Facelift (29 page)

Sun-kissed from spending the day outdoors, my heart aches for my friend, but my face hurts from returning so many smiles. As the festivities tapered off, Gabe and Izzie insisted we go to Five Guys for cheeseburgers. Which meant Jack came too. When they finished, Gabe made excuses for them and said they needed to get to work on the swim-a-thon.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Mom, we’re fine.”

With that Jack and I were left alone in the restaurant. I watch Izzie race with Gabe across a street to his truck in the parking lot and am bombarded with Marla’s insinuations.

“They’re okay, Kaye.” Jack’s tone is teasing. “They have more energy than we do.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.” I sip my Coke and try to drown out Marla’s voice in my head. When I’m ready to fall into the tub then crawl into bed, they look like they’re ready to run a marathon. “They’re good kids though.”

He grins and dunks a fry in ketchup. Except he doesn’t look wiped out either.

I bring my worries into the open. “Do you think . . . Gabe and Izzie are . . . you know?”

He watches me for a minute while he finishes chewing. “You mean, are they seeing each other in a more romantic way?”

My pulse kicks up a notch. I’m not sure if it’s maternal concerns or the fact that I see Jack in a different light too.

“They
have
been spending a lot of time together.” He reaches into the brown paper sack for more fries. “But would that be a problem?”

“Only if their interest becomes . . .” I shift in my chair, clasp my hands together in front of me, and wrestle with the best way to say this. “Gabe is older than Izzie.”

“By only a few months.”

“She’s never really had a serious boyfriend.”

“So?” Jack pops another fry in his mouth.

His lack of concern rankles me. “What about Gabe?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really know.”

“Have you ever talked to him about girls? You are”—how do I say this?—“stepping into a fatherly role with him.” I cringe at my accusatory tone.

He leans forward, resting his forearm on the table. “Are we talking about sex here?”

I swallow hard. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He laughs.

“Okay. Fine.” I meet his gaze squarely. “Yes, let’s talk about sex.” My voice suddenly seems to carry through the small restaurant and several heads turn in our direction. Heat launches up my neck and burns my face. Laughter bubbles up inside me.

Jack rubs his jaw but laughs with me. A smile tugs the corner of his mouth to one side. “Look, I’ve talked to Gabe. He’s not sexually active. And I don’t think that he wants to be.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean it that way. Every guy
wants
. . . well, you know. But he understands fantasy versus the reality of pregnancy, diseases . . . and he wants to wait for the right girl . . . woman.”

“What if that girl is my daughter?”

“I meant, he wants to wait for marriage.”

My lungs expand an inch. “Izzie too. Bu—”

“Gabe made a vow to God.”

“That’s powerful.”

“Not easily broken. But temptation . . . that’s not easy either.”

“Exactly.” I glance down at my hamburger, unable to eat the rest. “Izzie has seen a lot over the past few years with her father leaving us . . . me for another woman. She knows that Cliff and I
had
to get married. It’s not something I’m proud of, and yet I don’t regret it either because I have Izzie. But it’s led to a lot of discussions. Even though I’m sorry that she’s witnessed her dad and Barbara . . . not literally . . . I didn’t mean that. But she’s not stupid. She knows they’ve been living together.” I’m rambling and I’m not sure how to get to my point without coming right out. “You’re a single guy. And Gabe looks up to you.”

His gaze narrows, making a deep crevice between his brows. “Are you asking what kind of an example I’m setting for him?”

I push back from the table. My heart is racing, and I wish I could jump up and leave. “I realize that’s personal. It’s your business what you do . . . or don’t do. And I wouldn’t say anything if Izzie wasn’t spending a lot of time at your house and with Gabe.”

His gaze is solid, penetrating. “I’m not a hypocrite, Kaye.”

“Okay, well . . . good.” I reach for my soda.

“Isn’t this cozy?” a familiar voice interrupts us.

I look up to find Cliff standing beside our table. His collar is open, his shirtsleeves rolled up. “Cliff.”

“Saw Isabel leaving with her boyfriend. I didn’t realize it was a double date.”

