Under the Skin (9 page)

There was a snorting sound at Phillip’s side and Elizabeth stood up, abruptly dumping a surprised James to the floor. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

That too sounded like a snort.

Wednesday, May 16

I
gotta say, your sister has more sense than I would have given her credit for.”

It was after midnight when Phillip finally came to bed. I didn’t look up from my book but I could hear him pulling off his bathrobe and tossing it onto the hook fixed to the bedroom door. With Gloria in the house, he’d had to abandon his habit of padding around in the wee hours bare-ass naked. The bed creaked as he lay down beside me and the usually enticing aroma of freshly bathed male filled my nostrils.

“She was lucky that there was a back entrance near the ladies’ room,” he continued. “
And
that she was so near the parking garage. She said she was pretty sure that no one had followed her out here to the farm.”

“If there was actually anyone following her in the first place.” I turned a page. I could feel his eyes on me.

“Lizabeth, you want to put down the book and tell me what’s going on here?”

He was speaking very softly now. The guest room is just across the hall but as I could hear the sound of some high-pitched voice wailing about
tomorrow, tomorrow
, I didn’t think there was a chance Gloria was listening to us.

I closed the paperback but kept a finger in it to mark
my place. “How do we know,” I said, looking down at him over the top of my reading glasses, “that she’s not just making all this up? Believe me, she’s capable of it. Anything to be the center of attention—”

Capable. Phillip’s soft brown eyes are capable of making me feel weak in the knees on certain occasions. Now they made me feel ashamed. I knew what I sounded like—a sharp-tongued bitch—and I hated it.

He lay there with his head on the pillow beside me. One hand reached for my braid and tugged at it.

“Lizabeth, let’s save Gloria till tomorrow. Come here.”

It’s that scent of soap that does it every time.

Only when I was drifting off to sleep, did I remember I’d meant to straighten out the matter of Aunt Dodie … Aunt Dodie … and the Hawk … circling and circling, its tail flashing red … red as blood against the clear blue sky.

“Well, sleepyhead, I thought you were always up before dawn. Phil said to tell you that he had to go in early but since you were sleeping so hard he didn’t want to wake you.”

Phil?
I watched in something like amazement as Gloria plunged her rubber-gloved hands into the dishpan and began to wash a mixing bowl.

“What are you doing, Glory?” I managed to say, even though it was, of course, obvious. I hadn’t slept well—weird, troubled dreams and then a long period of lying awake in the dark, listening to the regular sound of Phillip’s breathing punctuated by the occasional snore from Ursa. And when at last I’d fallen asleep, it had been that hard, almost drugged sleep that leaves you exhausted in the morning. I was pretty sure that there were dark circles under my eyes and sleep creases on my face.

Gloria, on the other hand, was as perky, cheerful, and
immaculately dressed and made up as … as one of those smiling female hosts I remembered from morning TV, back in the days when I had time to watch TV.

“Well, I got up early—you know I have a lot to do today—and since there was poor Phil with no breakfast, I just fixed him some beignets.”

She waved a foam-frothed purple glove toward the stove. “I put some in the oven to keep warm for you. And Phil fixed the coffee. I found a shop in Asheville with some really good Ethiopian dark roast—Phil was just over the moon about it.”

Was he. How nice
.

I realized that I’d been breathing the delectable country fair smell of fried dough and sugar coupled with rich deep coffee undertones and, rather than question a miracle, I pulled open the oven door.

A dozen small plump brown squares sat on a paper towel, each covered with a drift of snowy powdered sugar. The aroma—was that a hint of cinnamon?—wafted out with the oven’s heat. My mouth began to water.

I turned to get a cup of coffee
—Ethiopian coffee, not that crap you always fix, Elizabeth
—but Gloria was already taking down my largest mug.

“There’s some milk on the stove,” she chirped. “I’ll just heat it up—you need to have café au lait with these.”

The words
No, I don’t need anything of the kind
were on the tip of my tongue when I realized that a big cup of strong coffee and hot milk was exactly what I needed to accompany those seductive little indulgences.

“Thank you, Gloria,” I managed to say as she handed me a plate. “That would be great.”

I sat myself on the cushioned bench and watched my sister bring the milk just to the edge of a boil and then pour it into the mug along with the coffee.

