Back to Life Page 15

  “Kipling!” He corrects. “Did my mother tell you to say that?”

  “No, we just have the same sick sense of humor, I suppose. Mowgli gives me such an image, and she doesn’t suit you at all.” I’m smiling as I drive through a green light. I can see his eyes upon me, and I’m embarrassed to admit, there is a distinct chemistry between us. So I do my very best to ignore any connection.

  “Kipling spends a lot of money on purses.”

  “All women spend money on handbags.” I look over at him. “Unless there’s something physically wrong with them, I believe it’s genetic. Even my friend Haley spends money on handbags, and she’s as cheap as a indie producer.”

  “All right. I won’t hold that against her.”

  “Shoes don’t count either.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Getting her hair done. No one wants bad hair. That comes at a price.”

  “Purses, shoes, hair. I’m beginning to think I would be better off with a dog.” He laughs.

  “You can’t leave a dog to run off to Mexico. You’d have to spend money to leave the dog in the kennel.”

  “All right. I give up. Is that what you want from me? I am too low maintenance for human consumption.”

  I laugh out loud at his comment. “Would she move to Mexico with you, if you went back?”

  He looks at me and smiles. “I’m not going back. Not permanently. Unlike my mother, I can’t shut my heart down like it’s a machine.”

  “I told you, you’re preaching to the choir. I’m a sucker, too!” For some reason, I bond to this admission, and it makes me see him in an entirely different light.

  “Did you love my father?”

  It’s such a pointed question, and I admire him for asking. He’s much more like Jane than I thought. “I did love Ron. There was a lot about him to love.” We come to a red light, and I take a good gander. Ronnie has a Matthew McConaughey charm without knowing he possesses such charisma. He really does have a lot of Ron’s characteristics, but he’s entirely individual to himself, and that’s what I can’t help but find attractive. This admission, even to myself, sends a surge of guilt through me. “Ron was a very lovable man. He accepted people for who they were. Warts and all. Those people are hard to find here in the plastic surgery capital of the world.”

  “Says the five-ten blonde.”

  His comment stuns me, and I stare at him. “That was rude. You don’t strike me as the rude sort.” The light has turned green, and there’s a BMW honking hard behind me, but I’m waiting for my apology.

  “Was it rude? I hadn’t meant it that way. It was supposed to be a compliment, but Cary Grant I’m not.”

  “He had his words written for him, so I suppose that’s all right.” I grin toward him, and I feel the power in his smile back at me. It warms me inside.

  “But seriously, Lindsay, you are so striking. It’s hard for a guy to see past that. I didn’t know Ron like you did. In a way, that ticks me off, so maybe some of that is coming out in inappropriate comments. I mean, I think you have a great heart, but it is wrapped in a pretty nice package and I am male. Moaning about things that aren’t meant to be is a solid waste of time.”

  “You’re right, but pain in life shapes you. It molds you in ways you don’t want to be molded.”

  “Only if you let it. We give others too much power over our thoughts, don’t you think?” I should take my own advice, but it’s so much easier to see your problems in others, it just warrants a sermon—but then, you feel completely hopeless after giving it, because it would be so simple, if only I heard myself. “I hope your mother is going to be okay with Bette tonight. Maybe we should have stayed home. I’m feeling guilty.” See? I can’t even get past the thought of a sermon, without a healthy portion of guilt.

  “She wouldn’t have let us do anything. Trust me, the faster this place is gone, the faster she can go home. That’s what she wants. To be back in her world where she can escape at random.”

  “Did she do that when you were growing up?”

  “Believe it or not, she was the consummate stay-at-home mom when I was growing up. She baked cookies, she let the neighborhood kids in, she fed half of them dinner since she knew they wouldn’t get it when they went home. Surprise you?”

  “Not really. I saw a lot of that in her when she first came, but the longer she was caged up here, the more I saw the other side of her. Bette will straighten her out.”