“Uh . . . hi, we were, uh . . .” I stop myself from making excuses. It’s none of his business what I’m doing here with Jack.

Jack stands, shakes Cliff’s hand, and pulls out a chair for him. “Join us.”

“Can’t. My order is to go.” He thumbs over his shoulder toward the counter where a guy and gal are frying hamburgers. But Cliff doesn’t turn away from us. “So, is
this
a date?”

Jack remains standing, meeting Cliff’s gaze straight on. “That a problem?”

My heart skitters to a stop and my stomach plummets—not good with a hunk of burger inside. Did Jack say what I think he said? Is he insinuating . . . ?

Cliff’s gaze shifts toward me then back to Jack. “Long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Long as you know what you’ve lost.”

My mouth drops open. Before I can come up with a way to smooth things over, Cliff says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Kaye,” walks away and grabs his order. It’s then I notice he has two sodas. One for him. One for . . . Marla? I doubt he’s taking his mom dinner. And that can only mean he’s seeing Barbie again. Or someone else.

Jack steps around the table and sits beside me rather than across from me. But he doesn’t put an arm around me. Still, his nearness is comforting and yet not. “You okay?”

“W-what did you tell him that for?”

“I thought it would be better for him to think we might be involved. Make him jealous.” His mouth twists as if he’s questioning himself. “You still want him back, don’t you?”

I nod but the appropriate words jam in my throat. Cliff never stood up for me the way Jack just did. And now I’m sure.

I’m after the wrong man.

Chapter Eighteen

Gabe’s truck is parked in front of the house when I arrive home. I fumble with the lock but finally push inside. No one greets me, not even Cousin It. The house is quiet.
Too
quiet. It’s so peaceful. Did I enter the wrong one? Where’s Marla? Where are Izzie and Gabe? We have a no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule, which I’m glad I implemented. Through the back windows, the pool appears empty. The crazy dog isn’t nosing the glass or looking forlorn either. Is Marla hiding in her room or could she be with Cliff? Could the extra drink have really been for her?

The smell of scorched vanilla grabs my attention. I follow the odor toward the kitchen, check the stove, but then realize someone lit a candle and left it on the table. Careless. I lean over to blow it out.

A noise from down the hall makes the hair at the back of my neck rise. My heart thuds. Could it be Izzie and Gabe . . . doing something they shouldn’t? My fist clenches and I march down the hall toward her bedroom. I give a smart rap on the door and jerk it open. The lights are out, and I grope for the switch. When the light pierces my eyes, I blink. The room is empty. No Izzie or Gabe.

The noise grows louder, and I grab the portable phone. It sounds like furniture moving in a back bedroom. And groaning.

Then I hear a moan from the other side of the hall. From my bedroom.

Marla! Could she be hurt? Could she have fallen? Had a stroke?

I dial 9-1-1 and race toward her door. My heart pounds. Didn’t she have heart arrhythmia during surgery? Could she have had a heart attack? Without pause, I wrench open her door and stumble into the room.

Then I freeze like a big block of ice. I can’t move. My heart manages a couple of feeble, uneven beats. Time seems to slow to a crawl as the next few moments feel like years.

My ex-mother-in-law lies on the bed in a position no one should ever see! She looks over the shoulder of some man, her lopsided face turning three shades of white.

I feel dizzy. But I’m unable to step forward or backward. I shade my eyes. At that second I recognize Mr. Klum’s balding head, and Marla gives a half scream.

“Emergency, 9-1-1,” a staticky voice comes from the phone. “What is your emergency? Hello? 9-1-1. Is anyone there?”

If the police show up, this is going to be difficult to explain.

I turn my back on Marla and Harry, step out of the room, and pray the image in my mind will fade with time. With the click of the door, I focus on the 9-1-1 operator. “No, uh, yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. Hello?”

“State your emergency, please.”

