A Slight Change of Plan (8 page)

She swallowed. “I think it would save my life. But Sam…”

“Sam wanted to move in with me in the first place. If he had bothered to let me know last winter, this would never have been an issue. Let’s face it, plan B sucks so far. You with me?”

She nodded. Then she smiled. Then she frowned.

“We gave away most of our furniture so we could afford a smaller storage space in Boston.”

I chewed my lip, thinking. I was staring at the emblem on her polo shirt. “Where did you buy that shirt?”

She looked startled. “Hollister, probably. I’m always there.”

“Then don’t worry about furniture. I’ve got the perfect solution.”

I went into the restroom, because I’d learned to take advantage of every bathroom opportunity that came along; then we went back upstairs. Sam was sitting with more wine, blissfully unaware. We sat down. Alisa took his hand and smiled sweetly.

“Sam, I love you with all my heart. I hate where we’re living. I feel like I’m in prison. Your mother has just offered to let us move in with her for the year, and I think it could work. So I’m moving in with your mom. If you want to keep the apartment, fine. I’ll stop by between classes so we can have sex. But I think you should come there with me.”

Sam grinned. The product of eight thousand, six hundred, and fifty-three dollars and four years’ worth of orthodontia gleamed. “Thank God,” he said.

Smart boy. Really, really smart.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

M
y kids all liked one another. There were times, when they were younger, that I was sure they were going to kill one another, but by and large they grew into their siblings’ foibles and were friends. Watching the three of them together was like watching an old, well-rehearsed vaudeville act—they completed one another’s punch lines, passed off one-liners, and traded inside jokes like the seasoned pros that they were. They were yin and yang and yin-yang. I was proud of them.

So I was a little surprised at Regan’s reaction when I told her that Sam and Alisa were moving in with me.

I had stopped by her apartment to ask if she’d like to go furniture shopping with me. She was all smiles until I mentioned Sam.

She stared. “He’s moving into your condo?” she asked. “With Alisa? You’re going to let them live there together? Are you crazy?”

“No, not at all. Have you seen that place they’re living in? It’s horrific. I couldn’t not ask them. They’ll have to drive to the train, but the commute is a small price to pay for fresh air and a bathroom where they can turn around.”

“This is your adult son, Mom,” she said slowly. “Wasn’t the whole point of selling the house a statement about going forward with your life without your kids?”

I looked at her. “Regan, there is no way I will ever go on with my life without my kids. It’s impossible. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand. Yes, I wanted to move in a different direction, but it was never about leaving you guys behind. Is that what you really thought?”

“Why else would you sell the house?”

“Because I was tired of living in five thousand square feet all by myself, that’s why. I didn’t want to worry about taking care of it, cleaning it, and hearing my footsteps echo through vast, empty rooms. And I wanted to buy floral chintz sofas and lots of foofy pillows.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is that why you let Jeff decorate for you? Honestly, Mom, for a woman who always knows what she wants out of life, sometimes you amaze me with your willingness to let your kids roll over you.”

I settled back into her couch. “Really? Wait until
you
have kids.” I tilted my head at her. “Did my selling the house bother you? You never said anything. I never had the idea that you were emotionally attached. It’s not like you didn’t take every single thing that was yours with you when you left.”

She shrugged. “It’s just weird to think that Sam is going to be living with you again. He was always such a baby about leaving home in the first place, and now he’s managed to find a way to get back.”

I looked at her quizzically. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

She shrugged, then laughed. “Maybe. Pretty stupid, right? I mean, Phil and I will probably buy our own place
by next year. We’ve kind of been looking, but this wedding stuff is just so ridiculous. We found a place for the wedding, by the way. It’s called Clareview House. It’s a beautiful old mansion, but we need to bring in our own catering. I was going to ask you about that.”

I beamed. My daughter was very independent. Being the middle kid and only girl, with an absent father and a strong mother, had left a mark. That she was asking me for help was a real breakthrough for her.

“I know a few people who would do a great job,” I said, speaking slowly. Didn’t want to scare her away. “I’ll make a few phone calls and let you know some names. How’s the guest list?”

