Cul-de-sac Read online

  “Her boobs have been recalled?”)

  He laughs. Booze and boobs. What else matters?

  The waitress appears. “All done here?” she asks, and he nods. “Would you like to see a dessert menu?”

  Sean checks his watch. It’s almost two o’clock and he has to pick the kids up in forty minutes. Luckily, tourist season is over and there shouldn’t be too much traffic at this hour, but still, it will be tight. He really should get going. “Just the check, thank you.”

  A minute later, the check is on the table. He glances toward it, swallowing his shock at the figure he sees. Sixty dollars for two glasses of house wine! Over a hundred dollars in total and he didn’t even have dessert! And that’s not counting a tip. Shit. Olivia will have a fit. Nah, he thinks, glancing toward the floor. The fit will happen when she sees what he paid for the jacket!

  Unless he gets the job. Then he’ll need a new jacket. Maybe more than one.

  It’s not entirely out of the question, he decides. The interview might not have gone as badly as he thought. He’s probably being too hard on himself.

  He hands his credit card to the waitress as once again his phone vibrates in his pocket. Caller ID reveals it’s the job recruiter he’s been working with. “Hey, there, Fiona,” he says, adopting Nick Wilson’s breezy tone. “How’s it going?” Perhaps Fiona has another interview for him. “I think the meeting went well,” he continues unprompted. “Of course, they’re still interviewing—”

  “That’s actually why I’m calling,” she interrupts. “I was just speaking to Ms. Pierce.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m afraid it’s not happening.”

  “They decided that already?”

  “She said that while she was very impressed with your credentials, she didn’t think you were quite what they had in mind, that they like to think of themselves as cutting edge and you’re, well…more old school.”

  Old school meaning old, Sean translates silently.

  “Try not to take it personally, Sean. And don’t get discouraged. You know how these things work.”

  “Of course,” Sean says.

  “We’ll keep trying.”

  “Of course,” he says again, pocketing the phone and retrieving his credit card from the waitress, then exiting the restaurant before he can burst into tears.

  He’s halfway down the street when he hears someone shout his name and turns to see the waitress from Ta-boo running after him.

  “Mr. Grant! Mr. Grant!”

  Dear God, was there a problem with his credit card?

  The waitress’s arm extends toward him as she draws closer. “I’m so glad I caught you,” she says, handing over the bag from Ferragamo. “I’m sure you don’t want to forget this.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark stands in the doorway to his grandmother’s bedroom, watching her sleep. It’s after ten in the morning, and this is the first time he’s been up before her. For a few seconds, he worries that she may have died in her sleep, and then where would he be? Because then for sure his father would put the house up for sale, and he’d be out on his ear. Unless of course Julia left him the house in her will, in which case they’d probably suspect he had something to do with her death.

  Either way, he’d be screwed.

  So he hopes she won’t go and die on him. Not yet anyway. Not till he has everything figured out.

  He feels a jolt of shame, like an electrical charge. What’s the matter with him? His grandmother loves him unconditionally. She’s been the one constant in his life. Probably his only friend in the world. And he loves her. He would be devastated if anything happened to her.

  “Mark?”

  The disembodied voice catches him off guard and he jumps.

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Nana! You scared me.”

  Julia Fisher sits up in bed, the white bedsheets falling to her waist, revealing the wrinkled skin above the scooped neck of her pink nightgown and a vague outline of the pendulous breasts beneath. “Is everything okay?”

  “I was worried about you,” he says, entering the room and perching at the foot of her queen-size bed. “You don’t usually sleep this late.”

  Julia glances toward the clock beside the bed. “My goodness. Is it really after ten o’clock?”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a sleeping pill around two,” she says without really answering the question. “Probably not a great idea.”

  “It seems like you take a lot of pills, Nana,” Mark says. “How many do you take, exactly?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Julia raises both hands into the air, counting down the number of pills on misshapen fingers. “There’s one for my cholesterol, one for my blood pressure, one for my thyroid, several for my arthritis, one for my bones, half a dozen vitamins, and the occasional Tylenol and sleeping pill as required.” She shrugs. “Ah, the joys of aging. It’s true what they say, you know—getting old is not for sissies.”

  “You’re no sissy, that’s for sure.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. Is that coffee I smell?”

  Mark smiles. “It is. And I was thinking of trying out this recipe I saw on TV for lemon-ricotta pancakes. How does that sound to you?”

  “Sounds like heaven. Let me shower and get dressed, and I’ll see you downstairs in about fifteen minutes.”

  Mark moves quickly to her side. “Can I help you?”

  “Not on your life,” Julia warns. “I’m still quite capable of getting out of bed on my own. Go on now, scoot. Get busy on those pancakes.”

