Hotter than Helen (The "Bobby's Diner" Series) (2 page)

But he couldn’t keep Vanessa and Georgette from prevailing, winning and becoming as close a family as possible, especially being once-wives of Bobby’s. It made her giggle, the term, ‘once-wives.’ They’d probably be adding that one to the latest Oxford Dictionary.

She remembered also telling Hawthorne about how she, Helen and Vanessa sat after hours at the diner drinking wine and telling stories, laughing and crying, talking about the past, worrying about the future—all the things women are apt to do when they toss back a few cocktails together.

And she remembered telling Hawthorne about a letter Helen had mailed after she settled in Seattle, describing to him Helen’s confession to her, about Helen’s feelings for Bobby before he died but how Bobby never stepped one toe outside of their precious marriage. Qualities she believed she spotted in Hawthorne—the second man she had dated since Bobby died.

The first man, Willy, fizzled out before anything really happened. Getting involved with someone so soon after losing Bobby wasn’t something Georgette could let happen. She was also still grieving the loss of Vanessa to breast cancer.

The timing was off for Willy and her. However, sometimes, even now, even since her engagement to Hawthorne, she found herself wistful about Willy. She even went as far as wondering what life as a policemen’s wife might be like. But it was high school thinking. She refused to allow herself these girlish and fickle ideas.

Wrenching her thoughts back to Hawthorne, she looked at her ring and thought of her fiancée. The diamond was so big it embarrassed her. He made quite a good living as a day trader and spoiled her with dinners out, bottles of champagne and precious trinkets.

“Three carats, sweet girl,” he’d said on one knee. “What d’ya say? Will you have me, honey?” He was such a romantic. Their whirlwind courtship lasted a long weekend, maybe. No more than seventy-two hours, she knew that for certain. It felt like kismet. One day he moved to Sunnydale and the next thing you know, Georgette and Hawthorne had become engaged to be married. It was all very quick and very romantic.

The proposal was like you’d expect to see in the movies.

She nearly knocked him over when she accepted. It was more of a tackle move on Georgette’s part. She remembered saying “yes” as they clambered around on the floor, making love to him in the same spot.

Georgette felt herself blushing as she dumped a small pile of catnip next to Gangster’s bowl. “There you go, kitty.” Upon smelling the herb, Gangster rubbed his chin into it and then dropped on his side and rolled. “You nut.” She loved that cat.

She looked toward Bobby’s old office. The extra room. Nobody would care that Helen hadn’t succeeded as a writer. Nobody would care now that she was coming home. Anyway, who said she couldn’t write in Sunnydale. Georgette made a mental note to suggest that very thing to Helen when she arrived. Helen would slip back into life in Sunnydale just fine.

And, Georgette refused to find fault in Helen so long ago for trying to take Bobby away. Bobby was a good man, a true man. Attractive.

She knew nothing had happened between them. Actually, she understood Helen better because of it. Anyway, hadn’t Georgette and Bobby done something similar to Vanessa? Who was she to judge Helen? Either way, it was water under the bridge. It was history.

She couldn’t wait for Helen to meet Hawthorne.

3

Standing inside the door frame of Bobby’s office, she noticed her hips took up more than half of the door. Her denim Capris ended at each thick freckled calf. Her legs never tanned. She could live under a heat lamp and she’d never tan. Her tennis shoes were her working shoes, easy on easy off with zero laces and the tongues lopping out like an old dog’s.

Looking up, she ran a finger along the door frame’s dusty trim. The room needed a good cleaning before Helen arrived. She pulled back her strawberry curls and knotted them in a clip behind her head. She looked into the bucket on the floor next to her. Rags floated like dead bodies inside the frothy steaming water.

A promise of new life and friendship within her home gave Georgette energy. Helen was like her sister. The thought of having her stay for a while felt like having family home again. She had spent too many days without family. Her future promised an abundance of family now with Roberta, Hawthorne and now Helen. Anyway, Georgette had intended to convert Bobby’s office into a guest room.

