Ida inhaled and exhaled into the paper bag for the next ten minutes. While doing so, she took in the room Toots had prepared for her, hoping it would distract her from having a major attack. An antique four-poster walnut bed with a matching armoire and vanity took up one half of the room. Two comfortable-looking chairs were placed strategically in front of a fireplace. Rose- and cream-colored walls gave off a warm and cozy glow. Green plants were placed throughout the room, bringing a feeling of the outdoors inside. Toots was well known for her good taste. Ida was sure the room had not been touched by a professional decorator.
When she felt as though she could stand on her own two feet without passing out, she tossed the brown paper bag aside, praying she wouldn’t need to use it again. At least not that night.
To distract herself from further negative thoughts, she took the germ-zapping light Toots had purchased for her and began her odd—yet comforting—routine. Inch by inch she scanned the guest room. First the doorknobs. After each scan, she removed a Clorox wipe from its container and thoroughly wiped any area that showed the slightest amount of germs. She would then scan each area a second time, making sure she’d removed as many of the deadly microbes as humanly possible.
She scanned the night table, the lamp, the alarm clock. Anything that required touching, she scanned. Seeing that these items were virtually germ-free, she then scanned the crisp white sheets. Upon her arrival, Bernice had explained that she had washed the sheets in hot water and plenty of bleach. Ida was grateful for this because sleeping on the same sheets two nights in a row was nearly impossible for her. Toots had certainly catered to her strange ways, and, sadly, Ida knew she was asking her friends to also act as enablers, but at that point she couldn’t help herself. Removing the mask and breathing unfiltered air was a giant step and a testament to her determination to conquer her phobia.
When she was satisfied that her room was as germ-free as possible, she repeated the same process in the guest bathroom. She wiped the knobs on the sink, the handle on the toilet, and the inside doorknob.
She removed antibacterial soap, small and medium garbage bags, and a nailbrush from the drawer where Bernice had placed them. Next she carefully removed her latex gloves. While telling herself she was avoiding contamination when she wore them, she couldn’t deny that she also wore them to hide her hands. Constant hand washing with harsh antibacterial soaps had left her once soft and delicate hands red and chapped. She carefully removed the gloves, dropping them into a small plastic bag. She placed the plastic bag inside another bag, this one being a medium-size and antibacterial, or so the company claimed, garbage bag. Taking a wipe from the container, she used it as protection as she turned water on. Allowing it to get as hot as possible, with her free hand she opened a fresh bar of soap. She could never use the same bar of soap more than once because it, too, would be covered with germs from her last washing.
Taking a deep breath, Ida held both hands beneath the warm water. Lathering up, careful of her tender hands, she used a new soft buff pad to scrub imaginary germs from her hands ten times. Thomas died on the tenth of October. From that day forward, ten had become her magic number.
Next she massaged an antibiotic pain-relieving cream into her hands. After Ida completed this part of her routine, she replaced her latex gloves with a fresh pair. From there she stripped down, placed her clothing in another bag before turning on the shower. With a new loofa and another fresh bar of disinfecting soap, she scrubbed her body until it was pink. Ten times. Always ten times. Then her hair. She used Prell, a harsh detergent shampoo, to wash her hair. Again she repeated the process ten times.
When she finished, she used the white bath towels Bernice again swore had been washed in bleach and hot water. She rubbed her skin until she couldn’t stand it a minute longer. This bizarre routine provided her a few hours of mental relief, only to be repeated in the morning and as many times as her daily schedule would allow. Fearing she would stay awake worrying about the upcoming trip, Ida took a sleeping pill before carefully sliding into bed. Her last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep was that she was one goddamn sick puppy to go through what she had just gone through.
Some nights she prayed she wouldn’t wake up.
Chapter 11
In the room across the hall, Sophie was engrossed in reading the pile of tabloids Toots had left by her bed. After perusing most of them, she was hit by a sudden pang of guilt. “Damn that man!” she said to no one.
