Facelift (13 page)

Then he faces me. “So where’s Mom?”

“In her room.”

“Locked up like the dog?”

I roll my eyes like Izzie. “Resting. Hiding.” I shrug. “You know her.”

“She’s had a trauma, Kaye. You could be a little sympathetic.”

My jaw drops. “I’ve been
completely
sympathetic. I’m the one that opened my home to her, remember? I’m fixing her meals. I’m dispensing her meds. I’m taking her to the doctor. What, about all of that, implies a lack of sympathy?”

His forehead folds in on itself. “I know how you feel about her.”

“Do you? Then why’d you let her come here?”

“Why did
you
?”

“It seemed the right thing to do. But after all these years you still don’t want to see her the way she truly is.”

“Cliff?” A weak voice floats down the hallway.

I release a huffy breath and manage to refrain from rolling my eyes again. Here it comes—manipulation in the extreme. Cinderella, I’m sure, didn’t have to contend with this.

“Mom?” Cliff beelines it in the direction of my bedroom. “Yeah, it’s me.”

I take a slow, deep breath, feeling my flushed face dampen with sweat. Never when we were married would I have spoken to Cliff so forcefully. I’m not sure if I should have started earlier or if I’m ruining my chances now for reconciliation. I doubt Barbie ever raises her voice or Botoxed eyebrows.

Bracing myself for more dramatics, I follow him down the hallway and enter Marla’s temporary sanctuary. The lights are off, but a candle I don’t recognize on the bedside table is lit, giving the room an eerie, flickering glow. This could be a scene right out of
The Munsters
, with one bunch of limp flowers next to the stately roses overseeing the body splayed out on my bed like a corpse. Marla, dressed in a flowing negligee, is the monster pretending to be weak and lifeless. Her hand lifts limply.

Cliff cups his hands around Marla’s and kisses the back of her knuckles. “How are you feeling, Mom?”

“I’ve been better, dear. How was work today?”

“Closed a deal.”

She reaches up and pats his hands. “That’s wonderful.”

He glances over at a tray I brought Marla earlier with cheeses and fruits to snack on. Not one slice is missing. “Are you eating?”

“It’s difficult to chew.”

Cliff looks over his shoulder at me. “Don’t you have something like . . . I don’t know . . . applesauce?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “She didn’t
want
any applesauce.”

Marla pulls her arm back from Cliff, letting her hand flutter like a falling feather to her chest. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Have you talked to the doctor?” Cliff plays the part of an armchair quarterback, which makes my spine snap into a straight line.

“We saw him this morning. He removed a drainage tube and said she’s healing nicely.”

“And you went with her?”

“She can’t drive.”

He doesn’t glance in my direction. “What can I bring you, Mom? Something to read?”

“Her eyes hurt, Cliff.”

“A movie? Something to eat or drink?”

“No, no, dear. I’m fine. I just need to rest, to be—”

“—pampered,” he finishes for her. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll take care of you.”

We?
Who does he mean by “we”?

Or does he simply mean
me?

“Come on.” Cliff grabs my arm and moves me toward the door. “I’ll be right back, Mom. Just want to talk to Kaye privately about your care.”

Marla lifts her head off the pillow. She glances from Cliff to me, her gaze (one eye anyway) narrowing. Then she sits bolt upright in bed and stretches out a hand toward her son. “I think I need to sit up some . . . maybe walk around a bit.”

Cliff hesitates, releases my arm, then goes back to help his mother. “Sure, Mom. Anything you want.”

The ding of the doorbell sounds loud and clear.

“I’ll get it!” Izzie hollers before I can.

“Who’s that?” Cliff asks.

“Kaye’s boyfriend probably,” Marla states.

“Boyfriend?” Cliff focuses on me then. But is it disbelief or irritation? “
You
have a boyfriend?” Definitely the former.

Two reactions emerge at once inside me and fight for control. One wants to defend myself and bask in my ability to interest another male, crowing, “Yes, dadgumit, I have a boyfriend. Did you think this body could stay on the market forever?” And the other more pathetic response compels me to rush forward and make sure Cliff knows I wouldn’t dream of seeing anyone but him.

Instead, to turn the tables, I confuse the situation with, “Could be one of Marla’s.”