“They’re delicious, Glory.” I swallowed the last airy bite of the first beignet and reached for another. “When did you learn to make them?”

“Oh, Lizzy, you know me—they’re from a mix I bought the other day.” She handed me the steaming mug and plopped down on the other bench, letting out a little involuntary sigh as she did so. For a moment she slumped and I could see the pallor behind the makeup and the small signs of aging at her neck. Then she straightened and flashed a bright smile.

“I guess all that walking yesterday caught up with me. You know, Lizzy, as women get older, they should guard against making those little tired sounds like I just did. Sophia Loren said that nothing ages a woman more—I remember reading that somewhere years ago.”

A snarky observation concerning Sophia Loren and her pronouncements was hovering on my lips but I restrained myself and took a sip of the fragrant coffee. It was a revelation! I’d gotten out of the habit of milk in my coffee but this … this was perfect. And I had to admit …

“Glory, the coffee’s wonderful. Where did you say it came from?”

Her face brightened and I was reminded of how thrilled she’d been when I’d praised the kimono she bought for me. Suddenly I saw myself through her eyes—grumpy, hard-to-please, self-righteous, opinionated older sister. As I looked at her, scenes from my childhood—
our
childhood—flashed into my mind. Me, barricaded in my room with my books and my record player, shutting the door against my little sister who wanted me to play dolls with her; me, making a gagging sound and pretending to throw up when she danced into my room to show me the frilly pink dress she was wearing to a birthday party; me, ignoring—

“… Ethiopia,” the here-and-now Gloria was saying,
unaware of my guilt trip into our mutual past. “I think it’s grown by some kind of monks or something. I’m so glad you like it, Lizzy.”

We were smiling at one another in an unexpected moment of sisterly regard—a moment cut short by the buzz of my telephone. As I stood and started for the office, Gloria grabbed at my arm.

“It could be Jerry!” She was whispering as if I’d already picked up the phone. “I just realized … if the Eyebrow told him he saw me in Asheville, Jerry knows you live in the area. He might … maybe you shouldn’t answer it … or you could screen it.”

I shook loose from her grasp and hurried from the kitchen, calling back over my shoulder. “Relax, Glory—it’s probably Laurel. She’s coming out to do some sketching this morning and she usually calls to see if I need anything from the store.”

Laurel is way too impatient to wait through more than six rings and I was in need of some lemons for a dessert I’d decided to fix for Phillip—
beignets, indeed—
so I scrambled to reach the phone by the fifth ring.

“Laur,” I gasped, “three lemons … or a bag, if they look okay.”

There was silence and I thought I’d missed her. Then a deep voice asked, “Is this Elizabeth … Elizabeth Goodweather?”

I had never met nor even spoken with my current brother-in-law but something convinced me that this was Jerry Lombardo and I was going to have to lie convincingly that I had no idea where his wife was.

I hate lying. Maybe because I’m not very good at it. I avoid it too because of all the complications that can arise from a lie—“Oh what a tangled web we weave,” as the old saying goes, “when first we practice to deceive.”

“This is Elizabeth.” My voice was cautious. Actually, I’m usually cautious when there’s a stranger on the other
end, as I tend to assume that it’s a telemarketer trying to sell me aluminum siding.

“Great! Listen, Elizabeth, this is Jerry Lombardo. I need to speak to Gloria—it’s very important.”

My first impulse was to say “Jerry who?” Instead I opted for the evasive, “Gloria? Did you think she was
here
? Don’t you know how much she hates the country? Anyway, didn’t she tell me she was going to a spa somewhere?”

Not quite a lie. She
had
told me that … once.

There was a deep chuckle. “Listen, Elizabeth, I tried to call Ben but I just keep getting his voice mail. I really need to talk to my wife. We had a little … misunderstanding and Gloria took off. She left a note with the name of a spa but she’s not there and never was. I’ve checked with all her friends and I have good reason to believe that she’s with you. Just put her on the phone and I’ll straighten out—”

“Jerry,” I interrupted resolutely. “If Gloria calls me or Ben, I’ll make sure she knows you’re trying to get in touch. If you two have had a falling-out, she’s probably just taken herself off for a while—maybe the spa thing didn’t work out or maybe she’s there under a different name …”

I still hadn’t told an outright lie. But my Jesuitical inventiveness was wearing thin and I dreaded the outright question
Is Gloria there?