She shot me a look. “Don’t push it, Mom.”

I held up my hands, palms out, in defeat. “No problem, honey. Now, will you help me find a soft, squishy sofa in a shiny chintz print?”

She grinned. “Sure. I’ve got clinic tomorrow and Thursday. How about Friday morning?”

Perfect. The good thing about being between jobs was a completely open schedule.

I went home and walked Boone past the health club again. Someday soon, I swore to myself, I’d actually go in. I was starting to recognize a few people in the development. There was the very attractive couple who jogged together in color-coordinated outfits, identical headphones, and very big watches. A sweet older lady—I think she said her name was Marie—lived across the cul-de-sac and petted Boone whenever she saw us. There was also a very attractive gentleman, maybe in his sixties, who drove a Lexus and had no visible roommate or partner. He did not smile or wave, but
when I saw him unload golf clubs, I gave trying golf at least seven minutes of serious thought.

When I sat down at my computer, I found a brief e-mail from the dean of business at Centenary College, the woman who was supposed to be my new boss, telling me that, due to funding cuts and slipping enrollment, I would not be getting the contract we discussed. In fact, I would not be getting anything.

I stared at the screen. I had quit a very high-paying job so that I could relax and take it easy in the world of academia. Sure, they weren’t going to be paying me a lot of money, but then, I had agreed to teach only two classes. It was going to be perfect. I would make just enough to cover the taxes and fees on the condo, as well as basic living expenses, and in return, I would give about twenty hours of my time and expertise to a hundred or so students.

I was not hurting for money. My biggest expense had always been the house. Now that I was living mortgage-free, my nest egg could last a very long time. But I was counting on a job. I was counting on
that
job.

I could not go back to my old firm. I knew for a fact that they were glad I had left, because business had slowed considerably, even in the tax department. I suppose I could look for another job as a lawyer—after all, I was qualified and experienced. But that would not work in my favor, not in this economy. I did not want to run through my savings, or have to go into the 401(k).

I called Cheryl. “I got fired,” I told her.

“From what?”

“My job. At the college.”

“But you hadn’t started working there yet. How could they fire you?”

I sighed. “You’re right. I didn’t get fired. I just didn’t get hired.”

“Kate, that sucks. I’ll be right over. I have just the thing to make everything all better.”

She arrived forty minutes later, a bottle of wine in hand.

“Happy new unemployment. Where’s a corkscrew?”

I handed it to her; she poured wine into two glasses, then wandered through the condo. She came back into the kitchen frowning.

“Kate, this furniture is still giving me a very funny vibe. Is this really the kind of place you want to live in?”

I shrugged. “It isn’t. Regan and I are getting new furniture and moving all of this upstairs for Sam and Alisa.” I took a long drink of wine.

“Why would Sam and Alisa need furniture upstairs?” She was searching in her purse for something.

“Because when I saw the hellish shoe box they were living in, I invited them to move in with me.”

She pulled a baggie out of her purse, looking triumphant for a moment before turning to me with a frown. “Your son and his girlfriend are going to be living with you?”

“Yes. Is that pot?”

“Why would you want that, Kate? You’ve been living alone for a while now. Won’t that be a huge disruption? And yes, I thought we’d smoke a joint in honor of your losing your nonexistent job.”

She emptied the contents of the bag on my granite countertop. She gazed down at the twisted buds and sighed.

“This has to be cleaned. I need an album cover,” she said.

“Cheryl, where the hell did you get that? You haven’t smoked pot in years.”

“I know, but wine adds on pounds, and I’m tired of eating salad twice a day. I got it from the nice young man who works at the gas station on the corner of my street. I didn’t know where else to go—all my contacts went to prison or died years ago—so I figured a high school boy would be the best chance at a source, and he was happy to get it for me. He graduates next week. I may have to find another supplier.”

“Are you crazy? You just asked a strange high school kid?”

She gave me another one of her “Are you kidding?” looks. “Of course not. I get my gas there all the time. I’ve known Kyle for a couple of months now.” She had pulled a packet of rolling papers out of her purse as well. “Now, again—album cover?”

“Cheryl. I don’t have any albums anymore. I have CDs and an iPod. Nobody has albums anymore.”

