A Slight Change of Plan

by Dee Ernst

  “Maybe we should go into business together. We could sell your pies.”

  I laughed. “Good idea. Maybe have one of those cupcake shops that are opening up everywhere.”

  “Kate’s Cakes,” she offered. “But we’d put a K in ‘Kakes.’ So it would look really cute.”

  I wanted to gag a little but didn’t. “I hate to break it to you, Alisa, but the middle-aged widow and the wildly popular cupcake shop only works in cozy romance novels. In real life, it’s a hard, long battle for success that usually ends in failure, and if I fail, I’ll have to start charging you and Sam more rent.” I smiled at her. “Besides, aren’t you going to be doing something brilliant in the next few months?”

  She smiled shyly. “I hope it’s brilliant. That’s the only way I’ll get to France.”

  “France?” I asked. “What’s with France?”

  She stood up and stretched, like a cat. “That’s where I’m going when I finish school. There’s a lab right outside Paris doing amazing stuff, and I’ve already been in touch with the director. I hope to fly over there next year and meet him in person. I can’t wait. I’m going to love living in France.”

  I stared at her. “You want to live in France?”

  She nodded, beaming.

  “And will Sam be going with you? To France?”

  She nodded again. The sweat on my body began to dry and I felt suddenly cold.

  “You’re going to take my son to France and raise all my grandchildren there?”

  Being an MIT graduate, she immediately noticed the sudden change in my tone. She may have also seen my jaw tighten and my eyes narrow. As I watched her, I could see her backpedaling.

  “Well, Kate, nothing has been decided. I mean, it’s just an idea I had, that’s all.”

  “What would Sam do in France?” I wasn’t letting her off the hook.

  She made a face, thinking fast. “Whatever he wanted. There are tons of technology companies over there. With the kind of work he’s doing, he could write his own ticket. But like I said, it’s all in the planning stages right now. Nothing has been decided. We have the next two or even three years to figure it out.”

  “Of course,” I said. We stared at each other for a few moments; then she cleared her throat, thanked me for the pie, and mumbled something about unpacking. She practically ran out of the kitchen, laptop clutched to her chest.

  I’d spent a lot of time lately planning changes to my life: changing my job, starting to date, buying a new house. It had looked pretty good on paper. But now I was finding out how planning your life really works.

  It doesn’t.

  The new house was feeling crowded. Not that I minded Sam and Alisa living with me. I welcomed the idea of getting to know my son again, and his girlfriend seemed like someone who would fit nicely into both of our lives. Even though it looked like she was planning to take my baby and shuffle him off to live in France, where I’d only see my future grandchildren once a year unless I wanted to move there myself and live in an attic on the Left Bank.

  Until then, there were some things I’d gotten used to that would have to change. Like leaving the bathroom door open, and playing seventies disco music really loud in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. But those things I could adjust.

  I was unemployed. Not at all where I expected to be at my age, which was way past the desirable employment age. Where was an ex–tax lawyer going to find a job that could cover all her living expenses so that she’d be able to leave her 401(k) and other investments intact? Just in case she had to drop everything and move to Paris?

  And I was dating again. Why did I live in a society that insisted you find your own mate, when there were so many other places in the world where a name was pulled out of a hat and, bingo, instant marriage? Those who pooh-poohed such arrangements were sadists or extreme optimists, and I couldn’t decide which was more annoying. Tom Smith was a very nice person, but we had a long road ahead that would be fraught with potential disaster. I didn’t want to do all that work and then end up with nothing.

  What I wanted was to find Jake and have a beer with him, just like back in college. I wanted to be with somebody who knew my thoughts, finished my sentences, and would rub the exact spot on my left foot, right below the middle toe, that still cramped up at the end of the day. Adam had come close, when things between us were good and full and happy, but Adam never made me feel the way Jake did.

