Hot Tea (24 page)

“You really don’t need to do this.”

“I’ll be back in a few.”

With that he disappeared into his room materializing almost immediately, bare feet stuffed in loafers and wallet in hand.  Keys jingling as he went.

I’m sure he didn’t get to his car before I was off the couch and hopping into my bedroom. 

In the time it took him to buy orange juice and vodka, I’d taken a shower, shaved everything important, I didn’t wash my hair, but I did brush it out, fluff it up with some root spray, and freshen what little makeup I was wearing. 

I didn’t want to look too obvious.

Now that I think about it, the fact that I was wearing a absolutely spectacular, modest, but still stunning nightgown when he came back, might have been a tad obvious, but you do what you can do.

I was back on the couch, arranged, with my foot up and my nightgown cascading in a shimmering pool of green skinner satin, when AJ walked in the door.

He has a lovely smile.  “Wow.  You do injured really well.”

I laughed.  “Thanks.  I had to find something to match my ankle.”

Instantly he was at the couch peeling off the new ice pack I’d just applied.”

“Shit Cara, I really think you need a doctor.”

“I swear to you it isn’t broken.  I inspected it closely.  I think what happened is that when I went bumbling down that little hill, I smacked the bone on the inside of my ankle, with the heel of my other shoe.  I either nicked that bone, or maybe broke a little vein.  There isn’t anything that a doctor could do, but tell me to keep ice on it.  I’m doing that without waiting in the ER for hours and hours.”

“Do you promise me if it gets any worse you will let me know?”

“I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll make your drink then.”

He was back moments later with a good-sized Screwdriver.  I took a sip, ready for the yucky taste, but it was actually pretty good.  “Ok, what did you do?  This doesn’t taste like a regular Screwdriver.”

“The guy at the liquor store said I should add a little bit of pineapple juice or some Sprite.  I didn’t know how you would feel about the pineapple juice, but I saw you swipe some of your brother’s Sprite when they were here for chicken, so I added a splash.  Is it really ok?”

“Actually, it’s really pretty good.”  I was so flattered that he’d not only noticed what I’d stolen from a relative, but he’d actually remembered, and, put the knowledge to good use.  I slurped the drink to show my appreciation.

“Good.  You don’t have to drink the whole thing, I just thought it would help to relax you.”

“You’re too good to me.”

He said quietly, “You deserve to have someone spoil you.”  He looked a little embarrassed.  He said in a stronger voice, “I stopped at the Walgreen’s next to the liquor store and got a couple of small ice packs and ace bandages.  I think we should be able to wrap up your ankle and keep it elevated and iced while you sleep tonight if we do it right.”

I didn’t know quite what to do or say, so I took a gulp of my drink and smiled. 

We talked about the eulogy business, and Suzi, and Liam and Morgan. 

How could it be that talking to this man about nothing, is more intimate than anything else I’ve ever done?

 I was in my bed alone.  Well, mostly alone.  I looked down and saw AJ checking my ankle, by the light sneaking in from the hallway.  He had his hand on my leg, between my ankle and my knee.  I can’t say it was a bad thing.

“What time is it?”

“About four-thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yep.”

“What happened?  How’d I get in here?”

“You had a Screwdriver.”  He chuckled.  “You really are a light-weight.  Not when you’re really relaxed and flopping all over the place while I’m trying to carry you down the hall, but when it comes to drinking, you’re a light-weight.”

“Oh Dear Lord please help me.”  I closed my eyes and let my arm come down across my forehead.  Very 1940s.  It suited the nightgown.

“Is it your ankle?  Do you have a hangover?  Do you need some aspirin?  What is it?”

“Nothing a bullet won’t heal.  Let’s call it terminal embarrassment and leave it at that.”  Fade to black.  I’m sure I was asleep before he got to the door.

SIXTEEN

I hobbled up the drive at Bernie’s house early in the morning.  Contrary to what everyone seems to believe, I’m actually a morning person.  I do well in the morning.  I’m cheery. 

This morning I was reminded of the very best thing about morning.  I know, I know.  It’s a guy thing to be all hot and bothered in the morning.  Girls don’t like being friendly in the morning.  Everyone says girls think they look like crap and their teeth have fur.  Well, it may be primarily a guy thing, but I’m here to tell you at least a few of us girls like mornings.  I do.  I like to slip out of bed, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, slap on a little smelly good stuff, go back to bed, and pounce.