Her face fell. “Then how the hell do people clean their pot?”

“I have no idea. You’re serious? You want to roll a joint?”

She pushed everything across the counter. “I just had new tips put on; I can’t do a thing with these damn nails. You roll one.”

“Cheryl, I’m a lawyer.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not anymore. Listen, you and I used to smoke every afternoon, all through high school, sitting up in that old tree house. Remember? We could use a little bit of the naughty. Go ahead and roll. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget how.”

Well, she was right about that. I found my wok and used it to separate the seeds, and rolled three very respectable-looking joints. The only lighter I had in the house was one of those long, skinny things I used to light the grill, so we lit a candle and used that. Cheryl took a long, deep drag, then spewed out a lungful of smoke and coughed for a whole minute. I stared at her until she stopped. Her eyes were watering; her face was red. And she was grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, Kate, why did we stop doing this?”

“Because it’s illegal. I’m an officer of the court, Cheryl, and this is against the law.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be.” She took another hit, a tiny puff, and grinned again. “I can’t figure out why this wasn’t made legal years ago. You can’t tell me all those senators and congressmen have never smoked. So many of them are our age and older, and they never inhaled? That’s a crock. And they could tax it, make a bundle, and lower everybody else’s taxes. The whole recession would be over! I need to write to the President about this.”

I took the joint from her and tried a small, tentative hit. Just enough to feel it in the back of my throat. I exhaled gently.

I closed my eyes and took another hit.

Wow.

“Cheryl, this is the best idea you’ve had in a long time. I’ll help you with that letter.”

We carried the wine bottle, our glasses, and the joint out to the deck and sat in quiet contentment for a few more minutes. I didn’t have an ashtray, but I used the saucer from one of my small clay pots to stub out the roach. The birds
were singing, the sun was filtering through the trees, and I felt totally at one with the glory of Mother Nature.

“You know,” Cheryl said, “you could throw a few seeds into one of these clay pots out here and grow yourself a nice little crop.”

“That’s a brilliant idea. It will blend right into the tomato plants, and no one will ever know.”

“I’ve got a few seedlings in my rose garden. I’m just hoping that Tyler doesn’t pull them up and ask his mommy what the funny plant is.”

Cheryl’s daughter, Heather, was twenty-six. “Would Heather disapprove, do you think?”

Cheryl sighed and took a long drink of her wine. “She joined one of those antidrug things in high school and never stopped believing. She doesn’t even like my drinking wine in front of her. Insufferable prude, that girl.” She shook her head sadly. “I love her, but she is a real pill. Remember Rutt’s?”

I frowned. “Rutt’s? Rutt’s Hut? Home of the world’s best deep-fried hot dog?” I was getting confused. “What does that have to do with Heather?”

“Nothing. I’m not talking about her anymore.” She sighed. “Those hot dogs were the best things I’d ever eaten. Remember how we’d make a whole road trip out of going down there? I bet one of those babies would taste great right now.”

Cheryl got the munchies faster than anyone I had ever smoked with, and since I was in college during the seventies, believe me, that was a lot of people.

“Well, I’m not driving down there today,” I told her.

She sipped her wine contentedly. “No, I suppose not. Besides, I can’t eat like that anymore. Remember Dairy Queen? And maple walnut sundaes?”

“We’re not going there, either. Do you really have pot plants growing in your rose garden?” Cheryl lived in a very exclusive gated community, in a detached three-bedroom with a small, enclosed backyard where she had at least two dozen rosebushes that she tended with religious fervor. Sitting out on her patio on a hot summer night, the smell was intoxicating.

“Yes. I have about twenty. I’ll wait till they’re at least a foot and a half high before I pull them up and dry them out. I don’t want them to get too tall. Somebody might notice and complain to the HOA board.”

Or the police. “Cheryl, what are you going to do with twenty plants’ worth of marijuana?”

“Smoke it, of course. I’ve noticed that I’m drinking way too much wine. It might help me relax; plus wine has a lot more calories than you’d think, so I’m going back to my roots.” She giggled. “Roots? Pot plants? Get it?”