Facelift (5 page)

A glance at his worn work boots makes me consider the possibility that his ex took him for every penny. Or has the economic downturn affected his business? Or maybe he’s the token nonpretentious person in the whole city of Southlake. “The idea of staging is completely opposite of how you or I might decorate a house in which we want to live. It’s like a . . . facelift.” Gee, where’d that idea come from? “It shows off the best features. You want someone to walk in and imagine how great their furniture will look here.”

“So it’s better to have completely empty rooms?”

“Not at all. Most people don’t have that good of an imagination. They need a little help. You see, all these wonderful games might distract buyers from actually seeing the features of the house.” I silently congratulate myself on my tact. “They might want to play the games rather than buy. So what I see happening here is putting—”

“If I Loved You” begins. Even though I suspect Marla called Cliff when she couldn’t reach me, I lunge past Jack for my purse. But when I reach the pool table, I realize the ringtone is coming from the corner of the room. From the dog.

“Not your ex-mother-in-law this time, huh?”

“The dog has my phone!”

Cousin It must sense she’s caught, because she scrambles to her feet. A flash of gray metal hangs out of her mouth.

“It!” Jack’s tone is forceful but much calmer than my own. “Leave it.”

She drops down, planting her paws on the floor, and her backside arcs upward, tail dusting the air.

“I have to get that call!”

“Okay. Stay right there.” Jack points in my direction as the ringtone suddenly stops. “Don’t let her run past you.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tackle her if you have to.”

“Do what?”

But Jack moves stealth-like toward the dog. “It.” His tone is commanding. “Leave it.” The romantic song soars through the room again like an anthem, my marriage calling to me. And Cousin It couldn’t care less. Jack fakes right, the dog leaps sideways, but Jack is quicker. His arms fold around the scruffy body. He pries open her jaws and pulls out my cell phone. Wiping the slobber off on his jeans, he then hands it to me.

I stare at it, noting a tooth mark in the flat panel. “You’ve got to get rid of that dog.”

He opens the phone for me and holds it out to me.

I can hear Cliff’s voice. “Kaye? Are you there? Kaye?”

Taking the phone between forefinger and thumb and trying not to touch any more of the phone before it’s been disinfected, I say, “I’m here, Cliff.”

“Where are you?” The accusation in his voice chafes against me. “I’ve been trying—”

“I’m in a meeting.”

“Mother called.”

“And?”

“She needs someone there with her.”

“Be my guest.” My gaze darts toward Jack who turns his back discreetly on me. He has a hand firmly around Cousin It’s collar and is walking her toward the back door. “She’s
your
mother.”

“I’m working, Kaye.” Irritation tightens Cliff’s voice. “I have responsibilities.”

Like alimony, but I keep that to myself, as well as his little two-week trip to the Caribbean with Barbie. “So do I.”

“I can’t just drop everything.”

“Of course not.” I grit my teeth. He believes I can. Probably because I always have.

“Let me know what the doctor says then.” He skips over or doesn’t recognize my sarcasm. His assumption that I’m going to race back to care for his mother nettles me like a sticker burr against my ankle.

“Where’s Barbie? Can’t she help?’

“Her name is Barbara.” He mutters something under his breath. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“We’ve separated.”

“You have?” I cringe at the hope springing in my voice. “When?”

“You don’t have to sound so smug and happy.”

I bite down another sarcastic remark and pray for guidance as I tread over this icy patch.
Cliff is available!
God, help me say the right thing. Maybe his midlife crisis has skidded into a blockade and he’s come to his senses. Finally! Or will soon enough. Of course God has placed me right smack dab in Cliff’s path. Which tells me once again, God’s will is for us to get back together. He’s all about restoration. But I can’t be selfish and think only about me and my excitement at this moment. Cliff must be devastated. Temporarily.

“I’m sorry, Cliff. I know how painful a breakup can be.” Now that his bed is empty and his town home vacated, I guide the conversation to a more pressing issue. “So”—I turn my shoulder away from Jack—“what’s going to happen when your mother goes home?”

“How should I know? Ask the doctor.”

I roll my eyes.
Men
. They never think ahead and make plans. Or at least Cliff never has. “Fine, I will ask the doctor what he recommends. I’ll call you later.” Before he can hang up, I have another thought. “Cliff?”

