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  I’m tired of living this way. But it’s too late now, I suppose. “I yam who I yam,” as Popeye would say.

  My son is the only one who breaks through that barrier—the sole person from whom I do not fear rejection, though even that’s a lie, since he doesn’t know anything but my version of his youth. He is the last vestige of my best years. The only thing I ever did right, and someone could easily make the argument I didn’t even do that well. At the very least, I didn’t do it honestly.

  A letter slides under my door, and I greet the blue stationery with astonishment. In Ron’s handwriting, it reads RON JR. As I clutch the letter, I see that the seal has been broken. I open the door. “You read this?”

  Lindsay’s sneaking up the stairs, and she turns toward me when I call out. “I didn’t know there was a Ron Jr. when I read it. I thought Ron might have thought I was pregnant. I didn’t know. Either way, I didn’t give it to the charity in the desk. I had it all along, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “You let me call all over town looking for the desk?”

  “I knew there was nothing important in it.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  “This may surprise you, Jane, but you don’t exactly invite warm and friendly information. Everything you do feels like judgment. Maybe you don’t mean it that way, but I’m afraid of you. I imagine a lot of people are afraid of you. And I think you like it that way.”

  “What does this letter say?”

  “It says nothing, but I thought you’d want to read it before Ronnie got it, so I’m giving it to you. Do whatever you’d like with it. Give it to him, don’t give it to him—it’s none of my business. Considering Ron left him the mansion, it’s probably the least you can do for his memory.”

  She continues up the stairs, and I rip what’s left of the envelope and find his old-fashioned script in a letter to my son.

  Dear Ron Jr.,

  You won’t remember me. We haven’t been intimately acquainted for a long time, but I loved you. If God deems it in heaven, I will love you from above. Children are often the recipients and thus, innocent victims, of adults’ poor choices. I should have done more for my health. I should have done more for your mother. I have prayed for you, and I know His will is perfect. Someday, I have no doubt, we will meet in the clouds and my intentions will come to fruition. Your mother is a good woman, regardless of what she says about herself at times. Love her well, and I will see you when your race is finished. Put your hope in Jesus and He will not leave or forsake you.

  In His Love, my son,

  Your Father, Ron Brindle

  I wasn’t just afraid of Ronnie’s father. I was afraid of Ron, too. The two of them blamed me. “That’s why I left.” I breathe deeply trying to calm my racing heart. I see Ron’s rage-filled face when I told him I could never love him, the spilled milk of Mitch’s fateful choice that night…and I see Mitch all over again, young and full of zeal. Before my life was split into fragments. No house in Pacific Palisades will ever make up for it. I rip the letter into tiny shreds and the pieces float around me in whirling, floating circles…

  “Mom? Mom?”

  I look up and see my son standing over me. “I didn’t deserve you.”

  “What? Mom, wake up!”

  I notice that Lindsay is standing next to him and she has the phone in her hand. “They’ll be here any minute. Can you get her on the bed?”

  I sit up, but the world is still spinning, so I lay back down. “Who will be here? What’s going on?”

  “Mom, we heard you fall.” I look around me frantically for the letter, only to see Lindsay is slyly putting the pieces away in her back pocket.

  “I called 911. They’ll be here any minute now,” she says.

  I stand up without help. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.” But as I stand, I feel dizzier than ever, and more than slightly hungover, sort of like that time Davis and I had the homemade tequila margaritas.

  “Just sit down until they get here.” My son checks my pulse and the worry in his eyes brings tears to my own.

  “Ronnie, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” I pat his arm. “You’re such a good boy. Always wanting to take care of me, when it’s my job to take care of you.”

  “When you’re found collapsed on someone’s bedroom carpet, it’s generally understood that you are not fine. Stop fighting me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I’ll wait for the cavalry.”

  Ronnie starts whispering something to Lindsay, and the thought incenses me. “What are you two whispering about? I’m right here! Say something out loud if you want to say it.”

  Lindsay darts out of the bedroom, and my son is watching me as if I’m on fire. “Ronnie, I just fainted. It’s not a big deal. I just had a busy day and forgot to eat.”

  “When Ron fainted, he never got back up, so I’m not going to take your word for it.”

  “Ron had a stroke. I didn’t have a stroke.” If I could find the words, I’d tell him the truth right now. God forbid I die and leave Lindsay to break the news to him.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three.”

  “How about now?”

  “Four. Are we going to do this all evening? Maybe we should get a pad of paper and play Pictionary. You always loved that game. When he was little, he could draw absolutely anything.” I look around. “Where did Lindsay go?”

  “Is Davis at home?”

  “It’s late there, you’re not calling Davis. Besides, I don’t know if he’s home.”

  “It’s a Monday in March, where would he go?”

  “We had a fight.”

  “You had a fight. Davis never says anything back to you, though Lord knows, he should.”

  I smile at Ronnie’s sad assessment of his mother. “You know me too well.”

  Soon Lindsay is back, and she’s carrying a glass with orange juice. “Here, drink some of this.”

