Facelift (16 page)

“They’ve been married almost forty years now. Maybe that’s why I haven’t made it down that long aisle yet.”

I tilt my head in a silent question.

“Their marriage has always seemed so perfect that I’ve never felt the same type of connection with a woman. Plus, I know what it takes to make a forever kind of commitment. And I won’t settle for less.”

Since he opened that particular door, I don’t hesitate to challenge him as he did me. Maybe he is more like Cliff than he wants to admit. “So, you’re waiting for Ms. Perfect.”

He rubs his jaw, but his gaze remains steadily focused on me. “Nah, the woman I have in mind isn’t perfect.”

A tiny pinch of disappointment surprises me. So he has someone he’s interested in. Lucky girl. “What’s she like?”

“She’s trying to do what’s right.”

“And does she manage?”

“Not always.”

“Okay, so not perfect.” What kind of a woman does he find attractive? Tall? Blonde? Petite? Never been married? No crazed teenage daughter? “So do
you
need help? Maybe I could give you some pointers in getting her attention.”

He grins. “I’ll take all the help I can get. What does a woman want?”

I shrug and shake my head. “I don’t know. That’s probably the secret. None of us knows.”

“Thanks. That’s helpful.” He grins.

“Okay.” I laugh. “Let me think.” I pull up all my complaints about Cliff and state the opposite. “Attention. Flowers, and not only on Valentine’s or an anniversary. And not sent by a secretary either.” Then I remember the single rose he brought me this evening. White is friendship, right? But I feel a rosy hue budding on my cheeks.

He watches me solemnly, as if taking mental notes. With us so close together, I can see gold sparkles in his hazel eyes. His lashes are long, longer than a man should have, and as dark as his hair. “What else?”

“Oh, you know . . . the usual.” That gaze of his is absolutely mesmerizing. “Holding hands, kissing . . . you know, without expectations that it’s always going to lead to—” I stop myself. Fiery embarrassment burns along my skin.

“Good tips.” He slides his palms down the length of his thighs, his elbow brushing my arm. “So what are you going to do about Isabel? She doesn’t want you and your husband to get back together.”

I release a tense breath. “I honestly don’t know. But what teenager knows what’s best? She still blames him.”

“But you love him.” It’s not a question, just a simple statement.

My response wells up in my throat and I can’t speak for a moment. A moment that lasts too long. There isn’t an easy answer to complex emotions. Love. Isn’t it more than just a feeling? Those feelings haven’t been around lately because of Barbie. But love requires more than an automatic response. How many times have I read First Corinthians? Love is a decision. It’s action. It’s more than a lovey-dovey, heart palpitating feeling that comes and goes. Over the past fifteen months I’ve struggled to maintain the faith, hope, and love the Bible talks about. Each has waned periodically and I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed for restoration. I made a decision to love Cliff for better or worse. And I’m clinging to that now.

Even if I feel like I’m dangling over the side of the cliff by the tips of my fingers.

Jack’s gaze weighs heavily on me and forces my too-simple response. “Yes.” I tilt my head, look away from him but I think he saw right through me in that instant and I can’t seem to hide my doubts and questions from him. “We had problems. And . . . we need counseling. But it could still work.” I fist my left hand and rub the spot my ring used to occupy. “It has to.”

His silence feels like a gavel proclaiming me crazy.

“Our marriage,” I babble on, “wasn’t perfect, but I’ve always prayed we’d get back together.”

“Then I hope it works out for you, Kaye.” Sincerity weights his tone and makes me doubt the tantalizing impressions I sense around him.

“Maybe you were smart not to ever marry.”

“Came close a time or two, but it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe someday.”

I study him but his aspirations seem hidden as much as mine seem plastered on a billboard sign. “I thought you were getting divorced when we first met . . . that you were downsizing because of the divorce settlement.”

“That isn’t my reason for selling the house.”

I wait, hoping he’ll answer my silent question.

