The Queen Gene (23 page)

“Seriously, Lu, you’ve done so much for me,” Randy continued. “Is there anything I can do for you?” His hand hadn’t moved from my leg, and I was resisting the urge to push it beneath my skirt. I questioned my interpretation of what was going on. Perhaps he was offering to do some home repairs. Then he looked at me again and all of my questions were erased.

Swallowing terror, I responded with feigned ignorance. “You’re very kind, but we’ve got a handyman who does all of that kind of stuff.”

Randy’s smirk let me know my pathetic attempt at neutralizing the discussion was transparent. “Have it your way, Lu,” he said. “But if you think of anything you’d like from me, be sure and lemme know, okay?” Then he picked up
Men’s Health
magazine from the table and began flipping from the back page to the front.

A few things bothered me about this interaction. First, I enjoyed it too much. Second, something about the invitation implied he’d be doing it as a favor to me. I didn’t want a “thank you” lay. Come to think of it, I didn’t want any kind of lay from Randy. What I wanted was the feeling that he genuinely desired me, not that he’d be willing to sleep with me because it was cheaper than sending a hostess fruit basket. It seemed meaningless to him. Even as I pondered it, dissecting every intonation and facial expression, he was reading a story about reducing cholesterol.

A haggard-looking nurse came through the hospital doors escorting newly-casted Chantrell on crutches. I wondered if her weary expression was from a lifetime in health care or an evening with Chantrell. “Bring the car around front,” she snapped. “Do you honestly think I can walk like this?!”

Randy glanced at me to catch my next move. I felt as if I was on an audition. On the one hand, I knew he would like to see me assert myself and decline the invitation to babysit this hostile witch. On the other hand, if Randy saw that I could handle myself, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the need to take care of me. Although I hated that Randy felt sorry for me, I wasn’t yet willing to let go of his pity.

“Come on,” I said, standing from my seat, gesturing to Randy to do the same. To Chantrell I added, “You need to get used to getting around on crutches. It’s not far to the parking lot.” I had no idea whether or not it was far because Randy had dropped Chantrell and me at the emergency room, but I knew that however far Chantrell had to struggle, it wasn’t quite far enough.

“You can’t be serious!” Chantrell said.

“Deadly serious,” I returned. “And another thing. It’s time for you to pull up the dead zucchini and start a new vegetable garden, one that will hear your cello every day. This is not a vacation, and it’s time for you to come home from the mall and start composing some music!”

Randy winked with approval. I loved that I had earned it. I hated that I cared.

The side benefit of flirtation was that it charged me with passion that I could put toward legitimate use. The energy followed me into my bedroom, sweeping back my hair with a sensual breeze. Okay, there was no breeze. In fact, it was a stagnant humid night, but something magical seemed to flow through me. I felt like an ad for perfume. I couldn’t see myself, but I just knew I looked dazzling. When Jack glanced up from his book, he noticed it too. “Whoa!” He peered over his reading glasses and asked what had gotten into me. “You’re like sex on a stick, Luce,” he said, placing the novel down on the nightstand. Without saying a word, I proved him correct.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next day Anjoli was gone. Jack told me that she had left just after sunset the evening earlier, while I was at the hospital with Chantrell and Randy. Some senior citizens are afraid to drive at night, but, as is the case with most things in life, Anjoli is the opposite. She only drives after dark because she fears the sun will damage her skin through the windows. Wearing a wide rim hat blocks her vision of the road.

By afternoon, things had returned to normal. Well, as normal as things got around our house. Jack was in the front yard touching up his beach buggy as Adam napped beside him in the playpen. Maxime and Jacquie were fighting louder than ever. Chantrell was nowhere to be seen. And we could only tell Randy was in his home because it sounded as if an earthquake had hit a greenhouse. The temperature was holding steady at a full summer bake of more than ninety degrees, but thankfully it became a nice dry heat that carried the scent of jasmine through the air.

Renee stopped by, looking cheerful in her bold floral t-shirt that looked as though she had painted it herself, which as it turned out she had.