Even from the door the room smelled musty. A ray of sun angled across his desk and seemed to point to the lonely unmade bed. As she stood looking in, she remembered the last time she’d opened this very door. It had been an entire summer, fall and winter since she had gone into or out of the room. She told herself she kept it closed off in order to save money on heating or cooling. But the truth was that she didn’t want to deal with the nineteen years of memories she knew she would find when she finally rummaged through the boxes of Bobby’s things.

Five years.

It had been five years since his death.

She walked to the big picture window and cranked it open. Immediately air shifted through, allowing the dankness out and smells of early spring in—the hint of rain, rugosa roses mingling with cut grass. A forgotten wild honeysuckle blossomed, spilling its sweet smell into the room. The vine bordered the window like a Hallmark card. Its fragrance mixed in with the dry pink desert silt reminded Georgette of her days as a child making mud pies. All of these elements created the very essence of springtime in the desert to Georgette.

Outside, a grackle trilled out a call to its mate and a mourning dove hooted a sad falling lilt. After sprucing up the room she needed to remember to refill the bird feeders. That would make the doves happy again.

She loved Bobby’s office and had forgotten how much time she and her late husband had spent together in his room. She always did this, this remembering thing—about the room, about Bobby, about a time so long ago but a time that only seemed like yesterday.

Moments like this always stopped her, this feeling in the pit of her stomach, nearly knocking her into a sitting position. Tears for Bobby weren’t used up, far from it. It was only that now she knew how to control her emotions. Emotions were simply something she had finally learned to deal with.

She still missed him so much. She missed Vanessa too. She chuckled, thinking how the three of them—Bobby, his ex-wife and she—could’ve ever been friends, but they were, the best of friends. Now, all that remained was their wonderful daughter, Roberta.

Roberta amazed Georgette everyday by calling her, sending her emails, friending her on Facebook, even following her Bobby’s Diner Fan Page, something Roberta had talked Georgette into. She was Georgette’s confidante, almost a daughter—almost. Once she’d even told her, “Okay, you’re close but you’re still not my mother, Georgie.” She guessed that’s where they existed today—close but with reservations.

“Reservations.” She giggled, thinking about the diner and Roberta all at the same time. It made her laugh out loud as she looked out the open window into the field where the deer canvassed. They were back now that the flowers were in bloom.

The cat jumped onto the naked bed. She stroked his long calico fur. His claws dug in and out, deep into the mattress’ ticking.

“Okay, Gangster. How about you and me get this room ready for Helen?”

4

“Please remind me why I decided to work here on my days off, will you, Georgie.”

“Now, hon, it’s not all that bad. Vanessa would be so proud. You can still buy her half, you know. I’ll cut you a screamin’ deal.” She kidded Roberta, knowing the only reason she worked there was so she could hold on to something left of her mother’s. “Keep working that dough. It helps with stress.”

The day started out with someone calling in sick, then someone else would be late and the special for this evening had to be changed because the market didn’t have prime rib today, Wednesday (their usual prime rib day), again, for the third week in a row.

“We’re gonna have to call it Wait Until Next Wednesday instead of Prime Rib Wednesday if this keeps up.”

“Well, if it ever reaches emergency levels, we can always send up a flare!” She giggled, thinking how that might look to the townsfolk in Sunnydale. Then she looked over at Roberta rolling and pushing on the pie dough. Her arms flexed, reminding Georgette of how Vanessa used to look.

“Gosh, honey. You look so much like your mom.”

“Yeah, yeah. You always get nostalgic in the springtime.” She grabbed a rolling pin without looking up. “Did you know that? That you get that way every spring?”

“Do I? I didn’t, I guess.” She cut into an onion. Fumes wafted up, hitting her in the nose. She sniffled. The fumes continued to bombard her senses, making her eyes water. While still holding the chef ’s knife, she bent up her right wrist and blotted the corner of her eye.

