LimeLight (18 page)

“That’s all I needed, darling.” Then he stretches out his arms and we embrace.

“Thank you so much.” I step back and look at the room again.

“I know it’s not the same as your Beverly Hills house, but hopefully it will begin to feel like a home to you.”

“It already does. Oh, it’s a different sort of home, much smaller, but I do feel somewhat at home here.” I don’t admit that I also feel uneasy about all this. How will I keep these rooms looking this nice? At the moment, the floors and the woodwork are gleaming. All is clean and tidy and attractive. I remember the housekeepers I employed and how hard they seemed to work. What is involved in maintaining a house, even one as small as this?

“And maybe having your things arranged attractively…well, perhaps it helps you through the challenges of your new life.”

I extract a slightly used handkerchief from my jacket pocket and dab at my eyes. I want to be as positive as Michael, especially after all the work he’s invested in this, but I just cannot
begin to imagine how I’ll ever manage without him. “I wish you were staying here with me.”

“My work here is done, darling.” He smiles sadly. “And Richard called twice today. He’s already getting jealous.” Michael chuckles. “He keeps saying that I’ve left him for you.”

“If only I could talk you into it.”

“What you can talk me into is dinner. I’m starving.”

“Yes, of course,” I say. “What would you like?”

“I’ve been thinking about that charming little Italian place.”

“That sounds fine. I’ll get my purse.” I don’t even complain that I already ate there once today, and I feel proud of myself for that. Tonight I do the driving. It’s my way of thanking Michael, showing him that I can be an independent woman. As I drive, he fills me in on some of the house details.

“You should have everything you need in the kitchen,” he says. “I tried to keep it simple since I didn’t expect you’d be doing a lot of cooking. But just in case you become adventuresome in the kitchen, there are a few extra appliances and odds and ends in the storage area of your laundry room. Also, I used both closets in both bedrooms for your clothes, but as you’ll see, everything is not there. I stored the other things in one of those hanging canvas wardrobes as well as some crates, which are also in the laundry room. However, if I were you, I might simply give those things away, darling.”

He pauses to catch his breath. “Sometimes less really is more. Speaking of less, I sent the items I was unable to use in
the house back with the movers. They’ll put them back into storage for Alex to deal with. I’ve also asked Alex to ship me the things I’ve marked for Hawaii.”

I park my car on Main Street. I am amazed at how Michael is able to keep all of these things organized in his mind and under such control. But, really, I do not understand how he expects me to do the same. I do not see how I can possibly handle this on my own. I’m afraid it is simply too much and that I will be lost without him.

As we enter the restaurant, the hostess at Marco’s greets us, nodding to me. “Nice to see you again so soon, Ms. Fioré.”

“Good evening,” I answer in a stiff voice.

“See how friendly the locals are?” Michael says after we’re seated. “Already they know our names. I am starting to simply adore this town.”

I ignore his comments as I peruse the familiar menu. I wonder how long it will be before I have it memorized. But then I remember my monthly budget… Even though Marco’s isn’t as expensive as the places I would normally dine, I won’t be able to afford it on a daily basis.

“I’ve made a list for you,” Michael says after we’ve ordered. He opens his Day-Timer and removes several sheets of paper. “Things you need to do and to buy and people to contact.”

“A list?”

He smiles as he hands me the papers. “Actually, it’s several lists. I had a feeling you might need a bit of help, sort of a jump-start,
just to get you going. I’m sure you’ll be fine once you find your groove.”

“My groove…” I glance over the first page, which seems to be house maintenance things like, “Call for garbage pickup, order oil for the furnace, rake the leaves, get phone service, cable service,” and so on. I point to the line that says, “Call plumber.” “What am I to call the plumber?”

He chuckles. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Then why am I calling him?”

“Haven’t you noticed the pipes seem slow?”

I consider this. “The bathtub did seem to take a long time to empty.”

“The carpet guy mentioned the toilet was pretty slow. He told me that sometimes when a house is left vacant for a while, roots will grow into the sewer lines. He suggested that you call a plumber and get them cleaned out.”

“Cleaned out?” I say, vaguely wondering how people can bear to do that sort of work. Whatever cleaning out a sewer line entails, I do not care to know the details. I turn to the next page. This seems to have more to do with business things. “Open bank account in town, call accountant, change homeowner’s insurance,” things like that. The final page appears to be a grocery shopping list.

“Really?” I look at Michael. “You think I’m unable to fetch my own groceries without specific instructions?”

He laughs. “Well, you never know. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

I narrow my eyes. “Just why have you been so helpful?”

He shrugs. “Because we’re friends. Because of Gavin. Because although we’re unrelated, Claudette, we are family. I care about you.”

I hold up my hand. “Stop, stop… You’re going to make me cry again.”

“They say that tears are good for the soul.”

I look back down at my lists as a distraction. “Oh, you should be proud of me, Michael. I ordered a cord for my cell phone. You know, to recharge it. I walked right into Radio Shack and simply ordered it myself without having it on a list or anything.”

“That’s marvelous.” He holds up his glass of Cabernet in a toast. “Here’s to you, darling. May this be the beginning of great things to come.”

I hold up my glass too and do my best to feign a smile. But the level of my confidence in my own abilities is not nearly as high as his.

I
drive Michael to Eureka in the morning. He’s booked a flight to San Francisco on one of those horrid little commuter planes that feel as if they might plunge from the sky at any moment. After that he’ll fly directly to Hawaii, first class. How I wish I were going with him.

“You’ll be fine,” he assures me as we say our good-byes in the loading zone in front of the terminal.

