Authors: Elise Sax
“Ruth, how nice to see you,” Sister Cyril said. “It’s a surprise to see you here.”
Ruth snorted. “That’s because I haven’t been here since 1995.”
My grandmother and I locked eyes. My father died in 1995. I didn’t know that Ruth had gone to the funeral or come to the house for shivah, the traditional Jewish week of mourning where the house is open to all visitors. My father’s death was the wound that wouldn’t heal in our family. My grandmother hadn’t left her house since then, and my mother … well, my mother had gone in the other direction.
“I wouldn’t be here if Gladie hadn’t demolished my shop.”
“I wasn’t driving the car!” I yelled, but nobody heard, because Bird was juicing again.
Ruth cut herself a slice of cake and took a bite. Bird turned off the machine and held up another glass of juice. I didn’t know how she could get it down. I looked at mine. It was still there. I hadn’t figured out how to dump it without Bird noticing.
“What the hell are you doing, Bird?” Ruth demanded.
“She’s juicing,” I said.
“Like Barry Bonds?” Ruth asked.
“Like a woman who wants to be healthy,” Bird corrected, taking a long gulp.
“Blech,” Ruth said. “How can you be healthy with half the Amazon jungle down your gullet?”
“What do you know about healthy living, you mean old lady?” Bird snapped. Since Ruth was old enough to have seen dinosaurs roam the earth and was obsessive about healthy teas and whole foods, I didn’t think Bird had a valid argument. Still, she had gotten under Ruth’s skin.
“You look ridiculous, like a rabbit on acid,” Ruth shot back. “You’re packing enough vegetation to grow a park in your stomach. You’re going to have to hire a landscaping service for your colon. Your butt will need a lawn mower. You might as well hang a sign around your neck saying ‘Turf for Sale.’ Ridiculous people follow ridiculous fads.”
“Now, now, let’s not fight over puréed vegetables,” Sister Cyril said.
Bird grabbed her scissors and waved it in Ruth’s
direction. “It’s not a fad. It’s a movement. Ask Gladie. She’s doing it.”
“Uh,” I said, with a mouthful of cake.
Ruth shook her head. “Zelda, your granddaughter doesn’t have a lick of sense. How can you let her do this foolishness?”
Grandma seemed unconcerned with my foolishness. She had a foot up in the lap of the pedicurist, her hair in rollers and stinky solution, and her hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, all the while dressed in a fetching hot-pink crushed-velvet housecoat.
“I was kidnapped,” I said.
“So was I,” Ruth noted. “Half the town was kidnapped. What’s your point?”
“Which room were you in, Ruth?” Meryl asked.
“She was in the room with the fraud,” Grandma said. “That phony matchmaker woman, the enemy of love, who’s now got her hooks into Harold Chow.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Meryl said.
“Harold Chow needs a special kind of woman. That phony baloney is playing with fire, and if something isn’t done fast, there will be hell to pay tonight,” Grandma continued. I understood she was talking to me, and I felt a rush of guilt.
“Lucy and I are going over there for the evening meeting,” I told her.
“Take your car,” Grandma said. “Don’t let Lucy drive you.”
Ruth snorted. “Now you tell her.”
“Is it wise for her to be going out when her kidnapper is on the loose, Zelda?” Sister Cyril asked.
“I don’t know about kidnappers. I know about love,
and that woman is reckless with my love matches,” Grandma said.
“Besides,” Meryl added, “he’s long gone. I heard there were Michael Rellik sightings in San Diego. He’s probably in Mexico by now.”
Ruth took the last slice of cake and stood up. “I have to get back to Tea Time. I’ve got the insurance inspector coming, and I have to find out just how bad he’s going to screw me in the ass.”
“Well, that’s descriptive,” Sister Cyril said.
I stood up, as well. “I have to go, too. I have spider clothes.”
“You sure do, dolly,” Grandma agreed. “There’s some nasty ones in there.”
I walked out with Ruth, pretending I had forgotten about the juice. At the front door, Ruth stopped me. “Hey, little girl,” she said, “I don’t appreciate you ratting me out to the cop.”
“What do you mean?”
“He reamed me a new one last night, said I shouldn’t have a gun, especially around you. Something about you and Jonah. I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve got it hid good so he’ll never find it.”
“He might be right about the gun, Ruth.”
