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  “Don’t talk crazy.” I grab his wrist and look him straight in the eyes. “Ron is gone, Ronnie, and he left you the house. There’s no strings attached now, and you can do whatever you want with that money.”

  “I see money every day, Mom. It never seems to do anyone an ounce of good. Come on—let’s go get dinner, I’ll bet you’re famished. You never did eat properly when traveling.”

  “I ate already.” I stay right beside the doorway. He stares at me in disbelief. “Really. I ate.”

  “Mom, what is up with you? You practically tackle me when I come to Mexico, and now you’re acting like I’m not even your son.”

  I exhale. “I’m not sure when Lindsay is coming home, all right? I’d just as soon we not make ourselves too comfortable until the details of the will are all on the table. Let’s plan on dinner tomorrow night after work. Would that work for you?”

  “Would that work for me? What am I, a business associate?” He looks down at me and winks. “All right, but you’re taking this job far too seriously.” He bends over and kisses my forehead. Kipling better take care of him, or I’ll come after her like no jungle cat she’s ever seen.

  “Only because I want you to get everything coming to you.” Everything I stole from you. When I think about how comfortable his childhood could have been.

  “Hi,” Lindsay appears on the porch. She’s alone and as she appears, Kuku races out the door.

  “Kuku!” I yell. I don’t dare run after him for fear Lindsay will spill everything to Ron Jr. So I try to act casually as I see my cat headed toward the street, and though I’m not a praying woman, I shoot up a request. “You better run and get the cat!” I say to Ronnie.

  He feels slightly more enthusiastic about my cat than Lindsay does. Slightly.

  “He’ll be back, Mom. He’s got it too good here.” I see him smile at Lindsay in a way that stirs every fear within me. He’s talking about the cat, but his eyes never stray from Lindsay. She, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice him, not even in a casual glance other than a conciliatory greeting.

  “Mom?” Lindsay repeats. “This is Ron Jr.?” Now, instead of looking straight through him, she takes the time to stare at his features, probably to take notes if there’s a resemblance to her own precious Ron.

  He nods eagerly as he waits for an introduction. I fear I didn’t give that boy enough birds-and-the-bees information, because in this, he couldn’t be more Ron Brindle’s son. He’s like a second grader in the body of a young Mel Gibson. Women like Lindsay will chew him up and spit him out. It’s times like these that I wish I owned a cage to lock him up in until the danger passed.

  She presses her small hand into his palm. “It’s really nice to finally meet you. Do make yourself at home. I’ll be upstairs if either of you need anything.” Lindsay walks through us and up the stairs in some sort of zombie state. She never looks back. Her hips don’t sway, and she wasn’t the least bit moved by my gorgeous son! What is wrong with that girl? I must admit, though, I’m thankful for the slight.

  Ron watches her all the way to the top of the stairs, and his jaw is significantly lower than it was a moment ago. “Ronnie?”

  “Huh?” He pulls his eyes away. “That’s her?”

  “That’s her.”

  “She didn’t look that good the day of the funeral.”

  “No, I imagine she wouldn’t.” I clear my throat. “So, you were saying about Kipling?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m not even sure if I’m ready for you two to meet, but you’ll like her. She’s a nice girl.”

  “I’m sure I will, if you do, sweetheart. Four months is a long time these days.”

  “How old is she? Lindsay, I mean? I didn’t realize she was so—”

  “She’s younger than you, darling. I think a year younger. Thirty-five, thirty-six, somewhere in there. Your father must have charmed her with the gifts! Or she was easily purchased.” Granted, that was slightly catty, but Ronnie needs a reality check. I should be grateful for Lindsay’s quick exit, which saves me at least a panic attack or two.

  “You think? She doesn’t seem like that type of girl. She seems like a sweet girl.”

  “Precisely. She’s a girl, who was married to your father.” I remind him. “I hope Kipling has no such baggage.”