Near death, Walter still held her in his grip. A choking death grip.
Tossing the tabloids aside, Sophie had to practically jump off the bed, it was so high. Toots and her decorating. Sophie had to admit the room was inviting in every sense of the word. An oak bedroom set with a headboard that reached nearly halfway up the celery-colored walls was beyond comfortable, the mattress plush, and sheets at least a thousand-thread count. A box of chocolates lay on the night table. A minifridge held bottled water, small frosted bottles of Coke and Dr Pepper. A basket in the bathroom contained every toiletry known to woman. Shampoo, toothpaste, mouthwash, and gardenia-scented body lotion. Sophie felt as though she were at a luxury resort instead of her best friend’s home. Toots had spared no expense to make this visit memorable.
She walked over to the open window that overlooked the backyard, if you could call it a yard. Sweet-smelling bushes, Confederate jasmine, she thought, filled the late-night air with a delicious scent. It reminded her of bubble gum. A cool breeze wafting through the open window sent her racing back to the bed and beneath the covers. She was tired of the chill. Anything cold reminded her of Walter.
At that precise moment in time, Sophie was happier than she’d been in years. Being with Toots always had that effect on her. It was always that way even when they were in their teens. Maybe it was nothing more than feeling safe and secure. Whatever the feeling was, she liked it.
Snuggling beneath the warm covers, Sophie allowed herself to recall the past, something she tried not to do very often. Life with Walter hadn’t been without difficulty. Hell on earth was a much better description.
Being on her own in Manhattan had been scarier than she’d ever imagined. She’d just finished nursing school and was sharing an apartment with a former classmate who did nothing but complain. Life in the big city wasn’t all it was cracked up to be until she met Walter.
She recalled the first time they met. She had just opened a new checking account at the Bank of Manhattan, where Walter had just been promoted to assistant branch manager. He was charming and handsome, and she’d been completely and pleasantly surprised when he invited her to dinner to celebrate his new promotion.
Their romance had been hot and heavy, virtually consuming her every waking moment. Since he was ten years her senior, she’d been impressed with his knowledge, admired his wit. After a whirlwind courtship that lasted three months, he proposed, and Sophie accepted without a second thought.
For the first four years of marriage, she’d put her career as a nurse on hold. Walter hadn’t wanted her to work. When Walter became obsessed with his job at the bank and began to work eighteen-hour days, she couldn’t cope with the emptiness or the boredom. With too much time on her hands, Sophie took a job at a pediatrician’s office in Brooklyn. She’d loved the doctor she worked with and adored the children she cared for. After three years of surrounding herself with sick kids, Sophie decided she’d waited long enough for a child of her own. Walter wasn’t getting any younger, and she hadn’t wanted to wait, fearing she’d become one of those “older moms” the girls in the office talked about.
For the next two years, she tried every trick in the book and then some to get pregnant. When each month rolled around with no results, Sophie gave up on having a child of her own. Walter did, too. Disappointed that she was unable to bear a child, Walter began taking his anger and frustration out on her. It started with little things. His steak was overcooked. Her hair looked messy. Their apartment wasn’t as clean as he felt it should be.
Walter demanded she give up her job, letting it be known in no uncertain terms that she needed to concentrate on him, their home, and nothing more. As the Bank of Manhattan’s newest branch manager, having a wife who worked outside the home was not an asset. Walter referred to her career as nothing more than an embarrassment, going as far as to suggest friends and colleagues looked down on him, insinuating he didn’t earn enough money to support her.
For the first time in almost ten years of marriage, Sophie stood up to him. No way would she give up her career. Without it, she had nothing. She thought his reasoning ludicrous and told him so.
Sophie recalled the first time he struck her.
