Hand-Me-Down

CHAPTER 08

I jogged muddily uptown a few blocks to Element and I slipped into Wren’s office before the sleek and nonsweaty salesgirls could bar the door. Wren hit Enter a few times, pretending she hadn’t been playing solitaire, and looked up at me. “You’re a walking Fashion Don’t.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you’re a—” She was impeccable. Wearing a deep V-neck black cashmere sweater, knee-length black skirt, a jade necklace and red heels. “You’re a—okay, I’m a disaster. I need a new everything.”

“Why?”

Because I just had false-memory sex with a man who thinks this is what I look like. “Charlotte’s birthday’s tonight.”

“I thought it was just family.”

“It is, mostly.”

“Then why…?”

“You remember Ian?”

“With the overbite?” she asked.

“That’s Liam, and it wasn’t an overbite. It was a gap. A chasm. He could whistle with his mouth closed. Anyone would’ve broken up with him. That wasn’t my fault. If you’re going to—”

“Oh, that Ian. Who you asked to give you a little ba-da-boom at Emily’s book party.”

“Yeah. Him.”

“God, you were so in love.”

“I wasn’t—”

“He’s back in town? Are you gonna ask him again?” In an atrocious English accent, she said, “Fancy a shag, Ian? I may be an old slapper, but—”

“I never asked him—I never used the word ‘shag,’ thank you very much.”

Still Dickensian, she said, “Please, sir, may I have another?”

“Would you stop it?”

She giggled. “Well, you did ask if he wanted to get laid, right?”

“Lei-ed! Like a lei, a Hawaiian—” I said, and Wren snorted. “Hey, at least I do get laid. Don’t make me talk about naked Kevin.”

That sobered her right up. “I still can’t believe you did that.” She meant squirt her with water.

“Has he called yet?”

“If I get pneumonia, it’s your fault.”

“He’ll call,” I reassured her. “You’ll see him Wednesday, anyway. Wet T-shirt night.”

“This, from the girl who wants to use my discount?”

But Wren never could resist dressing me up. I wanted the green Ana Sui dress with red chrysanthemums—because it had the same color combination as Wren’s necklace and shoes—but she insisted on more practical items. Although she did encourage me to splurge on a gorgeous pair of Blumarine shoes guaranteed to make my legs look like Nicole Kidman’s, and my feet feel like victims of Chinese foot-binding.

Still. When we finished shopping, I looked positively almost kinda Charlotte-esque. If you squinted.

Barely made it to work by one o’clock, wearing one of my new outfits. I’d bought three, but only spent $700, which sounds like a lot—sounds like more than my weekly after-tax pay, actually—but is in fact a bargain, as I got maybe $1000 worth of clothes. I could return one or two items, but these were the kind of prices—I mean, pieces—that made me look both curvy and skinny. I was definitely ten pounds lighter than I’d been in the soccer shorts. Maybe fifteen.

“Morning, Polliwog,” Rip said when I knocked on his open door. “Or should I say afternoon? Hey, you know where I can find the Wilkenson file?”

I posed in the doorway instead of answering. He had to have noticed I’d dropped ten pounds.

“Oh, um—how’d the shopping go?” he asked. “What did you get Charlotte?”

I turned sideways to show off my new curves.

“Was forty bucks enough?”

I gave up and tromped into his office. “I got her a plant.” I’d picked up something at Honeysuckle, Charlotte’s favorite florist, after leaving Element. “Forty was fine.”

“A plant?”

“She loves plants. It’ll be great. Oh, and Emily insisted I go in with her on some antique thing, for Charlotte.”

“So you got two gifts? She’s the rich one, you know.”

“Rich, beautiful, perfect. How could I forget?”

“How could anyone forget? You bring it up every ten minutes.” He looked suddenly concerned “Um, listen. I’m showing the Brenners a couple houses at five o’ clock—not sure when we’ll be done….”

“You’re going to miss the party.”

“No, no. I’ll be there.”

“How late?”

He shook his head. “She’s the mildew-sniffer, it’s like showing a house to a bloodhound. I don’t know if we’ll be done by six. Probably not. Probably seven. You want me to cancel? I can put them off a few days.”

