"Have a tag sale or take them to the thrift shop. The twins would be thrilled to have them. And dumb schmucks like me will be happy to assume the burden of ownership until they realize they aren't going to use them either. Maybe there's really only one potter's wheel and one loom," I said, "like they used to say there was only one fruitcake that was passed around and regifted during the holidays."
Caroline was laughing and sniffling now, finishing one drink and instantly pouring herself another. She made a move to refill my glass then realized she didn't need to.
She'd snapped out of her funk, but drinking at this rate, what was she going to be like by noon? If she wanted to drink herself stupid by lunchtime that was her call; it wasn't up to me to give her advice, but that didn't stop me. I repositioned my laptop and slightly, unnecessarily, moved her glass just out of her reach.
"You're a big girl, Caroline, you know what you're doing. But maybe you're focusing on keeping your hands busy when you should be thinking about keeping your mind busy." Which she couldn't do if she was plastered.
She stared blankly into space.
"Forget it. I don't know what I'm talking about," I added quickly, fearing I'd overstepped the bounds of our quasi-friendship. "I'm just trying to be solutional. That's my nature."
"No. You're right. That's it," Caroline said, the light dawning. She raised her glass to toast me, and I obliged by taking another small sip from mine. "So what do you think I should do?" she asked, reminding me of the eager interns we'd had at my old company.
"Well, first you need to decide what you want in your garden."
The lines on her forehead disappeared as if they had been Photoshopped out. She reached for drink number four, but didn't take a sip, and I could tell Caroline was busy plotting some activity other than merely saying yes or no to my designs for her property. She nodded absentmindedly at almost everything I suggested and I began to wonder if she was really agreeing or was just wasted.
A scratching sound came from another room.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Oh, that's my houseguest," Caroline answered, sliding off her high-backed kitchen stool. She crossed the kitchen floor on unsteady, ballet-slippered feet to open a narrow door that led to her mudroom. Out popped a small white dog.
"There you are, precious. Did you miss your Auntie Caroline? Paula, this is my new friend, April." A small white Maltese that looked very much like the one I'd seen at Titans two days earlier in the care of a full-figured redhead.
Twelve
What were the odds? You could go to any park or dog run in Connecticut and yell Maggie and a dozen pooches would come running. And there was no shortage of Tesses, Maxes, or Rileys. But April was not a common name for a dog in these parts. It was like naming a dog Barry or Helen. It just wasn't done that often.
Caroline told me she was doing a favor for a colleague of Grant's who'd had to unexpectedly join him on a business trip and hadn't had time to find a pet sitter.
"Grant brought her home last night. To keep me company, I guess. Isn't she darling?" Caroline bent down to give the dog a scratch and a gourmet dog biscuit she fished out of a decorative tin on the counter.
You'd have to have some cojones to fly off on a tryst with your girlfriend and make your wife watch the woman's dog. From what I'd heard about him, Grant Sturgis was too much of a wuss for that brazen a move. Still, who knew? I was hardly an expert on suburban mores. Or men.
Grant Sturgis was a management consultant, whatever that meant. Everyone I knew who was unemployed refers to himself or herself as a consultant, but apparently there are people who really do it, and full-time, not just while they're waiting for the permanent job to come along.
According to Caroline, who'd quietly gone back to sipping her mimosa, Grant's work took him from Chicago to Georgia to Massachusetts, with the occasional trip to Europe. Despite her halfhearted attempts to join him, she never went. Every time she'd brought it up, he'd mumble something about boring clients, lengthy business dinners, and generic hotels. With that kind of review, I'd have stayed home, too.
"It can't be that boring," she said. "Chicago has museums, Marshall Field's, Buddy Guy's." Shopping on the Miracle Mile and Frango mints, yes, but I hadn't pegged her for a blues fan.
"Marshall Field's isn't there anymore," I said. "And B. B. King's is a lot closer than Buddy Guy's."
"You're right," she said. "It's not him." Had I said that? Maybe I was better at this suburban advice thing than I realized.
"I need to find something more mentally engaging," she announced, nuzzling the tiny dog she now held with both hands.
I steered her back to our garden discussion. Seeing the dog had put some very uncharitable thoughts about Grant Sturgis in my head—I didn't like the idea that he might be boffing some cocktail waitress while making his wife pick up his mistress's dog's poop. I longed for the old days when my pals had easier problems like "It's Thursday, why hasn't he called?"
Under the circumstances, I felt a little guilty but got Caroline to sign off on plans and purchases for the garden; I should remember to get all my clients tanked before meetings. I watched the wrinkled forehead return along with a determined little set to her mouth.
As I got up to leave, she mumbled something about going out, too, so when she wasn't looking, I reached into the tin that held the dog biscuits, got one for April, and left Caroline's car keys in the tin. Not to drive her crazy, just to keep her in the house long enough to realize driving was a bad idea.
The three spoonfuls of cereal I'd had for breakfast were starting to feel lonely in my stomach, so I turned left out of Caroline's driveway and headed back to Springfield for an early lunch at the Paradise.
I pulled in past a line of vehicles that made the diner's parking lot look like an emissions control station on the highway. As always, whatever the hour, size, or temperament of the crowd, Babe had everything under control. I spied one empty stool at the far end of the counter and elbowed my way through a sea of wide-bodied truckers whose haunches were spilling over the edges of the diner's counter stools. It reminded me not to order whatever they were eating.
Business had picked up since Pete started his television cooking lessons and Babe now had three sullen waitresses helping her out at lunchtime instead of just one. Paulette, Theresa, and Alba were busy so Babe motioned for me to help myself to a cup of coffee and a newspaper until things died down a bit. I slipped behind the counter and served myself.
"How goes it?" she asked, when the crowd had thinned.
"It goes. Looks like your business is booming."
"It's Pete's fault. When he was a lousy cook, I had more time to read; now my TBR stack is yea high." She held a hand up to her hips. "And back then I didn't have to play den mother. Look at those three. They're worthless as waitresses, but the little one has a pretty good voice. The one with the black hair plays bass." Having spent some of the best years of her life with a band, Babe still had a soft spot for rock and rollers. And although she denied it, I think she enjoyed playing den mother.
"Where'd you find them?"
"They came in late one night," she whispered, "after an open mike night at Boomer's. They were pretty upset—it didn't go so well. I told them if they worked the lunch shift, four days a week, I'd give them stage pointers plus salary and tips. We'll see how long they last. Are you eating or is this one of your liquid lunches?"
"Eating. I'm ravenous." I ordered a turkey and sundried tomato wrap, something Pete had recently added to the menu courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis.