LimeLight (13 page)

“That’s right. Now it’s the Phoenix, and it’s owned by Garth Rawlins. He’s a nationally known artist who relocated here about five years ago.”

“I’ll have to go look at it sometime.” Not that I can afford to buy things like art anymore, but she doesn’t need to know this.

“And there’s also Casey’s Coffee House. They often have live music on Friday nights.”

“Really?” I nod as if this is impressive. “And how’s their coffee?”

She smiles. “It’s not bad. They roast their own beans. You’ll probably catch a whiff of it on Monday, their usual roasting day.” Now she looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your shopping. But I do try to get to know my customers. Is there anything I can help you find?”

“Well, I was looking for the new Danielle Steel novel.”

“It just came in.” Page moves down the narrow aisle. “You’re almost there. Just another shelf over.” She pulls out a hardcover book and hands it to me.

“Thank you.”

“And you might be interested in my Hollywood section. I just started it a year ago.”

I almost tell her that I doubt I would be interested, that I’ve lived the real thing and find no need to read about it in a book, but then I stop myself. “Where would I find that?”

“Right this way.” She leads me to a table over by the window. “This is a new one about Grace Kelly, and the photos in here are amazing.”

I open the book and flip through the pages. “She was beautiful.” Then another book catches my eye. Rather the photo on the cover catches my eye. “Claudette Colbert.” I put the Grace Kelly book down and pick up what is obviously a used book.

“That’s right, her first name is the same as yours. You didn’t know her, did you?”

“Yes, actually I did. We weren’t close; she was a lot older, but she came to some of our parties back in the day. She and my husband got along well.”

“You must’ve known so many interesting people. I can’t even imagine. Silverton is lucky to have you back, Claudette.”

“I’ll take these two books.”

“Of course.”

I follow her up to the register and wonder why I hold myself back from certain people. Oh, I know some would assume that it’s because I feel superior. And I suppose on some levels this is true. I certainly feel superior to people like “little” Bea. But this one, Page Turner, actually interests me a bit. She seems to be
fairly intelligent and somewhat fashionable. And yet, she runs a bookstore…and that is so mundane. I pay her and thank her.

“Come again, Claudette.”

“Certainly.”

“And, if you’re interested, there are a number of book clubs in town. I could easily connect you with one of them. It’s a nice way to meet people and talk about books.”

I nod as if this is something that appeals to me. “I’ll consider that.” But the truth is, I can’t think of anything more boring than sitting with a bunch of Silverton strangers, discussing a book. Really.

I go to Casey’s Coffee House, which is just two doors down from the theater, purchase a mocha, and find a quiet corner, where I sit down with my books. But I feel distracted. I find myself pretending to read, but I’m actually watching other people.

How do they do it? How do they go about their ordinary lives, doing such ordinary things, and act as if it’s all perfectly fine? I simply cannot comprehend it. Perhaps they, like me, are all acting. Maybe Shakespeare was right. Maybe the world really is a stage, and we are all simply acting.

I manage to lose myself in the movie for a couple of hours, although I may have fallen asleep for a bit too, since I feel slightly baffled by the way things are wrapped up in the ending. Or maybe it’s just old age. I wonder if old age is a bit like insanity—the person suffering from it is the last one to know.

I feel stiff as I stand to leave the theater. There were only about half a dozen people in here. Thankfully no one I knew. No one who knew me. Anonymity could be a benefit in a town like this.

It’s dark when I go outside, and suddenly I feel very alone and slightly frightened. What if Michael forgets about me? What if I am forced to make my way home alone? Oh, I realize the house is only about six blocks from here and I could probably walk. But it’s nighttime, and I’m alone. What if muggers are about? I consider a taxi, but I seriously doubt there is such a thing in Silverton. I certainly don’t recall taxis around here when I was growing up. What shall I do?

“Claudette,” calls a man’s voice, and Michael’s head pokes out the window of my car. He parks in front of the loading zone at the theater, hops out, and helps me into the car. What a relief.

“Sorry to make you wait,” he says as we drive away.

“That’s all right.” I don’t admit that it was a very short wait.

“Things are going well at your house. I’ve managed to put together quite a good crew.”

“A crew?”

“Yes. By the time I got back this afternoon, the old furniture was all gone, and Hank, the rug man, was just starting to rip out the carpets. Fortunately they came out in a snap. Then he cleaned and polished the floors. Hank has this amazing machine that really works miracles. Then, just like clockwork, the moving van arrived.”

“My furniture is here?”

“Yes. And I offered to pay the movers extra if they’d stick around long enough to help me get things into place.”

“And they agreed?”

“They did.” He turns down Sequoia now. “And I’ve got painters lined up for tomorrow.”

“Painters?” For some reason I hadn’t considered this.

“You don’t really like that horrible peach shade, do you?”

“Well, no.”

“Exactly.”

“How much is this going to cost me, Michael?”

“Don’t worry about that, darling. The things we left in storage will more than cover all these expenses.”

“Oh…”

“So, how was the movie?” He parks my car in front of the house. The moving van has replaced the Goodwill truck and, I’m sure, given Busybody Bea something else to think about.

“It was okay. Although I think I dozed off a bit.” I point at the moving van. “Does that mean the movers are still here?”

“Yes. They were putting your bedroom into place when I left. I told them that was a priority. I figured you’d be tired.”

“And hungry.”

Michael smacks his forehead. “Of course. I didn’t even think, darling. I ran and got dinner for the boys about an hour ago. One of those chicken-in-a-bucket places. And I actually sampled it myself, but I am hungry too. Shall we go get something?”

I consider this.