“Looks like life is treating you well,” I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“It’s actually kicking my ass.” Renee told me that she had confronted Dan about his whereabouts the night he claimed to have stayed in a hotel, and he had refused to show her a receipt from the hotel. “He says he stayed at a Marriott, but I checked with all of his credit card companies and called both local Marriotts, and no one has a record of him staying there or charging a room,” she said. “Worst part is that he refuses to admit he was with that slut and won’t go to marriage counseling. Says he doesn’t have enough time to spend with the people he knows, much less a stranger who’s going to judge him. See that guilty conscience? Why would he think a therapist would judge him unless he had done something wrong?”

I couldn’t disagree. I pulled my hair back into a bun as we spoke and asked Renee if she wanted to come inside where it was air conditioned. She wanted to sit outside, but said she’d love a glass of ice water, an idea that appealed to me too. As I filled our glasses, I continued. “You look well, though. What’s your secret?”

We sat in the back, overlooking the guest houses. “I started going to marriage counseling by myself.”

“By yourself?!” I quizzed.

“Yeah, that’s what Dear Abby always advises, so I figured, what the hell, our insurance covers it. Why not?”

“How do you work on a marriage when one person doesn’t participate?” I asked.

Her smile was absolutely perfect, which reminded me that she had over-bleached her teeth and now wore porcelain veneers. “We talk about me and how I can only control myself and how I respond to Dan’s infidelity. It’s pretty helpful. I had my doubts, but I’ve got to say I’ve gotten a lot out of only two sessions.” She paused to beam, then looked around and asked where Anjoli was.

“She left last night,” I told Renee. “After the bell-ringer did her thing, Chantrell broke her ankle, and Maxime threatened to commit suicide.”

“I love your place. My problems seem so mundane when I come here,” Renee said, reaching into a shopping bag she brought over. “I’m sorry I missed her. I took her advice and started painting t-shirts,” she said, gesturing to her own.
Um, it was actually my idea that you paint shirts.
“Look what I made for her.” Renee pulled a white form-fitting t-shirt with a black glittery figure enveloped in bold orange and yellow flames. It was beautifully frightening with a hint of tragedy. “Oh look,” I said, noticing writing at the bottom. “I was burned at the stake in Salem and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

“Do you like it?” Renee asked.

“Love it,” I said. “I’m sure Anjoli will wear it with pride.”

“Good, then I hope you’ll like this one I made for you!” She pulled out an abstract of our home with a grey thundercloud hovering over it, like the Addams family house. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” I did, but what I liked more than the t-shirt was how it pulled my friend from potential depression. She seemed to be taking the deterioration of her marriage as well as she possibly could.

“So did the bell ringing work?” Renee asked.

“I think it made things worse,” I told her.

“Are you going to try again?” Renee asked.

“I doubt it,” I said. “The bell-ringer said that we had multiple spirits and we needed to have her back.”

“Well if you do, you better invite me this time. Have a heart, Lucy. My husband is cheating on me. The least you can do is let me watch the ghost-busters.”

I promised Renee that there would be no future ghost-busting without her present. She said she had errands to run and left a few minutes later.

Though Renee didn’t mind roasting in the summer afternoon heat, I went inside and sat at my desk. I dialed Bernice to say hello and see how the Florida summer was treating her. She said she had to go because her cousin Sylvia was over helping her set up for a house party for a city council member. “I really must have a problem with the fawcett because Sylvia keeps complaining about how noisy it is. I told her I’m not such a big shot that I need everything perfect, but she said it’s driving her crazy.”

“It
is
driving me crazy!” I heard Sylvia shout in the background.

“
Mamaleh,
I have to hang up. In twenty minutes a couple dozen people from the building will be here, and I’m still in my muumuu.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Lucy,” Aunt Bernice whispered. “You have to try the laser beam.”

“The what?”

“Get your vaginer laser beamed. It’s like air conditioning for your panties.”

“Okay,” I said, laughing. “Why don’t we talk about this later?”

Next I called Earl at
Healthy Living,
who answered on the first ring. “Hey, Earl,” I said. “It’s Lucy Klein. I didn’t expect you to be there.”

“So you were calling hoping not to get me?” he said lightly.

