LimeLight (12 page)

“I don’t think there’s anything I want in this house,” I tell Michael. “Besides what little I’ve set aside.” He’s still in the kitchen. Mismatched glassware and dishes are piled all over the place. He leans down to set a box of pots and pans on the already crowded kitchen floor.

“I’m feeling the same way. I thought perhaps we’d find some collectibles, but mostly it’s just odds and ends. Oh, I suppose some desperate dealer might want some of these things.” He brushes off his hands. “But that dealer will have to go to Goodwill to find them.”

“Right.”

“You’ll have more than enough to fill this house,” he continues. “Besides your lovely furnishings, you’ve got good linens and nice kitchen things coming. I really see no reason to keep any of this.”

“I cannot imagine my things from Beverly Hills in this house. It’s just too incongruous. I’m afraid the whole thing will simply turn into a horrible joke.” I want to add that the joke will be on me, but Michael is so sincere in his efforts that I hate to insult him too badly.

“I think you’ll be surprised, Claudette.”

“Perhaps I’ll be shocked,” I say dramatically. “Perhaps I will keel over with a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be lovely.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t say such things, darling. Have a bit of faith in old Michael.” He looks around the compact kitchen, now cluttered with all the old, worn-out kitchen things
strewn from one end to the next. “Although I’m feeling a little worried myself.”

“Aha!” I point a finger at him. “So you admit it. This is a farce.”

“No, no, that’s not it. I’m just concerned that I picked out too many things to bring here. I’m afraid it won’t all fit in this house.”

I sigh. “Well, I’m sure you’ll help me to sort it all out, right?”

“You can count on that.”

“Is this how it was when you were designing settings for movies?”

He smiles. “Very similar. I would gather a truckload of props and pieces, as well as a crew of able workers, and we’d be off to the races. Oh, it was such fun.”

“You honestly find this fun?” I peer closely at him.

“I’m as happy as a clam right now.”

“Well, I’m as hungry as a horse.”

“We are terribly cliché, darling.” Then he looks at his watch. “Goodness, where has the time gone? Those Goodwill boys will be arriving any minute now. Let’s go freshen up before they get here. Then you can move the Jag out of the driveway, and I’ll give the boys my instructions. After that, you and I will be free to get out of their hair. We’ll go have a nice leisurely lunch.”

I change into a fresh pantsuit, nothing too spectacular since this is, after all, only Silverton. Seeing Bea’s strange outfit was a horrible wake-up call and a nasty reminder of this
town’s disregard of fashion. I’m sure my tan Michael Kors gabardine trousers and cappuccino jacket are more than adequate. I choose dark brown Ralph Lauren loafers and small matching pocketbook to go with this. And then I put my other clothing and personal things with my luggage as Michael instructed. I would be fit to be tied if the Goodwill boys marched off with those things!

Then, as I’m ready to do a quick inventory on my ensemble, I am surprised to discover there is not one full-length mirror in the entire house. How could Mother have possibly left the house without first inspecting herself in a full-length mirror? What if her slip had been showing?

I fish my car keys from my purse and head outside. I barely move my car out of the driveway and park it in front of the house when I see the big blue and yellow Goodwill van clunking down Sequoia Street. I climb out of the car and watch as they back the clumsy looking truck into the narrow driveway, and to my surprise, I feel an unexpected prick of regret. Really, it’s nothing more notable than a mosquito bite—although that’s enough. Enough to get my attention.

As I stand there, I must ask myself. Am I a thoughtless daughter? Is it a mistake to discard Mother’s things so easily? Is there something I’ve missed perhaps? Something with meaning, something I should’ve held on to? Perhaps an item in there could’ve helped make some sense of a past that seems only worthy of being put behind me?

No,
Mother is not here anymore
—she has no use for these old, worn-out things. Furthermore, nor do I. So I go around and unlock the passenger side of the car. I open the door, sit down, and wait for Michael, trying to shove these foolish sentimentalities away from me. But after I’m comfortably situated, I open my pocketbook, extract a fresh handkerchief, and dab at the stray tears that have somehow found their way down my powdered cheek.

Silly emotions. I don’t know why they seem to be getting the best of me now. After I’m done, I pull down the visor and carefully examine myself in the lighted mirror. I take a moment to powder my nose and touch up my lipstick. Then I hold my chin high as I fluff the sides of my platinum-tinted hair. No harm in looking one’s best. It’s possible I might run into an old friend while we’re having lunch. You just never know. It’s always best to be prepared.

As I put up the visor, I get the distinct feeling that I’m being watched. First I glance over to my mother’s house, which I expect Michael to be emerging from at any moment. But I don’t see anyone. The truck is still there, and I’m sure the Goodwill boys are already inside. Then I glance at the house next door, where little Bea and her parents, Audrey and Harry, once lived. And there in the front window, I see a crack in the blinds.

I have no doubt it’s Bea and that she’s watching me. I casually turn my head away, pretending to look across the street where my old friend Caroline Campbell once lived. I haven’t
seen Caroline since high school graduation, and I wonder what became of the vivacious brunette.

After several minutes, I turn and look straight ahead down the street. But I still get the sense that Bea is watching. It’s unnerving. But then the poor woman has an empty life, and perhaps she’s simply curious as to how others live. Or maybe she’s envious of me, or even a bit delirious—who can tell? I just hope she’s not dangerous.

Then again, who can blame that sorry wretch of a woman for watching someone like me? Truly, if I think my state of affairs is disappointing…then I should simply think of Bea and the sort of life one like her must live. And then, really, I shouldn’t gloat.

U
nfortunately our choice of lunch places is not as fortuitous as our dinner selection was last night. But we’re both hungry, and the food is tolerable and not too terribly greasy, although the service is lacking.