“You sit tight,” he says, opening the door. “I’ll go have a word with the boys, then we’ll be on our way.”

How much more of this can I take? I feel like a displaced person, like a war refugee, an orphan. Will I ever have a normal life again? Would I want to settle for “normal” anyway? Perhaps I don’t even care. Then I have to ask myself, just how much can an eighty-two-year-old woman take? Is it possible that this whole thing really might do me in? Wouldn’t it be a relief if it did? Oh, I expect Michael would be disappointed. At least, briefly. But then he could gather up my things, sell them, keep them, whatever. It would make no difference to me.

I glance at my mother’s—rather
my
—house again. It appears that all the lights are on inside. I suppose I’m mildly curious as to what’s going on in there. But another part of me doesn’t really want to know. Another part of me would just as soon crawl under a rock and disappear. Why does life have to become so tedious?

Michael, as usual, is optimistic when he returns. “Everything seems to be falling into place,” he tells me as he starts the car. “I think we might not even need to paint your bedroom, darling. That shade of blue is rather nice, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what I think,” I growl at him.

“Now, now, no need to despair. You really should be happy, Claudette. Your little nest is coming together quite nicely. I think you will be pleased.”

“The only thing that could possibly please me would be to return to my home in Beverly Hills, to have a miraculous facelift that makes me look twenty years younger, and…” I pause, not sure what else I would want…or even if those things would make me happy. Sometimes I think I shall never be happy again. And sometimes I think perhaps I was never happy to begin with.

“And?” Michael persists. “What else would you wish for?”

“And…I’d like to have all of my old friends return from the dead for a nice big party.”

He chuckles. “Now, that really does sound rather divine. May I come too?”

“Of course. Just don’t hold your breath waiting for your invitation.”

He stops at Main Street, looks to the left, and then the right. “Now, darling, where shall we dine tonight?”

I’m about to throw my hands in the air and ask, “What does it matter? One thing is the same as the next in this unfortunate one-horse town.” But suddenly I remember something the bookstore proprietress, Page Turner, mentioned earlier.

“Someone told me about a restaurant, I believe it’s called Maurice’s. On the other end of town. Apparently there’s an art gallery next to it. The Phoenix.”

“Great sleuthing, Claudette. I’m proud of you. You might actually make it in this town after all.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Anyway, these places sound interesting—art and food in the same vicinity.”

“I seriously doubt the gallery is open. It’s a weeknight, and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly in civilized territory anymore.”

“Maybe we can simply press our noses against the gallery’s windows.”

I fabricate a sound that resembles a laugh. Yes, that will probably sum up the remainder of my days. From now on I will be on the outside looking in, my nose pressed up against the windows of civilized society.

I
cannot imagine how Maurice’s stays in business.

When we are seated, without even waiting, there is only one other party in the restaurant. And before long, it is simply Michael and me and the waiter. The food isn’t equal to the places I would normally dine at in Beverly Hills, but it’s much better than lunch. I have veal tenderloin, and it’s rather good. Unfortunately the décor, a mishmash of old lamps and mismatched tables and rugs, isn’t to my taste. But Michael defends it.

“It’s simply shabby chic, darling. Some people love it.”

“Edouard calls it
shaggy cheap.
And when Helen Caruthers wanted to decorate her guest cottage in it a few years ago, he refused.”

“Edouard is a bit of a style snob.” Michael sips his wine. “I think there’s room for all kinds in this world.”

“You are so open-minded.”

He smiles. “Thank you.” He holds up his glass as if to toast. “Here’s to two fine restaurants in this town.”

“I suppose that all depends on how you define the word
fine.
”

“Oh, darling, you are such an Eeyore.”

“An Eeyore?” I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know, the old Winnie the Pooh character who was a pessimist about everything.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

“You weren’t always a glass-half-empty sort of girl, Claudette.”

“Being poor changes one’s perspective.”

“You’re not poor. Financially challenged, perhaps.”

“Call it what you like, Michael. Life as I knew it ended when the IRS stepped in.”

“I did have a bit of good news,” he says suddenly. “I think I mentioned that I’d called my old friend Alex Granville.”

“The one with the décor shop?”

“Yes. I left the key for him at the storage unit office and invited him to go in and look around.”

“That’s very trusting of you, with my things.”

“Alex is an old friend, darling. Besides, some of the things are mine too, remember?”

“Yes, yes… Tell me the good news.”

“Alex called this afternoon. He was in the storage unit at the time. And he wants to take almost everything that I’d tagged for him. He’s sending me a check.”

“He’s sending
you
a check?”

“Well, yes. As you know, I’ve been stuck with the bill for everything involved in this move so far. I’m not financially destitute,
but I’m not exactly rolling in dough either. And keep in mind, it’s not an enormous check, but it’s enough to cover the cost of our Sequoia Street project.”

“And that’s it?”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Delirious.”

Now Michael’s sunny disposition fades, and as he signs for the check, I can tell I’ve wounded him.

“I’m sorry. I must seem terribly ungrateful.”

He solemnly nods as he puts his pen back in his pocket.

“You’ve been extremely helpful, Michael. Under normal circumstances, I’m sure I would be a much better sport.” I sniff, as if I’m about to cry, although I don’t think I am. “It’s just that this is so hard.” I shake my head. “It’s taken such a toll on me.”

He pats my hand. “Yes, I know, darling. That’s why I’m doing all I can to make things better.” He smiles now. “Speaking of which, let’s go home and see how the moving boys are doing.”

“Aren’t they finished yet?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of rearranging going on. It’s not easy making it all fit and work together. Just before we left for dinner, I arranged for them to do a little painting, and they promised to stay as late as necessary.”