“This isn’t an emergency.” I rub my forehead, lean against the wall in the hallway. “I thought someone was in the house. Maybe. But I was wrong. Well, there was someone in the house. I thought she was having a heart attack or something. It was my ex-mother-in-law. She’s been staying here . . .” I shake my head. Focus. I amble down the hall, back to the den, and collapse onto the sofa, as if I’ve become disconnected from my own body. “At least it wasn’t my daughter. I’m not making any sense. Am I?”

The door to my bedroom, now Marla’s boudoir, opens.

“Thanks for calling.” I click off the phone and sit up straight.

Harry Klum steps out of the room.

I cover my face with a pillow like it’s a floatation device and I’m on a plane and it’s going down. Over water. I’ll just sit here quietly, maybe Marla, Harry, my life will all float away.

After a moment of breathing in the dusty fabric, I hear a soft clearing of the throat. “Uh, Miss Kaye?”

I look over the edge of the pillow at Harry. He’s a bit red in the face, but I’m not sure it’s from embarrassment. Little tufts of his hair stand on end. His shirt buttons are mismatched. He rubs his jaw.

“Miss Kaye, I sure am sorry about all this. I just want to explain—”

“Oh, no. Please don’t.” I lean back into the sofa, clutching the pillow against my stomach, which seems to be experiencing a tidal wave. “Why don’t you get yourself some water. Or a soda. Or whatever.” He’s obviously made himself at home. “Make it two.”

He goes into the kitchen. When he returns a minute later, he hands me a can with the top already popped. Harry sits on the opposite end of the sofa. “I don’t know what to say.”

I’m not able to look him in the eye. “I don’t think there is anything to say.”

“It’s not what you think.” Harry pops the tab on his Coke and fizz bubbles up around the lip. We both watch it for a moment, then he slurps it up and I focus on my own drink. “I hurt my back last week working at the park. Miss Marla thought she could fix it.”

“Uh-huh.” I take a big gulp of my own drink but the bubbles resurface in me, and I belch in a very unladylike manner. “Sorry. Look, Harry—” I stop myself because I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Finally I ask, “Is Marla okay?”

“She’s a bit discombobulated . . . but she’s fine.”

“I know the feeling.” Should I ask Harry’s intentions? I suppose it’s none of my business but maybe I already know the answer anyway.

He toys with the tab on the top of the can. “What were you asking me the other day?” He scratches the top of his head. “Have I ever done something stupid for love?”

I abruptly stand. I don’t want to talk about love. About Harry and Marla. “Look, Harry, would it be all right if we—”

From down the hall I hear a thud. It doesn’t sound like Marla hit the floor, more like a book hitting the wall.

“Should I go check on her?”

I shrug. I don’t know the proper protocol for this situation.

When the doorbell rings, it gives me something to do rather than sit on the sofa and wait for Harry and Marla to emerge from her . . . my bedroom. Maybe I should have had the Valentine bed delivered here.

I jerk open the door, and a police officer greets me with an all-too-serious expression. I resist the urge to hold up my hands in self-defense.
I’m not guilty, officer. Really, I’m not!

“Hello?” I manage instead.

“There was a 9-1-1 call registered from this address.” His voice is steady, calm, official.

My heart jolts like I’m guilty. “Oh? Oh!” I always expected this would happen when Isabel was little. But I thought she would have made the call as a prank. “Oh, Officer, it was a mistake. I thought someone was in the house when I came home . . . but it was my mother-in-law . . .
ex
-mother-in-law. Believe me, you don’t want to know the whole story.” I hope he doesn’t ask any more questions. “I told the lady on the phone . . . the operator—”

“These things always have to be checked out.”

“I see.” Does he?

A car door slams out front. I look beyond the police officer’s shoulder to Anderson Sterling rounding his black, shiny BMW. It’s nose-to-nose with Gabe’s truck, and on the back side, which is why I didn’t see it when I arrived home, is Harry’s station wagon, now snugly sandwiched between the BMW and police cruiser. It looks like we’re having quite a party.

As Anderson heads up the walk, his footsteps quicken. “Is Marla all right? What’s happened, Officer?”

“Do you live here?” the officer asks.