Facelift (8 page)

Finally she steps sideways. “Check the door.” As I peer through the peephole, she checks the front window, barely moving the drapes. “Do you see anyone?”

“Just an older man—”

She elbows me out of the way, raises up on tiptoe, and peers with her good eye through the peephole.

“I think he’s probably gone now.”

“We should be going. You load the car and I’ll wait here until you’re ready.”

It feels like we’re about to make a mad getaway. Actually, I’m mad for following her orders and inviting her to stay. Indefinitely!

I’m beginning to see the wisdom of my teenage daughter.

Chapter Six

Marla’s stuffed-to-the-gills bag weighs as much as a Texas-sized catfish. I back through the front door, dragging the heavy bag. A deep-throated bark signals something is wrong. Either I’ve entered the wrong house or a burglar brought his own dog.

From the corner of my eye, I spot a furry black blur. As I fully turn, what looks like the creature from the black lagoon launches at me. I recognize the dog as the force of its paws hits me right in my middle. “What are
you
doing here?”

I wrestle my way through the door, slamming it behind me in a pathetic effort to protect Marla and her face.

“Izzie!” I elbow the beast out of my way, placing Marla’s suitcase between me and those platter-sized paws. The crazy dog jumps and barks in a circle around me. “Sit!”

Surprisingly, It does. But there must be springs on its backside as it pops right back up. Four fat, furry paws prance around me. Keeping my focus on the dog, I glance around to see if Jack is nearby. But my client isn’t here. Just his dog.

Izzie comes around the corner into the foyer. She sports an innocent look but registers no surprise at me being cornered. “Need help?”

“Where did this”—I push the dog off me again—“thing come from?”

“Cousin It.” She grabs the collar. “That’s its name. Cute, huh?”

“We’ve met before but—”

“You have? Where?”

I wave my hand to brush aside that unimportant topic. “Question is—how did you?” Distracted from the real problem, I glare down at the menace. My blood pressure surges. “Why is
It
here?”

“A friend needed a place for his dog. It’s just temporary.”

“Yeah, it is. Get it out of my house now.”

“Dad never let me have a dog.” It’s the parent-versus-parent sand trap. “Come on, Mom.”

“No.”

“Just for a couple of weeks.”

“Your grandmother is going to be here. She’s outside right now. We don’t have room for that . . . that . . . thing.”

“If you can invite someone here without my agreeing, then why can’t I?”

I square off with my daughter. This time I’m taller than she is, because she’s bent at the waist holding the dog’s collar. “Because I own this house. You don’t.”

She jerks on It’s collar and drags the furry mass to a giant crate occupying half of my den. “Fine. I’ll call an animal shelter.”

“Izzie . . .” I regret my words. I’ve tried to maintain a better relationship with my daughter than the one I had with my parents and their ever-present, “Because I said so.” Convenient as that might have been a few times in my daughter’s life, it doesn’t necessarily promote happy relations or diplomatic understanding. “Look, how do you know Cousin It anyway?”

“A guy I know.”

“Gabe.” I supply his name and enjoy watching Izzie’s eyes widen momentarily.

“They’re trying to sell their house.” Her voice slows. “And he needs a place for Cousin It to stay. Temporarily.”

“My new client.”

“Of course. Well, good, then it helps you too.”

Scowling, because I have no rebuttal for that, I stare at the beast in the crate. His—or is it a her (I can’t remember)—whatever,
It’s
tongue lolls out of its mouth, a pink ribbon of cuteness. I admit only to myself that the dog is kind of sweet. Frankly I have an inkling it’s because I do like outdoing Cliff in this regard. But I know for a fact looks can be deceiving.

I go back to the garage. Marla stands at the side of the car looking disoriented. She props a hand on her hip. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry. You must be tired. Come on.” I take her arm. “Let’s get you settled.”

She wobbles on her heels. Why didn’t she just wear tennis shoes or house slippers? But that’s not Marla’s style. She’s not about to show any weakness.

“What is that?”

Cousin It stares out from her crate, pink tongue still lolling.

“Another house guest.”

“You’re not going to put
me
in a crate, are you?”

Good idea. “Of course not.”

When I start to pull out the sofa bed, I catch the shock in her one good eye, the fatty one. I’m being selfish. Nettled by my own good conscience, I pick up her Big Louie bag and carry it to my bedroom. Of course, I change the sheets, fluff the pillows, and invite her to “make yourself at home.” This time with
my
teeth gritted.

Marla crawls into my bed fully clothed.

“Want some help?”

She sticks out a foot like I’m her newly acquired servant girl, and I tug off her three-inch heels and pray she won’t use them to stab me in the back.

“Where is
she
?” Izzie whispers after she’s cleaned the pool and taken Cousin It for a long walk.

“Sleeping,” I pause, cutting carrots for homemade chicken noodle soup. “At least for now.” I can hear Cousin It’s gruff barks from the crate. She’s discovered our neighbor’s poodle and they like to share the local neighborhood gossip through the slatted fence.

Izzie peeks into the den then back into the kitchen. “Better not be
my
room.”

“No, Iz.” I present a tight smile. “Mine.”

“Where are
you
gonna sleep?”

“With Cousin It. I’ll take the sofa.” My voice lifts in my attempt to make light of the situation. “She can have the crate.”

“You’re taking this well.”

My automatic smile feels stiff, like I need some lubrication in the corners.

Izzie shrugs one unconcerned shoulder. “I’ve got a paper to write.”