  Mark leaves his grandmother’s side and steps into the hall, where he stands, waiting, until he hears the door to her bathroom close and the shower start. But instead of going downstairs, he returns to the bedroom and tiptoes to the dresser opposite the bed. Glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, he begins rifling through the bureau’s three drawers, hoping to find anything of value, something he can pawn that won’t be missed. He’s already spent most of the money he stole from Poppy’s purse. Luckily, math isn’t Poppy’s strongest suit or she might have noticed earlier that the forty dollars he recently pilfered was the least of what he’s taken over the last six months. But now that bank has closed and he needs money to pay his dealer. What’s that old saying—“A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine”? More like a day without weed.

  And his supply is running perilously low.

  Too bad opioids aren’t part of Julia’s daily regimen. Painkillers like Percodan or Oxy would be worth a lot on the black market, whereas he doubts he’d get a whole lot for thyroid medication and pills to lower cholesterol. Still, the sleeping pills might be worth something and something’s better than nothing. He should be able to sneak a few out of their bottle without his grandmother being any the wiser. She’s probably better off without them anyway.

  Except she doesn’t keep the pills in her dresser, he discovers, finding nothing but clothing in the top two drawers. “But what have we here?” he mutters, his hand hitting something hard beneath a tangle of undergarments. He pushes the bras and panties aside to reveal a cardboard shoebox.

  Inside it, he finds a stack of papers and documents, including his grandfather’s death certificate, his driver’s license, and Social Security number. He might be able to get something for these. From what he understands, identity theft is a big business these days. Except then someone using his grandfather’s identity might just steal the house right out from under him. So, that’s not a viable option, Mark decides, returning the papers to the box and closing its lid.

  “But what’s this?” he whispers, opening the bottom drawer to find another box, this one larger and made of leather. He lowers himself to the well-worn carpet, balancing on the balls of his feet, and opens it, then falls back in horror as the stirring
chorus of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” fills the room. “Shit!” he says, snapping the box shut, silencing it. A goddamn music box! “Fuck!”

  His eyes shoot toward the bathroom. The shower is still running, so there’s little chance Julia would have heard the unexpected outburst. “Goddamn it!” He needs to be more careful. If Julia catches him going through her things, he’ll lose the last ally he has.

  Still, he saw something in that split second between opening the box and slamming it shut. What?

  Something gold, he’s almost sure of that. A bracelet? Maybe a watch? Jewelry of some sort, anyway. He could certainly pawn that. The only jewelry he sees his grandmother wear are small gold hoop earrings and the wide gold wedding band she never takes off, probably because it’s buried so deep inside the folds of her flesh, she likely couldn’t remove it if she tried. Would she even notice anything was missing?

  He stares at the closed bathroom door. The shower is still running. Can he risk opening the damn box again to check things out? How long does the stupid music last?

  He balances the box on his knees, cradling it to his chest and surrounding it with his arms to muffle the sound. Then he closes his eyes, says a silent prayer, and lifts the lid, the music vibrating against the cotton of his black T-shirt. Shit, shit, shit, he thinks, opening his eyes and staring at the delicate gold-and-diamond bracelet inside a tangle of thin gold chains. He lifts the items into his hands, understanding that it will take hours to separate them. Hours he doesn’t have.

  Which means it’s all or nothing.

  Obviously, his grandmother doesn’t wear any of these things. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t look at them, or that she might not notice them missing. He might get away with taking one gold chain. Maybe even two. But not the whole damn thing. He needs to untangle them, which means he needs time, time when his grandmother is out of the house. Which isn’t often. Since he moved in, there have been maybe half a dozen times when she’s gone out without him.

  “It’s so nice having someone to go grocery shopping with,” she said to him just yesterday inside Publix. “Your grandfather always refused to go.”

  To which he’d replied, “It’s my pleasure, Nana.”

  And, to his great surprise, it was.

  So, what’s he doing squatting on her bedroom floor, going through her belongings, looking for stuff to steal? “Some grandson you are,” he says, realizing that not only has the music stopped, but the shower as well.

  “Shit!” He shoves the music box back inside the drawer and pushes the drawer shut, clambering to his feet as the bathroom door opens.

  “Mark!” his grandmother says, clearly nonplussed by his presence. She is wrapped in a towel and surrounded by steam, giving her a vaguely ghostlike aura. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong. When I got downstairs, I realized I dropped my phone.” He pulls it out of the pocket of his skinny jeans and holds it up. “Found it right here on the floor.”

  “You kids and your phones,” Julia says, shaking her head. “Good thing I put on a towel or you would have had a very nasty surprise.”

  Good thing I’m such a good liar, Mark thinks.

  “I saw this birthday card once,” she continues in the next breath. “It said ‘Happy Birthday! You have the body of a thirty-year-old.’ Then you opened it up and it said, ‘Give it back. You’re getting it all wrinkled!’ ” She laughs.

  “I like your wrinkles,” he tells her, one of the few truthful things he’s said all morning.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  The phone rings.

  Julia walks to the nightstand beside her bed and lifts the phone to her ear. “Hello?” Her expression quickly changes from curiosity to fear. “What? Who is this? What are you saying?”

  “Who is it?” Mark asks.

  Julia lowers the phone to her chest, her face awash with worry. “Some man. He says he’s with the IRS and I owe all sorts of money, and if I don’t pay up immediately, I’ll be arrested.”