  Ron laughs.

  “No, really. She will. She has this presence of the Holy Spirit in her that one can feel emanate from her. She can seriously smack you upside the head so softly, you never know you’ve been hit. I’ve only heard her say one mean thing in my life, and I probably deserved it.”

  “I doubt that. She sounds like the perfect woman to be there. So let’s not worry about her. If there’s one thing I know about my mother, she’s tough enough to withstand the whirlwind that is L.A.”

  The house is as beautiful as ever, and when I drive up to the courtyard driveway, I can’t believe I ever lived here. It’s still magical. Undeniably the most beautiful house near the Palisades Village, with some of the best canyon views in the area. “I’m so excited for you to see the house.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s so much of Ron in it. So much of me here. I’m anxious to show you all I did, I guess. I’m proud of it.” Naturally, I think of his mother making fun of my “mermaid” house, but this place is different. It’s understated, traditional, and beautifully furnished. “It’s everything you’d expect of a good, trophy wife.”

  He glances at me to see if there’s a joke involved, but I don’t offer the hint of a smile. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay here if you love it so much.”

  “When Ron went back to drinking, I was devastated. When he returned to me, I wanted him to know it wasn’t the house that brought me back. We spent the last year in my little condo after Haley moved out. I would have lived in a shack with him. You’ll find out when you have everything stripped from you and all you have left is each other—you either sink or swim. Money can really do more to tear apart a relationship than bring it closer. I suppose I learned that the hard way.”

  “He was so much older than you. How did you two find anything to talk about?”

  “We just did. I was raised around my mother’s friends, so I was probably much older than my years.” As we pull up to the house, I watch him scan the vines growing up alongside the three-car garage, and his eyes widen. “I didn’t start out with the best of intentions with Ron.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “But I fell in love with him. He was such a light and so warm, it was impossible not to. The age, I never noticed. I’m like that. You know how people will say, ‘Oh, you’ve lost weight’ to someone? I never, ever notice things like that because I see the inside of the person. Okay, with the one exception being my best friend Haley. She thinks it’s her life duty to sparkle.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “She likes to wear rhinestones and sequins, animal prints—you know what I’m saying. It’s hard for me to see past that. I have this innate need to tone her down.”

  He looks at me like I am a rambling idiot. “I can’t believe this house is just sitting here unoccupied.”

  “I know, it’s a shame. The schools are excellent here. This will be a fabulous house for some lucky family.”

  “Do you want children, Lindsay?”

  “I have myself to worry about now. I made a mess of things, why pass it on? Ron didn’t want children and I didn’t, either. I never thought I’d make a great mother, I guess.”

  “Everyone makes a mess of things, but that doesn’t stop them from becoming parents.”

  “I suppose I should have told you.”

  “Told me?”

  “I have perfectionist tendencies.”

  “There’s no perfect parent, trust me. I see them all in the schools.”

  “Your mother would do
anything for you. My mother sort of blamed me for everything.”

  “My mother spends too much time pondering life and not enough with people.”

  “I thought her house was a fiesta house!”

  “Oh, it is. But having a party and sharing yourself can be two different things.”

  I push the gate code, and we arrive into the private Mediterranean courtyard. I watch Ronnie as he spies the canyon view for the first time. “Wow, this place is—”

  “I know, huh?”

  We climb out of the car, and the gate closes behind us. I can see a thousand reasons to spend the rest of my life in this house. Its walled-off perfection from the bustle below and its European charm makes me feel as though I’ve been transported to a private, Spanish island. There’s just something about being here that makes me feel alive. I close my eyes and let the remaining sunlight fall onto my face.

  We walk behind the iron gate to the tiled courtyard, which is centered around a lovely fountain. I flip a switch and the water bubbles serenely into the pool at its base. “All of that along the staircase is hand-painted Italian tile. I picked it out online when I felt something was missing here.” I pull him over to the studio at the end of the patio, overlooking the canyon. “Can you just picture your mother out here painting?”