“Let the dog out, will you?” I call, thinking the beast needs a reprieve.

With the chicken boiling in an oversized stockpot, I set the table, taking care to make everything just right, even placing fresh flowers in a vase for a centerpiece. No tulips were available as it’s the wrong season. I certainly hope I’m not.

When the phone rings, I jump toward it, not wanting Marla disturbed. Before I answer, I check caller Caller ID, hoping its Cliff. No such luck.
Unlisted
. I ignore the disappointment, which feels like Cousin It jumping on me for attention as irritation follows on its heels. Grabbing the receiver before it can ring again, I say in hushed tones, “Hello?”

“Isabel?” The rusty voice puts my motherly instinct on alert.

“No, it’s her mom. Can I tell her who’s calling?”

“Gabe.”

“Oh, hi, Gabe. We met this morning. You and Jack . . . Mr. Franklin, were loading up the truck.”

“Yeah. Course. Hi, Mrs. Redmond.”

“Okay, hold on.”

The oven’s buzzer sounds. I silence the timer, take the chicken off the hot burner, and walk to Izzie’s room. Two light taps on the door is enough of a warning. Inside her room she’s lounging across her bed, earbuds in place, toes tapping against the headboard. “Iz?” I repeat it louder. “Iz? Phone’s for you.”

She tugs on one of the cords that attaches her to the iPod. “What?”

“Phone.”

She glances at her cell phone charging on the table beside her bed.

“The regular phone.” I waggle it at her.

Her brow creases. “Oh, okay.” She rolls over and off the bed, landing like a cat on her feet. “Dinner ready?”

“In about thirty minutes.”

Much as I’d like to eavesdrop on her phone conversation, I move to my bedroom and there I hesitate. Should I check on Marla? It’s not yet time for more medicine. Closing my hand over the door knob, I question what exactly my obligations are here. Before the surgery I never would have bothered her behind a closed door. But now is different. She might be in pain, unable to call for help. Which gives me an idea.

I knock a couple of times, then open the door. Marla lies on the bed as if she’s in a casket, hands clasped over her chest, eyes closed. “Marla?”

She opens one eye then closes it.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Her voice is weak and raspy.

My closet is a quick escape. I refuse to feel guilty since it’s my own space with my own clothes and shoes. In a box toward the back, I find a little brass bell I used once for a play Izzie was in at school. “I thought this might be useful.” I place the bell on the bedside table. “In case you need something . . . anything.”

“Fine.” She doesn’t open her eye. I’ve been dismissed.

Still I hesitate. “Dinner will be ready soon. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“It’s homemade chicken noodle soup.”

No answer.

“Well . . . let me know if you need anything. Water. Your pills. An ice pack. Okay?”

Still no answer. Definitely dismissed. I slip out of the room and close the door as quietly as I can. When I reach the den, I glance out the back window and realize something is wrong. Dirt splotches the pool decking like it has just rained soil. The roots of a plant are upturned, the leaves shredded and scattered about like confetti. Mixed among them are the pink and yellow petals of my roses. Next to it all is the panting, eager face of Cousin It. Which makes me growl low and menacing at the back of my throat.

The bell was obviously a mistake on my part. I should don a uniform of some kind to complete my new role of servant. Maybe I should answer, “You rang?” in the same ghastly voice of Lurch.

“Mom!” Izzie appears in the den. I’m curled upon my new bed, exhausted from the day of being Marla’s beck-and-call girl. “Did you get me cotton balls at the store today?”

“I didn’t go to the store.” I feel as if I didn’t accomplish much today but drop the balls I’ve been juggling, scamper around to pick them up, rush around to help Marla, and chase after Cousin It. “Did you ask for some?”

“Yeah.” The disgusted look on Izzie’s face reminds me of my full-blown reaction when Cousin It dug up my roses. I took a long time-out, walking around the block to cool off my temper. I took another this morning with Cousin It in my effort to tame her. But I’m not sure who walked whom.

“I’ll pick you up some cotton balls tomorrow. There may be some in my bathroom if you want to check.”

“I’m not going in
there
.”
There
now means where
she
is. But
she
also means Cousin It. As in,
she
has a pen. Or
she’s
eating toilet paper. Or
she’s
counter surfing again.

Before this week I would have considered it a toss-up as to which would be in the lead for worst house guest—Marla or Cousin It. But the dog seems to be winning. Maybe God planned it this way to give me more patience and appreciation for Marla. After all, if Cliff and I are to get back together, then I’ll have to get along with his mother. At least she doesn’t drink out of the toilet.

“I’ll sneak in later and find some for you. Okay?”

“We have to sneak around in our own home,” Izzie grumbles.

“Yes, and we also have to keep the toilet seat down and food away from the counter’s edge. You can’t blame your grandmother for that!”

She gives me a look—the teen kind that means I’ve stepped in it. She turns on her heel and heads back to her room. I follow. At least Izzie is less intimidating than Marla. And that’s saying something as my daughter’s temper could be considered a perfect storm at times. “I’m just trying to be considerate. Marla needs her rest.”

“She always needs something.”

Carefully I close the door. A crunching noise alerts me. I glare at the dog. “What’s she chewing on?”

“A bone. Gabe gave me a supply at school.”

“Look, Izzie, I know you’re not happy about this, but we have to make the best of the situation. Can we at least try to get along? Marla hasn’t done anything to hurt you.”

“Lately.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Did she eat that soup you went to so much trouble to make?”