“You’d put off clients, for me?” He’d built his company one client at a time, with word-of-mouth and customer service. He babied his clients terribly—and it was nice to hear he’d baby me even more. “What if you lose the sale?”

“You’re worth it.”

I gazed adoringly. “Wren says I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Of course you don’t.”

I laughed, hoping he was joking. “I promised Charlotte I’d bathe the kids before dinner, so I have to go early. Just come when you’re finished. But thanks.”

“It’ll all be over tomorrow. At least for another year.”

“Yeah.”

Except it wouldn’t. Sure, I hated Charlotte’s birthday. And maybe I was overreacting to Ian’s sudden reappearance. But what really troubled me was the VD. I didn’t dislike my job, but it was going exactly nowhere. Rip was wonderful, but that made things even worse—why wasn’t I head-over-heels?

I had no plan and no passion. I was cast in the shade of my sisters, and though I secretly longed for the sun I was like a…I was a, um…yeesh. I couldn’t even think of a good metaphor. What I was, was a loser.

So I brought Rip the Wilkenson project. I updated the Web site with new listings, and returned a few phone calls. Then I fired up my properties database and stared at the wall. Ten minutes later, I grabbed my Recent Developments file. I had a new entry: The Cypress Property, where I walked Ny. I called Villa Realty, and the receptionist put me through to the listing agent, a woman named Melissa Kent.

“Hi, I’m calling about the property for sale on Cypress Road.”

“Have you driven by?” Melissa Kent said warmly. “It’s a beautiful piece of land.”

“Oh, I walk my dog there all the time,” I blurted. “I love it. I was wondering who the owner is.”

Her voice grew twenty degrees colder. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well…what?”

“I’m not at lib—”

“No. I mean why?”

“The owner would like to remain anonymous.”

“How’s he gonna sell it if he’s hiding behind— What is he, the Wizard of Oz? I’m interested in information. Lot size, asking price, zoning and easements. I promise not to bother him. Or her. Them. Whatever.”

“You walk your dog there?” she asked.

“That’s how I saw the sign.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”

“Well, you could—by telling me what I want to know.”

“The thing is, the issue is that the owner got some unpleasant phone calls from dog-walkers who felt he shouldn’t sell ‘their’ land.”

“Oh, this isn’t like that. I’m in the business. I’m calling for an agent. All I need is a little information.”

She said nothing, and her silence managed to convey deep suspicion.

“Honest,” I said, and started lying. “The broker actually has a client already.” More silence, so I got desperate. “A very eager client. Very wealthy. A sheik. From Kuwait.”

“I see. And what was your name again?”

I lost my nerve, blurted “Paloma,” and hung up. Dammit.

I tried to focus on work, but couldn’t. Finally gave up and barged into Rip’s office. “Would you call that sea hag at Villa Realty?”

Rip looked startled. “Um, Anne…”

One of the other agents sat across from him at the desk. Mike Malley. Mike was a straight-shooting, foul-mouthed man of about forty. Santa Barbara born and bred, his father had been a fisherman and Mike looked like that’s where he belonged: on some boat slippery with fish guts, drinking beer with other burly men. He mostly sold commercial space and had one great advantage as a salesman—nothing ever entered his brain that didn’t escape through his mouth, so you had to trust him.

“Sorry, Mike,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Not a problem,” Mike said, standing. “Sea hags wait for no man. I know, I married and divorced one.”

“No, no—stay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“We’re done.” Mike motioned closing the door behind him. “You want privacy?”

“Please,” I said.

“You two keep it up,” he said. “And we’ll have to get a new cleaning company.”

He closed the door, and Rip and I looked at each other—then, by common consent, decided to let Mike’s last statement go unanswered.

“Which sea hag?” Rip said. “You really shouldn’t barge in when I’ve got—”

“Melissa Kent,” I said. “At Villa. She won’t tell me who owns the property on Cypress—where Ny and I walk.” I picked up his phone and started dialing.

“Wait,” he said. “Anne. No.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to get between you and— I don’t care if you— I think it’s great that you have your ideas for development. You could get your license and really make them happen. I know you could. But—”

“It’s ringing,” I said, and handed him the phone. “Ask for Melissa.”