  I wandered into the den. All my books were there, in no particular order, but grouped together by author. I scanned the shelves. Sure enough, there was a cupcake romance. I made a face, grabbed one of those Nora Roberts trilogy things, and went out on the deck and read the rest of the afternoon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took me about a week to realize that Alisa Patterson was the sweetest girl in the world. She was completely without demands, always asked if she could help around the kitchen, and stayed out of my way. My son, however, my brilliant baby, was a royal pain in the ass.

  Part of it was my fault, and I knew that right away. Sam had always been the needy one, and I had been more than happy to play along with him when he was a kid. These days, I’d be called an enabler. Back then, I was a good mommy.

  But as an adult, he was really hard to get along with. He went out every morning to go to Columbia, and didn’t return until late afternoon. He and Alisa spent time together before they both came back down around dinnertime, and then the two would go upstairs for the evening. You would think that since I only had real contact with Sam for a few hours a day, there would be no issues.

  You would be wrong.

  First of all, he left a trail of personal belongings through my house. It began at the front door—a sweater, jacket, or baseball cap. He always managed to drop something on the kitchen counter. It was usually a crumpled bag of half-eaten sandwich or stale bagel. I could understand the connection. Food belonged in the kitchen. But used food belonged in the garbage, and for some reason he never made it those extra few steps.

  Then there would be his backpack. On the stairs. In my mind, the dividing line between their living space, which they were paying for, and mine began on the first step going to the second floor, so technically, the backpack was on his turf, not mine, but I could see it from my turf, and it bothered me. He was going upstairs anyway. Couldn’t he at least bring it to the top of the stairs before dropping it to the floor?

  Alisa did not leave anything around. She also did not pick up any of Sam’s stuff. On this, I was torn. Yes, as a modern, independent woman, she should not be picking up after her slob of a boyfriend. But didn’t it bother her? Couldn’t she tell it was bothering me?

  I spent the first few days asking him politely to put away his things. He was always apologetic and did it immediately when asked. But if unasked, as I discovered when I decided to stop asking just to see what would happen, he did nothing. By Friday, there were two different baseball caps by the door, two days’ worth of New York Posts on the table by the living room, and four pairs of sneakers on the steps going upstairs. I was starting to feel a little frayed.

  “Regan,” I asked her Friday at lunch, “was your brother always a complete slob?”

  She laughed at me. She was on break from her clinic and dressed in scrubs. I often thought she chose veterinary medicine because it would be a good excuse for her to wear oversize clothes.

  “Well, yeah, Mom. It made me crazy. You never even made him make his bed, which both Jeff and I had to do as soon as we were tall enough to smooth the sheets. I could never understand why he was so special.”

  I sighed. “I don’t understand it, either. I had trained you and Jeff so well. I guess I was too tired with Sam. But what should I do now? I mean, I can’t ground him for making a mess like I did when he was eight and tried to re-create Vesuvius erupting in the laundry room.”

  She laughed. “That was pretty funny. You were so pissed off at him. There were soapsuds everywhere.”

  “Yes, there were. E
ven your father was ticked off at that one, and he forgave Sam everything.”

  “Look, Mom, I know it must be weird for you. I mean, Sam is a grown-up and all that. But it’s still your house. You can set rules, you know.”

  “Setting rules is not the issue. Getting Sam to follow them is. How do I get a grown man to do what he doesn’t think is important?”

  “Find something that is important to him.”

  “Like what?”

  She grinned. “Food.”

  I’d never thought of that. The way to Sam’s anything was through his stomach.

  When I got home, there was a flannel shirt draped over the bannister and an empty Starbucks cup by the sink. I smiled. Then proceeded to make chili with cornbread. Not really early summer food, but one of Sam’s favorites. Around six they came down. I was sitting, eating calmly. Sam reached for a bowl.

  “Sam, I’m sorry, but there’s no food for you,” I said.

  Alisa, sensing something, grabbed a bowl, filled it with chili, and sat beside me. Sam was standing there, frowning.

  “Mom, what are you talking about? There’s plenty of chili.”