  “Why is she here, do you think? This place isn’t so great, and it smells like cat pee out here in the halls. I assume Ron left her something, too.”

  “She probably can’t afford living in Pacific Palisades. I think she worked as a salesgirl in retail before she married your father. I don’t know what she was left with until the will clears. She’s got to be maintaining on some sort of stipend.”

  “Nothing wrong with honest work, and she has to have title on the house still. Wouldn’t you think?”

  His answer makes me want to swat him on the behind, as I might have done when he talked back to me as a child.

  “She still wears her wedding ring. Did you notice?”

  “I didn’t. She probably will until the will is complete.”

  “Mom! She looked upset. Maybe you should go check on her.”

  I step outside and pull the door shut behind me. “I’d like to, but I have to find the cat. She’ll be fine. She’s a strong girl.” I cup my mouth with my hands and start to shout. “Kuku! Kuku!” I notice all the neighbors snap their curtains and stare, but my heart is pounding. Ronnie remains fascinated with the door, and I’m assuming who’s behind it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ron planned this, as well. “Come help me, Ronnie!” I snap back at him, and his trance is shattered.

  He lifts his hand to the doorknob, and I barricade myself in front of the entry. The last thing Ronnie needs is to play nursemaid to Ron Brindle’s trophy wife. “Come on, you can tell me more about Kipling while we look.”

  Chapter 5

  Lindsay

  Nothing ever truly changes. In biblical times, I’d have a father with no dowry to offer. In Victorian times, I’d be standing against the wall in my best gown, grasping an empty dance card. Presently, I am seated in the back row of my church’s singles’ group, wondering why on earth I came and how I let Haley talk me into this. Even though we’re in the back, we might as well be onstage, for all the attention we’re receiving. People are milling about—correction, women are milling about—and so far, not a one of them has come to welcome the new faces into the room.

  “I feel stupid,” I say through my clenched teeth. “I’m a widow. I don’t belong here, Haley.”

  “You’ll get over it,” Haley says with all the compassion of a meter maid on Santa Monica Boulevard. “It might help you feel more comfortable if you took off your wedding ring.”

  “That would imply I’m on the market, and I’m not on the market. And you say I’m controlling?”

  “You don’t have to be on the market to attend a singles’ group. You’re single. You don’t have to fill out a form telling how you’re single. The Trophy Wives Club is dealing with so much angst right now. With Bette getting married and Helena’s divorce finalized, you don’t need all that added stress.”

  “I can handle the stress of friends. It’s the stress of strangers that bothers me. Really. I think we should go.” I add, in my best ventriloquist, “This is for young people.”

  “You’re young.”

  “Young people without a history.”

  “Everyone has a history.”

  “But most of them in here could get the PG-rating. PG–13, at the very worst. Seriously, Haley, I don’t belong here. I’m an old woman in mind and spirit. These people have their whole lives in front of them.”

  “This, too, shall pass, Lindsay. Sit down. You only have yourself to blame for being forced into this. You’re the one who sat around for a year. Did you think Bette was going to let that go unheeded?”

  “Don’t try to blame this on Bette. You’re the one who brought me here.” I can’t meet a man in the church. Is she kidding me? Jesus may forgive me of my sins, but
the church—well, it keeps a long account.

  “You were really no help on my shopping trip. I thought this would get you in a better mood. Besides, if you chose to get out, you might have chosen where you went.” Haley presses me back onto the hard, metal chair.

  “You used to be the nice one,” I tell her. “‘Oh, that Haley is so sweet!’ people would say. I’m only staying because I’m worried about too many sequins on my bridesmaid gown. Is that clear?”

  “Would you stop fidgeting? No one would notice us, if you’d just sit still.”

  This is a complete lie. We’re members of the Trophy Wives Club—a diverse, yet strangely similar Bible study of women whose sins have been made public. Most of us come with the title Divorced. I came a more circuitous route, marrying a man much older than myself, but the fact is, we might as well wear the scarlet letter. Everyone knows who we are, and their hushed whispers and stolen glances only confirm my fears.