  I take a drink, realizing I am really thirsty. I gulp the entire glass down and hand it, empty, back to her. “Thanks, Lindsay.” I feel fine and stand again. “I just need to eat, that’s all.” They’re both looking at each other again. “I’m diabetic, my blood sugar got low. There is no sense in alarm. This is what happens.”

  “You’re diabetic?” Ron says. “Since when?”

  “I don’t know, a year or two officially. I always have been slightly. That’s why I can’t hold my liquor.”

  Ronnie crosses his arms across his brawny chest. “Mom, it’s all right to tell people pertinent information. What if I have a kid with diabetes, and I tell the pediatrician there is no history of it in my family?”

  “You don’t have any children, and I thought you said it wasn’t serious with Kipling.” I watch Lindsay’s eyes as I state this, but she makes no move toward Ron. At least she has the wherewithal to do her dance without me watching.

  The doorbell rings, and Lindsay disappears out of the room again and returns with two brawny EMT guys, who are probably out-of-work actors struggling to get by. I can imagine them saying, “I’m not an EMT, but I play one on ER.”

  “My son overreacted,” I tell them. “I’m diabetic, and I didn’t tell him. I just got low on my blood sugar, that’s all.” One of the men takes my pulse, while the other gets out a blood glucose monitor and pricks my finger. “Ouch! Why don’t you warn a person?”

  “They only scream louder when I warn them. Besides, you should be doing this every day. I get seven year olds who don’t even react. I’ve taken to a surprise entry.” He has gorgeous blue eyes, and if I were a younger woman…“Forty-nine,” he says with raised eyebrows. “You need to get yourself a glucose meter and keep track of this daily.”

  “Do you need anything from us?” Lindsay asks, and my strapping young EMT notices her for the first time and, naturally, looks again. I’m glad I’m not dying here.

  “No. Thank you, miss. We have everything we need. You drank some juice?” He asks me, still looking at
Lindsay.

  I take his chin and turn his head toward me. “I did.”

  “Are you on any medications?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any feeling of pins and needles in the fingertips?” He takes his fingers, and they meet mine.

  “No.” Well, save for the fact that I do feel slightly tingly at the touch of a thirty-year-old hunk…never mind.

  The other EMT has a stethoscope to my back. “Inhale deeply.” He holds his cold piece to my back. “And exhale. Any history of heart disease?”

  “None,” I state proudly. “I’m a hiker. Bet I could out-hike you two.”

  “I bet you could.” He pulls the stethoscope away. “I’d like to get you an EKG tonight, just to be certain there are no underlying pressure problems that led to your fainting.”

  “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor in the morning.”

  “Mom, you don’t have a doctor here.”

  “I’ll find one. This is L.A. I assume you have doctors besides plastic surgeons here. They have to have someone to work on, right? That means doctors’ wives.”

  “Mom!” Ron says, in that “you’re so embarrassing” tone. I look back at the EMT with the blue eyes, because if I’m going to look at one of them, it might as well be the one dreams are made of. “I’m not going to the hospital, so you can pack up all your equipment and start writing your report.”

  He takes the blood pressure cuff off me. “You might as well take her to dinner. She’ll probably benefit from that more.” He says to Lindsay. “Speaking of dinner—” He raises his brows at Lindsay.

  “I’m calling Bette,” she says to me, ignoring the gorgeous man making a pass at her. What is wrong with that girl?

  “Bette? The older woman from your pedicure group?”

  “Yes. You don’t listen to me, and you don’t listen to your son, and I know that Bette won’t give you a choice. She demands respect. Therefore, I’m calling Bette. She’ll take you to dinner, slap some sense into you, and we’ll all come back tonight for a rousing game of Pictionary.” She smiles at me. “I heard you from the stairs. How does that sound, Ronnie?” She turns to my son and flashes her giant baby blues.

  “Positively brilliant. Though at the moment, I’m up for slapping some sense into her myself.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Ronnie—”

  He kisses my cheek. “You scared the life out of me, you know? Diabetes?” He shakes his head.

  I start to stand, and one of the burly EMT guys holds me down. “We’re almost through here. Would you mind waiting downstairs? We have some more tests we want to run and get a full history.”

  “I told you what was wrong with me.”

  “I’d like a full history, too!” Ronnie says to me.

  “This is California. People sue here, so forgive us if we can’t listen when you refuse service. Too many lawyers. Something happens to you, and I don’t have these stats? My job is gone. Just a few more numbers to get for the forms.”

  “Your California law is the reason I’m stuck here in the first place!”

  “Calm down. Henry, check her blood pressure again.” I sit and wait while he cuffs me again, and it doesn’t take a test to tell me my blood pressure is, indeed, through the roof. “You sent my son down there with that woman!” I squeal. “Sure I have high blood pressure!”

  “Your son’s a lucky man. Can I trade places with him?” The blue-eyed wonder asks.

  Henry whistles long and high. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Ah, beauty.” I open my arms. “You see what happens? It happens to the best of us. Better make sure you find more than a pretty face, know what I’m saying?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” the handsome one says. “You have that flirtatious look. You flirt a lot when you were younger?”