“Yeah?” There’s a note of intimacy in his voice, one that stirs memories of us lying in bed together, limbs entwined, sleep settling over us. I learned over our fifteen years of marriage that this tone meant it was the perfect moment to make a request—a swimming pool, trip to Bermuda, girls’ night out—but those days are long behind us.

“Could you call Isabel?” I refrain from reminding him he was supposed to call her last night. He’d consider it nagging and it wouldn’t put him in the right frame of mind. I realize I may be pushing my luck at the moment. “Let her know what’s happening. Tell her I’ll be late getting home tonight.”

A heavy sigh from his end of the phone provides an image of his face scrunched in irritation. “Yeah, all right.”

I smile to myself. Of course I’ve already talked to our daughter but Cliff won’t dare forget to call her now.
Because he wants me at the hospital with his mother.
Inside my head the thought replays as
he wants me, he needs me. Me, not Barbie.
My heart rate accelerates.

Then with a click he’s gone. I snap my cell phone closed and dance a little jig as if I’ve just won
Are You Smarter Than a 5
^th
Grader?,
but which leaves a lingering prickly question of whether I am or not. I’m not one to raise my hands and jump around at church, but if ever there was a moment to rejoice it’s this one. All the prayers I’ve said in the past months are finally coming to fruition.
Thank You, God! Thank You, thank You, thank You!

“Good news?” The sound of Jack’s voice laced with humor makes me freeze.

Slowly I lower my arms, still my backside in its imitation of Chita Rivera. “Oh, well . . . sort of. Yes.” I give a firm jerk on the hem of my jacket to make it lie flat. “More like answered prayer.”

He grins, and the effect is disarming. “I’m all for prayer. Sorry about your phone. But I’m glad it’s still working.”

I turn it over in my hand, notice several teeth marks mar the once smooth surface.

“Is it too personal to share?” Jack asks.

I swallow back any hesitations. “My husband”—I tilt my head, admitting the truth—“
ex
-husband’s girlfriend is now out of the picture.” I don’t usually discuss such things, especially with a stranger, but it seems appropriate as if I’m reaffirming in my head that no matter what hot man comes along—either Izzie’s coach or this potential new client—I have a goal.

“Ah, I think I see.”

Does he? Can he understand the way my heart feels suddenly stronger in its steady, unwavering beat? “You do?”

“Vengeance, right?”

“No, no. Not at all.” And a smile breaks across my face. “Opportunity.”

Chapter Four

Barbie is gone!

I knew it couldn’t last. What would a twenty-something find interesting in a man pushing forty? Almost from the moment I found out he was seeing another woman, which was precisely ten seconds after he told me he was leaving, I began praying for the restoration of our family. Of course, this came after I had a few days of extreme anger where I made more than a few suggestions to God about how He could have Cliff run over by a bus. It didn’t take me long to realize though that I simply wanted him back. After all, God certainly doesn’t want a marriage to end. That’s not His will. Right? Now, maybe the fact that Barbie is out of the picture is a sign. Maybe Cliff calling me to help with his mother is a step in the right direction. An opportunity.

A door opening.

I imagine taking dinner over to Cliff’s, serving him and his mother the lasagna that he always loved. I’ll take magazines for Marla to peruse during her recovery process, along with DVDs (ones with happy families) for entertainment. Flowers, too. Tulips were always her favorite. And herbal tea. What kind does she like? Lemon ginger, isn’t it? Marla might offer a rare compliment or show gratitude for my thoughtfulness. Cliff will walk me to the door, touch my elbow, pull me back toward him. “I’ve been a fool,” he’ll say, his arms sliding around my ever-widening middle. But with his new perspective he won’t notice or care. “I never should have left,” he’ll say. “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

I, of course, will resist the impulse to throw myself into his arms. Instead, I’ll place a steady, uncompromising hand against his chest, contemplate his pseudoapology, then with a sly glance upward at him I’ll suggest, “Let’s take it slow and see what develops.”

It shouldn’t take more than a couple of dinners. I might have to escort Marla to a follow-up doctor’s visit, but eventually Cliff will realize just how much he has lost. Only God can heal a heart, but I can disinfect the surgical area and sharpen the scalpel.