He glared at me, but asked the receptionist for Melissa. They chattered happily for a minute—apparently they’d done some business together. Then they chattered happily for another minute. For a third. A fourth.

I poked Rip and whispered. “Ask her!”

He said, “Listen, Melissa, I’ve got a question for you.” But before he could ask, she apparently started spilling the goods. He said, “Uh-huh? Interesting. Great. When?”

I handed him a pen and mimed that he should be writing this down. So he wrote. I flopped down in the other chair and waited. What I needed was a vision for the property. Maybe a long, winding drive which followed the existing trail, with just a few houses, Montecito cottages really—at two million a pop—hidden among the trees and meadows. Or possibly just one hilltop mansion, a sprawling property with an Olympic pool and more lawn than Versailles.

“Uh-huh,” Rip said. “Right.” More from Melissa. “Okay. Great, thanks.” He made a final notation. “See you then. Bye.”

“So?” I said, as he hung up. “What? What did she say?”

“She asked me to lunch.” He showed me the paper. It said Tuesday, 1:30, Village Grill. “Wants some advice about a house in Summerland I sold a couple years ago.”

“What about the Cypress property?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Rip!”

“Polliwog, I’m not getting involved in your…whatever. Especially not after Melissa tells me this funny story about a crazy woman who just called, raving about sheiks.”

“You could have pretended you had clients,” I said. “All I wanted was the information.”

“That’s so unprofessional, I can’t even tell you. Did you check MLS?” The multiple listing service.

“It’s not in MLS yet.”

“So wait.” He stood and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m off to pick up the Brenners. See you tonight?”

“Maybe I should call the city clerk’s office,” I said. “The tax assessor. Get in touch with the owner directly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just because.”

“You’re bored. You don’t like the job.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We can change your title,” he offered. “VP of Administration.”

“It’s not that.”

“Princess of Post-it Notes?”

“I’m fine, Rip. I just want—I dunno. I’m ready for a change.”

“Take the course, get your license. You’d be a great Realtor. You know you should.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not living up to my potential.”

He shook his head. “Do I need to bring anything to Charlotte’s?”

“Just the plant from the back of my truck when you get there. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

“Sure. And Anne? Keep away from the tax assessor’s office.”

I worked until 5:15, and didn’t place any calls Rip would disapprove of. Double-checked the weekend’s open houses, and tidied some loose ends. It was Friday, and the weather was gearing up for the weekend. I stepped out of the office into a bright and balmy afternoon, with a hot sun and a cool breeze. One of those days that even the locals go to Long-boards on the wharf to sip margaritas and eat calamari.

In even better news, my pale lilac top and linen skirt still looked good when I got home—the true test of new clothes. The linen didn’t even wrinkle in the truck. See? It pays to spend more. Not to mention all the time I saved, not having to stare at my desolate closet, wondering what to wear.

Hair and makeup were another story. I was nearing the end of my haircut cycle, so everything was a bit shaggy and my roots were showing. A bad sign, considering my hair wasn’t colored. I tended to be a makeup minimalist—lipstick, blush and mascara, all done in two minutes. If I wanted to go glossy I usually relied on Charlotte to fix me up, but I couldn’t ask on her birthday. Besides, she’d wonder why, and I didn’t want to explain about Ian. Not only that we’d had counterfeit imaginary sex, but that he was stopping by with her gift.

I honestly didn’t know why I always skipped a beat with Ian. Kevin the nude model was just as handsome, and a whole lot nakeder. Rip was wonderful, and he was all mine—not engaged to some mysterious woman and a purveyor of aged yuck. Ian was an awkward childhood humiliation who kept reappearing, like an uncomfortable suspicion. At least I hadn’t invited him anywhere. Sure he was going to stop by the party, but a delivery didn’t count as an invitation.

So I did my hair and makeup myself, adding lip gloss and foundation in an attempt to appear polished, and avoided seeing Charlotte altogether.

I snuck in from the patio and up to the kids’ bedrooms, where I found Hannah doing handstands against the wall in the hallway. She was seven, and from birth had been the prima donna her mother had never become. Hannah ruled the house with an iron—though diminutive—fist. The only person she’d consistently obey was David, who she physically resembled and completely adored. Charlotte was too gentle to impress her, and she listened to me about half the time. I’d gone Emily on her tiny pink butt once or twice, and it had apparently made an impression. Her little brothers—Kyle, five, and Tyler, four—were her minions, and did her evil bidding with hyperactive glee.