A peal of barking from James provided the necessary interruption. “Uh-oh, I need to see what that dog’s up to—sorry I couldn’t help you, Jerry. As I said, if I hear from Gloria, I’ll let her know what you said. Bye now.”

I gabbled through this nonsense at light speed, ignoring the sputtering of protest at the other end and mashing the off button almost before the last words were out. Then I set the ringer at its lowest volume. If Jerry Lombardo called back, I’d let the voice mail deal with him.

But the thing was, he really did sound worried. And, what’s more, he sounded
nice
, whatever that puny word means.

James’s barking had reached frenzy pitch and as I came into the living room I could see him dancing and wagging in front of the screen door. The door squeaked and my younger daughter bounced in.

Tall—almost six feet—and lean to the point of boniness, with the typical redhead’s angular facial planes, Laurel invariably turns heads wherever she goes. She’s not beautiful, but, as a wistful friend once said, “Who’d want to be beautiful when they could look like
that
?”

Shucking off her bulging backpack and dropping it in a chair, she flashed a brilliant smile in my direction. “Back again, Mum—is there some coffee still hot? I’d love a cup before I head up the mountain.”

“Coffee’s hot and even better—” I gave her a quick hug. “Go look in the oven and see what your aunt Gloria’s been up to.”

As Laurel exclaimed over the remaining beignets, I realized that she was sporting a new look. The two fat short braids she had twisted her unruly red hair into made me smile. “I like the new do, sweetie—you make me think of Pippi Longstocking.”

“Oh, Mum …” Laurel’s words were accompanied by an indulgent smile. She reached for another beignet.

Leaving Laurel to her late breakfast, I went to look for Gloria. When I tapped on her door, she emerged from her room, her face taut with apprehension. “It was Jerry on the phone, wasn’t it? And what was the little dog barking at?”

“James was welcoming Laurel, who’s getting ready to go up the mountain and do some sketching. She’s in the kitchen now, enjoying the last of the beignets. And yes, it was Jerry. But I left him with the impression that I had
no idea where you were. Come on back in the kitchen; I’m in need of some more of that great coffee.”

Laurel was rinsing her dishes when we returned, doing a little hip-waggling dance at the sink as she hummed some rhythmic tune. Catching sight of us, she swung around and swiped her hands on the bib of her paint-smeared overalls.

“Morning, Aunt Glory! Those doughnutty things were
awesome
! Mum, listen, I’ve been thinking …”

When Sam was alive, those words were a cue for us to roll our eyes and prepare to batten down the hatches of our peaceful life. I forced a smile and braced for what might come.

Laurel leaned against the sink, her head bathed in the morning sun that streamed through the window at her side. Curly tendrils of red hair that had escaped the braids flamed into an aureole around her head as she fixed me with a beatific smile. “So, Mum, I was thinking about your wedding and I know you want it simple but I had a brilliant idea.”

I needed to slow this down. I opened my mouth to do so, but Laurel was bubbling over with her idea.

“
Handfasting
, Mum, wouldn’t a handfasting be cool? I know a Wiccan priestess who could perform the ceremony. We could do that thing with all of us joining hands and dancing in a circle around you and Phillip. And I bet Lisa could design some really amazing outfits for both of you!”

Is there a woman in the world who doesn’t feel that she could plan the perfect wedding? Even I had a few ideas that had been slowly simmering on the back burner of my mind ever since I’d asked Phillip to marry me. And when I’d realized that the summer solstice would be a good date, I’d even begun to assemble a tiny, tentative list.

“Well, Laurel,” I began, only to be interupted by Gloria.
She too had ideas and was able to set aside her worries about Jerry long enough to make a few Gloria-like pronouncements as she sat on the bench filing her already perfect nails.

“Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call Keith; he planned my last wedding and it was marvelous! He did the most
artistic
arrangements—all the flowers flown in from Bali or Fiji or someplace like that. Lizzy, if you’re still determined to have it here and not at the Grove Park or someplace really
nice
, at least we can do it with a little style. Keith will organize the food and the decorations. You’ll love him. It’ll be my gift to you. But you need a theme … let me think. ”