“These are lovely,” Mrs. J. says as she removes the brown paper from a small bouquet I got at a discount that morning. She leans on her elbows, a sure sign she’s having a flare up. “I think I have a vase above the sink.” She points a shaking finger.
Today Mrs. J. is dressed to the nines in a fabulous vintage Chanel cream suit. She probably bought it in 1975 to have lunch with someone fabulous. Her hair is tucked under a turban with a giant jewel and a turquoise feather. If I had to guess her age, I’d say somewhere between seventy and three hundred. But I’d never ask and a lady would never tell, as Mrs. J. would say.
“I got it. I’m out of town this weekend. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
“A fantastic trip away? Perhaps a romantic rendezvous with a foreign dignitary?” She winces as she shifts her weight.
“Close, but not quite,” I tease. “Is it bad today?” I slide her a glass of room-temperature water and two pills. Normally, she’s pretty self-sufficient but she has her bad days.
“Not too bad. A storm’s blowing in.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure all the windows upstairs are closed before I go. The guys will stop by to check in.”
“Those two are gossips.”
I laugh out loud. Danny and Russell live next door and work for the local morning show. Russell’s the sports reporter and Danny books the guests.
“Pot meet kettle,” I say.
“I never gossip.”
“Right.”
“Everything I say is fact and needs to be shared.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Are you going to tell me where you’re going?” Mrs. J. asks
“Maybe. If you’re lucky.”
“Just lie.” She adjusts the flowers in the vase. “Tell me it’s a ski trip to Taos.”
“In October?”
“Fine. Then a spa getaway.” She closes her eyes and tilts her head back like she’s imagining it. “There’s a fabulous spa just north of Santa Fe…”
I’ve seen so many old photos of Mrs. J. that they seem to transpose themselves over her face now. No longer do I see the laugh lines and sagging skin, only the classic beauty from black-and-white photos. She was and still is a knockout.
This morning O.G. messaged that I’ll be a caterer for the Marty Zebulund cruise. Trapped on a boat with him for almost three days. The text made my stomach queasy and I’ve been doing my best not to dwell on it. It’s a big step in the right direction. That’s what I have to remember when my nerves try to shake me. Not exactly glamorous. Mrs. J. doesn’t need to know the hairy-knuckled details.
“Actually, it’s a yacht party. With celebrities.” I throw her a bone.
Her eyes go wide, and I warm up inside.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I went out with a certain Hollywood actor and his wife on their boat?” she asks. “Well, I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say I don’t remember most of it. At some point, I couldn’t tell where they ended and I began. I’m thankful we all made it back in one piece.” She taps the counter with long jewel covered fingers. “People weren’t as safety conscious and concerned about rules back then. Things were more fun. Innocent but more dangerous.”
I’ve heard this spiel a thousand times, so I’m only half listening as I fold up the rest of the reusable bags and tuck them away.
“Gonna tell me who this couple is?”
“You know I can’t.” She shoots me a coquettish look over her padded shoulder.
“I don’t think I’ll get that wild, but I do have to dress fancy and rub elbows with all the hottest men in town.”
She shuffles toward me and grabs my chin, tugging my face down to hers.
“With those legs and this gorgeous face, you’d better live a little. Before it’s too late.”
