No one is—not until my grandmother places two fingers in her mouth and whistles loud enough to have Ruth and Gertie tweaking their hearing aids. “Let’s take our dinner and drinks outside on the patio, where we can snack and finish our discussion while overlooking the lake.”
NowthatI can fully get onboard with.
Grandma Helen slings her arm around my shoulders, curling me closer and propelling me toward the patio door with surprising force. “You see, we’ve been pondering your situation and ways we can help—”
I drag my feet, gently applying the brakes. The last thing I want is to display my faults and mistakes for all to see. Can’t I just gesture in the general direction of my shambled life and call it a day?
I inhale a centering breath, exhale as much carbon dioxide and anxiety as I can, and debate whether this is a battle worth picking. Given my exhaustion and the awkwardness surrounding the other subject, I figure I’ll at least hear them out before telling them no.
The bubbies make their excuses, apologizing for ducking out early despite the fact they very rarely stay out past 9:00 p.m. and claim to turn into pumpkins by 10:00 p.m. We wish them a good night and then my grandmother renews her nudging me outside.
Since I’m a big believer in heading into combat prepared, I say, “If we’re having that chat, I think I’m going to need another margarita.”
For some reason, it provides no comfort when Grandma Helen signals to Rita and adds, “Better make it a double.”
Chapter Five
Two sips past buzzed, my muscles relax, melting into the support of a cushy patio chair that reclines and spins. Like a kid who can’t help herself, I grip the armrest, plant my feet, then whirl myself in the other direction.
With less light interference from the city, the smear of stars twinkle brighter, their reflection dancing across the surface of the water in intervals. Because here, Lakeview isn’t merely a name but a promise. Each house backs to a body of water, natural or man-made, save the homes bordering the golf course. It really cranks up the forever-escape vibes, making the outdoors feel more outdoorsy.
I’ve eaten the majority of the tortilla chips that used to be in the large silver bowl in the center of the table—Rita made her salsa, enough said.
We’ve heard the woeful tales of Sophia and Edmund and Sophia and Antonio from Cougar Lane, who now keeps three to five girlfriends on a steady rotation. “For him to think I’d settle for a man who fits me in when he can,” she huffs. “I thought Edmund was different, but when he proposed, he presented me with a fidelity clause he refused to commit to himself.”
Ugh, I thought the dating pool was supposed to improve with age, not return you to the shallow end. I’d say so but then they’d remember whatever misguided plans they’ve concocted for me.
“That’s why I like my men like I like my drinks.” Grandma Helen hefts her nearly empty glass in the air. “Extra strong and gone by morning.”
My smile lifts as the spinning of my chair slows, and I attempt to find clusters and connect constellations, which feels extra appropriate seated next to Wanda. She’s the one who taught me how to spot them and the myths that came along with them, tales I passed on to my siblings when we used to lie on the trampoline at night.
While I did my best, nobody tells stories like Wanda. The other side of that double-edged sword came whenever she’d call without warning and deliver my horoscope with such dread that I’d end up having the bad day she predicted.
That wasn’t clairvoyance so much as paranoia.
“Mia, are you ready to spill yet?” Gertie asks, and every pair of eyes swings in my direction. If they think they’ll extract details by sharing theirs, they’re sorely mistaken. Rather than respond with the real answer of “No and I’ll never be,” I stop the rocking of my chair, pretend to contemplate it for a moment, and shake my head.
“Well then, can you be a dear and use your young, lubricated joints to refill the chip bowl?” A metallic zing accompanies the bowl sliding across the table, Vonetta not bothering to wait for an answer. While they’re definitely getting rid of me so they can talk strategy, now I want chips to go with my puddle of salsa. Why is it I can never get portions quite right? Too much salsa, not enough chip; too much energy, not enough zip; too many articles about long-lasting erections after a lengthy season of not catching enough dick.
Great, somewhere around my second margarita I’d turned into a Boozy Seuss.
A residual flutter goes through my gut as I recall dimples flashing in bronze skin. His grin is there, burned in my mind’s eye one moment, and the next my vision’s eclipsed by the burly blond who held the door for me, that intriguing line in his forearm.
Then I’m pushing out of my chair and shaking my head, refusing to get carried away by glimmers of attraction. Besides, while the latter’s actions implied chivalry, his words said he yelled at old men.
Since the Cronies are going to devise their plans regardless of what I say or do, I take my time in the kitchen. I refill the bowl and shove enough chips in my mouth that I can hardly chew as I peek inside the freezer. The variety box of “assorted frozen novelties,” is still sealed, meaning Grandma Helen stocked my favorites just for me. I snake my arm inside, pry open the box, and seek out a Sundae Cone by touch, missing the added height of my heels, if not the pinch of my toes.
With the bulbed end and ridged bumps that hint at the nuts underneath… Okay, my brain really needs to cool it with the double entendre, although that speaks to how long it’s been. Perhaps I should go ahead and hand my dating life over—it’s not like the grannies can do much worse.
Once I’ve peeled and discarded the wrapper, I shove the ice cream end into my mouth, snag a bottle of water, and head outside again, minding the screen door so Fifi won’t sneak outside.
Everyone turns toward me, the happy laughter and chatter trailing off.
“What?” I garble around the nutty, fudgy goodness. With a slurp, I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “There’s more in the freezer. Does anyone want one?”
“Don’t mind us,” my grandmother says. “We’re just reminiscing on days past, when our metabolism allowed us to eat those sorts of things.”
“Allowed us to eat much of anything, really.” Sophia places a hand to her belly, constantly hard on herself for the slightest change in her weight despite the fact she’s in phenomenal shape. “A mali estremi, estremi rimedi.”