“Oh good lord, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Roberta teased.

“You didn’t!”

She didn’t get Roberta’s joke which amused her. “Cry baby.”

“You didn’t make me cry! It’s these damn onions.” Roberta knew how easy it was to get Georgette riled.

“Cry baby.”

Looking up at her, she finally understood Roberta had been teasing her. “Oh, you little fart.” And then threw a towel at her.

“So how’s Helen handling it back here?”

“She was tired from the bus ride, dumped a ton of luggage into her room and even a shoebox full of letters or something in the cupboard out in the garage.” The onions made her wipe her eyes again. “But she started looking for work yesterday.”

“What kind of work is she looking for?”

“I don’t know exactly. Probably something where she can write. She said she needed some time to think. I think she might go over to the Sunnydale Weekly and apply.”

“Hmm.” Roberta put her hands on her waist, then wiped them over her apron.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Think about what? I mean, I guess, why didn’t she ask you for a job? Or me? She could find something in my office. For God’s sake, I’m the mayor. I have a little pull.”

“Honey. Don’t take offense. I intended on broaching the subject of her coming to work with us here, anyway. Maybe she didn’t want to be a burden by asking.”

“We’re her friends, Georgie. We are supposed to burden each other. It’s what friends do to each other.”

“You mean like what you’re doing to me right now, asking me why someone else did something that I can’t answer?”

“Kind of like that, yeah.” She looked up at Georgette. “It was five years ago last week.”

Georgette let out a deep breath. “I know.”

“I miss him.”

“Me too, hon. More than you’ll ever …”

“Is it weird. I mean is it strange that you’ve met someone else? I mean… you’re getting married.”

“He’s amazing, Roberta. I loved your father so much. It’s different with Hawthorne. I mean, I love him. Don’t get me wrong. I trust him completely. He asked me if I wanted a prenuptial. I told him, ‘Only if you do.’ When he said he didn’t, I knew I was safe with him.” She set both hands down on the cutting table, still holding the knife. “Oh, I was hoping we could talk about this. It seems like a good time.”

Georgette put down her knife and walked over to Roberta. Leaning against the counter where she made her pies, Georgette continued. “It is weird. In a way. Some days all I can do is think about your dad. Wish he was still alive.” She paused and seemed to sink into the words. “He would want us to be happy, Roberta. Your dad was the most generous, sweetest guy in the world. He would want us to live.” She waited and looked at Roberta, who hadn’t yet looked into her eyes. “The problem is, he could never know how hard that might be for you and me.” She patted Roberta on the arm and went back to prepping vegetables.

“The old fart.” Roberta turned and walked into the bathroom.

After the door was closed, Georgette mumbled to herself. “The old fart, indeed.”

5

The sun was cresting over the Mohave, giving the desert long, cool morning shadows striped with crystalline rays the color of blood. The sky seemed to go on forever, not touching land for hundreds of miles off, shining iodine red and molten gold.

Hawthorne Biggs breathed in, smelling the light, sweet fragrance emanating from the Prickly Pear cactus blossoms, cacti that sat in thorny clumps around each tee box. He stretched once with his golf club high over his head, gripping it in both hands and bending back ever so slightly, feeling the tug of muscle fighting him. Nothing was ever easy. Getting old. Earning a living. Golfing. Nothing.

Diving his hand in, feeling the cool rectangular metal plate, he skipped over it and instead pulled out a long, shiny pine golf tee out of his khaki pants pocket with a gloved hand that matched his tan and black oxford golf shoes. He looked good today. He knew it. Every article of clothing new and matching and with the latest set of Macgregor clubs, Hawthorne looked “country club.”

Holding his driver in the pit of his right arm, he bent down and pressed the tee into the earth. Doing so always reminded him of shoving an ice pick into muscle, a piece of meat. Even the earth suffered when punctured. He looked up toward the sun, still in a squat and smiled.