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  “I’ve always liked younger men. They’re the only ones who can keep up with me,” I tell Helena. “You can’t imagine how many men my age are anxious to get married again, if they’ve been left or widowed. If you’ve never felt like the most popular girl in school? Just wait until you’re fifty-five or better. We’re all tens about then, because men can’t stand the thought of dying alone.”

  Helena looks at me blinking. “I don’t think anyone likes the idea of dying alone.”

  “Well, that’s probably true. I just meant that I think it’s a great and sad truth that men are so desperate to get married as they get older, while they battle it with all their might as young men.” I let out a cautious laugh and finally I get a smile from her.

  “You’re talking to the wrong group,” Lily pipes up. “We’ve had no trouble getting married. For us, the problem was staying married.”

  “Well, that’s everyone’s problem, isn’t it? Marriage is never easy,” I tell her.

  “It’s easier if you marry for love,” Lindsay says dreamily.

  “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? At eighteen, who knows the difference between love and lust?”

  “She’s got a point,” Haley adds from across the room, and here I thought she was so into her coloring book.

  “It’s too pessimistic, Jane. I think marriage is a commitment to the institution.”

  I shiver. “You’re probably right, Lindsay, and maybe that’s my issue. I never did see the institution as being safe for a woman.”

  Everyone looks at me, and I want to slink down into my vibrating chair and take it back. The difference between these women and me? They still have hope. They still believe Prince Charming will be riding in at any moment. I know better.

  Haley tries to break up the tension. “Jane, if anyone should feel that way, it would be me. But Hamilton changed that for me. He’s never been married before, and I didn’t think I’d ever marry again, but look at me! I’m marrying a man who writes prenuptial agreements for his vocation. Love obviously gave way to his ideals.”

  Yes, I think. Let’s do look at you. You’re a size-two, gorgeous blonde with a willowy figure, and an enormous rack. Is there a man on earth that would pass up the opportunity to show you attention?

  “My son hasn’t been married before, and I’m certain if he spent his young life single—which could happen, he’s very committed to teaching”—I say to the other women—“I still think he’d want to be married when he was old and gray.”

  “Her son will be married in no time,” Lindsay says. “He’s young, gorgeous, normal, and Christian.” Then she looks at me. “They go quickly.”

  The way she speaks of my son both puts me at ease about her interest and frightens me. “He’s met a nice woman. Her name is Kipling,” I tell them with more enthusiasm than I’ve shown my son, but it dawns on me that I’m with the queens of the broken hearts club, and they’re not exactly concerned with my innocent son’s reputation.

  “Her son Ronnie is dating a wonderful woman, and you know how men are when they get close to commitment, they always want to make certain she’s the one. So Jane’s just making sure he doesn’t have any questions, but they always have questions. Isn’t that right?”

  The women all murmur their approval and I loosen my grip on the armrests.

  I open my eyes. “No one is perfect. Lindsay’s made her mistakes; I’ve made mine. That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me, right?” I look to Lindsay, but Helena answers.

  “True enough, but Lindsay’s given hers over to the Lord.”

  “Has she?” I look to Lindsay, and she doesn’t seem any less burdened than myself. She still pines for her mother’s approval and freedom from her guilt, while I run the risk of my own son not speaking to me once he knows the truth. I’d say Lindsay and I are about even on the redemption scale.

  Helena goes onto ramble some more religious ideals at me, but I’m lost in my thoughts—that and the foot massage. Lindsay made better choices than I did. Whether I want to admit it or not, sticking with Ron made her a better person. Running from him made me no stronger. I was never really free from his pull because of Ronnie. It’s with an extreme sadness that I realize I never faced up to anything. I thought I’d been the strong one, but all I’ve really done is run from the issues. I never faced them head-on, like Lindsay did.

  “I’m done running,” I say to Lindsay.

  “That won’t be easy for you,” she says to me. “When the going gets tough, you seem to take off for long stretches of time.”

  “So I’ll find out what happens when I sit still.” But the very thought sends my heart racing.

