I nodded. Then I got out of his car, got into my own, and drove. As soon as I was around the corner, I pulled over and sat in the car, eyes closed, until my hands stopped shaking. Then I drove home.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOR YEARS, REBECCA BERMAN HAD arrived at the crack of dawn on Thanksgiving morning with a pan or two of her homemade, ready-to-bake cinnamon rolls. All I had to do was pop them in the oven, and within minutes my house was filled with a sweet and spicy scent that made being married to her brother Brian for twenty years worthwhile. Rebecca was one of my favorite people in the world—an elegant hippie with long, beautiful gray hair and a clear, lovely laugh. My divorce from Brian did nothing at all to our friendship, or her long-standing tradition of arriving with cinnamon rolls. She did not, just as a point of information, bring rolls to anyone else’s house where we might be gathering for Thanksgiving, something that Dominique had commented on more than once.

  Julian was with her again this year, he of the rakish good looks, silver hair, and pierced ear. I was alone in my kitchen when they arrived, sipping coffee and trying to decide between sausage scramble casserole (recipe found on Pinterest) or egg-and-cheese on English muffins for breakfast.

  “Mona, love, how are you?” she cried, sweeping in with her usual swirl of long skirts and silky scarves. We hugged. She was taller than I and smelled of her signature patchouli.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” I told her. I kissed Julian on the cheek. “You too, of course. Here, let me take those.” I grabbed the pans from Julian’s outstretched hands and popped them in the oven. “Today may be a three-martini day,” I told her.

  She raised both eyebrows. “It’s barely eight o’clock. Have you developed the sight?”

  Rebecca was a practicing Wiccan, and took those sorts of things very seriously.

  I sighed as I poured them both coffee. Rebecca and I had had a long talk the weekend before, and she knew about all the drama, but she needed to be brought up to speed on the events of the past few days. “Carmella called to ask what she could bring.”

  “How nice,” Rebecca murmured.

  “I suggested sweet potatoes or green beans or pumpkin pie. She’s bringing lasagna and a few dozen cannoli. Vincent is bringing homemade wine and Tony the Bodyguard. Patricia won’t be here—she’s down in Boca, at her aunt’s, who’s not doing well at all. I haven’t talked to Ben in over a week. It’s the longest we’ve gone without speaking in four years. Lauren broke up with Justin, and she’s taking it really hard. Tyler’s potty training is not going well, and I’m told he pees on anything blue. One of the cats has an issue and has been throwing up all over the house, but I haven’t been able to find out which one it is. Just watch where you walk. Oh, and Jess’s new tattoo might be infected. She can’t sit down.”

  Rebecca sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  “Perhaps you should start drinking now,” Julian suggested. “Rebecca and I can handle dinner.”

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “But I have to stay sharp. Carmella wants Ben.”

  Rebecca smiled gently. “We all want Ben.”

  “True. But she may be in active pursuit
.”

  “Then may I suggest you change before your guests start arriving?” Rebecca said.

  I looked down at myself. I was dressed in my usual make-Thanksgiving-dinner outfit—sweatpants and a T-shirt. In deference to the drop in temperature, I was also wearing a very chichi flannel shirt, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, with the pocket torn off. I sighed. “Maybe one of my California outfits?”

  She shrugged. “Anything, Mona. Really.”

  “I will. Your sister is still in Chicago, right?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  Brian and Rebecca’s other sister, generally referred to as Marsha the Bitch, had finally divorced her incredibly boring husband—or perhaps he divorced her—and moved out to Chicago to be near her daughter, and her presence would no longer be a threat to any family holiday.

  I heard the girls coming downstairs. I quickly decided on the English-muffin idea, which I could throw together before the parades started, and they became transfixed in front of the flat screen.

  Rebecca pushed her coffee mug aside. “How can I help?”

