Facelift (22 page)

I walk beneath him. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Just what I’ve been waiting for.” From his sly look, I’m not sure if he means the sack of nails or me.

I hand up the sack, careful not to brush Jack’s hand. “Everything going well?”

“Except for a disgruntled mother’s group who had to take their toddlers elsewhere for the day.”

“They’ll appreciate the changes later. So when will everything be set?”

“Tonight, I hope. Inspectors will be out to verify safety issues. And next weekend we’ll have a grand opening.”

“Is anybody invited?”

“You better be here. Because I think your daughter will be.” His grin causes a prickling of awareness beneath my skin.

“I think you’re right.” I offer him a shy smile.

“Jack!” The long drawn out Scarlett O’Hara cry is one of those helpless female pleas that acts like bamboo shoved under my fingernails. I turn and see my friend, Elise, her newly nip-and-tucked body carefully clad in formfitting shorts and a tank, walking toward us. Her smile remains in place as her gaze slips toward me when my own falters. “Kaye?”

“Hello, Elise. How are you?”

“It’s so good to see you.” She gives me one of those appearance-only hugs, not too close, not too personal. “Is Izzie friends with Gabe?”

“They’re on swim team together.”

Elise leans close. “I saw her hair. Or lack thereof. Did you almost die when she shaved it?”

I shrug. “It’ll grow.”

But she’s already turned her focus onto Jack. Her beaming smile is for him alone. “Jack, I am just so amazed at all you and Gabe are doing.”

“Thanks, but it’s all Gabe.”

“You’re just too modest. Do you think you could take a minute? I know what you’re doing is important, but I could use some help unloading. It’s way too heavy.” She looks at me then. “I brought water and sodas for the workers.”

Jack swings down and lands beside me.

“Come on.” Elise slides her arm through Jack’s. “I know everyone’s just dying of thirst. Oh, and I brought donuts too.”

“That was thoughtful.”

Why didn’t I think of that? I watch them walk together toward the parking lot and Elise’s Suburban. She smiles up at him.

An about-face blocks the image but the tightening in my abdomen remains.

Chapter Fourteen

By late afternoon everyone is exhausted, sunburned pink, and sweaty. But smiles are passed around as we look over all the changes and improvements to the park.

“I need to get home, Iz. Marla has been alone all day.”

“Well, that means trouble.” But her gaze travels toward Gabe. “I’ll catch a ride with someone. You go on.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later.”

When I arrive home, a strange car sits in front of my house—a slick, red Mercedes convertible. Does Marla have another suitor visiting? Since no one is standing on the porch, I assume she let this one inside. Maybe it’s Anderson Sterling. Maybe he has a different car for each day of the week. That would definitely interest Marla. As she’d like a different car to match each designer bag she owns. Or maybe one for each face.

After parking and greeting Cousin It who is stuck outside in the heat, I fill up the water bowl and pat her furry side. When she goes to bark at the dog next door, I open the back door and hear voices. Before I can close the door, Cousin It pushes past me, barreling inside.

Screeches and screams reach me before I can get to the den. Marla stands, a high-piercing squeal coming out of her clenched teeth. She teeters on heels and holds the sides of her face as if her stitches might come loose. I make a grab for Its collar, vaguely aware of a woman sitting on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankle. But It seeks her out like a homing beacon. The blonde holds a pillow between her and the chaos.

“It, sit!” I grab the dog’s collar. “I’m sorry,” I address the women then the dog, “Come!” I tug her toward the kitchen and the back door. “Out.” With a final push against her furry behind, she’s out the door.

“I’m so sorry.” I reenter the den, pushing back bangs from my eyes. I’m sticky and gritty with dirt and sweat. A shower is in my near future. I glance from Marla to her friend who looks like a live airbrushed photo. She makes me feel like Ellie Mae Clampett with my jeans and untucked shirt. “Hi, I’m Kaye.”