No pouncing this morning.  Unfortunately.  By the time I got out of bed and got moving, AJ was long gone.  There was a note on the fridge saying that I should take it easy and if I needed anything at all, call his cell.  I limped around for a while, trying to decide if my ankle is just sore, or if it’s actually damaged.  I decided that I’d live through the experience, that all I really needed was some support for it, and a good shower. 

I took my shower, shaved everything important, just in case I ended up at the ER after all, and called Teagan.  She came over and taped up my ankle.  She’s a sports nut.  She has injured herself more than I have.  She actually brought a bunch of stuff over with her.  She started with some soft gauzy stuff, then tape over that, so that it won’t hurt so much when it is time get rid of the bandage.  She pointed out that we could just put tape on skin, kind of like a shortcut to waxing my ankle, but when she saw how beat-up my ankle was, she took pity on me and did it the right way.  She was going to cover it with people colored tape, but I like the white stuff.  If I’m going to be in pain, I want people to notice that I’m bandaged.  Maybe they will be nicer to me.  It could happen.

After Teagan decided that I was good to go, she said she was going to stop off at Baker Bob’s Donuts and pick up some cinnamon rolls, purely medicinal mind you, and would meet me at Bernie’s in 30 minutes.  We’d promised Mom we would get started going through Bernie’s stuff as soon as possible.

All the times I’ve come to this house, to pick someone up or drop someone off, I’d never really taken the time to appreciate it.  Since Teagan hadn’t arrived with my cinnamon roll yet, I allowed myself the luxury.

Bernie’s house looks like something out of a magazine, or maybe an old-fashioned movie set.  It’s a tiny little house, resplendent with an English garden and white picket fence.  Of course, Bernie would never cop to an English garden, she would insist that it’s Irish, but there is a difference, subtle though it may be.

From the front sidewalk is a crooked little stone walkway that ends in two steps up to the wrap around porch.  I’m pretty sure the porch was an add-on, but it works. 

The house looks hundreds of years old, but since it is right here in Florida, someone must have worked hard to make it look that way.  Truth be told, not a lot of stuff in this area has been here for all that long.  Post WWII is about it, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. 

Bernie’s house looks like it has been here for centuries.  Think Hansel and Gretel with a better roof.

The porch has a white wicker rocker with a little table next to it, still holding a paperback that’s starting to show that it has been sitting in the humidity for a while now.  The sight of it made me sad.

I walked around to the right side of the house; the porch wraps nearly all the way to the back, with roses climbing up pillars that look like haphazardly stacked stones.  The pillars support railings wide enough to sit on. 

The hide-a-key was attached under the lip of a protruding rose-colored stone that has a dent in the underside; the dent is just large enough to hide the key.  I wondered if that was planned, or a happy accident.

The sound caused by ripping the key from it’s hidey-hole seemed loud, even if it’s just Velcro.  Such a modern sound in such an old fashioned realm was a bit disconcerting. 

Also, it hadn’t escaped my psyche that on the other side of the house was the garage, where they’d found Bernie sitting in her car.  I’m not afraid of death, or dying, or anything like that, but still, it was a little bit oooky to be here alone.  Something just wasn’t sitting right.

That was when I heard the laughter of little kids, probably from next door, but I couldn’t really tell where it was coming from.  You know how sound bounces around in the evening.  It bounces on steroids in Florida at all times of the day; my theory is complex, but involves sound and humidity.  Ok, so it isn’t complex.  It is so humid even sound can’t escape, so I couldn’t tell where the sound was created, but I was thankful that it was there.

I said, very quietly, as I always do, “Thank you, God.” 

I believe in thanking God when he smiles down on me.  He does it often.  I’m not overly religious, but I am spiritual, boy is that an over used phrase, but I know that I have had lots of help in this life.  Some from God, some from the cosmos, lots from my parents.  I give credit where credit is due.  Sometimes I even allow myself a pat on the back.

I also believe that laughter is healing.   

It is my firmly held belief that aging starts in earnest when laughter is not free flowing.  People who laugh loudly and often are young at a hundred.  I know this.  I’m Irish.  I’m related to more than one person who has celebrated the century mark; Bernie is only one of many examples I could site.