  My daughters think Rebecca is the best aunt ever, and I have to agree with them. After hugs and kisses, Rebecca immediately insisted on seeing Jess’s tattoo, which Jess showed her without asking Julian to look in the other direction. Julian, a born gentleman, averted his eyes anyway. Rebecca immediately rattled off several DIY options for improving the situation, sending Jessica off in search of the tea tree oil. We all scrambled eggs and toasted muffins, and by the time Lily came down, the girls were happily eating in the den.

  Lily was wearing a shimmery bronze tunic over a wine-colored maxi skirt.

  Rebecca stared at her. “My God, Lily! You look amazing. Love certainly does agree with you!”

  They played kiss-kiss, and Lily gave Julian a peck on the cheek; then she settled in at the breakfast bar. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. I had always thought that you’d captured the last handsome rogue over sixty-five, but I think I may have!”

  “Lily,” I asked. “How old is Vinnie?”

  “Seventy,” she said, sipping her coffee.

  “Does he know how old you are?”

  She shot me a very cold look. “No. And it’s nobody’s business. Is it?”

  “Of course not,” Rebecca soothed. “Tell me all about him.”

  I left them to it and went upstairs. My dinner had been ready for two days now—everything chopped and precooked, mashed, sliced, and peeled. It was mostly a matter of getting the two turkeys in the oven at the right time, then finishing off the sides. I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, put on some makeup, then opened my closet.

  During the time I’d spent in LA, I had noticed that most of the people were beautiful, rich, and thin. And young. Oddly, I had not met one person who admitted to being alive during man’s first walk on the moon. In fact, nobody asked your age; the unspoken agreement being that no one should deliberately provoke a lie. It took me a while to get used to.

  The east coast, on the other hand, had a different outlook. Nobody here said that fifty was the new thirty. Most of my friends in New Jersey felt that fifty was the new Spanish Inquisition. It was best to run like hell in the opposite direction, but if caught and threatened with torture, admit everything.

  Just as a point of information, I’m barely forty-eight. So it’s really not a concern of mine.

  At all.

  While in LA, I had a chance to meet those beautiful thin young people at a variety of functions that required me to buy outrageously expensive outfits, along with ridiculous shoes. One of those pairs of shoes, the ones I wore to Ben’s a few weeks ago, had been donated to my local consignment shop, because I’d never, ever wear them again.

  I grabbed several outfits and started trying them on. Nothing that was appropriate for drinks on a terrace overlooking the Hollywood sign was going to fly during a family dinner in Westfield, New Jersey, in November.

  Maybe I’d just come downstairs in my black bustier, satin tap pants, and garter belt.

  I was finally pushed into a decision by the sound of Fred barking. Someone was here, and as hostess I should at least make an appearance in something other than my robe. So I grabbed dark-wash jeans, a cashmere V-neck sweater, and a long scarf that I spent several precious seconds trying to tie around my neck in a way that suggested a fashion-forward sensibility. Then I gave up, because it would probably dangle over the stove while I was cooking, catch fire, then burn down my house with my entire family trapped inside.

  I pushed my feet into black Minnetonka mocs and ran downstairs.

  Carmella Ciavaglia was wearing the perfect outfit for a family dinner in Westfield, New Jersey, in November: skinny jeans tucked into black booties, a silky tunic that fell past her hips but hugged every curve, and a long draped cardigan. She also had with her a very tall and striking young man who was arranging foil trays on my countertop.

  Rebecca, bless her heart, had taken coats and was introducing everyone. I smiled broadly at Carmella. Were we at the hugging stage yet? Would we ever be? Apparently yes, because the tall, striking young man swept me into his arms.

  “Mona, thank you for having us,” he said, his voice very deep.

  I detached myself politely. “A pleasure.”

  “Yes, thanks. You have no idea how nice it is to not have to cook!” Carmella said.

  I looked at my countertop. “You call this not cooking?” I asked.

  She laughed. “This is Trevor,” Carmella said “He did most of this. He’s at the CIA.”

  Jess, hearing the commotion, had torn herself away from the TV. “CIA?” she asked. “Are you going to be a spy?”