Marla settles back on the sofa. She’s actually dressed in a yellow dress and heels. “Have you two not met?”

“I don’t believe we have.” The woman stands, unwinding those long legs. She has model height and slimness, perfectly polished nails, and exquisite taste in clothes. Her suit jacket reveals a voluptuous top that must be surgically enhanced. Not that I’m an expert on such things, but in my experience if someone is toothpick thin filling out a Cup D,
naturally
is unrealistic.

“Are you new to Southlake?”

“Not officially anyway.”

Unsure if she’s referring to our meeting or moving to Southlake, I give her a quizzical look.

“I’m Barbara.” She says it as if her name should be in lights, like Rihanna or Donny and Marie. No last name needed. Then the name clicks in my brain, almost an audible sound.

“Barbara?” This time
I
squeak, but in my head there is a long, feral scream. I manage to keep my jaw from falling open and want to ask, “As in Cliff’s personal Barbie?” But I refrain. “It’s . . . uh . . .” Do I have to be gracious to this woman? It’s absolutely
not
nice to meet
her
. But what do I say? “Get out!”? Do I open the back door again and tell Cousin It, “Sic her”? That would be my preference but since I was raised to be a proper southern lady, I say in Marla’s gritty way, “Welcome.”

“Cliff has told me so much about you.”

My brain fogs over with an image of Cliff wrapped in Barbie’s satin sheets lamenting the fact that he’s stuck married to a woman like me.

“It was all nice, of course,” she says as if she’s read my mind. “Cliff’s the perfect gentleman.” She reaches forward and touches my hand.

I pull away as if she were a snake striking. “That’s not exactly the word I would use.”

At Barbara’s small intake of breath, as if she’s shocked I would be miffed about all of this, I glance at Marla. What was she
thinking
letting this woman into my house? But then she probably approves of Barbie as a daughter-in-law. They shop at the same stores. They probably go to the same plastic surgeon. Maybe they can get a family discount—a buy-one-get-one-free deal.

“What on earth have you been doing?” Marla gives me a once-over. “Playing in the dirt?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” And I keep the details of the day to myself, refusing to cast my pearls before swine. I can’t imagine Marla or Barbie hauling equipment and hanging out in a park all day with a bunch of teenagers. They’re more the bring water, soda, and donuts type.

Marla shifts to one side and tucks her feet beneath her. “Wasn’t it nice of Barbara to check in on me?”

I’m speechless. Dumbfounded. Or maybe just plain dumb to set myself up for something like this.

“She brought flowers and magazines, lotions and soaps. And a gift card to a day spa.”

I manage to keep my smile aloft, but my cheeks start to quiver from the strain like an over-ambitious weight lifter, the barbells teetering, the legs trembling.

A moment of silence prevails, and I’m given the chance to catch my breath, but my brain feels as if it’s chasing thoughts around like Cousin It after a fly.

“Where’s Isabel?” Barbie asks.

“She’s uh”—I wave a lethargic hand as I search for words—“helping a friend with a project.”

Barbie glances at her watch. The diamonds glint in the afternoon sunlight pouring through the back windows. “I should be going. Cliff is flying in from New York.”

And as quickly as I was forced to face the woman who stole my husband, Barbie leaves my house. I’m standing at the front door unsure how I even walked that far. Marla stands beside me.

“Nice of her to give you all that stuff.” And I suppose it means she’s back with Cliff.

“That was her way of telling me I need my hair washed and a manicure.” She folds her nails against her palms.

“Well, you can’t take a shower yet.”

“Would you do it?”

“Wash your hair?” The grief in her eyes moves me out of my comfort zone. “Of course.”

In a most surreal moment we watch Barbie climb into her fancy convertible, fluff her hair, don more lipstick and drive away.

Marla gives a heavy sigh of relief or exhaustion. “I can’t stand that woman.”

I stare at my ex-mother-in-law. For once we’re in complete agreement.