  “I hope you will,” she says warmly. “And maybe I can find out what happens when I move on.”

  We stare at each other, trusting a little more, yet not fully. I think the real reason I hated Ronnie seeing something in Lindsay was because I couldn’t stand to think of him seeing something good in me. Not when I’d lied to him for his entire life and robbed him of a father figure. I suppose Lindsay and I have more guilt in common than I’d like to admit. Ronnie deserves better than the likes of us.

  “I’m going to tell Ronnie the truth. And you’re going to go see your mother,” I tell her.

  “I am?”

  “You are, because the fear can’t be worse than avoiding the truth, can it?”

  “What if she still hates me?”

  “Then it’s her loss, as it has been for the last decade. Any mother that wants to be right more than she wants her daughter in her life—well, the problem lies with her. Do you understand me?” I feel motherly for the first time in many, many years.

  Lindsay nods.

  “If she turns you away, you know the truth. If my son turns me away, I—”

  I don’t even want to think about what could happen. I just know Ronnie will find out the truth someday when I’m gone, and his memories will be tarnished anyway. The thought brings a lump to my throat, but it’s time to tell the truth. To take all power away from his real father.

  Chapter 11

  Lindsay

  My future years stretch out before me, long and empty. If I continue my path along the highway of scary, old women and cats, my life will continue to be a farce—playacting a role. I have to make peace with my mother. The Bible says not to bring your offering until you’ve made peace with your brother. I imagine He meant mother, too, and perhaps that’s what has bothered me all along. Jane, a woman who’s spent her life running and lying to those she loves, is the only one who seems to get me, which naturally strikes the fear of God into me. I may be simple, but I can see that my life does not line up with what I supposedly believe.

  Other than finishing up plans for Haley’s shower, I have no life goal, no actual destination now. And you don’t have to tell me that Haley’s shower doesn’t qualify as a life goal, at least for my life.

  It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen the Trophy Wives, and our pedicure did anything but restore me. Jane and I had made a pact of sorts, but I haven’t contacted my mother, and she has yet to tell Ronnie anything. So while our pact may have been made with the best of intentions, nothing has come of it. After several text messages from Tim, the Chinless Bond, I couldn’t bear to step foot in the church. It only reminded me of the joke I probably am to the congregation. The joke I probably always have been.

  “But of course, you have to go back,” Jane says to me this fine morning.

  “Why would I want to go back? I have to make peace before I make an offering. The Bible says that.”

  “Is it just me, or is there a simple fix for that? Those women love you, Lindsay, and I’m here to tell you, friends like that don’t come along every day. I know you feel judged by Bette, but that’s in your own head. For some reason, we women have a terrible time forgiving ourselves, but I saw nothing in her that day that implied she thought your trouble was any worse than the next girl’s. Even if you think they did judge, you can’t write them off for one mistake. An
y more than they can write you off for a mistake. That’s what friends do for each other. Do you want to spend your life running, like I have? Go make amends with your mother.”

  “We’re both obstinate, aren’t we?”

  Jane laughs. “Not exactly a good trait. So who will make the first move?”

  “I suppose that I have no choice. It’s going to have to be me because of Haley’s wedding.” It’s the Trophy Wives Club’s final fitting for our bridemaids’ gowns, followed by a ladies’ luncheon, and I’ve dressed in my jeans and high-heeled flip-flops for the occasion. That’s the biggest decision on my agenda—a salad or wrap for lunch. It’s pathetic even to me. I can’t imagine what Jane might say about joining me, but what do I have to lose? We both seem to be on the same page with our ineptitude.

  “You’ll come this afternoon for the luncheon?” I ask Jane as she sketches out a painting on the back patio. This one actually looks like something. I didn’t know contemporary artists could actually make real art, and I want to say something kind, but I don’t think my artistry opinion means much to her anyway.

