I head toward the front of the house to get as far away as possible. I hurry past the stai
rs and Raphael perched on the temporary railing, bobbing his head to the beat and squawking “Chica, Chica, Boom, Chic” like it’s an old favorite.
“You’re demented,” I tell him as I rush to my office and slam the pocket door behind me. I can still hear Carmen in the distance, but I’m safe from a migraine for now.
It’s been five days since the cemetery incident and Mom’s anger has dropped from boiling to frozen solid. There is nothing I can do to change the situation, except maybe agree to kill her. She hasn’t mentioned her “merciful slumber” plot, and I’m not sure she even remembers why she’s so mad. She just knows that I’ve done something to her, like hidden her shoes or stolen her money. She even mumbled something about her old mink coat, which, incidentally, I mercifully killed five years ago when I found it stinking like a wet cat in the closet with threadbare elbows and ripped seams.
Mom’s anger will have to run its course, but I did nothing wrong. I’m not going to act as if I did, and over the next few days I continue to search out interesting articles and photos for her, although she says little to me. We eat our meals at the same dining room table, but she mostly talks to Lindsey.
The upside of Mom’s cold shoulder is I’ve spent more time in my office and created meaningful content for the website. I made a funny little video about my life in southern Louisiana. I showed off my new hair and “Who Dat” boots and got over a hundred thousand likes the first hour it was posted on my website. I’m finally feeling optimistic about Lulu’s recovery.
The downside is, I miss Mom. I’m sad that instead of wonderful memories, all I’m getting is the stink eye—and that’s only when she pays any attention to me at all. With Mom storming around at night and wringing her hands, it seems we’re back to where we started months ago. Nevertheless, I feel I’ve made huge changes both inside and out. I have more patience, have rearranged my priorities, and have shifted the focus of my life. My hair is different and sometimes I only wear mascara and lipstick. Maybe it’s the climate or the change in me, but my designer clothes and shoes remain in the wardrobe in favor of jean shorts and T-shirts and flat sandals or sneakers for climbing around in the attic. Today I pulled on a tank top with an angry crab holding a “Say No to Pot” sign that I wouldn’t have been caught dead in six months ago.
There’s a knock on my door and Lindsey pushes it open. “Simon’s here. He said you wanted him to come over to talk about varnish or something.”
Well, that’s the cover story, anyway, but I lied. He’s man bait, pure and simple. Mom won’t be able to control her passionate nature around him. She’ll smile and flirt and glow with giddiness. Once he’s escaped her clutches, I’m hoping she’ll bask in a happy afterglow for a few days and forget she hates me.
I admit it’s a shameful and sexist plan. I’m a horrible hypocrite and a very selfish woman. And yet, I am quite willing to bear that burden.
I follow Mom’s laughter through the hall and find her smiling like rainbows and sunshine just walked through the door. Her man bait has arrived, and he doesn’t disappoint. Jim’s with him, which makes Lindsey all smiley and giggly, too. She knows I’m not going to fire her, but I wonder if she’s informed Jim of the baby on board.
“I’m glad you called, and I guarantee you’ll love the new finish on those stairs.”
I can’t really blame Mom for her crush on Dr. Simon. I’ve always been attracted to a man in a sharp suit and tie, polished shoes, and hair cut to razor perfection, but lately I’ve come to appreciate a man in tight T-shirts and old-school Levi’s with seams worn in interesting places. A man with finger-combed hair and scuffed work boots and a languid ease about him that misses nothing.
“It’s cheaper and easier to do it before we put the railing up,” he adds.
I’m sure he’s right, but cheaper and easier are relative. “Easy for you,” I point out. “You won’t be living in a construction zone with my mother, sucking up dust.”
“I don’t mind,” Mom says, one of her front teeth marked with red lipstick. She must have been in a real hurry to get out here and chat with the doctor.
“No dust. All our electrical sanders have dust filters, and we bring in the cyclone to clean the air. We’ll be in and out in a couple of days.”
“We have to be able to use the stairs while you work.”
“Use the back stairs. I’ll have two guys clear all that stuff out.”
“That’s a problem. The attic is full as it is, and I don’t know where else to put all that mess.”
“Landfill. Unless that’s a problem.”
“Not for me, but Mom’s going to have a problem with it.”
“No problem,” Mom says to spite me.
She wouldn’t agree with the plan if she understood he was talking about disposing of Sutton treasures. “I don’t even want to imagine what you’ll charge me for a dump run.”
“I’d waive the debris removal charge.”
“Wow. Generous.” I look at all those wooden steps. That’s a lot of sanding. “Do you charge by the stair?”
His gaze lowers past my mouth and chin, down my throat to the front of my tank top. He chuckles and folds his arms across his chest. “By the hour.”
“How many hours?”
He rocks back on his heels and looks up as if the answer is written on the ceiling. “Best guess… soup to nuts…”
“Hard to say,” I finish for him.