They’d just returned from the bank’s annual Christmas party. As was becoming the norm, Walter had drunk too much, flirted too much, and spoken to her as though she were nothing more than his servant. On the taxi ride home, Sophie refused to speak to him. When they arrived at their Manhattan apartment, Walter began ranting and raving, telling her she was no good and he’d made a mistake by marrying her. She was low-class. She didn’t fit in with the other bank executives’ wives. Tired of fighting, Sophie had told Walter she would file for a divorce as soon as the holidays were over. She’d barely gotten the words out of her mouth when he backhanded her, ripping open her lip. Shocked and humiliated, with the salty taste of her own blood filling her mouth, Sophie had tried to leave the apartment, knowing that when her husband sobered up, he’d apologize. Walter restrained her and, in doing so, broke her arm.
After the third or fourth beating, Sophie gave up on any hopes she’d had of happily-ever-after. At one point, Walter actually convinced her the beatings were her fault. Sadly, she had believed him until Toots made an unannounced visit to New York and found her bruised and battered. Enraged that she would allow her husband to hit her, Toots went directly to Walter’s superior. Two weeks later, he had been asked to resign his position as branch manager.
She’d promised Toots then that she would leave Walter. However, deep-rooted Catholic beliefs ingrained in her since she was a little girl prevented her from walking out on a man whom she’d sworn to love, honor, and obey. She spent the rest of her life supporting Walter and his drinking habit.
And now here she was, almost thirty years later, anxiously waiting for the old bastard to die. At sixty-five, her life was finally her own. Just thinking about the possibilities sent butterflies buzzing to her stomach. Sophie fell asleep with a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon on her face.
Chapter 12
As usual, Toots woke up at five A.M. even though it’d been after three when she went to bed. Old habits die hard, she thought as she switched on the bedside lamp. With Bernice due to arrive any minute, Toots reached for the well-worn blue chenille robe at the foot of the bed. She’d left the window open, and her room was downright chilly. Summer would bring sultry breezes and blazing heat soon enough. California would be deliciously warm without the mugginess South Carolina was so well known for. Toots couldn’t wait to begin her bicoastal lifestyle. Having her three best friends along for the ride was better than good sex and sugar. Seeing Abby almost whenever she wanted was decadent piles of pink puffy icing on a very large cake. She laughed at her thoughts as she entered the enormous bathroom, where she turned on the shower and stepped under its warm spray.
As the water sluiced over her shoulders and down her back, Toots turned her head from left to right to release the tightness in her neck. She’d noticed over the past few months a stiffness to her joints when she first got up in the morning. Arthritis and old age knocking at the door. Screw that, she was only sixty-five! Wasn’t that the new fifty? Sort of? Sort of? Pushing aside further negative thoughts, Toots finished her shower in record time. Wrapping herself in a giant bath sheet, she rummaged through her ample closet and found her favorite ancient pair of jeans, the ones she had purchased right after Abby was born. She dried off quickly, rummaged in her drawer for her lacy undies, then slipped on her jeans. They still fit like a glove. She topped them off with a bright orange blouse. She pulled her thick hair up in her usual topknot, dabbed a bit of blush on her cheeks and a pale pink bit of shimmer on her lips. Gazing at herself in the mirror, Toots had to admit she looked pretty darn good for an old broad. She’d aged well in spite of her nasty habit of smoking and her sugar addiction. Maybe she’d give one of them up when she got settled in California. Maybe.
“Oh, bull, you’re not going to give up your vices any more than Joe’s going to retire,” she mumbled to herself before her guilty conscience assaulted her. She was asking her best friends to give up bad habits; shouldn’t she be practicing what she preached? Yes, said the little devil perched on her shoulder. She should and she would. Soon. Maybe. Not.
Without another thought, Toots hurried downstairs to the kitchen. She readied a pot of coffee for Bernice. While the machine gurgled, Toots stepped outside for her first cigarette of the day. Cool air smacked her squarely in the face. “Damn weather. Figures it would cool off when I’m about to leave.” Toots inhaled another puff of nicotine. When she heard the front door open, she crushed her cigarette out in the giant ashtray she’d left on the porch before going to bed.