  “I don’t know.” She puts the paintbrush down and looks up at me with her fine, blue eyes. “I think I may have worn out my welcome last time, don’t you think? Besides, the gallery owner sold my painting. I want to keep working while I’m here and build up a bit of a nest egg. I knew I should have brought more canvases, but they’re so hard to travel with. I’ll have to borrow your car and get to the art store at some point.”

  “Ron built the nest egg for you, Jane. He built one for all of us. Come have lunch with me.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone, Lindsay. You just don’t want to answer what you’re up to. And you’re wrong about the nest egg. I won’t take Ron’s money, Lindsay. What sort of woman do you think I am?” She drops the brush into a cup of liquid that smells like the devil. “I’ve made my own way. I don’t need his money. I don’t want his money.”

  There is accusation in her words, but I try not to take them personally. Jane did take his money—she just gave it to Ronnie.

  Best to turn back to the luncheon—a safer subject to be sure. “Scaly feet belong on things that slither in the desert, not a free-spirited artist from Campeche, Mexico. Come to lunch, and we’ll get a pedicure after.” I say the country like Meh-hee-co, so she knows I’m being respectful.

  Jane laughs at my paltry attempt in Spanish. “If I make a habit of this, you’ll expect me to start buying shoes next. I can find them at a much better discount at the street market. Hiking boots even at the surplus store.”

  If Jane died tomorrow, her obituary would be full of accomplishments: renowned artist, doting mother, outdoorswoman and adventurer, but there would be no one to write it up for her, save for her son. If I died tomorrow, the Trophy Wives would be standing in line to write up my memorial, but what real accomplishment could they list? She once got a pair of Jimmy Choos for less than $100 at Neiman’s. She is survived by…not even a cat. Well, she’s survived by her dysfunctional Bible Study group, and we loved her for her excellent decisions in nail lacquer and the party favors she chose for her best friend’s shower.

  “So you won’t come?” I stand with the door ajar. Jane is once again mesmerized by her canvas, and she simply nods her head. I leave the condominium and stand on the small porch for a moment and wonder if I shouldn’t go back in and try again. Someone needs to light a fire under the two of us.

  “Why won’t that boy knock on your door?”

  “Huh?” I look up to see my neighbor on the porch across from mine. Her name is Cherry, though she’s got the palest pallor and honestly, she’s more like a molded raisin than a cherry. Her cheeks are a roadmap collection of lines covered by overtly pink blush, but her brow is taut and lifted, like she’s in a state of constant surprise. “Are you talking to me, Cherry?” She’s one of the quiet ones, but when she does speak, her voice booms like a clap of thunder in the clear, blue sky.

  “Do you see anyone else out here?” she snaps. “You blondes are all the same. You don’t know how to reel your men in. When I was your age, I didn’t waste my time with this teasing business. I had men eating out of the palm of my hands. Men like Tyrone Power and Dean Martin, and you can’t even get that simple boy to ring your doorbell. It’s dismal. You girls run around half-naked today and still can’t get your man.”

  “I don’t run around half-naked! This is Chanel!” I inform her on my blouse choice. “What boy?” Naturally, I know Cherry sees everything that goes on in this complex, but she’s also claimed affairs with every A-lister in Hollywood. She was either the biggest tramp in Hollywood history or has trouble with her memory. For her sake, I’m hoping it’s the latter.

  “That boy. The one with the work boots and the sexy buns in the jeans.” She puts her arthritic hands out and pretends to squeeze. I think I’m going to be sick.

  “Jake?” I say hopefully.

  “Well, I don’t know his name. I’m not psychotic.”

  Yes, you are, but I believe you mean psychic.

  “He’s been here four times in the last week, but he always chickens out before he rings the bell. Sticks his hand out, pulls it back again, like an amusement park ride. Back and forth, back and forth. Come here, girl.” She motions with her bony forefinger. I step closer to her. “Sex!” she yells. “Sex is how you reel them in!” She mocks a fishing action. “Get yourself some lingerie and a fur coat and you—”

  “Thank you!” My ears hurt, and my hands automatically cover them for protection. “Thank you, Cherry. I’m a Christian woman, so that’s not the answer.” And I desperately need a bath now. Maybe with some Brillo pad loofahs to remove the grime.