  “She’d hate it here.” He chuckles. “It’s too clean for one thing.”

  “Probably, she would. Come inside. This front door is hand-hewn alder from the Sierras.” I rub my hand along it. “This wrought iron design was made especially for the door by a craftsman in Montana.”

  “I thought you weren’t around when Ron built the place.”

  “I’ve made a few changes since it was built. Just added a woman’s touch here and there. Ron had great taste for the most part, but colors don’t seem to be in a man’s repertoire.”

  “That’s a bit sexist,” he says.

  “I’m in a Bible study called the Trophy Wives Club; you think I care about PC, sexist garbage?”

  He grins. “I suppose not.”

  “The house beams were created to look like they were a hundred years old. This mantel is actually from a castle in Italy. It’s solid marble, and I worried that it didn’t fit in just right, but I got over it when the fireplace looked naked without it.”

  “So what would you change in here for the sale?”

  I scan the room. “It needs to be cleaned up.” I look at the Italian vases on the bookshelves. “That’s a distinct style. You don’t want to have in a staged house.”

  “All right.” He walks around looking at the walls. “Where are all the pictures?”

  “They’re in scrapbooks. Ron didn’t appreciate clutter, and I learned to like the clean look, as well.”

  “That’s odd. I mean, you don’t have any on your mantel. Makes it feel like it’s already staged. There are pictures all over your condominium.”

  I ignore his assessment. “We’ll need to take out the extra furniture or rearrange to make the best possible flow. We could put a seating area over here.” I point to the corner. “And then keep this furniture to surround the fireplace as a focal point. We’d need to pull all these books off the shelves and add some pottery or stoneware that would go with the decor but isn’t too distinct, like what’s in there now. With these clean, off-white walls, we want to keep the beachy lightness.”

  “The beachy lightness? Right.” He fights a laugh. “I don’t have the stomach for this.”

  “You’re making fun.”

  “I’m not, but I would never buy a mansion and I know why. Even if I had the money, I couldn’t make it through the sales pitch.” He stares at the fireplace. “This place is incredibly romantic. What woman wouldn’t fall in love with a guy in this house? It’s impossible not to feel like James Bond here.”

  I nod. “It has an air about it, it’s as though God kissed it with His grace. Ron’s drinking made being here hard sometimes, and I moved out of it to find some peace when alcohol took over. Still, nothing deters me from the serenity that this house brings. It’s like the red dirt of Tara for me. I feel home.”

  “The what?”

  “You know how Scarlett O’Hara wants to go home to the red dirt of Tara in Gone with the Wind?”

  “I saw it in Spanish; it’s translated differently.”

  We laugh, and I sink into my cream-linen sofa, tucking my feet beneath me. I stare at the fireplace. “I can hardly believe I possessed that fireplace at one time. Can you imagine the lives lived in front of it?” I pick up the remote control and start the fire. I sigh. “The sunsets are magnificent here. I think we should stay so I can word the marketing brochures correctly.”

  “I’m sure the realtors will handle that.”

  “The realtors don’t love this home. I do, and I’m convinced I can write the copy better than they can.”

  “I have a hard time believing you want to sell this house, Lindsay. Why’d you move?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing right now. I guess, unlike you, Ronnie, I do need a lot to survive. That’s not a great thing to learn about yourself. Giving up this house was the first step to being a better person.”

  “No one needs this much.” He sits down on the sofa beside me.

  “It’s true. It’s mythology that the world can’t touch you here. It feels like it, doesn’t it? Like you’re free of fear and turmoil, but it eventually gets in and undermines the idea of perfection. There’s no such thing as perfection.”

  “An afternoon of futbol, my mother’s tamales with good friends, and the neighbor’s flan for dessert. That is as close to perfection as you’re going to get here on earth.”