Instead he plants his palms against his thighs and stands. “It’s late. Gabe and I should go. Thanks for dinner.”

More like dinner
theater
. “Anytime.”

“No, Marla’s not able to come to the phone right now.”

I’ve got the phone cradled against my ear. When it rang, she motioned she didn’t want to take a call and made a quick escape back to her room.

Just what I always wanted. A job as her social secretary.

“Hello, this is Harry Klum. I believe we met the other day. How is Miss Marla?”

“She’s doing better. It’s a slow recovery.” Slower than I ever imagined possible.

“Would there be a good time for me to see her?”

“I don’t really know when she’ll feel up to visitors.” I peek around the corner at Marla, who apparently never made it to her room but is now standing in Izzie’s doorway instructing her on proper etiquette. Or so I’m guessing. Or maybe she’s giving her tips on styling nonexistent hair. I better hurry before Izzie retaliates with something worse than a shaved head.

I notice the phone is suddenly silent, a long pause waiting for an answer from me. But what was the question? “Uh, yes, she’s stronger.”

Marla places the back of her wrist against her hip. “If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right.”

How many times have I heard that line? Her
helpful
comments like that when I was first married to Cliff always made me want to cry. I knew she was implying I was inept. Instead of tears flowing, I feel my hackles rise like a mother wolf defending my pup.

“Well, thank you for your concern,” I say into the phone, feeling the need to chase Marla away from Izzie’s doorway, and begin walking in that direction. “I’ll tell Marla you called.”

She looks toward me, her good eye opening wide.

I click the phone off and say, “That was Mr. Klum.”

Her mouth tilts downward with disappointment then she grimaces. Occasionally another man calls, but when I tell him she’s not taking calls yet he never asks how she’s doing, just hangs up the phone without telling me his name. But I suspect it is Mr. Sterling. Marla seems pleased when these calls occur. She dotes on his roses, tending them daily like a horticulturist.

I glance in Izzie’s room but stay outside in the hallway. A safe distance. My daughter lies on her bed, her bald head propped on a hand. She doesn’t look upset. No red eyes or nose. No pile of tissues on the pillow. She acts like it’s any normal evening at our house. So I take up the pretense and continue my conversation with Marla. “Mr. Klum seems nice. Personable.”

“When will that stubborn man get the message?” Irritation darkens her face, making the bruises even deeper. She turns on her spiky heel toward her sanctuary.

“I like Harry Klum. He’s kind.” Offering a conspiratorial smile to Izzie, I wince as the door to Marla’s bedroom bangs shut. I take a cautious step toward my daughter, taking in every detail that might give me a clue as to her current mood. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She looks as innocent as a buff-headed baby, except she has a couple of red nicks from the razor she used, along with a swath of fuzz where she didn’t shave close enough.

“I like Gabe too. He’s a nice kid.”

“Mom.” Her tone dips into that warning zone.

“I don’t mean anything by that. I’m not suggesting you elope or anything. I’m just saying you two seem to have made quite a connection.”

“We’re just friends.”

“That’s fine. Good even. Do you have a lot in common?”

“Yeah. Neither of us has a dad anymore.”

Leaning against the doorjamb, I sigh. “Izzie, you have a dad. He was here tonight. Trying—”

“Mom.” She rolls over as if dismissing me. “Let it go.”

I debate internally for half a second if I should hit the main subject head-on or not. “You sure everything is all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to talk about what happened?”

“What do ya mean?”

I glance toward the trash can, which now has tresses of her long blonde hair draped over the edge. “Your hair.”

“It’s no big deal, Mom.” Like she shaves her head every day. Headlines surface in my mind and fill me with dread . . . about some starlet who did a similar thing and then dove overboard for a few months.

“Really?” Could she be telling the truth? She doesn’t look upset. Only slightly bristly in her normal teenage way.

“Yeah.” She uses the same tone for when she utters,
Duh!

