She's All That (13 page)

“My door's always open,” Max says.

“Aren't you tired of living with that strange girl?” Nana asks me. “You should have your own place by now. Shouldn't she, Max? And where do you think you're going?” Nana turns her wrath on Max. “I need my garbage disposal looked at.”

I open my mouth to tell her I would have my own place if I wasn't paying two rents, but then I'm not up for the suggestion we room together. I love my grandmother, but being around her 24/7 is toxic on the system. Dr. Poppy said so. In fact, it's probably a lot worse than pickles and diet soda.

One might wonder why I put up with her, but she loves me like nobody else, which is why she nags me like nobody else. When my dad died and my mother abandoned me, there was one person who stood by me—Nana. When there's a gaping hole in your heart and someone stands in the gap to stop the pain, they earn the right to nag.

“Nana, we're doing all right, aren't we? Why do you think I'll be happy if I'm rich? Morgan's not any happier than I am, and she's always been rich.” Even mentioning Morgan's name makes my throat constrict.
I'm worried sick!

Nana takes a broom to the front porch, swiping at the floor like a machete through the sugar cane. “You're just too smart for this, Lilly. You're like a bull, plowing full force, but you've never looked where you're going.”

Just like your father.
Granted, Nana didn't say it, but she's thinking it all the same. Evidently, my father was not a brilliant man. Or even barely a man. He was only eighteen when he fathered me with a sixteen-year-old girl. Before I was even born, he'd been drag racing on the street, and he arrived first, although not at the finish line. Head-on into a tree. Nana never really got over the loss of her son, which is understandable, but I believe she thinks that if Johnny Jacobs had been educated, he'd be alive today.

The fact is, he and my mother would probably have been divorced, and who knows if he would have been able to settle on a job. My mother left me with Nana to raise me and went off to make her fortune. We never heard from her again. Somewhere about the age of fifteen, I stopped wanting to hear from her. I figured if she was so great, I'd read about her in
People
. Since I never did, I figured God left me with the right mother for me, my Nana.

Although Nana is a staunch believer in Jesus, she's never been one to allow Him to do the job without her help. But it's time we all moved on from my father's death and my over-education. The fact is, I never asked Nana to sell her home for my degrees.

I pull the broom from her grip and force her steely blue eyes to mine. “Nana, I'm a fashion designer. You have to deal with that. Maybe I'll never be Robert Cavalli—”

“Who?”

“He's a fashion designer. One who makes lots of money.”

“And your dad was a race car driver.” I see a tear glisten in the corner of her eye. Nearly thirty years later, and her pain is still an open wound.

I wanted to be everything Nana had hoped for. I wanted to make up for my father's failings, but how long do I have to pay the price? I did it through six years of college and two years of finance work, and I just feel like it's over for me. I can't deny my real self anymore. But then I look at her tears, and my resolve wilts like yesterday's lettuce.

“Nana,” I say gently, “if my business doesn't take off in one year, I'll get a job with real benefits.”

Her eyes narrow. “Six months.”

Max comes back around with a wrench in his hand. “I've got an interview at the paper in an hour, but let me look at that garbage disposal.” He smiles down at me, and I can see he knows exactly how to handle my grandmother. It charms me immensely, and we share a small moment. I smile softly at him, and his grin brightens the day. Max Schwartz, TV reporter at large, appears to harbor a secret so enticing, I find myself completely mystified for a moment. He is definitely sprinkling some salt and light. At least I think he is.

Nana leads him into the house, and I notice the overwhelming stench of artichokes. Going closer to the sink, I see a wretched display. Artichoke leaves in the garbage disposal. Now, my grandmother has been warning me about the ills of artichoke leaves (they're fibrous) in the garbage disposal since I was four!

I watch her, and she won't meet my gaze. “This just isn't a quality disposal, Max,” my grandmother accuses. “It won't chew up simple vegetables.”

Max smiles at her and goes to work. We're silent while he finishes, and as he walks out, I trail behind him leaving my grandmother to rake up the mess in the sink.

“Does she do this to you every day, Max?”

“She's fine, Lilly.”

