A Mile in My Flip-Flops (24 page)

“Why don’t you just take a date?” he recovers.

“Why?” I feel myself about to jump into my little why routine
again, and I definitely don’t want to go there. Instead, I press the tile to the floor, give it a little twist, then let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you take me?”

I look up at him. “What?”

“Why not? Wouldn’t I pass for a date?”

I nod with wide eyes. “You’d really do that? For me?”

“Of course.”

Okay, I have the distinct impression he feels guilty for leaving me with Kirsten and that whole nail thing, but if this is a payback, I think I’m ready to cash in. “Sure,” I tell him a little too eagerly. “If that’s a genuine offer, I’ll take it. I mean, it’d be a whole lot easier doing this with a fake date than by myself.”

“A fake date?” His brow creases. “Does that make me a gigolo?”

“I think I’d have to pay a gigolo.” I chuckle. “Do you want me to pay you?”

He laughs. “Not with money.”

Okay, I’m not even going to ask him what that’s supposed to mean as I stand up and give my legs a stretch. I smile shyly, then change the subject. “So how do I get out of here? Or maybe you could bring me a pillow, and I’ll just take a nap.”

“Hang on,” he tells me. Then he disappears and returns with a two-by-eight, which he suspends like a diagonal bridge from the edge of the tub to the bedroom. He steadies it with his foot, and I gingerly climb on board.

“I feel like I’m walking the plank,” I say as I hold my arms out for balance.

As I get closer, he reaches out and takes my hand, and I relax a little. But then I look at his face and see that he’s gazing intently into
my eyes, and I suddenly feel awkward and self-conscious—like I’m about to lose my balance and tumble gracelessly, ruining my beautiful but still wet tile work. He has clearly picked up on my anxiety and says, “It’s okay, Gretchen. I’ve got you.” And then I’m on solid ground, and he’s still holding my hand.

“Thanks,” I mutter, turning away. “Umm, I’m going to check on the roofers.”

For the rest of the afternoon, I keep a safe distance from Noah. Not only that, but I have second thoughts about accepting his offer to escort me to Tina’s wedding. Why did I let myself fall into that one? What happened to my self-preservation plan?

Finally, I check one last time on Kirsten. She and Cory are in the living room with art materials spread all about the floor.

“Look what I made for you,” she says, holding up a colorful collage-type picture in shades of red, orange, and yellow.

“That’s beautiful,” I tell her. “I’ll frame it and hang it in the dining room.”

“Really?”

“Of course!” I promise as I look at it more closely, imagining it with a white mat and dark frame, sort of like modern art. “The colors in it are perfect. I love it. Now you just need to sign your name down here.” I pick up a black felt pen. “Use this.”

“Cool,” says Cory as she carefully writes her name on it. “You’re like a real artist now, Kirsten.”

“Maybe your mom will frame yours too,” says Kirsten, “and hang it in your dining room.”

“Nah,” he says. “She already has a bunch of her fancy pictures in there. She always hangs my stuff on the refrigerator.”

“I have to go,” I tell Kirsten. “Can you let your dad know I had to leave early to pick up some lights and ask him to lock up for me?” I notice Riley’s still in the house. “And if the roofers are done, can you guys put Riley outside?”

“And give him food and water?” suggests Kirsten.

I grin at her. “You know the routine. But since you need to stay off your foot, I’ll take care of that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow too,” she calls cheerfully.

I’m not so sure she’ll be coming tomorrow. For all I know Camille might have a fit when she sees that Kirstens been injured. Maybe she’ll want to sue me. Although I’ll leave that to Noah to explain and sort out. Still, I have to wonder about Camille. Why does she give Noah such a bad time about custody, refusing to let Kirsten spend the summer with him, and yet she’s left her with him almost every single day since school let out?
Baggage
, I say to myself as I start the pickup. Major baggage…and something I don’t need any more of in my life. But something about this “line” I’ve drawn is starting to wear thin. And my little game of denial—pretending I don’t have feelings for a certain someone—is getting old.

B
etty’s worried about you,” Dad tells me at dinnertime. “About me?” I look up as I pass him the soy sauce. Tonight it’s stir-fry and rice, and although I told him to go easy on it, I realize Dad cannot eat that many vegetables without some soy sauce.

“Yes, she thinks you’re working yourself to death.”

I feign a laugh … although Betty’s not too far from the truth. But I would never admit that to Dad.

“Really, she said she wants you to take a break tomorrow.”

“A break?” I look at Dad like he’s nuts. “How am I supposed to take a break?”

“She booked you an afternoon at Amari.”

“Amari? That new day spa at the resort?”

“That’s the one.”

I consider this. “That does sound good, but she doesn’t need to do that, Dad.”

“She wants to.”

Then I turn the subject to the house. I tell him about my tile project and how I plan to get the tub refinished.