  As the sun begins to set, I jump up from the sofa. “Oh I forgot the best part. You have to see the bathtub. It’s the perfect time.” I pull him into the master bedroom, and sigh at the sight of my beloved. “It’s my favorite place to be. This tub at sunset. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a bath at sunset? Husbands want dinner, guests arrive for cocktails, business associates have meetings—it’s wholly inconvenient to bathe at sunset, which is why it’s the most coveted time.”

  “It seems like you were born to live in this house.” He says it as though he feels sorry for me.

  “That’s how I felt the first time I came here. I was engaged to another man. The contractor, actually. One of them.”

  “So then you fell in love with my father? Or this house?”

  “It was a bit of both. When your mother doesn’t grocery shop or come home at night, a house like this makes you feel like this is a person who would never let you go hungry. I’d say my affections were pretty tied up in my fears.”

  Ronnie nods as he lets his eyes take in my image. I wonder if he hears my tale as just a lie to win his sympathy. Lord knows I wasn’t above using them in the past.

  “So the bathtub.” I point to my pièce de résistance. “The Italian tile on the wall is like having my very own Sistine Chapel. Oh, we’ll have to take the chandelier down. They’re illegal over tubs—did you know that? At least that’s what the builder told me. We had to wait until the inspection was over to put it in.”

  “If the builder was your former fiancé, I’d say you were lucky he put it up solidly.” Ron stares at the light. He’s got about a week’s growth on his face, and the rugged appearance against the soft green of his eyes is mesmerizing, especially under the fading sun. It’s been a long time since I noticed a man, but I quickly remind myself just how off-limits this one is.

  “I suppose you’re right. I never thought of that.” He catches me staring at him. “So, I am thinking of having the shower in the evening, out on the patio, and coming into the family room for gifts. Then, I’ll take care of getting the house staged, and you should be set.”

  “Oh.” Ronnie shakes his head. “The wedding shower. My mind was on the bathtub, so I thought we were still discussing cleanliness and you had an outdoor shower on the patio.”

  We avoid looking at each other when he says this and I
find my jokes at Jane’s expense about the chaperone to be slightly less funny than I found them earlier.

  He changes the subject and I’m grateful. “I have a lot of questions about Ron. My mother won’t answer them.”

  “I won’t either, Ronnie. It’s not my place. He left you this house, I think that shows you how he felt about you. Why didn’t you call when he was alive?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt my mother.”

  I nod. “What do you think your girlfriend will say about the house?”

  “She broke up with me. I called her my girlfriend earlier, didn’t I?”

  “I’m sorry.” I stammer for the right words, but instead I blurt, “Why?”

  “How would I know?” He brushes his arm. “I mean, I sure can’t see it. I’m a fabulous catch.” He holds his arms out and smiles.

  “Well, what did she say?”

  “You’re not going to let this go. You want the gory details on how I got dumped.”

  “At least there’s enough of a social life to get dumped. I’m getting text messages from the only man in my church singles’ group, and he doesn’t have a chin.”

  “You would dump a man simply because he didn’t have a chin? That’s cold.”

  “You forgot shallow. It’s shallow, too,” I remind him.

  “Kipling said my family being broken apart, and my late age without marriage was a warning sign to her father and he didn’t approve of me as a proper choice. He said my family history didn’t speak well for my commitment ability.”

  “Thirty-six isn’t that old in California. It’s the new eighteen. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “They should say that. They’re an old-fashioned family. She was home-schooled through college, and her father’s probably right. It’s not many fathers who want to see their daughter married off to a California schoolteacher who sends half his paychecks to Mexico. I don’t exactly have ‘Trump’ written in my future. It wasn’t serious.” He shrugs.

  Ronnie doesn’t seem like a man who gives his heart easily, and he certainly doesn’t seem like the type who can’t commit. He’s committed to making no money while he does what he’s passionate about. “Just tell her father he needs a higher dowry, that’s all. Is she a one-cow wife or a ten-cow?”