“My Slugger is gone forever. I went over there this morning, and there was no sign of it. I’m not going to be defenseless if that lunatic tries to kill me again.”
“Fine,” I said. “Just keep it away from Grandma. I don’t want any accidents.”
Ruth snorted. “If she’s so all-seeing, she already knows where it’s hidden, and she couldn’t have any accidents.” It occurred to me that if Ruth’s gun was hidden away, it would be of little use to her if Michael
Rellik showed up to finish off what he had started. But I didn’t want to draw her attention to the flaw in her plan, because I wasn’t a big fan of guns. Ever since someone had tried to shoot me a couple of months ago, guns scared the bejeezus out of me.
“What do you mean, you went over there this morning? To the house across the street?” I shuddered. I never wanted to set foot in that house again. Besides, it was a crime scene now, covered in police tape. “What did it look like?”
“Beautiful,” Ruth said. “If it had a bed, I would move in and get the hell out of this nuthouse. No sign of a crazed kidnapper except for the panic rooms, which were torn up pretty good, and the police traipsed dirt and broken glass around, but I could live with that.” She squinted and leaned forward. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah.”
She tapped my chest. “Inside okay? You’ve gone through a lot lately. So have I, but I have a flask,” she said, patting her pants pocket. “You want a swig?”
I wanted a swig more than I wanted to dance naked with Holden, more than I wanted to eat a waffle taco.
“No, I have to drive,” I said.
“Bad things happen to good people all the time,” Ruth continued. “Look at my tea shop.”
“I’m okay, Ruth. Really.”
But I wasn’t sure I was okay. I had had enough of being kidnapped and almost killed. Matchmaking was dangerous work. I took a screwdriver from the utility drawer in the entranceway so I could start my car.
“See you later,” I said. We left the house, and I
closed the front door behind us. Ruth jogged down the driveway and took a right toward her shop. At eighty-five, she was in better shape than I was. Perhaps I should have drunk the juice, I thought. But the thought was quickly followed by another one: My breakfast had been cut short, and Dave’s Dry Cleaner’s and Tackle Shop just happened to be close to Cup O’Cake.
I PROMISED
Dave he could keep all the creepy crawlies he found in my suitcase, just as long as he didn’t open it in front of me. He was delighted by the unexpected windfall. He assured me he would get my clothes back to me, spider free, tomorrow. Since I was in my Cleveland Browns sweatshirt again, I practically drooled at the thought of having something decent to wear. Overnight, the weather had turned from chilly to cold, and I couldn’t wait to get into my shearling coat and turtlenecks.
That’s why, despite my nylon boot, my rusted-out DIY car, and my trauma from being kidnapped and locked in a small room, I drove the short distance to Cup O’Cake in a great mood. I would have even sung to the radio, if it still worked.
I almost changed my mind, however, when I saw the crowds at Cup O’Cake. Meryl was right. It was packed to the rafters. Inside, folks surrounded Mavis and Felicia like looky-loos passing a car accident.
Mavis and Felicia were more than happy to regale their customers with the details of their incarceration. I heard “terror” and “beaten” as I walked through the door.
Felicia spotted me and waved me over. I pushed my way to the front of the group with little effort, since the other customers already had their food.
“So nice of you to come see how we’re getting on,” Mavis told me with a big smile.
“I was kidnapped, too,” I reminded her. Sheesh, why couldn’t anyone remember that?
“Of course you were,” Mavis said. “And I have just the thing for you. It’s in honor of Apple Days and our freedom from being kidnapped.”
She handed me a pastry. “We’re calling it the Attica apple explosion. Try it.”
I took a bite. It was better than sex, although my memory was a little hazy where sex was concerned. The name said it all. The Attica apple explosion exploded in my mouth with an apple sweetness that would have made me riot if I had slightly more energy.
“Good, right?” Felicia asked me. I nodded, my mouth full of the explosion.
I ordered a latte and another explosion and sat at the table next to the fireplace. The armchair was comfortable, and I stretched my legs out in front of me.
“May we join you?” Mavis asked me, waking me from my stupor. I had been staring into the fire, finally allowing my mind and body to relax after a couple of horrible days. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there like that, but when I took a sip of my latte, it had cooled.
