Facelift (27 page)

When we leave Terry and head to our car, Jack gets a cell phone call from Gabe. “They’re walking home,” he tells me. “Think they needed some fresh air. Some space.”

“I hope Izzie won’t give up and decide there’s no point in doing the swim-a-thon.”

“She needs a little time. But we’ll encourage her to keep going. Gabe too.”

“It’s good for them . . . for
us
to do something.”

Jack pulls his keys from his pocket and opens the passenger door for me. “Stay busy. Feel useful. Like we’re doing something to help. Even when there really isn’t anything we can do to fix the problem. That’s why I bought so many of those games and machines for my house. When Gabe’s dad was really sick, I’d bring the kids to my place. It kept them busy. Kept them from thinking about their dad. And worrying. I admit it was excessive, but their brief smiles took away any doubts. It felt like I was putting action to my prayers.”

I squeeze his forearm, trying to communicate my feelings to him. “Was it like this for him?”

“Yeah. Too young to die. Or so I thought. But Lily—” He shakes his head. “It’s even worse.”

Our hands connect, only briefly, but enough to feel a bonding between us.

Then he pulls away and starts the engine. The daytime heat has started to relent, giving way to cool breaths, but there is no relief from this grief. A pressure builds in my chest. We drive down the street beneath the shade of oaks. Crepe myrtles are shedding their blooms, scattering pink, white, and burgundy petals over the lawns.

“Luke knew too.”

His reference to Gabe’s dad makes my heart quicken. “Did he talk about it?”

“Yeah. He had regrets. That he wouldn’t see his kids graduate. That he wouldn’t watch Gabe become an Eagle Scout or his other kids play softball or dance . . . everything. He worried about Pam and how she would manage.”

“What do you say to someone about to die?” It’s a rhetorical question, and I don’t expect a response.

“I told him I’d be there for his kids. Anything they needed. Anything Pam needed.”

I glance over at his determined profile. “You’re a good friend.”

“I don’t know about that. Remember our bet that I won? For a long time I thought Luke was goofing off, not working hard enough. But the truth is, I was running from what was important in life. He had it right.”

“Nothing matters more than family and friends.”

He turns the corner. “You can’t take money or anything else with you. And what you leave behind doesn’t last long and doesn’t mean as much.”

“What’s the old saying? ‘No one has ever lain on their death bed and wished they worked harder.’”

“Exactly. But the reverse is true too. Do kids ever say about a dying parent, ‘I wish they’d spent more time working, earning money’?” He shakes his head and turns on the blinker again. “Nope. Luke’s death affected me, changed me. In a good way. Good can come out of tragedy. That’s why I’m selling my house. What do I need that monstrosity for? A tax write-off? An investment?”

Has he given up on having a relationship or family? “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m turning part of my company into a mission organization. We’ll not only offer great vacations to exotic locales, but we’ll also offer clients opportunities to give something back.”

The way he considers others and tries to offer solutions staggers me. “You may have more business than you can manage.”

“I hope so. Giving is addictive.”

“It’s inspiring too.” I want to reach out to him, touch his arm, his hand. I want to smile at him, lean into him. But I can’t. No matter how much I want to love Jack, I can’t. And I suspect he can’t either.

His heart is with Pam and her children.

“I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up or not,” Marla says.

I glance up from my calendar where I’ve just booked two more meetings for potential clients. “With what?” I check my watch. “You’re not due any meds for another two hours.”

“With your teenage daughter.” Condemnation saturates her voice.

“I try to, yes.”

She’s sitting on the couch, her ankles demurely crossed, and
Cosmo
sits on her lap. “So you’ve been paying attention to how much time she’s been spending with that boyfriend of hers?”

My spine stretches taut. “Gabe isn’t technically her boyfriend. And yes, they’ve been spending a lot of time together working on
two
projects.”

“Well,
you
know what can happen in situations like that, don’t you?”

I cross my arms over my chest. My skin feels hot and prickly. “What are you insinuating?”

She gives me her current cockeyed look. “What usually happens between teenagers?”

“You seem to be an expert,” I challenge the woman who hasn’t had a teen in almost twenty years. “Educate me.”

She clasps her hands together and meets my gaze without reservation. All the kind thoughts Harry spurred in me go galloping out the window. “Teens today are not innocent.”

My forehead furrows. “And you want her to be innocent?” I glance down at the article she’s reading on
How to Please Your Man.
“Or wily to the ways of the world?”

“You act like she’s innocent. She’s not even on the pill.”

That sets me aback. “Excuse me? There’s a pill for staying innocent?”

“That
pill
you should have been on when you got pregnant, Kaye. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

I draw a shallow breath and count to a quick ten. “Marla, I appreciate your concern for
my
daughter, but that is something that is between Izzie, her doctor, and myself.”

“Don’t tell me to butt out on this.” She wags her finger at me. “And don’t bury your head in the sand.”

A quick prayer does little to smooth down my hackles, but I try anyway. I draw in a slow, deep breath.
Patience, God, I need some patience here. Right now. Real quick. Please!
“You know, Marla, my daughter isn’t as innocent as you believe she is.”