Her head swivels in my direction. The moment freezes between us as if the devil’s dwelling place gets a subzero blast.

“Mom!” Izzie yells down the hallway. “It’s for you.”

I manage a half smile. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

Cliff touches my arm. “You’re seeing someone?”

“It’s probably a client.”

“Probably?”

Knowing I didn’t answer his question, I walk down the hall, feeling his gaze on my backside. For the moment I’m glad I spent money on a new outfit and the Spanx beneath. His misconception could be useful. It’s definitely garnered more interest from him than anything else I’ve done, including my new hairstyle.

Chapter Nine

This is a bad time, isn’t it?” Jack stands on the porch like Sir Lancelot, tall, broad-shouldered, looking ready to save
this
damsel in distress. Of course, his knightly stance is my imagination. Still, his timing actually couldn’t be more perfect.

“No, not at all.” I hold open the door. Cousin It’s maniacal barks reverberate in my head.

“Gabe told me you’d invited us for dinner and to meet him here. But I don’t want to be an imposition.” His gaze travels over me, taking in my hair and outfit, as if he’s noticing the changes. A stirring inside makes me suspect he appreciates the alterations, but that could be my imagination too. “It looks like you might be on your way out.”

I touch a lock of my hair, feeling the silky smoothness on the newly trimmed ends. “Not at all. Come on in.”

He takes a step toward me and stops. His clean scent drifts over me, drawing me toward him. He seems even taller, his shoulders wider. His yellow button-down acts as a second skin, flowing over the contours of his well-muscled chest and flat abs. Something Cliff hasn’t had since college days.
Cliff
. The name surfaces in my suddenly waterlogged brain, swimming in an abundance of unexpected senses. Jack will be perfect for the part I need him to play. If only he will cooperate.

“You look nice, by the way.”

A flush warms me from the inside out. It’s nice for someone to notice and yet quite frankly it’s the wrong someone. Why didn’t Cliff pay closer attention? On the tide of my awareness of Jack is an undertow of disappointment. But maybe Jack’s interest will work for me . . . and Cliff, of course. “Thanks.”

From behind his back, he produces a single white rose.

“What’s this?”

“A white flag of surrender. An apology. Take your pick.”

I laugh, hesitating to take the proffered bud. “I don’t understand.”

“I heard what the maniacal dog did to your roses.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve been wanting to replace them anyway.”

His questioning brow lifts.

“They were pink. I like red.”

“Of course.” He gives a slight, courtly bow and hands me the rose. Did Cinderella feel like this when she met Prince Charming? Except I’m no princess and my Prince Charming isn’t exactly charming these days. “Still, Cousin It is very sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really.” I hook my arm through his, kick the door shut behind us, and draw him toward the den. “Izzie said there was some kind of an emergency.”

“Not that I know of. I burned the burgers on the grill. Probably constitutes an emergency to a starving teenage boy.”

“Most definitely an emergency,” I repeat like a blithering idiot as we move into the den. If confession is good for the soul, then hanging around Jack may cause the need for more confessions. His thickly corded muscles along his forearm and bicep are definite distractions.

“What kind of emergency?” Cliff’s brusque tone intrudes, overriding Cousin It’s staccatoed barks from Izzie’s bedroom. His gaze settles on the white rose.

“Cliff”—I give him one of those old married looks we use to share but to which I think he lost the translation—“this is Jack Franklin. He’s a client.” I glance at Jack. “And this is my
ex
-husband, Cliff Redmond.”

No hesitation flickers in Jack’s hazel eyes as he reaches forward to shake hands. But I recognize the tiny creases at the corner of Cliff’s.

I focus on my ex while still holding onto Jack’s arm. “Will you be joining us for dinner, too?”

“Huh?” Cliff seems distracted himself, maybe by the incessant barking coming from Izzie’s bedroom. My own ears have started to ring. “Yeah.” He crosses his arms over his chest, which I have to admit, is not nearly as chiseled as Jack’s. It’s like comparing Gerard Butler’s physique to Donald Trump. Totally unfair. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“Well, then, I better set an extra plate.” I release Jack’s arm.

Cousin It chooses that moment to bound around the corner, hair waving, ears flopping. She barrels through the den straight at us. It takes only half a second for her to cross the rug and she immediately leaps for Jack.