Mavis and Felicia sat down next to me with plates of gourmet sandwiches and fruit salad. They clinked glasses of what looked like orange juice and took
long sips. The crowd had thinned out, and Mavis and Felicia were taking a deserved lunch break.
I liked them. They exuded a vibe of positivity. Even after being kidnapped and almost murdered, they were happy and smiling.
“There’s really nothing better than a ham-and-cornichon sandwich,” Mavis said, taking a bite.
“How’s your foot, Gladie?” Felicia asked.
“Better. I thought maybe you would be closed today.”
“Nothing’s better than normal to get back to normal,” Mavis said.
I wondered if that were true. I didn’t have a lot of normal in my life. My mother wasn’t all that nurturing, unless you consider passing out at a parent–teacher conference in a cloud of booze fumes nurturing. And since I quit school when I was a teenager, I had been moving from one temporary job to another. Even my so-called job as matchmaker wasn’t all that normal.
“It must be nice working here,” I said. I had worked in a bakery for a week, but I got fired for eating the profits.
“Yes, much nicer than—” Mavis started, but she was interrupted by the tinkling sound of the door opening. Mrs. Arbuthnot entered, and their attention turned to her and getting her order.
I tried to focus on my coffee, but my thoughts went to my job and Luanda and how to get her to unmatch Uncle Harry and to back off Fred before she screwed up his match. Other than pounding her face with a frying pan, I had no idea how to get my point across. Besides, I didn’t think Grandma owned a frying pan. She was a take-out queen, not Betty Crocker.
I took my screwdriver and headed for the door, but Felicia stopped me. “Gladie, your grandmother called. She said you need to head over to Lucy’s. She said she found something.”
With Grandma’s ability to find me wherever I was, maybe I didn’t need to replace my cellphone, I thought. I thanked Felicia, and she ran back to talk to Mrs. Arbuthnot. The old lady seemed less lemon-headed than usual. Maybe the kidnapping had mellowed her, or maybe she was traumatized, or maybe I was growing used to her. In any case, I was glad Felicia was distracted by her and hadn’t remembered about the book she had given me. I snuck out before she could bring it up.
LUCY LIVED
just outside the historic district, in a gorgeous white and glass house. Inside, it was the epitome of modern, with sparse, uncomfortable-looking furniture. I always felt underdressed when I visited.
Lucy opened her front door and was surprised to see me. “My grandmother said I needed to come over, that you found something,” I explained.
“How did she—Never mind,” Lucy said. “Come on in. Bridget is here.”
I heard Bridget’s phone ring as I climbed the stairs. “I know what you’re doing!” she yelled. “No, that’s not my
Fifty Shades
voice! No, I won’t ride you until—Hey! Do you even realize you are objectifying women?”
I made it to the second floor to see Bridget sitting on a white couch, her cellphone against her ear, her
fingers running through her bob haircut, and her big round glasses hanging off the end of her nose. Lucy ran over to her.
“Hang up, Bridget,” Lucy urged her. Bridget stuck her finger up in the international “just a moment” gesture.
“I’m almost done,” Bridget mouthed. “No, I will not do that to you,” she continued on the phone. “Why? Because it’s disgusting and most likely against the law. No, I won’t do that, either. Let me tell you about Bella Abzug.”
Lucy took the phone from her and clicked the
OFF
button.
“I thought you told the phone company about the wrong number,” Lucy said.
Bridget pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I was going to, but then I had an epiphany. I can reform these men.”
“Oh, darlin’,” Lucy told her. “Those men don’t want to be reformed.”
“That’s what they think now,” Bridget said. “But I can’t pass up this chance. Think about it, Lucy. I get to go directly to the source. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Think of the changes I can make in our sexist society.”
Lucy snapped her fingers. “Speaking of our sexist society, I almost forgot.” She picked up a remote control, pushed a button, and a large television rose up from what I thought was a white cabinet. She clicked another button, and the television came to life.
“I’ve been snooping,” she said, proud as punch. “You know, on the police nerdy fella.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
There were so many people Lucy could have snooped on. The list was practically endless, and it started with Luanda, Michael Rellik, and Uncle Harry. I couldn’t imagine why she was snooping on detective Remington Cumberbatch, except for the obvious facts that he was slightly better-looking than most any man on the planet and he was built like a testosterone-packed truck.
“Oh, good,” Bridget said. “You got any peanuts, Lucy?”