I drew back and stared at him in astonishment. “We’ve never ‘you know’ anywhere!” I pointed out. Jerry had made some moves and hints before, but I thought he understood where I stood on this.
“And that’s one of the problems with our relationship,” he pointed out.
“One of its ‘limitations’?”
“A definite limitation.”
“So you’re thinking that now, when our relationship is ending, that I’m going to . . . jump into something I wouldn’t before?”
“It would put a beautiful end to the relationship. Give it— what’s it called?—closure. Yes, that’s it. A beautiful closure. A beautiful memory for both of us.”
And suddenly I was totally and completely furious. He had just dumped me, tried to sell me his old sailboat, blithely told me he was taking up with another woman, and now he wanted closure in the back of the limousine? Toadstool was way too generous.
I put both hands on his chest and shoved. He stumbled backward, looking baffled, as if he couldn’t understand this uncooperative attitude.
“Andi, come on. What’s the matter?”
“Out!” I yelled. “Get away from me! Get out of here, now! ”
My old broom was still standing there from when I’d last swept the front steps. I grabbed for it blindly, intending . . . I don’t know what. Maybe shake it in his face to let him know how I was feeling.
But suddenly I was even madder than that, and I was yelling a lot more things. “Jerk! Idiot!” I think I got scumbag in there too, and maybe even slime bucket and sleazeball.
I swung the broom back and forth . . . whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Jerry had a strange look on his face. He jumped like a kangaroo in reverse, then started running and stumbling backward. He crashed into a flower bed, scrambled to his feet, and crab-stepped sideways.
I had him on the run! It was an exhilarating thought. Whoosh! Sweep that man right out of my life! A little closer and I might even do a wham.
“C’mon, Andi, take it easy—”
Was that fear I heard in his voice? The man was afraid of a woman with a broom?
“Out! I never want to see you again!” Whoosh!
He jumped into the Trans Am, and my whoosh turned into a wham on the door as he closed it. A wham that boinged and vibrated up my arms and across my shoulders and ricocheted around in my brain. I shook my head, trying to clear the shooting stars.
Which was when I suddenly realized it wasn’t an old broom I was swinging. It was a shovel. The shovel with which I’d been flattening those dirt mounds in the lawn.
I stared at the dent in the car door, horrified at what I’d done. Bare metal showed through the glossy red paint. “Jerry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
He didn’t give me a chance to finish. He gunned the engine and shot out of the driveway like a race driver in reverse. Out on the street, a scent of burned rubber sprayed the air like some macabre barbecue.
I stared after him. How could I have done such an incredible, ridiculous thing? Chasing a man down a driveway with a shovel, whacking the side of his car, all the time yelling and screaming like a banshee.
I looked at the shovel still hanging like a metallic appendage from my hand. Appalling. Bizarre. Unbelievable. And then I realized I had an audience. Tom Bolton from across the street was staring at me from his gate. Farther down the street, two doors had opened, and more people were gawking as if they thought I’d gone berserk.
Maybe I had, I thought guiltily. Never in my life had I behaved in such a way. I cringed, wishing I could dig a quick hole with the shovel and pull the dirt in over me. How would I ever live this down?
But it doesn’t really matter, I told myself firmly as I straightened my shoulders and pretended to ignore the stares. It was humiliating, of course, to have witnesses to my ridiculous display. It was disturbing to realize I could do such an awful thing, with or without an audience. It was scary to know that in anger I couldn’t differentiate between a broom and a shovel. What if I’d actually whammed Jerry?
But I hadn’t, after all, done that. Except for some possible damage to his ego, I hadn’t hurt Jerry at all. I’d drop him a polite note and tell him to send me the repair bill on the car. Not something I could afford, but the only decent thing to do.
With careful dignity, I walked to the garage and set the shovel next to the broom that I’d meant to pick up. No harm done, I assured myself firmly.
Wrong again. Although it would be a couple of days before I knew that.
5
Joella came over after she got home from Bible study. I knew she wouldn’t have if Jerry’s Trans Am had still been in the driveway. By then I’d moved the limo off the street and was morosely drowning my guilt and humiliation in lemonade and cookies.
She peered around cautiously. “He’s gone?”
I nodded. “Permanently. We broke up. He’s getting a transfer to the San Diego office.”
I didn’t give details about Jerry’s suggestion on “closure” in the back of the limousine, but I did tell her about what I euphemistically termed an “unpleasant confrontation” and that the Trans Am had been the unfortunate victim of my fury. She sipped lemonade while she listened.
“Do you want me to be sympathetic or truthful?” she asked when I was finished.
“Whatever.”
“Okay, if you want sympathy . . . there, there, sweetie, I know how you’re hurting.” She patted my shoulder solicitously. “But if you want what I really think . . .” She shot a fist of victory into the air. “Good riddance!”
She was probably right. When I looked at him clearly, there were definitely rough spots on Jerry’s luster. A lack of concern about being on time for dates, sometimes even forgetting them entirely. That snobbish attitude toward people who weren’t as physically fit as he was. A tendency toward status symbols, including that overpriced condo and the pretentious decorator he’d hired to decorate it. And once the guy had actually cheated when we were playing a Sudoku board game, though I hadn’t let myself acknowledge that at the time. Realistically, even if he hadn’t gotten the transfer, we probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer.