“How about the other bath?” he asks as he takes a second helping of stir-fry.

“I’m going to do just a shower in there. It was pretty crowded
with that bathtub, and most people don’t use bathtubs that much anyway.”

“You’re going to do the tile work for the whole shower stall yourself?” Dad looks skeptical.

“Like I said, I took the workshop. If you follow the directions, it’s not that hard.”

“How about cutting? You don’t have a tile saw, do you?”

“The tile store does the cutting. I just mark the tiles and take them in, and the next day they’re ready to lay.”

Dad nods with a look of approval. “Well, that sounds good. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Maybe next week,” I tell him. “The doctor said you could get out after a week of rest at home.”

“That sounds good to me. I thought my condo unit was a castle when I first got home from the hospital, but now it’s starting to feel like a prison cell.”

So I change the subject back to the house and what he can do, by phone, to help. Then he actually helps me clear the table. “It’s good for me to move around,” he assures me. “The physical therapist said so during my session today.” Then he shows me the list of exercises she gave him to do.

“You’ll be playing golf before long,” I tell him.

“It won’t be too soon for me.”

I feel sorry for my dad as I leave. I know it must be hard to be cooped up. Still, it’s just a matter of time. Time, time, time…for some it’s like a turtle race, for others it’s a wild horse that can never be caught.

The next day, Friday, I am moving as fast as I can. My goal, after
grouting the bathroom floor, is to remove the popcorn from the ceiling in the great room and retexture it since Noah wants to start laying the hardwood floor in the kitchen and dining room this afternoon. Our hope is that the kitchen cabinets will be here by early next week, and it would be nice to have this mess out of the way before they arrive. By noon I at least have the kitchen ceiling scraped clean and textured.

“You look like a mud monster,” says Kirsten when she and Cory see me dragging the mucky plastic drop cloth out to the Dumpster.

I hold up my hands and walk toward them like Frankenstein, and they scream in mock horror. Then I peel off the grungy coveralls and remove my eyewear and clean up as best I can with the hose. No way am I going to clean up in my freshly grouted bathroom before the grout is sealed. But I must still look pretty bad when I’m getting ready to go to Dad’s, because Jenna gives me a funny look as she comes over to call Cory home for lunch.

“Remodeling is a messy business,” I tell her as I head for the pickup. She smiles warmly and walks away, Cory in tow. I take a peek at myself in the visor mirror and laugh. “I do look like the mud monster,” I say as I start the engine.

I’m barely in the door at Dad’s house when he announces that I need to get going.

“Go where?” I demand.

“Your appointment.”

“What appointment?”

“I’ve been calling your cell phone.” He hands me a piece of paper with the word
Amari
, a phone number and address, and one o’clock written on it. “Just get going. You should get there in time.”

“I can’t go to Amari like this,” I say.

“Betty has already scheduled it, Gretchen. She prepaid for the whole package. You said you’d go, and you… Just go, Gretchen. This is Betty’s way of showing she cares for you. Don’t spoil it, sweetie.”

“But what about your lunch?”

“I’m warming some soup now.”

“Okay … I guess I’ll see you at dinnertime?”

He smiles. “Yes. See you then. Just get going.”

It’s a couple of minutes past one when I walk into the lobby of a very swanky spa where everything is Asian style and peaceful and, I’m thinking, very Zen. The fountain, the music, the décor—all seem designed for relaxation.

“Can I help you?” asks the receptionist, an impeccably groomed woman dressed in black. I can tell by her face that she thinks I must be lost.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, “but a friend, Betty Schwartz, called—”

“Oh, you must be Gretchen.” The woman smiles. “Betty is one of our favorite customers. She called from Paris to make your appointment. Have you been to Amari before?”

“No, and I was working on a remodel and didn’t have time to—”

“Don’t worry,” she says calmly. “All you need to do now is complete this paperwork.” She slides a clipboard and pen toward me, and I hurriedly fill out a form that makes me feel like I’m at the doctor’s office.

“There,” I say, sliding it back.

“Now, let us take care of you. Betty has booked you for a European
facial and a mani/pedi,” she informs me. “You’re going to feel like a queen.”

“That sounds great.” And I must admit, it really does sound great.

Another woman dressed in black greets me. “Im Mara,” she says. “I will take you back.”

Mara leads me to a dressing room and shows me to a wooden locker bay, handing me a key. She explains that I’m to undress, shower, and put on the robe she hands me. “Slippers are there.” She points to a shelf that’s filled with varying sizes of black rubber sandals. “And towels are here.”

“I’m supposed to shower?” I repeat, feeling like an idiot.

She looks at me like she can’t believe I’d even question this, then simply nods. “After that, you may relax in the soaking tub while you wait for Fiona.” She points to a door labeled “hot tub,” then leaves.