  “I know,” I said. “But you can’t have any.”

  “Why not?” He was sounding annoyed. Good.

  “Sam,” I said, pushing my bowl away and turning to look at him, “this is my house. I invited you to live here, and I have no problem with that. I don’t charge you much rent, and I don’t mind cooking for you and Alisa. But it’s my house, and my rules. I’ve asked you half a dozen times to not leave your crap all over the place, but you don’t seem to get the message. So, here’s a new rule. If you come into the house and leave any sign of your presence, like that empty paper cup sitting two feet away from the garbage can over there, you cannot eat any of my food. Got it?”

  His mouth dropped open. He stared at me, then at Alisa. She shrugged and bit off another piece of cornbread.

  “But, Mom…”

  I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  He turned and threw the paper cup in the garbage. Then he went into the hall, and I could hear him going up the steps. There was a flurry of activity.

  Alisa smiled at me. “Great call, Kate.”

  I smiled back knowingly. “Thanks. It was actually Regan’s idea. All my kids are pretty smart.”

  She got up and ladled out some more chili.

  Sam came downstairs, looking sheepish, and grabbed the bowl again.

  “Wait a minute, Sam.”

  He turned.

  “This will be the one and only time you get a break,” I told him. “Next time, you will not be able to clean up after the fact and get a do-over. Next time, you’ll have to go and get takeout. Okay?”

  He made a face, nodded, then filled his bowl. He sat down beside Alisa.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled.

  I waved my spoon around graciously. “No problem, honey. I know it’s partly my fault you’re such a spoiled brat, which is why I’m taking it upon myself to try to change your ways. It may very well kill us both, but I figure it will be worth it in the end.”

  He glowered. Alisa giggled. I got more chili.

  Tom Smith and I had another date. We went to an antique car show out near Lambertville, then had dinner in a converted mill right on the Delaware. It was late when we got home, and I almost invited him in, but then I realized Alisa and Sam were probably still up, watching TV in the loft, and we’d have to introduce everybody, then wait for them to go to bed, and then there was the whole breakfast thing. Here I was, a grown-up woman, thinking about having sex with another grown-up, and I had to worry about what my kid would say. There was something wrong with that picture.

  Tom seemed to get it, though. He smiled as I stepped out of the car, and suggested, quite casually, that maybe he could cook me dinner on Saturday night.

  I smiled at him through the window. “Sounds good. Can I bring anything?”

  He frowned, thinking. Then he brightened. “A toothbrush?”

  I laughed out loud. “Yes. I have one of those. Anything else?”

  He said no. I went inside and had a great night’s sleep. The next day I called my favorite spa and made an appointment to get my hair done. I was thinking about getting a full-body hot mud treatment. I also thought about a Brazilian wax and a boob job, but, let’s face it, at my age the expectations can only be so high.

  Laura, of course, had something to say on the subject. “You’re going to have sex with a man you hardly know?”

  We were sitting on my deck Friday afternoon. She was in between baseball games. I was thinking about whether to buy sexy underwear or stick with good old-fashioned nakedness.

  I sighed. “Laura, I was in college during the seventies. I spent years having sex with men I hardly knew. Besides, Tom and I aren’t kids. We’re not losing our virginity to each other in a grand gesture of undying love. We’re two adults who are attracted to each other and want to act on that attraction. We’ve talked about it, but there’s no need to get deep and philosophical about it. We’re both lonely and a little horny. That’s pretty much it.”

  She looked sorrowful. “But what about Jake?”

  I made a noise that may have been a snort. “What about Jake?”

  “Did you ever get in touch with him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think you should. At least have coffee with him or something. Aren’t you curious?”

  Yes, I was very curious. I had not clicked on his page since I first saw his wave. But now that I knew some of the hard, cold facts of his life, it was as though the ice had broken a bit. It felt easier to go back there, just to have another look. “Well, maybe I could wave back, just to see if he wants to, you know, meet and talk about old times.”