Stupid me for thinking it’s a big deal to be bald and in high school. What was I thinking? I guess things have changed since I was a teen. “All right then.”

I head to the sofa for a night of restless sleep. Will this latest fabrication Izzie weaves that all is well (and fashionable) hit the light of day any time soon?

Chapter Eleven

Before the sun yawns, I take Izzie to swim practice (without a fuss or groan or even a complaint about her hair or lack thereof). It’s a cool, clear morning. No clouds hover with the threat of rain, and I suspect it’s a miracle all around. Izzie’s coach gives me a hearty wave. I smile, scrunching down in my seat, and move out of the parking lot before he can come over for a chat.

Home again, I make a quick breakfast for Marla—scrambled eggs, which are the easiest for her to chew. Her bruises have begun to recede, if you know where to look. But if you’re seeing her for the first time, she’s still rather startling. Emotionally she seems more fragile than her exterior.

“What do you think?” She stares out the breakfast window. “Will I ever look normal again?” It’s then I realize she’s not looking out at the side yard but at her own reflection in the pane. Her vulnerability softens my heart.

“Of course. You look . . . fine.” I hesitate only slightly to find a nonoffensive word to describe her. Is that considered a lie? What am I supposed to say—“You look like you were hit by a bus?” I can just imagine the hysterics that would cause.

But Marla sighs heavily and stares into the Windexed glass as if it holds all the answers to life.

Not eager for any more difficult questions, I gather my work materials, as I need to stop by Jack’s and assess what needs to be done before his furniture arrives, but the doorbell rings. The sound is normal, hopeful, but its effect on Marla is the complete opposite.

She retreats down the hallway with the agility of a teen and calls over her shoulder, “I’m not here!”

The doorbell rings again. “I’ll get it,” I say to no one, as Marla has already barricaded herself in my bedroom. “You know,” I glance back at Cousin It who barks from the other side of the back door and continue talking to myself on the way to the front door, “it could actually be for me.”

When I open the door, I’m once again wrong. Harry Klum holds a grocery bag to his chest.

“Mr. Klum!”

“Ma’am. How’s your mother today?”

Mother? Heaven help me if that were true. Not that I have a close relationship with my mother, but at least she isn’t intrusive. More like absentee. I’m not sure I ever fully overcame what felt like betrayal when she and Dad split up. Besides, she’s busy with her husband, just as Dad is busy with his wife, and neither has much time for Izzie and me. “Mother-
in-law.
And she’s doing better, I think.” But it’s hard to tell.

“That’s a relief.” He motions for me to step outside.

Even though I know Marla is entrenched in her bedroom, I glance over my shoulder then pull the door closed behind me. “I’m afraid she’s still not ready for visitors.”

Which unfortunately translates that she’s not ready to go home. If she’s waiting for her face to return to normal . . . well, I might be waiting for icicles to form in the flaming furnaces.

“Of course, I understand, ma’am.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am.” The thin gray hair combed over a balding spot on the top of his head lifts in a gently waving breeze. “Can’t do nothing for me. What I’d like to know is what I can do for Marla. I mean, um, I brought her some candy.” He lifts another grocery bag at his side, jostles the two against each other, then pulls a cellophane covered box from one.

“How sweet.” I can just imagine Marla’s reaction: I don’t eat candy. Not this cheap brand anyway.

“This other bag was also on the porch. Some kind of delivery maybe.” He hands me another brown bag folded at the top.

I pull it open, fish out a red box with the silhouette of a man and woman. “What’s this?” I read part of the label across the top. Chocolate flavored. A lacy red flimsy piece of material is also in the bag. A panicked feeling makes me jittery and I cram it all back in the sack. Anderson Sterling must have left his own brand of calling card for Marla. My face smolders around the jaw- line, and I avoid looking directly at Mr. Klum. How can Harry’s grocery-store-brand candy compete? “Okay, well, thank you.” I crumple the top of the bag down and fist it tight. “I’ll give them to Marla.”