  “I’m not single, and they all know it. Why else has no one said hello?”

  “You are single. Your husband is gone, and last time I checked the Bible, young widows were allowed to remarry. Remember? So they didn’t burn with passion.” Haley giggles.

  “There’s little chance of that.” Being in this large group of women brings out all my fears and insecurities. It’s like being in junior high school when every other girl was wearing Nordstrom’s Brass Plum clothes, and I was sporting elastic-waist polyester. I may have learned fashion and appropriate responses, but in this scenario, the old insecurities rise to the surface effortlessly. I am not one of them.

  I settle into the chair, my plastered smile greeting every woman as they enter the Sunday school room, hoping they won’t remember where they’ve seen me before. “This is like being the new kid in school…only chillier.” I lean over to Haley and whisper into her ear, “Where are the men? I thought the point of a singles’ group was to meet others of the opposite sex.”

  “No. The point, Lindsay, is to meet people who are in the same life situation that you are. Bonding. Fellowship.”

  “Oh, trust me, none of these people are in my situation. We’re the visiting circus people, come to Mayberry. We could probably charge a quarter for a viewing. Should I get a tattoo, maybe?” I lift up my bicep. “Hang from a rope by my teeth?”

  “Lindsay.” Haley says with her serious, are you kidding me? look. “Focus on being quiet. You don’t have to fill every second with verbiage or fight every activity. We’re here at the singles’ group because Bette thinks you need to be around younger people. It’s time to move forward.”

  “You’re still a Trophy Wife,” I say with so much whine, it has cheese on the side. The Trophy Wives Club is my Bible study. It’s where I belong and no matter what they say, throwing me back into the singles’ scene is simply not going to work.

  “You’ll always be a Trophy Wife, Lindsay. No one is kicking you out. We’re simply saying, explore your options. Start living again. Now quit talking unless you’re going to meet someone new and talk to them.”

  “I talk when I’m nervous.”

  “You talk when you’re hungry, happy, depressed, and most probably in your sleep, too, because—here’s the thing—you talk constantly.”

  I shrug. “Ron’s not there to listen anymore. I still have things to say.”

  “I’ll take you to breakfast. Save it all up for then. We’re here to meet people. Why don’t you use a little of that verbiage on meeting a new friend?”

  “I’d rather get a cat.”

  “Now you’re just being rude. Lindsay, you have never been shy a day in your life. Come on, do you really want to be with the Trophy Wives forever?”

  “I do. They’re my homeys. They took me in and loved me when no one else would. Bette accepted me from the start and so did the rest of them. I stayed with them when I separated from Ron. I stayed with them when we got back together. Why can’t I stay with them when I’m single?”

  “Ron was twenty years older than you. You didn’t exactly fit in with the young couples’ group. They were having babies; you were managing retirement accounts. But now…now you could meet a man in the same life circumstances as you.”

  “Fanning about a death certificate?”

  “You belong here. It’s the truth.” I can tell Haley feels guilty for saying it, though, and she gets that teary look she has. “I’m sorry, Lindsay. Ron was a good man, but he’s been gone more than a year and you can’t live the next sixty years as a mourning widow. At some point—”

  “Don’t say it. Just don’t say it.”

  “Mingle a little, why don’t you?”

  “Mingle? Did you notice no one has talked to us yet?”

  I look around the room, which really is all female—I’m not just saying that for effect. There’s not a set of Dockers in the place. Whoops, I stand corrected—but it’s just a bad fashion choice, not a man.

  I’m not in the market for a boyfriend, and forgive me if this is wrong to think, but this…this situation cannot be good for the churchgoing women of the greater L.A. basin. Did God put a female elephant on the ark without a male elephant? He did not. And He most certainly did not put forty female elephants with only one male. I don’t care if you’re a gambling sort or not, these odds stink. Perhaps, the men are waiting to make their dramatic entrance. Or maybe they’re just not good at waking up in the morning, but as far as a singles’ group goes, this is looking like a marked deck, and the last thing these gamblers want is another player.