  “Maybe that’s why the boy is chicken. Too much religion dogging him. Never did understand that guilt world you people live in.”

  Right now, that makes two of us.

  “It’s nothing like that. I’m not even sure who you’re speaking of. He was probably here to check the PG&E meter.”

  “No, our meter reader is a fat, Cambodian man! This man is young and virile.”

  “My husband just died.”

  “That can’t be your excuse. Your husband died eons ago. You should have yourself a new husband by now. You’re not a Lebanese, are you?”

  “I have to run, Cherry. If you see the man again, encourage him to ring the bell.” Something tells me, I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Have to do everything for you kids. What happened to this generation?” She goes into her place, mumbling as she does so, and slams her door.

  I walk out to my car, but glance back into the entryway. Did Jake come looking for me? My heart starts to pound at the very thought, but reality strikes at my soul. Jake is off-limits. I owe Ron that much. It’s like saying I never truly loved my husband. And I did, but the thought that anyone is looking for me fills me with a hope that I know it shouldn’t. If I spend the rest of my life alone, I want to be content. Hope for me is a dangerous avenue. Once taken, you can’t go back. The route without expectations is easier.

  The voice of God has grown silent in my ear, no doubt helped along by Cherry, who has a way of drowning out any godly thoughts whatsoever. I love my neighbor, but her advice is something like you’d find in an all-male barbershop of my father’s day.

  I feel exceptionally alone as I drive to the bridal shop, trying to muster up excitement for Haley. She has come so far, and she’s going to make the most beautiful bride. I have to put on my party face because Haley seems to have some sort of guilt about having a big wedding. If I don’t relay excitement, I worry she’ll continue to go through the motions, just wanting to be married and not enjoying the process. Everyone should enjoy the process.

  The salesgirl inside the boutique opens the door for me. The shop is closed with a sign saying, Closed for Private Fitting. It’s so non-Haley to have anything resembling favored treatment, I think I have the wrong place.

  “Haley Cutler?” I say through the crack in the door.


  “You must be Lindsay, matron of honor.” The gal gets a little snippy. “You’re the last to arrive. Fitting Room A, down the hall. You’re wearing heels. Make certain they’re the same height you’ll be wearing the day of the wedding. Or find the right size in the fitting room. It’s most important that your gown be the right length.”

  Naturally, I want to snap at her that I could pull this entire wedding fitting off without her, but I’m still reeling from my Cherry conversation, so I think it’s best to just shut up. I wander down the hall and step into a room. On a pink-carpeted pedestal, there’s a beautiful bride with long, dark hair wearing a tasteful white gown. Her ample chest fills out the beaded bodice, and her tiny hips disappear in a full skirt. An exaggerated, draping train tells of her youthful zeal, and I realize I’m in the wrong room.

  I pause in the doorway, gazing at the vision of a formal wedding. What my life might have been if I hadn’t taken so many shortcuts? To have been the princess for a day, the bride whom strangers cheered for—the loss seems overwhelming now that Ron is gone. We should have done things slowly, appropriately. Instead, we eloped, rather than face people’s concerns. I was a wimp, even when I thought I stood tall in the face of adversity.

  “Lindsay? Is that you?”

  In a chair beside the bride sits…Jake’s mother. My stomach tightens, as I realize this tiny, virginal-looking bride has to be Jake’s. She is a vision in her gown. And honestly? I’m thrilled that Jake will get the chance to do things correctly. “Mrs. Evans?”

  With a flash of the eyes, I see the bride comprehend who I am, and I wish I had the ability to fade into the wall or disappear instantly, like the cats in my complex.

  “What are you doing here? Surely, not getting married again?” Mrs. Evans says with reproach in her voice.

  “No. My best friend is getting married. I’m here for the bridesmaid dress. My fitting. That gown is absolutely divine on you.”

  The bride smiles. “Do you really think so?” She pulls at the full skirt and twirls slightly on the platform.