Hex on the Ex (3 page)

Parked cars and vans lined both shoulders on Royal Oak
Road, however, I sped along the road alone until another car turned onto the street from two blocks behind me. No joggers or dog walkers visible in the neighborhood of green-shuttered, white-shingled, and redbrick houses up on hills or nestled in lush landscaping behind picket fences.

A mile in, I made a left at the stop sign. I remembered the first time I drove up the same street four years ago with Dilly Silva, Mom’s good friend and Encino real estate agent extraordinaire. When Jarret’s trade to the Dodgers brought us to my hometown, Dilly found the three-bedroom, white stucco, adobe-roofed dream of a house in the hills above the San Fernando Valley. As great as the house and neighborhood were, I knew then I wouldn’t live there for long. My fifteen-year marriage was on life support before we moved in. Laycee was the last of Jarret’s flings—I filed for divorce and moved out six months later.

I hooked a sharp left up the hill toward his house, then a quick right through his open gate. At the top of the sunflower-lined driveway, Jarret stood waiting for me. Six feet of tanned, sinewy muscles, a jackpot smile, and messy sandy brown hair, he jogged in place by three cardboard boxes on the asphalt near the garage. I shut off the ignition and popped open my trunk.

“You’re late,” Jarret said.

“I got sidetracked. Laycee Huber showed up at your gym this morning.”

“Who?”

“Don’t,” I said, annoyed by his pretense of ignorance. “I’m surprised she didn’t call you the minute she got to town.”

“Why would she?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” I turned away, concealing my irritation.
Why did I bring her up? To provoke him? Hurt myself?
I thought I had moved past the sting of their betrayal. Guess not.

“Forget her. Are these the right boxes?”

I checked the cartons on the stoop. “Liz psych textbooks 1 of 4,” “Liz cookbooks 2 of 4,” and “Liz book-books 4 of 4.” I left four boxes behind in his garage when I moved out. “There’s one missing.”

“Those are the only ones I found.” He looked at his watch then rolled his shoulders. “You can stay and go through the garage yourself. I have to leave in a few minutes. It’s game day. I can’t be late for my run.”

“I don’t have time either,” I said. “The plumber will be at my house in a half hour.”

“I’ll search again later. If I see the other box, I’ll call you. Mind coming back?”

“As long as I don’t run into any of your female houseguests. You don’t want the ex-wife showing up to spoil your love life.”

He grinned. “Thanks, but you already do, Lizzie-Bear. When they get that look on their face like they want to move in and redecorate, I call them by your name or talk about how much I still love you.”

“That’s mean, Jarret. You’ll be a lot happier if you’d let a woman get close to you again.”

“Not the ones I’ve been dating lately. A model here, an old friend there. No one special. No one as special as you are.”

We locked eyes for a moment. I shook my head. “I prefer
being your friend. You deserve a woman who will love you in return, Jarret.”

And that was about as much affection as I could dish out and he could handle. He turned and loaded the boxes into my trunk then closed the lid. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be pitching relief tonight. Are you coming to the game?”

“With the whole family. It’s Dad’s birthday.”

“Are you getting Walter another autographed ball?”

My shoulders sunk. “I’m trying, but can’t seem to find one Dad doesn’t already have. I’m starting to panic.”

Each year for his birthday, I gave Dad a small box wrapped in blue and tied with a red ribbon—the Chicago Cubs’ team colors—holding a baseball autographed by one of the old Cub players. “Last year I gave him a ball signed by Ernie Banks, his favorite player when he was a kid. I need to find something before Mom’s party for him Saturday night.”

“What if I get the current Cubs players to sign a baseball for him? Would that work?”

“He’d love it. But I can’t ask you to go into the Cubs’ locker room to get autographs for me. It’s insulting to you.”

He waved me off. “It’s no big deal. An old friend of mine from back in the minors is on their pitching staff. I’ll call him for the autographs this afternoon. The ball will be in your hands by Saturday.”

“That would be amazing. How can I thank you?”

“Spend the weekend with me,” he said with a playful glint in his eyes. “We’ll make like old times.”

I laughed. “And that’s not going to happen. Maybe I’ll buy Dad a watch.”

“Okay, okay. No thanks needed. I’ll get the ball signed.” Jarret smirked. “Tell Walter it’s nothing personal when I pulverize his Cubs from the mound tonight. My old man will be watching the game in Illinois. Twists up his loyalties bad every time I pitch against his beloved Cubbies, and I have a strong hunch about this game. Ma still can’t understand why I won’t apply for a job with a Chicago team. She’ll never get it.”

“Your parents adore you and you know it. Are they resigned to living in the house the Braves paid for yet?”

When Jarret began to make major league money pitching for the Atlanta Braves, he paid off the mortgage on Bud and Marion Cooper’s home in McHenry, Illinois. To show their gratitude, they hung a lone Braves’ banner on Jarret’s wall of fame in their den. Chicago team posters papered the rest of the room.

“You know my parents. They’re too stubborn to accept me playing for a rival team. I still can’t get them on a plane out here to visit Dodger Stadium. I’m happy you’ll be at the game, Lizzie-Bear. Are you bringing the egghead? Or is he writing a book report tonight?”