  Finally, at four minutes past the hour, the first man walks in. All heads shoot up and gaze at him. He’s not a handsome man. How can I say this nicely? He’s chinless and has a beer belly. I’m not exactly sure how a church boy gets one of those guts…french fries, maybe? Too many Doritos? Ewww. Maybe he has bad breath, too. But we’re talking about the only man in this room. Here, my chinless friend is Bond. I can almost hear the sucking sound as the women surround him, latching onto him with their eyelashes batting. I roll my eyes. “Oh, brother. Haley, please. I’m begging you—can we go?”

  “Shh!” Haley says.

  “Do you see that?” I point to chinless Bond.

  “Maybe he’s a really nice guy.”

  “Maybe he’s just a guy. Maybe that’s all you need to be around here. Oh my gosh, we have to go out recruiting.” I grab her arm. “These women need men. Come on, let’s go to The Grove and pick up some men and bring them back! We can evangelize and everything! You’re good at that.”

  “I do think recruiting men might be illegal, or at the very least, cultlike. Don’t be so pessimistic. Maybe it’s the guys’ camping weekend or something.”

  “I’m a pessimist? I’m watching Sunday morning roller derby played out with women with Bibles. It could get violent at any moment. That’s not enough to make you a cynic? This is worse than an open casting call for a Spielberg flick. You don’t think this is where they got the idea that mud-wrestling on The Bachelor would be a feasible option?”

  “Lindsay, you did things differently last time, marrying older. Do you want to do them the same way?”

  I give up. I cross my arms and lean back in the chair. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds that the pink, pleather Bible could take down the old-fashioned study Bible in a fight to the finish.

  Sitting in the back row is like being, once we’re sized up, invisible, and I thoroughly enjoy the dance of the singles before me. More men have entered the room, which makes for a human version of bumper cars, where friends seem to break off into groups and commune.

  As I’m watching, I don’t notice that chinless Bond has just noticed us and separates the gaggle of women to approach Haley and I. Neither my wedding ring nor Haley’s engagement ring seem to deter him.

  “Haven’t seen you two around here before.”

  “We attend a different group, normally.”

  “So we all go out to eat when we’re done here. You girls up for it?”

  Girls? There’s a reason I like old
er men. “We are going to get breakfast after this,” I say, unwilling to let Haley out of her offer of pancakes and certainly not wanting to extend this pain any longer than I have to. Chinless Bond belongs to the women of this Bible study, and whether he realizes it or not, I’m not incurring their wrath while he discovers this truth.

  One of the women comes up and cups Bond’s ear with her hand to whisper. Apparently, her mother forgot to tell her how rude it is to tell secrets. She points at me. Another nicety her mother clearly failed to mention.

  “Haley!”

  She pats me on the wrist. “You can handle this, Lindsay. You’ve got to get past this part of it. We’re new. They’ll get used to you.”

  Chinless Bond backs away from us and so many emotions well up—emotions I could kill Haley for making me battle.

  “It looks like we’re about to get started. Glad to have you both join us.” Something about his casual dismissal of me enrages me.

  I stand and meet his gaze. “We didn’t actually meet. I’m Lindsay Brindle, and this is my friend, Haley. We’re from the Trophy Wives Club down the hall, as you probably heard.” I stare at Miss Bible who forgot her manners and stick my hand toward her. “And you are?”

  “April,” she stammers. “April Endicott.”

  “April, it’s nice to be with you this morning. Thanks for welcoming us to your Bible study.” Granted, I put a little extra emphasis on the word Bible. Who could blame me?

  “Sure.” She nods, unsure of herself—which makes me feel guilty.

  “Have you two known each other a long time? You seem like such good friends.”

  “Tim and I?” She looks to our Dockers-clad 007. “Since high school.”

  “So not very long then.”