After a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s grime and irritations, I help Marla lie on the kitchen counter, her head over the sink, towels galore making her neck and back comfortable, and carefully without touching any incisions, I wash her hair, noticing her dark roots are starting to show. But, of course, I don’t say anything.

“Be careful now.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Well, it’s not a spa chair but it’ll have to do.” She stretches out her leg and bumps the coffee tin with her big toe.

With her eyes closed, her face mostly relaxed (although taut), I have a close-up look at the fine lines on her forehead and around her eyes. I hate to admit it, but she has beautiful structure and cheekbones. It makes me sad she can’t appreciate what she has instead of focusing on what she’s lost.

Right through my heart, I feel a jab. Maybe it’s God nudging me with that sharp two-edged sword. Haven’t I been doing the same thing? Focusing on what I’ve lost—Cliff—rather than what I have—Izzie. With all the pain my friend Terry is going through with Lily, I should pay attention and learn a lesson.

After I carefully blow-dry Marla’s auburn hair, we move to the kitchen table where she picks out the color nail polish she wants me to apply.

“Let’s jazz things up a bit.” She reaches for the fiery bottle called
Racy Red-Hot
.

I file a ragged spot on Marla’s thumbnail. “
She
wants him back.”

“Apparently.” Marla’s lips press into a thin line. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course, it does. He’s my—”

“Not anymore.”

I grit my teeth and unscrew the bottle.

She studies me, tilting her head sideways as if sizing me up. “Why do you want him back?”

I hold out my hand for hers. “He’s my husband. She stole him.”

“Hmm.” She places her hand daintily against mine. “But didn’t you do the same thing?”

Her statement takes me aback. I stare at her smooth but bruised forehead. What is going on in that brain of hers? I press the end of the brush against the bottle until a big dollop of red polish falls off. “He wasn’t even dating anyone when I met him.”

“Ah, yes! But you seduced him just as much. He should have gone on to law school, but he had a family to support.”

Suddenly the animosity I’ve felt from Marla our entire marriage is revealed in a new light. She believes I stole her little boy. Seduced him! When the opposite happened.

I went off to the University of Texas with wide-eyed hopes and dreams. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I was eager to find the right path. I’d had a happy childhood with what I thought were adoring parents. And when I returned home at Thanksgiving, I learned my parents had separated and were getting a divorce. They’d stayed married all those years. Why? For me? My happy childhood had been an illusion made of spun sugar.

They didn’t even try to fight for their marriage, to make it work. They just quietly parted ways.

“It’s amicable,” my mother said.

“It’s for the best,” my father claimed.

But the solid world I thought my feet were planted on tilted, and I tumbled into a dark hole, questioning everything I’d ever known or believed.

I fell right into Cliff’s arms. And ended up pregnant with Izzie.

Was our marriage only a figment of my imagination? Should we not have been together? Did that negate what we had created? Or did our overheated decision in his apartment late one night change the course of our lives forever? Did that one moment of insanity change our destiny?

When Cliff left me for Barbie, all those questions bombarded me again. And I went to church, seeking answers.

“We’ll pray your husband returns,” many said.

“He’s wrong. He made a mistake.”

“It’s God’s will your husband sees the error of his ways and returns to his family.”

But was giving myself to an immature, bad boy in college the real mistake? Was his decision to pursue Barbie inevitable, simply a course correction?

I didn’t know then, and I still don’t know. It doesn’t seem important anymore what Marla thinks. I’m not going to change her mind after seventeen years. And if I did, I’m not sure it would matter anyway.

“Watch what you’re doing!” Marla jerks her hand back.

Using the edge of my thumbnail, I scrape off a smudge of polish from Marla’s cuticle. “Is that why you’ve always hated me?”

“I don’t hate you, dear.”

I switch to her other hand. “You haven’t exactly embraced me.”

“What if Izzie got pregnant by that boy she’s seeing now. What’s his name? Greg?”

“Gabe.”