“Morning, Bernice. You look bright and shiny,” Toots said to her housekeeper.
Bernice cleared her throat with such force that Toots expected to see her esophagus fly out of her mouth right through the wall.
“Are you ill?” Toots asked in amazement. “You sound terrible.”
“Just my early-morning allergies,” Bernice said. She poured two cups of coffee and took them to the table.
Bernice looked to be in one of her cranky-sassy moods that day. If she was right, then Bernice had about five minutes to get over it because the day was young, and she had a to-do list a mile long. Worrying about Bernice wasn’t on her list.
“Whatever you say, boss. Will the ladies be wanting their breakfast anytime soon?”
“Fix a plate of fruit and some of those steel-cut oats for Mavis. I expect her to come downstairs any minute since she’s always been an early riser. Sophie can share my Froot Loops. I’m not sure about Ida, maybe a boiled egg?” Toots knew whatever went in Ida’s mouth had better be as germ-free as humanly possible. She was just itching to succeed in helping Ida overcome her phobia.
“I’m on it, boss,” Bernice said. “Any tea drinkers in the group?”
“Not that I know, but don’t worry. I can nuke a cup of water if need be.” Toots wasn’t worth a grain of salt in the kitchen, but she was more than efficient when it came to the microwave.
“Whatever you say, you’re the boss.” Toots grimaced as she watched Bernice remove oranges, grapefruit, and strawberries from the refrigerator and place them on a cutting board. “Do you want me to fix you a bowl of Froot Loops, too?”
“Oh, hush, Bernice! You never fix my cereal. I don’t know what in the world has gotten into you the past few days.” Toots knew Bernice was ticked off because of all the extra work, but it wasn’t like she didn’t pitch in and help her wherever she could. Bernice was simply getting too old to work so hard. Toots had a nice retirement account set up for her. Maybe it was time to consider telling her to slow down or to out-and-out retire. Toots felt sad at the thought. As soon as she knew what her duties would be as the new owner of The Informer, she would give some serious thought to Bernice’s retirement.
Before Bernice had a chance to come back with a snappy reply, Sophie entered the kitchen, wearing a red-and-blue-plaid robe that had seen better days. “Is that coffee I smell?” she asked of no one in particular.
Toots watched as Bernice quickly looked up, then genuflected. “Does it smell like coffee?” Toots asked with a grin.
“Oh, you witch! It’s early. Every person I know says the same thing first thing in the morning.” Sophie filled a bright orange mug with coffee before finding her place at the table.
Toots refilled her own cup and sat in the chair across from her. “If you say so. Listen, I spoke with Abby bef
ore I went to bed. She’s thrilled to death at the prospect of seeing her godmothers. She’s offered to let us stay at her place, but I told her I took care of our temporary living arrangements.”
“You never were one to procrastinate. What did you do, buy a house?” Sophie asked between sips of the dark brew.
“No, but I’m sure I will sooner or later. I can’t live at the Beverly Hills Hotel forever. I heard Aaron Spelling’s mansion is on the market.”
“Lord help us all,” Bernice tossed out as she sliced a pink grapefruit.
“I hope He does because I’m going to need all the help I can get once we’re in LA. Sophie, how do you feel about living in a Hollywood bungalow for a few weeks? LA isn’t New York, so I don’t know how you’ll feel about having more than ten square feet of living space.” Toots was forever joking about Sophie and Walter’s cracker-box apartment. Before he and Sophie had married, Walter had purchased the eight-hundred-square-foot apartment for a pittance, and they’d remained there for almost forty years. Toots wasn’t sure how Sophie would react to large open spaces.
“Woof! Woof!” Coco, all five pounds of her, with nails click-clacking against the wood floors, made her grand entrance, with Mavis at her heels. “Sorry, she’s so noisy in the morning. She needs her caffeine. Did I tell you that? I share my coffee with her. I don’t think she’ll do so well going cold turkey,” Mavis huffed.
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