As we’re finishing, Michael browses through the local paper. “I have an idea, darling,” he says suddenly.

“That it’s time to go home to Beverly Hills?” I say hopefully. “Or that you’d like to adopt me like a stray puppy and take me home to live with you and Richard in Hawaii?”

He smiles and pats my hand. “That wasn’t my idea.” He points to the interior of the newspaper. “How about if I drop you off for this movie. It starts at five.”

I frown. “A movie?”

“Yes. It’s a perfect way for you to kill some time while I work on the house a bit. Besides, I heard that it’s a good movie, and Meryl Streep is in it.”

I do admire Meryl’s talents, not something I can say about most contemporary actresses. Even Gavin used to sing her praises. “Meryl Streep?” I say aloud, still musing over the idea of going to a movie by myself.

“Yes. It says here that it’s a film about women and relationships with both depth and humor. It sounds like just your cup of tea, darling.”

“I do so hate attending the theater alone, Michael.”

“But I have so much to do at the house. It would be infinitely helpful to have you out of it for a while.”

“You don’t want me to get in your way?”

“I don’t want to wear you out.” He winks at me. “And yes, it would be awfully nice not to have you underfoot while I’m putting things together. I was just the same way with my film directors. I would say to them, ‘Just leave me be and I will work my magic.’”

“And did you work your magic?”

“Of course.”

Now I know I should trust Michael with this little project. Goodness knows he can’t make the sad little house look any worse than it does now. And yet a part of me still longs for my old interior decorator. Edouard Beauvais is a living legend in Beverly Hills, and he handled all my design decisions—his signature was all over my home. Whether it was a complete room makeover or simply the choice of an ottoman, I depended on Edouard’s guidance for decades. And although he’s nearly as old as I am, he still works occasionally, but only for old friends—old friends with deep pockets.

I glance at my Piaget watch. “But it’s only three thirty,” I tell Michael. “When did you say the movie starts?”

“Five.”

“I can’t show up at the theater this early.” I try not to imagine the dismal image of an old woman sitting by herself in a theater, as if she has no life, just waiting for a matinee to begin. Really, it’s pitiful.

“I noticed a coffee shop near the theater,” he says hopefully. “Perhaps you could waste an hour in there, darling.”

“Sit in a coffee shop for an hour and a half by myself?”

“I think I saw a bookstore on Main Street as well. What if you found a lovely new novel to occupy yourself with while you casually sipped a nice, rich mocha?” He smiles at me. “You look very sophisticated today, Claudette. That scarf is a nice touch. And I’m sure the locals would be eying you, curious as to who the stylish older woman might be.” He peers closely at me. “I think they might even confuse you for Joanne Woodward.”

“Pity that Paul’s not still around.”

“Come, darling, I’m offering you a free afternoon to get a steamy romance novel, enjoy a creamy mocha, and take in a movie with Meryl.”

“I suppose I could do worse.”

“There,” he says, standing. “I knew we could work this out.”

So it is that I find myself browsing through Page Turner, a small bookstore on Main Street. And, to my surprise, it’s not an entirely negative experience. Jazz music is playing, there’s an interesting smell that I can’t quite describe, and the selection of
books, both new and used, is not too bad. I’m looking for the romance section, trying to remember what used to be in this shop, and finally, just as I reach the mystery section, it hits me. When I was growing up, there was a pipe and tobacco shop here. Hence, the aroma.

“May I help you?” asks a woman who appears to be in her fifties. Although it’s hard to say since her hair, obviously tinted an interesting shade of red, could be misleading. With her gold hoop earrings and fringed shawl, she doesn’t look like the typical Silverton citizen though. I also notice that she’s wearing a nice-looking pair of brown suede boots.

“I’m just looking,” I tell her automatically, though I really was hoping to find Danielle Steel’s latest book.

“Are you a visitor in town?”

I study her more closely, wondering if I might possibly know her, although she’s obviously younger than I. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh…” She begins to move away, and I feel a stab of guilt.

“I used to live here,” I say quickly.

“Oh?” She pauses and looks at me.

“Yes. And it seems that I shall be living here again.”

“Really?” She smiles and steps forward, extending her hand. “I’m Page Turner.”

“What? I thought the shop was Page Turner.”

She nods. “Yes, I know it’s confusing. But my name happens to be Page Turner too.”

“That’s your real name?”

“Yes. And with a name like that, it seemed inevitable that I should either be an author or run a bookstore. Since I can’t write…” She waves her hand toward her shelves.

“Did your parents actually name you Page Turner?”

“That was my mistake. They named me Page, and I married a man named Turner and got stuck with it.” She chuckles. “Fortunately I didn’t get stuck with the man as well. But I did keep his name.” Now she looks at me with a curious expression, and I realize that I really am forgetting my manners.

“I’m Claudette Fioré. I grew up in Silverton, but I haven’t lived here in more than sixty years. I just came back yesterday.”

“Claudette Fioré? Of course I’ve heard of you. You’re the actress who married the wonderful director Gavin Fioré.” She smiles broadly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fioré.”

“Call me Claudette. Everyone does.”

“So you’re really going to settle back down here in Silverton?”

“I am.”

“That’s wonderful. This town can always use a little more color.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

She laughs. “I know what you mean. We’ve tried to bring some art and culture to Silverton, but it’s not been easy.”

“What sort of art and culture have you managed to bring?”

“Have you seen the Phoenix gallery yet?”

“No,” I admit. “Where is that?”

“The other end of town. It’s next to a restaurant called Maurice’s, and their food is actually pretty good. But the Phoenix is in a building that used to house a small car dealership. Maybe you remember it?”

“Parson’s Pontiac and Oldsmobile?” I ask, surprised that I do remember the name. I recall going by there sometimes and wishing that we could afford one of those big, beautiful cars. I also remember that my father worked there, briefly.