Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Help Needed for Holiday Decorating Committee!
Please join Newport Cove’s Holiday Decorating Committee! We’ll be festooning street lamps with wreaths, wrapping white lights around community bushes, and planning a very special visit by Santa for all kids (young and merely young-at-heart). Contact Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager, to sign up. —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager
• • •
Kellie started to walk toward the parking lot. “Should we leave my car here?” she asked. “It seems silly for us to drive two. But then you’d have to bring me back to work tomorrow . . .”
Jason smiled and put his hands on Kellie’s shoulders and steered her toward the front of the building, in the opposite direction of the parking lot.
“Jason?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
She stopped short when she saw a limousine parked in front of her office building, a driver wearing a jacket and cap standing by the open back door of the vehicle.
Kellie blinked a few times, then turned around and stared at her husband.
Jason was smiling. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Get in!”
• • •
“Where should we put the cake?” asked Susan, who was wearing bell-bottom jeans and a headband decorated with blue and red peace signs.
Gigi, who was in a sheath dress and white go-go boots, glanced around. “Maybe on that empty table by the bar?” she suggested. “We should probably keep it away from the dance floor.”
Jason had booked a private room at the community center for Kellie’s surprise fortieth birthday disco party. Right about now, he’d be picking her up at the office. In the back of the limousine he’d rented, he had a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. After a long, leisurely drive around town and a stop at Kellie’s favorite restaurant for hors d’oeuvres, he’d bring her here, where her family and friends were assembling.
Jason had picked up alcohol and sodas and a few appetizer platters and Susan had made the cake—a decadent, fudgy one. Gigi was in charge of the decorations. Tessa had volunteered to bartend, surprisingly. “I used to do it at the charity fund-raiser for my kids’ school,” Tessa had said. “I can make a mean dirty martini.”
The disco strobe light was hung in place, and Gigi was taping up the last streamer. Jason’s parents were bringing by the kids for the first half hour of the party, to sing “Happy Birthday” and give their mom a kiss and steal a piece of cake, then the lights would go down and the real party would begin.
Kellie’s actual birthday was a month away. But Jason knew she’d become suspicious if he planned a party for the right date.
Easygoing Jason, who was always in the front yard tossing around a football with his son and who’d once shown up at the pool with his toenails painted bright green (his daughter’s handiwork), was such a sweet husband, Gigi thought. She wondered if Jason knew about Kellie’s flirtation with her work friend, Miller. Maybe that’s why he was going all out for the party, to fight for his wife.
Gigi was rooting for him.
Gigi had found an online store that specialized in ’70s attire, and she’d bought extra wigs and outfits. After everyone shouted “Surprise!” she’d hustle Kellie into the bathroom and let her pick something fun to wear.
All the elements were in place. Except for the niggling feeling in the pit of Gigi’s stomach, a sense that something was amiss.
This morning, Melanie had come downstairs with her hair neatly brushed, wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater and the brown riding boots that had been buried in the back of her closet.
“You look so nice!” Gigi had blurted before she could stop herself.
But instead of rolling her eyes or rushing back upstairs to change, Melanie had simply mumbled, “Thanks,” and reached into the fruit bowl for an apple.
Gigi had been praying for a shift precisely like this in Melanie. Now that it had arrived, though, it felt too dramatic. Too quick.
After she’d eaten half of her apple, Melanie had gotten a mug from a cabinet and filled it with coffee.
“You’re drinking coffee?” Gigi had asked. Way to state the obvious, she thought. Melanie didn’t have to be sarcastic around her; Gigi was well trained enough to do it to herself now.
“Mmm-hmm,” Melanie said.
Well, she was almost sixteen. A little coffee wouldn’t hurt her, Gigi thought, hiding a smile as Melanie took a sip, wrinkled her nose, and added a huge splash of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar.
“Is Dad around?” Melanie asked.
“No, he and Zach went to some breakfast,” Gigi said. “Rotary Club or— No, a seniors group, I think.”
“Remember it’s Kellie’s surprise party tonight,” Gigi said.
“Right,” Melanie said. “Is Dad going with you?”
Why are you suddenly so concerned about Dad’s schedule? Gigi wanted to say, but didn’t. She knew exactly why.