“See! Then you should be—”

“What I mean is that her innocence was shattered when her own father went off with another woman. I suppose the only good that came from that is that she and I have had many discussions about sex since Cliff left. She knows what causes what. And she knows how sex
outside
of marriage causes problems. She is well aware that Cliff and I
had
to get married. And she’s very aware of what her father is off doing with someone other than his wife.”

Two bright spots form on Marla’s cheeks. “All I’m saying is that she should probably be better prepared. If you won’t put her on the pill, then make sure she has condoms.”

I take a long slow breath, count to ten, pray, then pray again. “Have you heard of abstinence?”

She laughs. “That is not a form of birth control.”

“It’s not simply a decision made in the security of the home,” I explain and defend my stance. “It’s a viable option, as long as strategies are discussed and implemented. Abstinence isn’t a ‘just-say-no’ plan. You don’t wait to make that decision in the backseat of a car. You strategize beforehand for how you stay out of situations that can lead to . . . well, you know.”

Marla narrows her eyes at me. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Or you could end up raising your grandchild while your daughter finishes school.”

I have no answer. I simply want to walk away from this discussion. It’s hard enough to discuss things openly with Izzie, which always makes me face my own failures in this area.

“Kaye,” Marla’s voice softens, “you always try to put an optimistic spin on everything, but you can’t ignore reality here. Izzie is a healthy young woman. Gabe is a handsome young man. But they are hormonal. It’s natural.”

“We’re not animals. We don’t have to give into our base desires all the time. Do we? Teens can learn to say no.”

“Are you willing to stake your daughter’s future on that?”

On that? No. But on Izzy and her commitment to do what’s right.

Absolutely.

If Marla thinks Gabe and Izzie have any time to be alone, then she hasn’t stepped into my garage. Where my car no longer fits. My trunk and backseat are piled with cardboard signs. Half empty bottles of paint and containers of markers are scattered around the garage. Izzie and Gabe have done a wonderful job of recruiting teenage help. I try to keep the refrigerator stocked with Cokes and water, but they disappear as quickly as I can replace them. At night I stay busy popping popcorn and taking it out to the garage where several teen girls are sitting on the concrete floor making signs.

“That looks great,” I say to Taylor, a cheerleader, who has become proficient at making bubble letters.

“Thanks,” she chirps.

“Mom”—Izzie attaches a stake to the back of a sign—“we need some more of the donation sheets.”

I place a bowl of popcorn on a plastic table holding rulers and markers. “I’ll print some.”

The driveway looks like a parking lot. Two boys with shaved heads get out of another car. Apparently Izzie started a trend. I say a quick prayer that all these teens will drive carefully and no accidents will occur. Gabe loads more signs into the back of his truck and takes off through the neighborhood. Some of the signs are promoting the park opening and others are advertising the swim-a-thon.

“Anybody need anything else?” I ask before heading back into the house. But the teens are busy discussing how many sponsors each have received.

“I’ve already gotten a hundred and fifty,” Meredith, a member of the swim team who has even longer limbs than Izzie, brags.

While I’m sitting at my office computer printing more donation sheets, I can hear Marla moving around her room. I hope she’s not annoyed at all the activity that seems to have descended upon the house. If I had known this was going to happen, it would have provided an excuse when Marla was looking for sanctuary. Her quiet retreat has become Grand Central Station. Then the doorbell rings, and I grab the warm papers off the printer.

Checking the peephole first, I smile and fluff my hair. “Hi, Jack.”

“How are you?” He carries in rolls of butcher paper.

Together we take the rolls out to the garage where the girls stretch it out like white carpets as they begin mapping out signs for the school hallways. I give the extra donation sheets to Izzie. The laughter and craziness of the teens pushes the grown-ups back into the house. We shake our heads at each other and smile.

“They’re good kids.” I close the door firmly.

Jack follows me into the kitchen. “They are.”

“Want something to drink?”

“Sure. I have some more Cokes and water bottles out in the truck.”

“You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“I figure you’re going to go broke keeping all these guys fed.”

“I don’t mind.”

But he unloads flats of colas and water bottles while I pour a soda over ice for him. He gulps half the glass then grins at me. “I’ve got some news.”

“Good or bad?”

He settles at the table, looking more comfortable than I feel. “I got a call today from the local affiliate of ABC. They want to do a spot.”

“As in the news? That’s terrific! That should stir up even more interest.”

“Do you think Lily or her mom will mind?”

I lean against the counter, my excitement suddenly stymied. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll ask.”

“Then let me know. The Southlake paper is doing a story on it too.”

“The more publicity the better.”

“I was thinking if we get the TV spot, then we could list the bank for donations.”

“Perfect. The kids will be really excited. But maybe we should keep it to ourselves until I’ve spoken to Terry.” The doorbell rings again, and I head in that direction. Over my shoulder I say, “I need to put a sign on the door so kids will just go around to the back.”

When I open the door, I’m taken aback by the sight of my ex. “Cliff!”

He stalks inside. He’s wearing a starched shirt, wrinkled from a day’s work, sans tie. “Wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

“Come on in.”

He’s already halfway through the entryway and marches on into the den. “I get a call from my mother telling me the phone is ringing constantly and visitors keep coming all night long.”

“Cliff, you remember Jack, don’t you?” I wave toward Jack who leans forward over the kitchen table and gives a nod to my ex from the other room.