“I’m doing gymnastics,” Hannah said, and shook her head to get the hair out of her face.

“You’re getting dirt on the wall, banana,” I told her. Like I was one to complain about making messes with sneakers. I grabbed her ankles and spun her around. She squealed—she loved roughhousing—and I carried her into her bedroom and tossed her on the bed.

She bounced on her mattress. “Do it again!”

But I sent her to round up the imps, instead. Fortunately, because this involved bossing them around, she was easy to convince.

Still, it was a quarter of six by the time I got the bath running. I offered a prayer to the God of Ritalin that the little nerve-wrackers would leap quickly in and out of the tub. Sadly, the God of Ritalin had apparently been replaced by the God of Cocoa Puffs.

I’d finally corralled the boys in the bathroom when Hannah discovered she couldn’t find Bath Barbie.

“It’s not a bath without Bath Barbie,” she wailed.

“Check your room, quick, while the boys get in,” I told her. “She’s probably hiding under the bed.”

“Bath Barbie doesn’t hide.”

“Then she’s napping—go!”

“She doesn’t nap, either,” she said. “She’s Bath Barbie. She bathes.”

I herded her into her room. “Check in the pile—” the mountain of toys in the corner. “And the closet.”

“She’s not in the closet,” she whined. “I can’t take a bath without Bath Barbie.”

“You might have to make do with—” I glanced around the room “—Bath Bunny. Or I’ll just toss you in the tub with your Bath Brothers.”

That got her attention. She started digging through the heap of toys and I went back to the bathroom and was greeted by the sound of splashing. The little angels were bathing themselves!

“What great guys you are—” Then I stepped inside. They’d poured a gallon of shampoo into the tub, and were sitting amid heaps of bubbles, fully dressed. Playing Tidal Wave. “Out! Out!”

They collapsed in giggle fits. Usually they were easier than Hannah, because they were used to bowing under the lash of her tyranny. But, of course, not tonight. I grabbed a couple of soggy shirts and dragged them from the tub.

“You little monsters. You know better than that.”

“Tyler had an accident,” Kyle explained, as I yanked them out of their clothes.

“I had an accident,” Tyler said.

“He was cleaning up.”

“What kind of accident?” I asked, sniffing the air like a nervous antelope.

“She’s not under the bed!” came Hannah’s voice, from her room.

“Look in the closet!” I yelled. “Is she in the dollhouse?”

“A wee-wee accident,” Tyler said.

Thank God. “So why’d you get in?” I asked Kyle, tugging his socks off as he sat with his bare bottom on the floor.

He started giggling again. Clearly it had just looked like a good time. “We used soap,” he told me.

“You used shampoo.” I sluiced off the top of the bubble-mountain with my arm, remembering a moment too late that I was still wearing my $200 pale lilac ensemble. “Dam-arnit!” I said. “Now you two—back in there and wash.”

“She’s not in the dollhouse!” came the Bath Barbie update. “Aunt Anne, the doorbell’s ringing!”

“Look under the bed,” I yelled. “Would someone get the door?” And, to the boys: “Back in the bath! Or you can forget about birthday cake.”

“But we decorated it,” Tyler said, tears imminent.

Like a good mother, I immediately backtracked. “You can have cake! Just take your bath fast, and I’ll give you extra. You’ll be fat as Ny in no time.”

In their world, fat as Ny was a wonderful goal. They both did the hot-pepper-excited hop before splashing tubward. I’d have to sneak them extra bites, when Charlotte wasn’t looking.

“It’s still ringing!” Hannah yelled. “Somebody should get the door—oh!”

“Hannah?” I called from the hall. “Pick someone else if you can’t find Bath Barbie.”

“Help!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Help me!”

Uh-oh. I raced into her room. She was gone. “Hannah?”

“I’m stuck.” A little voice, from behind the bed. “Back here.”

Only her calves were showing, sticking up between the bed and the wall. “You fell down the bunny hole,” I said, laughing.