There’s no one else in the dressing room, but I still disrobe quickly, shoving my messy work clothes and things into the locker. The key is on an elastic band which I assume is to put on my wrist. And I have to admit that the shower is very nice and equipped with a luxurious selection of shower gels, shampoos, and conditioners—many that I take advantage of so that I emerge feeling almost like a new woman. Maybe this spa thing is better than I thought. I pour myself a glass of lemon-infused water and take a long, cool sip as I look at the door to the soaking tub. Come on, I urge myself, you can do this.

I go into the soaking-tub room and see that no one is there. I’ve heard that it’s no big deal for complete strangers to sit naked in a hot
tub together in Japan, and even though I’m certain this area is only for women, I’m still not too sure about this concept. And yet the bubbling water looks tempting, and the atmosphere in here with dimmed lights and a massive rock fountain is very inviting. Finally I decide why not, and standing near the entrance to the large tub, which is more like a small swimming pool, I quickly peel off my robe and plunge down the stone steps into the water.

Aah… this is heavenly
. The very warm water, which is supposed to contain minerals, feels like silk against my skin, and I think I could get used to this. I lean back and allow the jet to massage my sore neck and shoulders. Then I hear the sound of female voices and suddenly am not so sure I can do this. I’m about to make a leap for my robe, but it’s too late. Three women in white robes identical to mine are coming into the room. I go back to a corner where I won’t have to look at them as they remove their robes. It’s one thing to be naked in front of strangers, but something else altogether to have to
see
them.

But I’m surprised they’re taking so long to get in as they talk and joke and pour themselves glasses of water. Finally I peek up and see that these women are not naked. They’re all wearing swimsuits. Okay, pretty skimpy suits but not as skimpy as my birthday suit. And then, as they’re getting into the pool, I realize with gut-wrenching horror that one of these women is actually Camille! I consider submerging but know I can’t hold my breath that long.

The three women seem oblivious to me, and I’m hoping that maybe they will ignore me completely, and I’ll just sit here, even if I shrivel to a prune, until they leave. But after a few minutes, one of the women speaks to me.

“I’m sorry,” she says to me. “Are we talking too much? I know were supposed to use spa voices.”

“It’s okay,” I say woodenly.

“Greta?” says Camille with surprise.

“Gretchen,” I answer.

“What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I suppose…” I glance away as Camille explains to her friends who I am in a Camille-like, rather unflattering way.

“Are you naked?” asks one of the women.

I cross my hands over my chest now and just nod. “I didn’t know you were supposed to—”

“No way,” says Camille. “You came in here naked?”

Now they’re all laughing, and Camille points to a sign by the door that says swimsuits are required.

I feel my face turning hot, and I don’t know what to say…or what to do.

“Don’t you know this is coed?” says Camille.

“Coed?” I repeat in a high, strained voice. “I came through the women’s dressing room and—-”

“And that’s the men’s dressing room.” She points to a door on the opposite end. “This is a coed spa.”

The harder they try to subdue their laughter, the more they crack up. They are laughing so hard that I expect the management to show up and shush them, but I don’t know what to do.

“Do you want to get out?” asks one of Camille’s friends. “I can stand guard for you if you want.” Bless her.

I nod silently as I make my way toward the stone steps, staying low in the water and as far as possible from these three equally gorgeous
women—who could easily be posing for a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition if they were on a beach. I wait as the dark-skinned woman gets out and positions herself in front of the men’s dressing-room door, and I try not to stare at her perfect proportions and long sleek legs. The other two friends are laughing as I take a deep breath and emerge, feeling about as graceful as a beached whale, and make a leap for my robe, then struggle to slip it on over my soaking wet, naked body. I mutter a humiliated “thank you” as I make a beeline for the women’s dressing-room door.

“Oh, there you are,” says Mara. “Are you ready for your treatment?”

I want to scream, “No, let me outta here!” But I don’t. She takes me to a private room where a nice woman named Fiona gives me a relaxing European facial, which also includes a neck and shoulder massage. This is followed by a pedicure and manicure, and I feel so pampered I could almost forget about that embarrassing hot-tub episode. Almost. Unfortunately, I feel certain that Camille will repeat the humiliating story to Noah and probably Kirsten as well. And I cannot, for the life of me, imagine explaining how it was that I came to be naked in a coed soaking tub where a sign clearly stated that swimsuits were required.

To my relief, Noah and Kirsten are gone when I return to the house. Of course, they should be gone since it’s past seven and I’ve already had an early dinner with Dad. But I discover that Noah has left me a little note asking me to call him regarding tomorrow’s “date” for Tina’s wedding. Almost hoping that Camille has told him about
my streaking at the spa and that he wants to cancel, I brace myself and call.

“I just wanted to find out what time I should pick you up,” he says. “And where.”

“I thought maybe you changed your mind,” I say uncomfortably.

“No, why would I do that?”

I clear my throat. “I thought perhaps Camille mentioned something to you…”