“Sit.” He delivers the command in the tone of a powerful knight.

It stops mid-flight and sits, her body trembling like a small child unable to be still when the bathroom urge demands instant satisfaction.

“Good girl. Come.” He pats his chest and she leaps up and taps her paws against him.

When she turns her snout toward Cliff, alarm tinges his features and he starts to turn away. “No!”

His command sounds more like a squeak.

Cousin It either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t obey. She pounces on him, knocking Cliff back a step or two. “Get her off!”

“It.” Jack’s command seems a second or two delayed. “Down.”

When she obeys, Jack rewards her with a head rub. Her tail swishes across the floor, her grin wide, tongue pink and dangling—the face of pure contentment.

I glance toward the back door. “She might need to go out.”

“Good idea.” Jack leads and she readily follows. I stifle a laugh as my gaze shifts toward Cliff who is straightening his shirt and tie after It’s assault.

“Thanks,” I say as Jack rejoins us. “Gabe is still coming, isn’t he?”

Cliff’s eyes narrow. “Who’s Gabe?”

“Think I just heard his truck.” Jack heads toward the front door. “I’ll let him in.”

I move into the kitchen, followed on the heels by my ex, and find Marla sitting at the kitchen table. She’s still dressed in her pale blue negligee. I find a bud vase, fill it with water and place Jack’s rose as the centerpiece on the kitchen table.

“So who is this guy?” Cliff wastes no time in questioning me.

“A client.”

“So she says.”

For the first time I appreciate one of Marla’s snide comments.

Cliff glances from her to me then presses, “Is that
all
?”

“So far.” Hiding a grin, I open the fridge, blocking his question with the door.

He pokes his head around into the chilly air, which cools the heated flush on my skin. “What does that mean?”

I load up his arms with a wide assortment of salad dressings.

“Do you usually have clients over for dinner? And do they always bring roses?”

“Singular, not plural. And no, not usually.” Pleasure tugs one side of my mouth into a smug smile.

His frown deepens. “What about this . . . Gabe. Who’s that?”

“Jack’s nephew.”

“He has the hots for your daughter,” Marla offers.

I pull fresh green beans from the hydrating drawer. “They’re just friends.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you.” The tone in Marla’s voice unsettles me. She should know what it’s like to have a kid involved with someone unsuitable. That person was me. But Gabe isn’t exactly unsuitable. They’re just too young.

“She’s old enough to start dating.” I ignore the helpless feeling that makes my knees wobbly at the thought of my daughter riding hither and yon in the car of some hormone-ravaged kid. When I held my baby girl in my arms, sat through tea parties with her baby dolls, and played Skipper to her Barbie in the Dream House, I never saw this hurdle looming along the horizon. But I’m slamming into it now.

Cliff leans against the cabinet, arms crossed as he assesses me with his heavy-lidded gaze. “What about
you
?”

“Me?” Amazing, this sudden buoyant sensation that floods me. “Well, yes, I
am
ready to start dating.” I open the oven door and three-hundred-fifty degree heat rolls outward.

He mutters something under his breath.

The casserole bubbles around the edges and I turn off the oven and shut the door. “What?”

“So are you seeing
this
Jack?”

“His name is Jack. Not this Jack.”

“That why you’re all dressed up?” He stares down at my freshly coral-polished toenails peeking out of my new sandals.

Jealousy made him finally notice. This is where I should probably tell him that I spent too much money today just for him. The truth shall set you free, right? But I can’t seem to go there. His ego doesn’t need any more fuel. And jealousy seems to be working for us at the moment. Why kill it? “Izzie”—I toss the blame momentarily on our daughter—“invited them. Gabe and Iz are friends. That all right with you?”

There are words I wish I could take back in my life. “Yes” when Cliff pressured me in college and I ended up pregnant being one. And “Get out!” when I learned he was seeing someone else. That one especially because getting him back is proving to be the most difficult task of my life. But sarcasm at this delicate point is not how I should respond.

And yet, that’s exactly what I dish out.
Help me, God!

“Do
clients
show up here in the middle of the night?”

I’m not sure if Marla’s question helps or hurts. Can fanning the flame of jealousy stir up the coals of desire?

Cliff’s eyebrow peaks.