“I was wondering if you were still interested in having me write that piece for your Living the Dream section.”

“Are things improving in paradise lost?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said, hoping I could find a sunny spin to sell the story. “But I think I can offer some reflections on how we grow from personal challenges.”
Did that bullshit just come from my mouth?!
“What I mean is that I’m starting to see how we’ve really had some great experiences here.”
Great experiences? Could I be any less specific?

“Oh yeah,” Earl said, as he began typing in the background. “Like what?”

“Well, my husband Jack is really growing as an artist,” I said, immediately regretting the meaningless cliché. “Our female guests are nasty and shop nonstop, and when Jack was taking out the garbage last week, he noticed hundreds of clothing tags, receipts, and shopping bags. It was really quite gross. I mean, some of the shopping bags and clothing tags were quite beautiful, but the over-consumption and hyper-consumerism were really quite pathetic. So Jack pulled me into his studio and dumped all of this crap in the middle of the floor and starts carrying on about how these two women had become shopping zombies. One of them is supposed to be composing, and the other is supposed to be French. Well, the wife of a French artist anyway, so we expected a bit more from her creatively than buying up the local Banana Republic. Anyway, instead of getting pissed off about this — well, instead of
just
getting pissed about it — Jack made this unbelievable collage of bags, receipts, and tags. He pasted a few hundred tags and receipts to the top of the mannequin and made a skirt of glossy shopping bags. It is gorgeous, really gorgeous.”

“Sounds cool,” Earl said, though I could tell he was wondering where I was going with this. “What’s he going to do with his collage de consumerism?”

“Oh, he’ll sell it,” I said, laughing at our own hypocrisy. “My point is that although the artist colony has turned out to be the Bermuda Triangle of creativity for our guests, it has been wonderful for Jack. And we’ve met some really lovely people.”
Oy, I’ve just sunk to the “we’ve met some really lovely people” argument.
“There’s this woman whose husband is cheating on her, but rather than sink into the depths of depression like the French sketch artist, she started painting t-shirts and jeans and is going to marriage counseling alone.”
Where’s my parachute? This pitch is going down.

“Hmmm,” Earl sounded uninterested. “What about the ghosts? Did you ever look into it? I mean,
that’s
a story.”

“I actually did, Earl, and I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think we’re haunted. We had a woman come in and ring bells, and as soon as she finished, the place got worse.”

“What do you mean it got worse?” he asked, no longer typing.

“I mean Chantrell broke her ankle and got insanely angry, Maxime threatened to commit suicide, and Randy broke glass I didn’t even know existed,” I explained.

“And that was right after she rang the tingsha bells?” Earl asked.

“How did you know they were tingsha bells?”

“Because I know what bullshit tingsha bells are!” Earl exclaimed.

Of course. How silly of me.

“You know what you’ve done, don’t you?” he asked. Without waiting for my reply, Earl told me that I’d aggravated the problem. “Your ghost is pissed now. You think you had problems before?! Ha, wait until you see a pissed-off ghost.”

“The bell-ringer thinks there are a few ghosts,” I said.

“After she got done with the place, I’m sure there are!” I felt like a child being scolded. “Listen, Lucy, don’t mess around with this stuff. You need to call in the big guns. Promise me you’ll do a story on this, and I’ll get Effie in to work on your house.”

“Effie?” I asked.

“Effie Hinkelmeyer,” Earl said as if he’d just mentioned Pablo Picasso and I didn’t recognize the name. “She’s the world’s leading space-clearer and psychic. Effie is a consultant for the FBI and clears homes after violent crimes are committed in them.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “Wouldn’t the FBI want to keep a crime scene in tact?”

“I’m sorry,” Earl said. “It’s two separate things. She helps the Bureau solve crimes, but she’s also paid by realtors to clear out properties after people die or are killed in homes.”

“This is all too icky and weird,” I said.

“Lucy, I’ll pay two bucks a word, make it the cover story, and pay for Effie to get rid of your ghosts,” Earl offered.

“Deal!” I said, jumping at the idea of a cover story.

Earl explained what he saw as the scope of the piece, then said he’d be in touch later in the week with Effie’s availability.