“Yes,” Gigi said. “He might get there a little late, but he’s coming.” She felt like she was pressing her luck, but she still asked, “So can you stay home with Julia? You know she gets nervous being alone at night.”
“Won’t Zach be here?” Melanie asked. “Since Dad doesn’t have any events?”
“I guess so,” Gigi said. “I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable asking him, though . . .”
“It’s okay,” Melanie said. “I’ll do it.” Was she smiling? Yes, that was definitely a smile. Melanie had such a beautiful smile. Her front teeth had stuck out when she’d been little, but after two and a half years in braces, they were perfect.
Oh, how she’d missed her daughter’s smile.
Now Gigi looked across the room, to where Tessa was stocking the bar. “Half an hour till the birthday girl arrives,” Tessa said. “Olives. Where did I put the olives?”
“What can I do?” Gigi asked.
“If you could slice some lemons it would be great,” Tessa said. “I’ll start on the limes once I find the olives.”
“Sure,” Gigi said, grabbing a cutting board and a knife. “Is Harry coming tonight?”
“He’s in California,” Tessa said. “Oh, here they are! Right with the maraschino cherries. Go figure, I was actually organized when I packed this stuff.”
The DJ Jason had hired had already arrived and was setting up his equipment. Suddenly “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People blared out of his speakers. Gigi began shaking her hips to the beat.
“This is going to be fun,” Tessa said. “I love parties.”
“Me, too,” Gigi agreed. “And I especially love everything about the seventies.”
“Oh! We should come up with specialty drink names in honor of Kellie!” Tessa said. “Like . . . the Kellie Pickler! I can probably make a good green drink with some Midori.”
“Great idea,” Gigi said. Had Tessa already had a cocktail? Her cheeks were a little flushed and her eyes were bright. Normally Tessa was shy and reserved, but right now she seemed almost giddy.
“The Kelly Ripa?” Tessa was asking. “What should I put in that one? Maybe a gin and tonic with a twist.”
“And the Kelly Clarkson,” Gigi suggested. “It could have—”
One moment Tessa was reaching for a lime and a knife. The next, the sharp silver blade was cutting through the soft pink flesh on the tip of Tessa’s index finger.
“Oh my gosh!” Gigi gasped. “Are you okay? Here.” She tore a paper towel off a roll and handed it to Tessa, who was just staring at her finger.
“Tessa? Put pressure on it to stop the bleeding,” Gigi said. It must’ve been a deep cut; blood was running down Tessa’s fingers and dripping onto the floor. Gigi hoped she wouldn’t need stitches.
“I hate blood,” Tessa whispered, staring at the stain on the floor, just before her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed.
• • •
Susan had wanted to do something nice for her best friend. So she’d made an enormous batch of chili. She’d threaded strawberries and chunks of pineapple onto skewers, and had made a trio of sweet dips. She’d baked the sheet cake from scratch. She’d stayed up late the previous night cooking, but she hadn’t minded losing a little sleep. With Billie Holiday singing in her kitchen, and a glass of red wine by her hand, it had felt cozy. She was showing her love for her friend through food.
She’d made all the food for Randall’s fortieth birthday party, too, slow cooking ribs the way he loved them and chopping a dozen cabbages for coleslaw. She’d told him to go out golfing for the day.
“Relax,” Susan had instructed, pushing him out the door. In his golf bag she’d put a new putter tied with a big red bow. Randall was a big believer in celebrating birthdays well. For her thirty-fifth, he’d picked her up at work and had whisked her away to the Bahamas for a long weekend. For Cole’s fifth birthday, Randall had constructed a tree house for the backyard complete with a zip line and rope ladder before blindfolding their son and leading him outside for the surprise unveiling.
Susan had wanted to make the day special for her husband, to put the kind of thought into it that he devoted to the celebrations he planned for her. But she’d been harried, and had rushed through the cabbage-chopping and rib-basting in between returning work phone calls. Randall’s mother and older sister and brother-in-law were coming to the party (his emotionally distant father was claiming he had a cold, which Susan knew would hurt Randall), and Cole was getting over a stomach bug, which had kept him out of school for two crucial days when Susan had counted on doing errands for the party. She’d had to cancel her plan to blow up old photographs of Randall, from babyhood to today, for display. She’d scaled down her menu, swapping store-bought corn bread and appetizers for homemade ones.