  “Was I supposed to stop when I got older? Someone forgot to tell me the rules.”

  The men finish their work, and I reach for the telephone. I dial the number at home to tell Davis that I want him there when I return, but a strange woman’s voice answers. “Hola.”

  “Who is this? ¿Quién es este?” I demand.

  She hangs up the phone, so I dial again. There’s no answer. My world is crashing in around me, and I’m stuck watching my son make eyes at my ex-husband’s trophy wife. If You’re up there, God, this is definitely not the way I want to go!

  Chapter 14

  Lindsay

  She likes you, you know,” Ronnie says as we get into my BMW.

  My car is old by L.A. standards—a 2006—but it doesn’t show its age, and I’m attached to it. I get like that. Too attached to objects that represent times in my life, coupled with an extreme inability to let go. I could barely stand to watch Haley leave the condo. I can’t bring myself to sell the condo, and now, there’s Jane. Even though she doesn’t like me, she likes me as much as she’s able, and the last thing I want is for her to leave before this will is finished or she’s feeling better. Though everything about her appearance and demeanor may deny it, she is not a spring chicken.

  Ron goes on. “If she didn’t like you, you’d know it. She’s very obvious about such things.”

  I smile back at him. I know it’s true. The fact that he’s in my car right now tells me his mother likes me as much as she’s able to. Either that, or she’s met Kipling and isn’t overly fond of her. The idea of my husband’s stepson is even less palatable to me than her, so I don’t know what she’s worried about.

  When Jane kicked us out to go to the mansion—together—I held my shoulders back, feeling confident she’d accepted the fact that I was not after her son. It was a sign of acceptance, weak-willed as it may have been. Though it could have been the drugs the EMTs gave her or Bette’s soothing words. Either way, it feels good to escape the condo and drive into the crisp, clear evening of an early, cold spring.

  “Sometimes I think your mother endures me, and I’m good with that.”

  “My mother does not endure anything she does not like. Trust me on this. She picks on those she likes. She doesn’t bother with people she doesn’t like.” I look over at Ron, realizing for the first time his charming, boyish good looks—the misty, green eyes under a crop of light brown hair, highlighted with natural streaks of blond. He has that California surfer look—everything about his body is in perfect order, topped by a head of hair in complete disarray.

  “You must have really stood out in Mexico. How come you didn’t stay?”

  “It’s hard. I want to fix everything, give the kids everything I have. Here, I can do that without being ineffective. I tend to be a sucker. Have it written on my forehead.”

  “I can relate.”

  “People sense the suckers. Have you noticed? There can be four hundred people on the street, and a kid in holey clothes and bare feet will find me to ask for money. He just knows. I have a beacon.”

  “Well, you look like a hero. There’s something about a six-foot-four guy with muscles. Your presence makes people want to believe you can do anything. Like Superman.” I did not just say that.

  “Is that so?”

  “Your mother told me how tall you were. I didn’t measure or anything.” I wish I could find my way back to the moment before we started this conversation. I now feel very schoolgirlish and ridiculous.

  He holds up his hand. “You don’t have to explain. It’s not the gringo looks, though. It’s the same way here in California. I am a sucker. People sense it.”

  “That’s why your mother is so protective of you, I’ll bet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, she’s worried about the girl you’re dating.” She’s more worried about me, but I don’t make mention of that. “You’re going to be inheriting a lot of money. All the same things Ron’s friends probably warned him about with me.” I shrug.

  “Anyone who would marry me for money wouldn’t get much. ”

  “Why not? This house is worth a fortune. Even if you give a significant amount away, you’ll be left with money,�
� I tell him. “Wait until you see its location and how beautiful it is.”

  “It’s a house. You feel attached to it. To me, it’s just a house that will help attain my goal. Once that’s done, I’ll be poor again. Rich by Mexican standards, but poor by California standards, any way you look at it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I work with kids on the south side. I send extra money back to Mexico for my friends running the schools there. I don’t need much to survive. Any woman I’m with will have to accept that. Doesn’t make me much of a catch, does it? At least not in L.A., where people spend more dressing their dogs than caring for the poor. This house is going to purchase a new wing for that schoolhouse.”

  “It could build several schoolhouses,” I tell him.

  “I know,” Ronnie admits. “But that overwhelms me, so I have to start small and build from there.”

  “Hamilton will help you with any of this, you know. Managing this kind of money can be a full-time job. It’s not as much fun spending it as you might think.”

  He looks over at me questioningly.

  “Ron never relaxed very well. He was a wonderful husband but having that kind of fiscal responsibility makes it hard to just pack up and go. Not to mention all the other accounts he managed.”

  “That is not the life for me at all. So if that makes me a catch, any girl will be sorely disappointed when she realized I gave it away to be rid of the responsibility.”

  I laugh. “It will make you the right catch for the right woman,” I offer. “Do you think this woman you’re seeing needs much to survive? Mowgli?”