I had to wonder now if I hadn’t overlooked some of Jerry’s less-appealing personality traits because I was too dazzled that this very attractive guy, this ten-years-younger-than-me guy, was interested in me.
“I’m sorry,” Joella said. “I’m sure he had his good points.”
“No, that’s okay. Although at the moment, good riddance is probably what he’s thinking about me.”
“It’s his loss.”
“I guess it’s a wonder we lasted as long as we did.” I shook my head. “The difference in our temperaments and values. To say nothing of our ages. I’m not sure what he ever saw in me. I’m a grandmother, for goodness’ sake.”
“Andi, don’t sell yourself short.” Joella’s tone was almost severe. “I can certainly see what he saw in you. You’re sweet and smart and fun. You have beautiful eyes and a great figure.”
“I should lose at least twelve pounds. Gray hair—”
“I don’t see any gray hair.”
“That’s because I cover it with ‘Cinnamon Sunrise.’” Which, in less fanciful terms, was light brown with goldy glints.
“You look at least ten years younger than you are,” Joella declared, ever my loyal supporter. “But even if you didn’t, so what? It’s no sin to look your age. And I have to give Jerry credit for one thing. He may be a jerk, but he had the good taste or good sense or whatever to be attracted to you.”
“Whatever it was, he ran out of it.”
“A jerk is a jerk is a jerk,” Joella said. “A jerk can hide his jerkiness for only so long, and then it breaks through. Like a rotten egg exploding in a microwave.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a philosopher.”
“I’ve known some jerks too. They come in all ages.”
I sighed. “Jerk or not, I still can’t believe I went after him wi
th a shovel.” I could still feel the tingle from that boing on his car door. “Maybe I need an anger management course or something.”
“What you need is God.”
“How does God feel about shovel-wielding women?”
“He’s forgiven much worse. We were studying forgiveness in Ephesians just this evening at Bible study. You should come sometime.”
Sure. I could take my shovel and do show-and-tell.
I got up and restlessly peered out the kitchen window. Joella came around to stand by me. We looked out at the limo.
“How do you figure on trying to sell it? Newspaper ad?”
“I have no idea what it’s worth. Maybe I should contact some limousine services over in Olympia or Seattle and see if they’d like to buy it.”
“Maybe you should think about starting your own limousine business.”
“That’s what my cousin said. Although he also said I might turn it into a hot-dog stand. One’s probably as practical as the other.”
Joella looked as if she were about to scold me, but then she giggled. “Why not? Limo-dogs! Great idea. You can drive around town with a big mustard-striped wiener mounted on top. I’ll toss out flyers about the Limo Special of the Day. You’ll cater exclusive private parties and feature Limo-dogs with caviar!”
Joella’s silly scenario made me feel smiley in spite of my glum mood.
“We’ll need a sound system blaring something lively,” I said. “How about ‘Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’?”
“What’s that got to do with limousines or hot dogs?”
“Who cares?”
“Right! You’ll add a second limo, then expand to a whole fleet. You’ll sell franchises and become known nationwide as Queen of the Limo-dog Empire!”
“I’ll attend society functions wearing a tiara of entwined hot dogs! Hot-dog jewelry will become the latest fad!”
The scheme collapsed under its own grandiose silliness. Joella giggled again, and so did I. She often had that effect on me. I put an arm around her slender shoulders and squeezed my thanks.
“Seriously, though, maybe you should think about the limousine-business idea. Look how excited that girl on the street was about getting a limo for some event. Kids have all kinds of money to spend these days.”
And JoAnne Metzger had seemed thrilled with the idea of a limousine for her niece’s wedding . . .
I shook my head. No. A fun idea, perhaps, but impractical on a daily basis. “What I need is a job. Steady, go-to-work-every- day, paycheck-paying employment. With benefits.”
“I suppose.”
“First thing Monday morning I’m job hunting.” Hopefully before everyone else from F&N beat me to it.
BY THE NEXT day at the office, I realized Monday morning might be too late. At least a third of the employees didn’t even show up for work, no doubt thinking, What can they do to me now? I’m already fired. Those early birds were probably out there snatching up whatever jobs might be available. I knew a lot of job hunting with big companies was done on the Internet these days, but I doubted that smaller business offices around Vigland worked that way, and it might well be the early birds who got the jobs.
Joining them was a tempting thought, but a persistent sense of responsibility and loyalty kept me glumly sitting at my desk. F&N had been good to me for the past eleven years, and I was getting paid through Friday, plus that four months’ severance pay, so cheating on these final days wouldn’t be right. Also, Letty Bishop, who was in charge now that the department supervisor had already cleared out, was frantically trying to operate with only half a crew, and I didn’t want to let her down either.
Jerry worked in another wing of the building, and I didn’t usually run into him. I was grateful for that now. I sent him a brief e-mail about paying for the damaged car door.