  She jumped up and squealed, then raced off to the den.

  I was right behind her, but she had already turned on the laptop and was going through my desktop apps.

  “Where is it?” she muttered.

  I wrestled the laptop away from her and found the site, clicked on my page, and sat for a moment looking.

  Jake’s wave was still there. I had not been on for a few days, and I had gotten another wave, this time from a very nice-looking podiatrist I had waved at a few weeks ago, so technically he was a wave-back. I thought for a minute about Cheryl, with three suitors dancing around her in virtual courtship. I didn’t think I’d have the energy. But I did click on Jake’s wave.

  We both sat there and watched as the cursor blinked. I’m not sure what we were waiting for, exactly. I did not really think I’d get an immediate response. After all, his wave was weeks old. If he had been waiting breathlessly for my response, I don’t imagine he would have been waiting this long.

  “Now what?” Laura asked at last.

  I shrugged. “Well, now he’ll have my e-mail address, so he can get in touch with me. I guess I just wait.” I tossed the words off lightly, but my heart was racing. Wait? How long was I going to be waiting? Would he be angry because I had taken so long to wave back at him, and not get back to me at all? What if he had abandoned the dating site entirely because I had ignored him?

  Alisa had wandered in. “Wait for what?” she asked.

  “I waved back at my old boyfriend,” I told her. “You know, the one I told you about.”

  She leaned over my shoulder. “The one we Googled?”

  Laura shot me a look. “Googled?”

  I shrugged. “Alisa was curious, that’s all.”

  Laura snorted. “Whatever. Is there a picture of him? He was so good-looking when he was young.”

  “Sure,” I said as I clicked my way to his page.

  Laura sighed. “He’s still handsome,” she said.

  “Wow,” Alisa said. “He really is. Are there any more pictures?”

  I sat, staring.

  “What?” asked Laura.

  “His status,” I said slowly. “It’s changed. He’s dating someone.”

  “He’s dating someone?
” Laura gasped. “Oh, Kate, how could he?”

  I made a noise. “He could because he’s a single man on a dating site. That is kind of the whole point.”

  Alisa reached over. “Do you think people post pictures of who they’re dating on these sites?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not.” I had a very small but distinct pain in my gut.

  “Well, he had a Facebook page,” Alisa muttered. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “We found it last time—you didn’t bookmark it?” She was muttering some more. “Oh, God. Look at his status. In a relationship. Just scroll down,” she said, doing the actual scrolling herself. “Who’s that?”

  Good question. There, at the bottom of his page, was a picture of a stunning woman, maybe thirty, with carefully tousled blond hair, a wide white smile, and an amazing set of boobs.

  “ ‘A picture of Sandra the beautiful,’ ” I read slowly.

  Laura made a very impolite noise. “Are you sure that’s his girlfriend? She’s young enough to be his daughter. Is he kidding?”

  “Apparently not,” I said, reading on. “She works at a mall.”

  Laura was getting huffy. “Of course she does. Sephora, probably. Where else?”

  “Now, Laura,” Alisa said soothingly, “don’t make assumptions. She might be a very accomplished person.” Alisa, being a scientist, was occasionally annoying in her insistence on fact before rampant speculation.

  “Well,” I said, “he doesn’t describe her as Sandra the brain surgeon, or Sandra the financial analyst, or even Sandra who feeds starving orphans. Looks like ‘beautiful’ is her best asset.”

  “Maybe,” Alisa suggested, “she works in the Apple Store, you know, at the Genius Bar.”

  “I bet she couldn’t get hired at RadioShack.” Laura was on a roll. “In fact, she probably wanders around holding perfume for you to sniff, because they don’t trust her with a cash register.”

  “Well, if he answers me back, I’ll ask him what she does,” I told them.

  Laura started to say something, probably something nasty, then caught herself. “Wow. I’m sorry, Kate. This must be a real bummer for you.”