“No, she's not fine.” Nana is lonely, and I was too caught up in myself to see it. “I abandoned her,” I say to myself, but obviously, aloud.

“She cooks for me quite a bit, and she keeps the place up well. I figure God has His plan. I like having her here. I've got time, and you don't.”

His words sting me like a needle to the thumb.
When did
my grandmother ever not have time for me? When was she not
there for me when I needed her?
Guilt bubbles within me like chocolate in my grandma's double-chip cookies.

“Lilly,” Max takes his thumb and lifts my face to his, “this is your chance. You need to take it. Your grandmother is fine here, and she doesn't bother me. I'm a television writer and hopeless bachelor. What do I have but time? If it wasn't for your grandma, I'd have too many cats and eat at the corner diner every night.”

I laugh. “No one dating a girl who looks like Valeria is a hopeless bachelor.”

Max smiles.

“I didn't know you were a Christian. You are, aren't you?” I ask, completely stepping in it, because if he says no, it's not going to be pretty.

He nods. “Became a Christian through Jews for Jesus. But I'm also a spinster, as my mother would say—bachelor when I'm feeling macho.”

“How does my Nana get along with your mother?”

“My parents are in Florida, so I like having your Nana here. When she bakes cookies and nags, it's like having a bit of Mom here.” He laughs. “Not that my mother ever baked cookies. But the nanny she hired did.”

“Doesn't Valeria mind?” I ask, curious how his well-endowed girlfriend would feel about him calling himself a bachelor.

“Why would she? You know, every woman that meets Valeria is obsessed. She's just a friend, Lilly.”

I shrug. “I just thought—”

“Do this for yourself right now. Go start your business. It might be the only chance you get.” Truer words were probably never uttered, but that doesn't dissuade my guilt. Nana has trained me well.

Nana's phone rings, and we hear her answer it. “If you're selling something, I'm on social security and still have all my faculties, so I'm not giving it away.”

Max laughs out loud. “You want to deprive me of moments like this?”

“Just a minute,” Nana says into the phone. “Lilly, it's for you. That odd duck you hang out with.”

“Poppy?” I say breathlessly into the phone.

“I think I'm offended. You consider me the odd duck?”

“No, I just know my grandmother well.” I purse my lips at Nana, and she flicks her wrist and walks away. “Did you find Morgan?”

“I did, and you're not going to like it.”

chapter 11

M
organ has been spotted at her health club in Union Square. It definitely crossed my mind that she might have been there, but I didn't know what could be done about it. Square One is not the YMCA. You can't just walk in wearing standard sweats and carrying your punch card. (I think proper attire is a Juicy Couture hoodie and coordinating pants—taut belly and implants required.) Morgan is naturally built like a Victoria's Secret model, so she's allowed in on a technicality.

Considering that Square One's monthly fee probably amounts to more than my rent, I was slightly intimidated about calling and looking for one of their clients. Even if she is my best friend. I knew the result I'd get. Measuring Sara Lang's clients, I've been witness to many Union Square hissy fits, and let's just say, as much as I'm worried about Morgan, I'm not anxious to go into their lair. Very wealthy people have this delusion that life is under their control. This
has
to be why a size six in couture would really fit the average size ten. If you pay enough money, the dress is whatever size you want it to be.

But I digress. Poppy Clayton is too ill-informed about the high-society social graces to be embarrassed. Ever. I don't say that as a bad thing. Poppy is so confident, she just doesn't care what people think of her. Therefore, she gets away with a lot. I would be the lead designer at Sara Lang if I had Poppy's force of nature. I know I'd have a more fibrous diet!

Poppy is now in my view. She's running down California Avenue, her face flushed and her locks bouncing. The first thing you notice about Poppy is her luxurious red hair. It's the color of a fall maple leaf changing to crisp rusty-red. The second thing you see is her clear, glacier-blue eyes. She can make it appear she's staring gamma rays right through you.

