I tried to.
“No, of course not,” she said. “Seven o’clock. The Prime. I might be a few minutes late, but I’ll be there. Just order me a glass of wine.”
At first she heard nothing, but she could feel her father’s disapproval.
“You know that I don’t drink, Carmen,” he said sternly. “And neither does Elaine.”
Of course, she said snidely to herself. “Right, I remember,” she said aloud to her father.
Mrs. Reverend Doctor Elaine Oakes. How was it that a minister’s widow (and said minister’s Ph.D. in divinity was questionable), got away with calling herself Mrs. Reverend Doctor? Or was it Mrs. Doctor Reverend? What is that about? Carmen wondered. She also marveled at the speed with which her father had returned to a normal life after her mom died. “Getting on with it” was what he told her as he juggled the persistent and tenacious attentions of single church ladies across the Cincinnati metro region. Every widow and divorcée over or near the age of seventy—and a couple who were much younger or older than that—had set their sights on the newly widowed Reverend Bradshaw.
“That is what you should be doing,” he’d advised her sternly with the same tone he used when reading or preaching from the book of the great softie, the prophet Jeremiah, “getting on with your life. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to continue with this unseemly grieving.”
“Yes, Dad,” she’d answered through her teeth.
Yeah, whatever. Somehow Carmen didn’t think her mother would have been pleased to see her husband of fifty-plus years stepping out with every available widow, divorcée, and otherwise single female within a twenty-mile radius of town either. But Carmen hadn’t said that aloud. She felt bitterness and jealousy. Her own mother would have said that it was very unbecoming. And her dad was right: Joan Bradshaw would not have wanted Howard to sit at home, alone, eating dinner for one in front of the TV and having only Wednesday prayer meetings and Sunday services as his social outlets.
But still . . . Elaine Oakes? Identical St. John suits in every color of the rainbow, including a baby-poop yellow that did not flatter; acrylic nails sharpened to talon-length (appropriate, Carmen thought); suspiciously colored hair (reddish gold with blond highlights); and a penchant for Opium, a cologne of exotic fragrance and nuclear-level strength. Contrasting Elaine with Carmen’s mother was like comparing the Arctic with the Amazon Basin. Of all the women he could have chosen to spend time with, why on earth did it have to be Mrs. Reverend Doctor Oakes?
“Sorry, Dad, I didn’t catch that,” Carmen said quickly, realizing she’d zoned out on their conversation. “A semi just went by,” she lied as she pulled into her driveway and pressed the button to open the garage.
“Don’t forget that you should pick up the rest of these boxes and things that belonged to your mother. They’re in the basement.”
Carmen’s chest tightened with sadness and fury. She wanted to scream at her father. You’ve put her things in the basement out of sight . . . in her own home? Already?
“Sure, Dad, I’ll take care of it. I gotta go, okay?”
It took all of the strength Carmen had to keep from punching her finger through the steering wheel when she tapped the button to disconnect the call. Her eyes flooded with tears.
Oh, Momma, he’s forgotten you already. And for Mrs. Reverend Doctor Elaine Oakes, for Christ’s sake! Jesus . . .
Carmen, darling, her mother would’ve said. Now, what’d I tell you about that cursing? Cut that out now.
Carmen gripped the wheel, wiped the tears away, and focused on maneuvering the car into the garage. Three of the boxes containing her mother’s things that her father had packed up were stacked on the workbench, her mother’s initials written boldly in large-print letters with a bright blue Sharpie: “JAB,” for Joan Adams Bradshaw. They’d been there for weeks—months, even. At least once a week or so Carmen would come out to the garage, usually on a Saturday or Sunday, pick up a box, take it inside, and plan to open it and unpack and sort its contents. The weekend would go by. Carmen would pick up the box again—unopened—and take it back to the garage. She didn’t have the heart to do it. She could not think of her mother as a box or two of . . . things. Nor was she ready to handle her mother’s personal belongings, which Carmen knew would carry the scent of L’Interdit, a classic French perfume her mother had always worn.
The garage door closed with a soft thump, and Carmen unlocked the door that led to the kitchen. She looked at the three boxes again, thinking of the remaining ones stacked neatly in the basement at her family home. Then she turned out the light and went into the house.
Chapter 4
Dee Dee
Every room in the house was glowing with light when Dee Dee pulled into the driveway. She groaned. It had not been her goal in life to be Duke Energy’s favorite customer. Obviously Lorenzo and the girls were home. She opened the door and smiled, then took a deep, cleansing breath. The thump-thump of Frances’s music (why didn’t she use the $150 headphones they’d given her for Christmas? Had she misplaced them already?); Pauly the cat cowering under the table, hissing at the Labrador puppy, Dallas, who was too young and inexperienced to know that he was about to be scratched; Phoebe hunched over her laptop, her glittery blue polished fingertips skating along the keys, earbuds buried in her ears, eyes glued to the computer screen; and in the middle of it all . . .
A yelp from Dallas distracted her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Pauly slinking off toward the hall and mudroom, where the litter box was. Dee Dee knelt down and petted the golden Lab pup, whose expression was a mix of pain and incomprehension. She could imagine what he was thinking: I was just playing! Can’t he take a joke?
“Dallas, baby, you cannot play with that cat. That’s not how he rolls.” The puppy’s nose didn’t appear to be damaged, so she scratched him beneath the chin, then quickly checked the hall floor for puddles as she whistled for the animal to follow her to the back door. “Out you go, monster.”
The remnants of pizza and salad looked like leftovers from an archaeological dig on the granite island counter, and the kitchen TV was on even though no one was watching it. Dee Dee rolled her eyes, clicked off the TV, and poured herself a glass of water, then let the dog back in and turned toward the great room. This time Phoebe saw her and waved.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Is that homework?” Dee Dee asked as she returned to lean over and kiss the top of her daughter’s head.
“Yes,” Phoebe answered. “Algebra. Almost done.”
Times sure had changed. Phoebe hadn’t heard one word she’d said—the earbuds were still in her ears. But she could read lips. Incredible!
The music was getting louder, as if trying to win a decibel competition with ESPN blaring from the great room, where her husband, Lorenzo, was ensconced. Dee Dee stopped at the foot of the stairs and sent a text message to Frances.
“Turn music down.”
She counted to ten. The volume decreased one hundred percent. So Frances did know where the new headphones were.
Now it was Lorenzo’s turn. SportsCenter, his favorite program, was on, and even Dee Dee was impressed by the sharp definition and color of the 75-inch flat-screen mounted over the mantel. It was new and Lorenzo’s pride and joy. She was not as impressed with the audio since the three commentators insisted on talking at once. Of course it didn’t matter what they said since Lorenzo was asleep. Dee Dee smiled. He was buried in the cushions, so closely hugged by them that he was practically wearing the couch. She picked up the remote and turned off the set.