I’d barely gotten home from work when the phone rang. I steeled myself, thinking it was probably Jerry telling me he’d taken the Trans Am into the shop, and repairs were going to cost more than the total worth of my old Corolla.
But it was my daughter, Sarah, singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Mother, happy birthday to you!”
“Thank you!”
“I’m calling a couple days early because I thought you might have big plans for Saturday. So, what are you going to do to celebrate?”
“Oh, the usual. Champagne party, catered dinner for five hundred, fireworks, etc.”
“Yeah. That’s what I usually do too. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
Sarah is a bright, intelligent woman, but even after all these years of living in Florida, she sometimes gets befuddled about which way the three-hour time difference works.
“No, I’m just getting home from work.”
“Everything okay? You sound a little frazzled.”
There was that downsized-dumped-depressed thing, of course, but I didn’t want to unload my problems on her. “I’m fine.”
“Mom, the strangest thing happened yesterday. Do you know someone named Ned Nicholson?”
“Uncle Ned, the family’s token rich guy. I understand he died.”
“He was rich?”
“Oil wells, mansion, who knows what else.”
“Rachel and I both got registered packages from a law firm in Texas representing his estate. He left me a can of pistachios and a set of nut-cracking tools. Can you imagine? Pistachios! Why would anyone bother? Especially someone rich?”
“What did Rachel get?”
“A book on raising llamas. And we both got framed photos of the old guy. It’s just weird. Did you get something?”
These inheritances proved one thing to me. I hadn’t received the limousine because I was any favorite of Uncle Ned’s. He’d never met either Sarah or Rachel, so he had no reason to hold any grudges against them either. Which meant he must have used the random, papers-in-a-pot system of asset distribution.
“Actually, I did. A cousin delivered it yesterday. I got a limousine.”
There was a moment of stunned silence until Sarah squeaked, “A limousine?”
“A limousine. L-i-m-o-u-z-e-e-n, as Uncle Ned called it in his will.”
“We’re talking a real, life-size limousine, not a toy?”
“A real stretch limousine. It’s sitting out in my driveway now. The cousin drove it up from Texas.”
“What in the world are you going to do with a limousine?”
“Good question.”
“It must be worth something. A whole lot more than a can of pistachios or a book on raising llamas.”
For a moment I thought I detected a twinge of indignation or even envy in her voice. But then, with her usual generous good humor, she laughed.
“I know. You can drive down to visit us in it!”
“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to look for a job. F&N is closing down here, and everyone was terminated.”
Well, almost everyone. There were the Jerry exceptions.
“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry to hear that. Finding another job may not be easy at—” She broke off, leaving unspoken the at your age we both knew was there.
“They’re giving me a severance package that will help temporarily.”
“Good. And you know, you’re always welcome to come live with us. We’d love to have you. Just jump in that limousine and move on down here.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine here.” Dearly as I loved my daughter and granddaughter, I liked my independent life.
“I wonder how the lawyers knew how to locate all of us.”
“I have no idea. I didn’t think to ask the cousin when he was here.”
“Well, given how weird the old guy was, maybe he had private detectives look us up or something. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Oh, in the excitement of birthdays and pistachios and limousines, I’m almost forgetting my news! I’ve decided to go back to college.”
“Sarah, that’s wonderful!”
Sarah had dropped out of college
to marry and help The Sleaze-Bum, as I now thought of him, get his degree.
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“Finances will be tight with both Rachel and me in school, but I’m looking into loans and grants and scholarships, what-ever’s available. The counselor I talked to thought I should be able to fulfill the requirements for my degree in two years.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Another reason to get a good, solid job fast.
We talked a few minutes more about her plans for a degree in business economics at the University of Florida, where Rachel would also be starting this fall. It would be a good deal for both of them, I thought, living at home together and sharing the expense of commuting to classes. And I was so pleased that Sarah was grabbing hold of her life, not drifting as she’d seemed to do since the divorce.
“Oh, here’s Rachel. She wants to talk to you too.”
“Hi, Grandma. Happy birthday!”
“Thanks, hon.”
Some shuffling noises, as if she were doing something with the phone, then a frantic whisper. “Grandma, you’ve got to do something!”
I was startled. “About what?”
“About Mom. She’s signed up to start college this fall—”
“I know. She just told me. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Yeah, going to college is probably good. But she intends to go where I’m going. It’ll be a disaster!”
“In what way?”
“Think about it, my mother right there on campus. Watching my every move. Doing . . . well, who knows what? We might even wind up having some class together. It’s creepy. Like some back-to-the-future thing.”
“Rachel, I think you’re overreacting. The University of Florida has a huge number of students, and it’s unlikely you and your mother will have any classes together. And even if you did, I’m sure she isn’t going to humiliate or embarrass you.”
“No? She was trying on jeans the other day. The kind that come to about four inches below your belly button. And one of those gauzy tops. Grandma, she’s thirty-nine years old.”
“Thirty-nine is not over the hill, Rachel. In fact, it’s . . .” I searched for an appropriate word and chose Fitz’s. “It’s prime time, Rachel. Definitely prime time.”
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