But soon after noticing God's fascinating color palette, your eyes drift to the definitely-not-God-given clothes. Poppy swims in wild, gauzy skirts that flutter in the wind and are adorned with enough pleats to bankrupt even the cheapest Indian fabric mill. Her ensemble is always topped with an oversized sweatshirt which never seems to match the plethora of colors in her skirt. She's a fashion nightmare, the eternal “Don't!” in
Glamour
's “Do's and Don'ts” section.

Poppy sprints down the hill in her tie-up suede moccasin boots, and I have to admit, I'm a little embarrassed we're going into Square One. Me, in my own jeans and Rebecca Beeson T-shirt (a partial trade for one of Sara's gowns) and Poppy looking like
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
. We're a pair. If I were still working, I might have borrowed something more appropriate, but a ball gown at a gym wouldn't go over any better.

“Sorry,” Poppy says breathlessly as she reaches me. “I had to park the car.”

“Where on earth did you park?” I ask, knowing it takes more than the steep hills of San Francisco to take Poppy's breath.

“Other.” Wheezing breath. “Side.” Breath. “Grace Cathedral.” Multiple gasping breaths.

“Poppy, that's blocks! Why didn't you call a cab or hitch a ride on a cable car?”

“No time. Morgan might have left. Do you know how long it took me to drive up here?” She opens the door to the club and allows me to walk in first. I look back and see her bent over, forearms on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“Poppy!” I say through clenched teeth. “Come on.”

She fans her face. “I'm here.” She stands straight. “Let's go.”

“Oh my goodness.” I look up at the glass walls that part us commoners from the elitist health club members. The cavernous glass and slate room is like a modern art museum. I'd be embarrassed to sweat in here. I feel guilty enough for inhaling any of the rich people's oxygen.

There is the sound of flowing water rushing down a rock wall behind the man at the counter, and he greets us with disdain. “Ladies. We have no public restrooms.”

Poppy reaches her hand out, palm up, and “scans” him. “Very bad energy flow. Do you have someone doing the Reiki on-site? You should really get that checked out.”

I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep me from laughing out loud. Just when she manages to get people completely off-kilter with her alternative healing talk, she goes in for the proverbial kill, with Jesus being the source of all light and energy. But with those piercing blue eyes and intense speaking gift, she's led more than her share of people to the Lord.

Poppy hands insolent desk-boy a card. “I'm Morgan Malliard's personal chiropractor. She summoned me here. Terrible pain.” Poppy looks down as though suffering. “Terrible pain,” she repeats, and I'm half expecting a
Camille
deathbed scene before she straightens up.

He reads the card. “I'm so sorry. Dr. Clayton, Miss Malliard is in the whirlpool salt bath. Do you need directions?”

“Heat? She's in bubbling heat? Do you hear this, Lilly? When she needs ice! I'm glad we came right away.” She yanks me to the glass door, and desk-boy presses the magic buzzer. We're over the moat.

“Where's the whirlpool?” I ask Poppy.

“How would I know? I've never been here. But I wasn't going to tell bad-energy-boy that.” We endure the stares of all the members. We're missing the Juicy hoodies, and our taut bellies are well-covered, so it's obvious we don't belong here. Poppy actually looks like she's meant for the Haight-Ashbury reunion costume party.

“Excuse me,” Poppy says to a man wearing a black Callaway golf suit.

He glances at his watch. “Yes,” he says before emitting a deep sigh, as though this second is costing him a fortune.

“I'm Dr. Clayton, and I have a patient waiting in the women's whirlpool. Would you be so kind as to direct us?”

At this point, the Tiger Woods-wannabe notices Poppy's eyes and her striking looks, and his expression immediately changes. Maybe her clothes are the first thing people notice after all!

“Let me show you personally. It can be confusing.” He leads us down a long hallway decorated with small glass tiles creating a colorful, metallic mosaic of the ocean. We pass a three-lane swimming pool, then the cardio room where people are watching stock market TV and CNN and working out on all sorts of contraptions. They could go outside, run up Powell Street, and get far more exercise for free. I bet Poppy's choice of parking place lowered her blood pressure more than the combined lot of machines in there. Outside, they'd even have natural hurdles, what with the multiple homeless camped along the sidewalk. Then again, running on Powell doesn't have built-in Internet—and their treadmills do.