“I will not.” Of course, I am crying now—no acting skills necessary. I feel as if I’m losing my last and best friend. “I don’t see how I can possibly do this on my own.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t keep telling yourself negative things, Claudette. You can do this. You
must
do this. Be strong, darling.”

I suddenly remember a scene from
Casablanca
, at the end of the movie when Rick (Bogie) is telling Ilsa (Ingrid) to get on the plane and leave him behind. And although it’s Michael who’s leaving right now, I pretend that I’m Bogie, playing Rick. And I try to remember how he had to be strong when he stayed behind.

“I’ve got to go now, or I’ll miss my flight.”

“I know, Michael.” I look him in the eyes and repeat the old line.
“And if that plane leaves the ground and you’re not on it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “See, Claudette, you
are
a trooper. That’s Rick’s line from
Casablanca
—and you delivered it perfectly, darling. You’re going to be just fine. I know it.”

I force a smile that I hope is convincing. “Yes. It seemed apropos.”

“Here’s looking at you, kid!”
Then he kisses me on the cheek, loads his bags onto a cart, and heads into the terminal.

I stand there watching him as he goes into the building, waiting until he’s out of sight, probably at the ticket counter. I slowly get back into my car, the way a very old woman would do, lifting one foot and then the other. I feel so tired, so alone. So completely cut off from everything. I get back on the highway and drive toward Silverton in silence.

I still have options. There are other ways out. I even consider the possibility of a car accident, except I do not like pain or the possibility of disfigurement, and there are no guarantees that I would not survive a horrible wreck.

I feel exhausted when I get back to town. I park my car in the driveway, go into my house, and lock the door behind me. A part of me is convinced that I will remain in this house indefinitely. I will not go out. I will not speak to anyone. I will find a way to end this thing.

But then I see the living room and how transformed it is from the living room I remember as a child, or even the living room I knew only shortly, the one my mother occupied all those years. And I walk through the house, and I see all the work that dear Michael put into this place. All of his loving attention to detail…and I know I cannot give up this easily. For Michael’s sake, I should at least try.

I open my purse and take out the lists he gave me. Some of these things seem impossible to accomplish without the help of a phone. Those things will have to wait. But then I realize I’m hungry. I’m tempted to go to one of the few restaurants in town; then I remember the grocery list Michael made for me, so I decide to go shopping.

First I go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit. I powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and fluff my hair. I’m not sure if it’s because of the lighting or perhaps because my laser eye surgery is wearing thin, but I really don’t look too terribly bad for a woman my age.

As I go out to my car, I try to remember other actresses in their eighties or thereabouts, women who are still taking care of themselves, still leading active and fulfilling lives. It’s a game I used to play when I needed to lift my spirits, although the list grew shorter each year. Mitzi Gaynor, Angie Dickinson, Shirley Jones… They’re all a bit younger than me. But then there is Doris Day; she’s held up well. And the glamorous Zsa Zsa Gabor, who must be over ninety by now. Finally, as I’m parking
at Raleigh’s Food Mart, I think of Lauren Bacall. She’s still going strong, and we’re the same age. Suddenly I feel much better. I can hold my head high.

I go into the store and just stand there. I’m not even sure what to do next. But I think of what I’ve seen on movies and television and pretend that I’m playing a role. Starring as today’s grocery shopper. I can carry this off.

I take a few steps forward to where grocery carts are lined up. But stacked near the carts are the smaller baskets, the type you carry on your arm. Somehow carrying a basket seems a bit more elegant than pushing a clunky wheeled thing about. Besides, I cannot imagine how I would begin to fill an entire cart with food for just me.

“Can I help you?” asks a woman who appears to be a clerk, since she has on a rather unbecoming red smock with a name tag pinned on it.

“No, thank you.” I pick up the smaller basket and hook it over my arm, as if this were something I do all the time. Now if I were shopping for shoes, clothes, art, or jewelry, I would be perfectly comfortable, right within my element. But finding myself in a large, cluttered store that smells a bit like overly ripe fruit and damp cardboard, and with elevator music blaring over my head, I feel rather lost.

I fumble to balance the bulky plastic basket as I open my purse so I can remove Michael’s grocery list, but I don’t see it. I hunt and hunt but finally accept that it’s not there. Either I left it at home or lost it. Still, how hard can this be?

The first section seems to be the bakery, and while some of these sugary items are tempting, it’s best to avoid sweets. Instead I choose a loaf of whole grain bread that resembles what Sylvia used to serve as toast with my orange juice in the morning. Orange juice—of course! But where would I find it? Certainly not with the doughnuts. I walk for what seems a long way without seeing anything that resembles orange juice, and my arm is already feeling the weight of the basket. But I find the wine section and think a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon might be an asset to my kitchen. I select one with a label from a vineyard I recognize and place it in my basket, next to the bread.

Then I notice a good bottle of Merlot and put that in my basket as well. Unfortunately this makes the basket quite heavy, and my arm becomes sore from carrying it. Perhaps I should’ve gotten a frumpy cart with wheels on it after all. I look around, hoping to spot an empty cart, but without luck.

I do not relish the idea of walking the distance of the store, back to where the wheeled carts are lined up. But neither do I like the idea of my poor left arm being permanently disabled due to the handle of the basket, which feels as if it’s cutting through my skin. I walk as quickly as these old legs will carry me.

And just as the wheeled carts are in sight and I think I can bear the pain no more, the weight in the basket shifts. And the next thing I know, the whole thing goes topsy-turvy and turns upside down, dumping the two bottles of wine and the bread to the floor with a loud crash. The Cabernet Sauvignon survives
the fall, but the Merlot shatters, spewing red wine in every direction, including the direction of my nice pale blue pantsuit, my favorite Armani, which I wore to see Michael off at the airport.