  Trevor shook his head. He had Carmella’s dark eyes and Vincent’s beautiful head of hair, although his was dark brown instead of steel gray, of course. “No. I’m going to be a chef. Culinary Institute of America.”

  Jessica looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, that’s cool too, I guess. How do you feel about marching bands and floats?”

  His eyes lit up as he followed her into the den.

  “My daughters love the parades,” I explained to Carmella. “It’s kind of a tradition.”

  She waved a perfectly manicured hand. “Sure, I get it. We too early?”

  “Not at all,” I assured her. Where had Aunt Lily gone?

  Rebecca smiled. “Coffee?”

  Carmella nodded and perched her shapely butt on the stool in front of the breakfast bar. “I thought Ben would be here already.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was not even ten. How long was I going to have to be talking to this woman? “Soon,” I told her. “Ethan likes to sleep in.”

  She was drinking her coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and as she stirred, the spoon clinked against the side of the mug. “Ethan, yeah, the one at Penn State?”

  I smiled. She wanted me to know that she and Ben had talked about things—things other than the wedding. Was she expecting a reaction? Because she sure wasn’t going to get one. “Yes. He’s prelaw.”

  “Right.” Clink. Clink. “Ben says he’s a bit shy.”

  “Maybe with strangers,” I said, still smiling. “But he and I get along fine.”

  “It’s nice when you get along with the kids, ya know?” Clink. Clink.

  “True. Especially now that we’re going to be family. Ben mentioned that your other son was in France?” It was my turn to let her know that Ben and I talked as well. Regularly. About her.

  “Paulie? Yes. He’s studying art, of all things.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how these kids today think they’re going to make a living. Cooking? Painting? Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned kinds of jobs, ya know?”

  Right. Like money laundering and prostitution.

  Aunt Lily came in. She had added a fabulous scarf tied around her neck, perfectly looped and draped. I felt a pang of jealousy.

  “Carmella, hello!” she said, planting a kiss. “And Trev? Did the girls kidnap him already? I have to say hello. He’s such a wonderful youn
g man.” She hurried into the den.

  “Lily is quite a character,” Carmella said. Clink. Clink.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “She’s a very, ah, forceful personality.”

  Julian made a noise, possibly from choking on his coffee.

  Rebecca looped her arm through his. “Let’s go watch the parade with the young folks,” she suggested, dragging him into the den.

  Carmella finally took a sip from her mug and smiled brilliantly. “Lovely home.”

  “Thanks. And you live in Brooklyn?”

  She nodded. “Right around the corner from Lily’s old place.”

  “Imagine.”

  “Yes.”

  Lily came back in and looked at me, then at Carmella. She put her arm around Carmella’s shoulder. “I know this isn’t technically a workday for you,” she said, sounding very apologetic, “but could I steal you away for a few minutes? I found the most wonderful flowers online.”

  Thank you, Aunt Lily.

  I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher for the first load of the day. I poured another cup of coffee. I opened my full-size freezer, the one I had installed right next to my full-size fridge, and gazed longingly at the two bottles of Grey Goose on the bottom shelf.

  It was going to be a long day.

  The rest of the cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:

  Brian, Dominique, Tyler, and Brian’s mother Phyllis.

  Vincent DeMatriano and Anthony Lorenzo. (Or, as he was more affectionately known, Tony the Bodyguard.)

  Ben, David, and Ethan Cutler.

  Anthony Wood and Victor Shapiro.

  And finally, unnamed pizza delivery guy.

  Phyllis Berman, who was still my favorite mother-in-law ever, had had a series of ministrokes the year before. Prior to that she had lived quite happily in the sprawling Brooklyn apartment she had raised her family in, renting out the spare room—with its adjoining bath—to a series of students attending Brooklyn Law School. But last year Brian talked her into selling the homestead and moving to the ’burbs, where she could be closer to him. She was now living in a fabulous assisted-living facility, complete with bingo night, trips to Broadway shows, and Walmart Day. She was happy as a clam. She could also spend every Sunday with Tyler and was much closer for all holidays.