But somehow, she’d pulled off the preparations. It was all going to be great. Until it wasn’t.
Susan’s company was still relatively young. One of her new clients had hired her to do weekly check-ins on his father at a nursing home. His father was showing early signs of dementia, the client had explained in a phone call.
The client—a businessman who seemed eager to convey how important he was—ate lunch all during his phone call with Susan. He lived in Los Angeles. He was “in entertainment,” he said. He was a very loud chewer.
“Just pop in and make sure he isn’t hitting on the nurses,” the client had said, chortling. “Last thing I need is a sexual harassment suit.”
“Of course,” Susan had said, glad he couldn’t see her rolling her eyes. “We’ll give your father some menu options so we can bring him meals when we visit. Something home-cooked makes a nice break now and then. And we can pick up a Kindle for him as well. The great thing about e-readers is that you can easily enlarge the font size. He can order movies on it, too.”
“Sure, sure,” the client had said in the slightly delayed, distracted way of a person checking emails. “Put it on the bill.”
Susan had planned to visit Mr. Spivey in the nursing home for the initial visit the day before Randall’s party. She always did the initial visits. But Cole’s stomach bug, the mountain of ribs waiting to be cooked, and the impending visit from the in-laws—it had all conspired to devour Susan’s time. Susan only had one assistant back then, a smart, competent woman named Rosa whose kids attended the same school as Cole. So she’d sent Rosa to meet Mr. Spivey instead. Technically she wasn’t doing anything wrong, Susan had told herself. She hadn’t promised the businessman she’d go to the initial meeting.
The day of the party, just as Susan was about to pull the warm, fragrant chocolate marble cake (Randall’s favorite) from the oven, her business phone line and the doorbell had rung simultaneously. At the door were Randall’s family members, minus his father. On the phone was the businessman.
“What the hell kind of scam are you running!” he’d shouted.
“I’m sorry, I— What?” Susan had said. She opened the door and gestured for Randall’s family to come inside, smiling an apology.
“My father’s Rolex is missing,” the businessman had said. “Is that your deal? You like to steal from confused old people? Nice racket you’ve got going, but I will shut you down so fast—”
“Wait!” Susan had cried. She gestured for Randall’s family to make themselves comfortable, then ran upstairs to her bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Susan had said. She’d been breathing hard, aware of the oven buzzer erupting one floor below, reminding her to take the cake out before it burned.
“My father’s gold Rolex is missing,” the businessman had said. “The woman you sent today took it.”
“But you don’t have any proof of that!” Susan had protested. “Your father has early-onset dementia . . . he could have put the watch in a drawer or something. I can go tomorrow and look for it. I’m sure there’s a logical answer!”
“He told me you sent a Mexican. He doesn’t trust Mexicans,” the businessman had said, and Susan had drawn in her breath sharply.
“Rosa Gonzales is an American citizen,” Susan had said. She began to tremble with anger. “She also happens to be one of the hardest-working people you could ever hope to meet!” Rosa had worked for a monstrous boss—a woman who’d paid her below the minimum wage and demanded that Rosa work twelve-hour days cooking and cleaning and caring for bratty twins—in exchange for a green card. She’d earned her citizenship two years ago. She was one of the finest women Susan knew.
“You’ve got until the end of today to come up with the watch or I call the cops on you,” the businessman had said before slamming down the phone.
The damn watch was in a drawer, or a shoe, or under the bed. Mr. Spivey had left it somewhere. Of course it was in his room!
Susan had raced downstairs, yanked the cake out of the oven, and offered beverages to Randall’s family. Then she’d smiled apologetically.
“Can you do me a huge favor?” she’d asked Randall’s mother. “Could you frost the cake as soon as it cools? Everything you need is on the counter—see, the frosting’s in this bowl, and the spatula is here. I have to run out and do an errand, but I’ll be back in plenty of time for the party . . . Cole’s upstairs watching TV . . .”
Randall’s family had looked bewildered as she’d backed out the door, calling a final apology, and climbed into her car.
Twenty miles. That’s how far away the nursing home was located. Susan had driven there in fourteen minutes and was pretty sure she’d be getting a ticket in the mail from a speed camera.