Back at the hospital, waiting next to Marla’s bed, I try to sit still when there is so much to do. Her mouth makes puttering snores. Ice packs cover most of her face, just the tip of her nose poking through. When my marriage is once again restored, Marla will be delighted to have me as a daughter-in-law rather than Barbie.

The squeak of the hospital door interrupts my fantasies of reconciliation. I readjust my blouse and straighten my spine against the plastic cushion in the spare chair, ankles crossed, hands clasped. I’m ready for Cliff to make his grand entrance. I prepare to stand slowly, hesitate as he reaches for me, then after a quick embrace break contact before he does first.

The curtain parts. A man in a white doctor’s coat over blue scrubs offers a blindingly white smile. It’s Dr. McDreamy from TV, or so it seems, but of course a closer look tells me it’s not the actor but a real doctor with his hair mussed in an offhanded way. His gaze shifts from Marla to me. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Kaye Redmond.” I stand, straighten my posture, which I hope makes me look less like a candidate for a tummy tuck, and stick out my hand. “I’m Marla’s daughter-in-law.”

Or will be again.

“Mark Scarr.” He takes my hand in a delicate grip, barely touching flesh to flesh as if I might be carrying H1N1. “I know”—his grin broadens, if possible—“ironic name for a plastic surgeon, huh? But my patients never forget it.”

Marla stirs. One ice pack slides off her face onto her pillow. She lifts her hand with the IV stuck in the back of it.

The doctor edges around me to the side of the bed, touches her arm, and cups her hand between his. Dr. Scarr checks her vitals on the monitor then peruses her chart he carried tucked under his arm. “Do you remember us talking yesterday evening? After the surgery?”

Marla nods, a drainage tube sticking out of her head bobs.

“You couldn’t finish?” I probe.

He scribbles a note on her chart. “Happens occasionally. We take precautions of course. Your mother . . . ?”

“In-law,” I fill in the blanks for him.

He pockets his pen then checks his cell phone. “She’s never had any heart problems before this.”

No visible ones.

“She was a good candidate for surgery,” he continues as he sends a text message. “But you never know how someone will react to anesthesia.”

“Death would be better,” Marla mumbles.

“Oh, Marla!” I reach for her other hand. “Don’t say that.”

“Marla—” He closes the chart, lays it on the side of the bed, and touches Marla’s shoulder “—it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Not your face.”

His smile never wavers. “The majority of the surgery was complete. It was only the excision of the fat pockets under the eyes that we couldn’t complete.” He neatly sidesteps that quagmire. How would this guy ever understand what it was like to have saddlebags or need fat excised around his eyes? “In six months you won’t notice a difference at all.”

“Six months.” She speaks without moving her lips. “I have to hide for six months?”

“Not at all. It’s going to take some time though. We talked about that before the surgery. Remember?”

“You did a full consultation before the surgery?” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling defensive of my mother-in-law. A first.

Dr. Scarr’s smile congeals at my implication. “Of course. I saw Mrs. Redmond in my office where we talked about what she wanted done, what was realistic, what
wasn’t.
We looked at a lot of before and after pictures to give her a better idea of what to expect.”

I imagine him grinning and winking and joking until Marla simply batted her wilting lashes and agreed to anything . . . at any price. “And did you discuss the possibility of something like this happening?”

“There are always dangers during any kind of surgical procedure. She signed the consent forms.”

I wish Cliff were here to ask these difficult questions, but I’m not sure he would. When Izzie was born, he simply handed out cigars to strangers and clapped the doctor on the back. What would he hand out today? Cover-up? “How long will Marla be in the hospital?”

“A couple of days for observation.” He slips the chart beneath his arm and moves toward the slit in the curtain. “To be cautious, I think we’ll go ahead and keep the monitors on overnight. If she continues to do as well, then she should be able to go home—”

“No!” Fear spikes Marla’s voice.

The doctor halts midstride.

I lean toward her, pat her hand. “Don’t you want to go home?”

She shakes her head, making the tube coming out the top of her head sway precariously.

“Easy, Mrs. Redmond.” Dr. Scarr slants his magnetic gaze toward me. I have an urge to raise my hand to ward off being lured into a trap. “Sometimes patients after a lift need seclusion, where they won’t be bothered by friends. They’re self-conscious about the bruising and swelling.”