She kicked her feet. “Bath Barbie’s down here, but I can’t reach her.”

“Hold on…” Her bed was a heavy wood four-poster, painted white with green vines on the posts. I heaved it away from the wall as the doorbell rang again—and Hannah fell sideways to the floor and disappeared with a clunk.

A second later, she poked her head up, dust bunnies tangled in her hair. Which now needed washing. “I can almost reach her!”

“Doesn’t Mommy ever clean?” I crawled under the bed, hooked a finger around Bath Barbie’s neck and dragged her out. “Ta da!”

Hannah grabbed her triumphantly. I made her say thank you, and the doorbell was still ringing as we entered the hall on our way to the bathroom.

“Will somebody get that?” I yelled down the stairs.

“I’ll get it,” Hannah said.

“Someone other than you.” I marched her into the bathroom and Kyle and Tyler were gone. All that remained was a pile of sodden clothes and a trail of wet footprints on the terra-cotta floor.

“Get in,” I told Hannah.

“It’s dirty.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Run a new one. I’ll be up in a minute to help wash your hair. I have to find your brothers.”

I turned and caught sight of myself in the mirror. The steam from the bathroom and exertion from the kids had caused my face to sweat and my hair to frizz. One of my sleeves was frothed with bubbles and there were dust bunnies clinging to my skirt. I opened the bathroom door and Tyler launched himself at me like a greased piglet.

“Here we are!” he said. Wet, naked, and clinging to my new clothes.

“We answered the door.” Kyle swaggered in, naked and dripping.

“Thanks,” I said. “Who was it?”

A man stepped in from the hall. “Me.”

I brushed a cobweb from my face. “Ian! Hi! How are you? Stay for dinner?”

CHAPTER 09

Okay, so I invited him. So what? Anyone would have done it. It was a reflex. An impulse. It doesn’t mean anything. I’d actually intended to invite him. It was planned. Premeditated. It was only polite. He’d delivered the gift, I couldn’t not invite him. He was being kind of pushy, when you thought about it. What kind of person arrives to a party with a gift? The kind who expects to be invited. He basically invited himself. It was boorish. Rude. I really expected better….

Actually he’d been wonderful. He brought the age-encrusted relic, beautifully gift-wrapped. He didn’t cringe at my dust-bunny meets bubble-thing appearance. And he’d even shepherded the naked boys into clothes while I finished with Hannah. I really had no other choice but to invite him.

I only hoped Charlotte wouldn’t be mad. Emily certainly was. I was downstairs in the living room enjoying aperitifs and appetizers, when Emily culled me from the herd of crostini-eaters and backed me against the French doors. “It’s her birthday,” she snapped. “Nobody wants the high school boyfriend at her thirty-fifth birthday.”

“So I invited him,” I said. “So what? Anyone would have done it. It wasn’t planned or premeditated. There were dust bunnies on my ass—”

“How could you be so selfish? How do you think Charlotte feels?”

Before I could answer, Charlotte’s silvery laugh floated from across the room where she was chatting with Ian. They were standing by the mantel, candlelight illuminating their faces. Charlotte was stunning in a short, burgundy velvet dress with a mandarin collar. She laughed again and touched Ian’s arm. They were glowing so brightly, it took me a moment to realize that David, for some reason wearing a green Hawaiian shirt, was with them.

“Oh, she’s weeping,” I said, wondering why I’d chosen pale lilac instead of burgundy velvet.

“She always looks happy,” Emily said. “That doesn’t mean she is.”

“What does Charlotte Olsen have to be unhappy about?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said.

“Name one thing.”

Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again. Even her oversized brain had trouble with that one. Finally, she said, “Her bratty younger sister.”

“Oh, Emily, you’re not that bad,” I told her, and slipped back toward the safety of the herd.

There were about twenty people. The immediate family and a number of Charlotte’s and David’s closest friends, mostly from David’s hospital. We milled around, sipping wine and talking about medicine: this crowd could really get in a lather about HMOs and payment plans. They were the unsexy friends that Charlotte and David preferred. There was a B-list of friends, too, made up of people on, well, the actual A-list, from Charlotte’s modeling days. But most of her real friends were of the unglamorous sort.