She’d signed in at the front desk, then run down the hallway to his room. “Mr. Spivey?” she’d said as she’d knocked on the door. “I understand you’re missing a watch?”
He’d just blinked at her, a confused, sick old man in a T-shirt and faded sweatpants. His eyes had cataracts and he was very thin. Here he lay, abandoned by his family, to spend his final days among strangers. But Susan felt no pity for him, after what he’d said about Rosa.
“Mind if I take a look?” she’d asked, and didn’t wait for an answer.
She’d searched through his drawers, sliding her hands in between folded shirts and slacks, squeezing to see if she could feel metal through the fabric. She checked his nightstand drawer, and under his bed. She shook out his shoes. She unrolled his socks and looked inside his medicine cabinet, then stood in the middle of the room, her index finger pressing against her lower lip.
“Let me see your wrists,” she’d cried, grabbing them. They were bare.
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” she’d said. If she found the watch in the next five minutes, she could still make it back to the house before the guests started to arrive.
She searched the laundry hamper and trash can. She asked—ordered, really—Mr. Spivey to stand up and she looked beneath him and shook out the covers in his bed. He watched her, seemingly fascinated.
“You don’t like Mexicans, huh? Let’s see how you feel about a black woman tearing apart your room,” she muttered, too low for him to hear, although she was tempted to raise her voice. She’d be firing him as a client tomorrow, right after she found the watch and photographed it on his wrist and texted the image to his son.
She heard her cell phone erupt with Randall’s ringtone. She let it go to voice mail, then texted: Sorry, work emergency but I’m on my way home! See you in a few!
She stopped checking her own watch. She couldn’t bear to see how late it was becoming. She was still wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a streak of icing on it, her hair in a ponytail. She was a mess, but she’d have to walk into the party like this.
She finally found the watch nestled in the soap holder in the shower. He must’ve taken it off so it wouldn’t get wet. She brought it over to Mr. Spivey, intending to shake it in his face. But he’d fallen asleep, his head tilted to one side, his mouth open. Susan had flung it onto his lap, taken the photograph, and run for her car.
She still had time! She could make it before the cutting of the cake. She’d be there for most of the party, she thought as she pulled onto the highway and stepped on the gas.
Then she saw a wall of red brake lights up ahead, as she hit a massive traffic jam.
When she’d finally walked into the party, the cake had been served, and the food was mostly gone.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d told Randall. “It was a work emergency . . . and there was traffic . . .”
He’d smiled, and had told her he understood, but his eyes were cold.
Susan realized she’d been standing there in her hippie headband, lost in thought, for too long. Kellie and Jason would walk through the doors soon. She was reaching for a stack of paper plates to set beside her cake when she heard someone yell, “Help!”
Susan turned around, and saw Tessa lying limply in Gigi’s arms.
• • •
“Give her air!” someone shouted as people pressed in around Gigi and Tessa.
“Should we call 911?” someone else wondered.
Tessa’s eyelids fluttered a few times, then opened. “Did I faint?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gigi said. She eased Tessa to the floor. “Can you sit up by yourself?”
“Give her some water,” Susan instructed, and a cold bottle appeared and was thrust into Tessa’s uninjured hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Tessa said.
“It’s okay,” Susan said. “I used to faint at the sight of blood, too.”
Tessa glanced at her hand, which Gigi was wrapping up in a paper towel that someone had passed to her. “That was really foolish of me,” she said. She started to get up, but her legs folded beneath her and Gigi caught her again.
“Give yourself a moment,” Gigi said. She put pressure on the wound and sat with Tessa for another moment, then told Tessa to close her eyes.
“I’m going to check the cut,” she said. “You may need stitches.”
Tessa nodded. She was still pale.
Gigi carefully unwound the bandage. She dabbed water on it, cleaning away some of the blood.
“It actually isn’t too bad,” she said, wrapping it up again with a fresh paper towel. “The bleeding is slowing down. You may want to get it checked out to see if you need a stitch or two, though.”
“Thank you,” Tessa said. “I’m sure it’s fine, and I don’t want to miss the party.” She reached for Gigi’s steadying arm and slowly stood up. She looked over to see Jenny McMahon kneeling down, cleaning the drops of blood from the floor.
“Are you okay?” Gigi asked. “You’re still pretty pale.”
Tessa nodded slowly, and kept staring at the blood.