I ignored the question and Jarret’s refusal to call my boyfriend Nick by name. If “he” or “him” didn’t fit, Jarret used nicknames degrading Nick’s job teaching religious philosophy at NoHo, the progressive community college in North Hollywood. Somehow in Jarret’s mind, my relationship with brilliant scholar, accomplished author, and oh-by-the-way adorably sexy Nick rated inferior to being married to a cheating, drinking, smoking, seven-figure Major League Baseball player in the twilight of his career. Jealous for my
attention, Jarret dug for excuses to get mad or feel bad—as if the real reasons for our divorce never happened.

“Mom, Robin, Dave, and I will be cheering for you, Jarret. Pitch a winner.” I started my car.

“Lizzie, wait.”

“What?”

“If you give me a lucky kiss good-bye, maybe I’ll hit a homer for you tonight.”

Our affectionate game-day ritual from the past warmed me into a smile. “Here.” I blew him a kiss. “And when you hit your home run, blow the kiss back.”

B
ypassing the morning rush on the 101 Freeway, I took Ventura Boulevard east to Studio City. Twenty-five minutes later, I turned left on Tujunga Avenue and crossed the bridge toward my two-story bungalow tucked into Colfax Meadows on Farmdale Avenue.

I parked at the curb, leaving my driveway clear for Stan’s truck.
My driveway.
I reveled in pride each time I walked the brick path to my porch. The bungalow had deteriorated into an eyesore before I bought it two months ago, left abandoned until lawyers and out-of-state relatives sorted out the estate of the deceased owner. Each new sign of improvement, like the row of purple-and-white pansies planted along the path, reflected a new beginning for both of us. House-proud.

A gardener had trimmed the overgrown trees and shrubs, reseeded the lawn, and cleared out the backyard so the neighbors would stop glaring at me as if the property was
haunted. Dilly helped me organize a crew to renovate the worn and dated interior. Before my move, they painted a spare bedroom so my year-old kitten, Erzulie, and I had a room to sleep in and my clothes had a place to hang while my new home came to life.

Spending my day juggling painters, electricians, deliverymen, and my full-time psychology practice became a time-consuming trick. Instead of the romantic summer jaunt Nick planned for us last spring, he took the research trip to Mexico alone last month while I tended to house renovations. Within six weeks, the team had stripped old paint off the fireplaces in the living room and master bedroom, scraped the wallpaper in the living room, dining room, and downstairs half bath and painted the rest of the house. New appliances were purchased and delivered, and the original 1940s tiles in the kitchen got scrubbed and polished. Except for the bathrooms, my home was coming together.

Stan swore he’d have the renovations on both bathrooms upstairs and the half bath downstairs done in five to seven days, tops. Stan was an optimist, too.

E
rzulie watched from the bay window in the living room while I carried the boxes from the car trunk into the house. Stan, a middle-aged gay Adonis in white painter’s pants and beat-up construction boots, arrived at nine with his assistant, Angel, a rotund Mexican sporting a walrus mustache and a sweet demeanor. While they worked their noisy magic upstairs in my bathrooms, I settled on the living room floor to arrange books into the built-in bookcases bordering the fireplace. Behind me, Erzulie, a blur of taupe fur
hiding in, under, and behind furniture, never tired of exploring the nooks of her personal amusement park we called home. She came out for food, her litter box, and to cuddle.

Soon my college textbooks, a collection of old high school yearbooks, and an accumulation of unread novels lined the bookcases framing the fireplace. I left one shelf empty for the research texts waiting at Jarret’s. The rest of the books in the final box—a blushing collection of erotica my best friend, Robin Bloom, had sent as a joke on my thirtieth birthday—would hide upstairs in a closet or a bottom dresser drawer.

I sat back on my heels and stared at the shelves, unsatisfied by the visual imbalance. Nope. I wouldn’t be happy until I achieved symmetry.

Jarret called at ten. “I found the other box. What do you want me to do with it?”

“I can’t leave now,” I said. “Can you—”

“I can’t. Ira wants to meet about an endorsement deal before I go to the stadium. If it’s as big as he claims, it means a lot of money. I’ll leave your box on the kitchen counter. You can pick it up whenever. The back door inside the garage is always unlocked. You remember the garage door code, right?”

“Gee, let me think. Your birthday?” I said. Jarret had used his birth date for every password, code, and Internet login since we met in college. During our first years together, I was too trusting to argue about safety. The last few years we did nothing but argue and the passcode took a backseat to bigger problems. Even his parents used Jarret’s birthday for their house codes because their only child needed to focus on baseball instead of cluttering his mind with strange
technology baloney. “You should keep your doors locked, Jarret.”

“What for? There’s nothing valuable in the house anymore. You moved out.”

A
t eleven, my mother, Vivian Gordon, waltzed into my house in a crisp gray linen dress and designer sandals. “Yoo-hoo. Ticket delivery.” Mom tucked a loose strand of her white pageboy behind an ear and furrowed her brow. “I need to sage this house again. I thought I cleared out the old spirits, but the air feels troubled and confused. Where’s the negative energy coming from? What are you doing?”