  “Give me that.” Mark grabs the phone. “Listen, you asshole—” He stops abruptly, then slams down the receiver.

  “Oh my goodness! Should you have done that?”

  “It’s a scam, Nana.”

  “A scam?”

  “And it was a recording. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “A recording? No. I just heard this angry voice and I got so scared. You’re sure it’s a scam?”

  “Positive. The IRS doesn’t leave recorded messages.”

  “Oh my. He gave me such a fright.” She glares at the phone. “Asshole!” she shouts toward it.

  Mark laughs. “You tell ’em, Nana.”

  She walks to her grandson’s side, burrowing in against him. His arm automatically wraps around her bare shoulders and he feels the dampness of her skin through his thin T-shirt. “What about those pancakes?” she asks.

  He hugs her tighter. “Coming right up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Heidi pulls into her driveway and shuts off the car’s engine, a buzz of anticipation building in her chest. What’s that old saying—“Today is the first day of the rest of your life”? Well, it’s today. And starting today, things in the Young household are going to be very different.

  She’s been thinking about it all afternoon. The store was exceptionally quiet, which meant she’d spent most of her time straightening the various display tables and standing around, trying to look busy. Which gave her a lot of time to think. Which was when a plan started taking shape in her head.

  There were things she could control, she decided, and things she couldn’t. And she couldn’t just keep complaining about her mother-in-law, hoping that things would change, because they wouldn’t. That’s not the way things worked. No, if she wanted a different relationship with Lisa, she’d have to be more—what was the word?—proactive. You can’t change other people, she remembered hearing on Dr. Phil; you can only change yourself.

  So change she will. Starting today, she will be the daughter-in-law of Lisa’s dreams. She will prove to the woman how much she loves her son, that she is all the wife a man—and his mother—could ask for. She will listen when Lisa speaks, she won’t argue when she disagrees, she will appreciate and take to heart any help and/or advice that her mother-in-law offers.

  Through renewed determination and sheer force of will, she will make Lisa love her.

  Even if it kills her.

  She’s already taken the first step, phoning Lisa from work and inviting her over for dinner tonight, a gourmet feast she intends to prepare all by herself. So what if she isn’t much of a cook, and her specialty thus far has been hot dogs and baked beans? How hard can it be?

  Aiden’s shift doesn’t end till seven o’clock, and Lisa, after graciously accepting Heidi’s impromptu invitation, has offered to pick her son up from the mall so he won’t have to Uber home. “That’s so thoughtful of you,” Heidi told her, almost giddy with the thought that her plan already seemed to be working.

  Heidi climbs out of the car’s front seat and opens the rear door, extricating the two bags of groceries she purchased at Whole Foods on her way home from work. Chicken, fruit, lots of healthy fresh vegetables. Surely she’ll have no trouble finding an easy recipe online.

  “Can I give you a hand?” she hears someone ask.

  She pivots around to find a skinny young man walking toward her. A little unkempt, she thinks, but sexy in that I don’t give a shit kind of way. Early twenties, she thinks. Not that much younger than she is. Jeans very tight and slung a little too low, hair a little too scruffy, a little too long. She’s seen him with the old lady who lives next door a few times the last couple of weeks and assumed he’s either a relative or someone she hired to give her a hand around the house.

  “Hi,” he says now, stepping around the Hyundai to introduce himself. �
��Mark Fisher, Julia’s grandson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mark. I’m Heidi. Heidi Young.”

  “The newlywed,” he says with a grin. “My grandmother gave me the rundown on all the neighbors.”

  “Yeah? What’d she say?”

  “That’s about it.” He shrugs, the grin expanding, stretching toward his ears. “She left out how pretty you are.”

  Heidi laughs, flattered despite the obviousness of the line. “Yeah, well.” She laughs again, this time more of a girlish giggle. “Guess I should get these groceries inside.”

  “Here,” he says, lifting the bags from her hands before she has a chance to object. “Let me help you.”

  Heidi fishes inside her purse for her keys and opens the front door, leading the young man through the hall into the kitchen.

  “Wow,” Mark says. “Looks just like my nana’s house.”

  “You call your grandmother Nana?”

  “Yup. Why? What do you call yours?”

  “I don’t call them anything. They’re both dead.”

  “That’s sad,” Mark says, depositing the bags on the kitchen counter.

  Heidi shrugs. No point wasting emotions on things she can’t change. Concentrate on the things you can. Something else she learned from Dr. Phil.

  “Looks like someone’s planning quite the feast,” he remarks, peeking inside the bags.

  “I don’t know,” Heidi admits, feeling less sure of herself now that she’s confronted with her purchases. “I invited my mother-in-law for dinner tonight and I may have bitten off more than I can chew. So to speak.” She laughs, and is grateful when Mark laughs with her.

  “What are you planning on serving?”

  “I don’t know,” Heidi says again, extricating the package of boneless chicken thighs. “Some kind of chicken, I guess.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Except I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Nonsense. If you can read, you can cook. Where are your recipe books?”