Chapter Eight

DeLorean dragged herself into the kitchen, Cole in tow, about ten minutes after I got out of the shower in the morning. The makeup she’d forgotten to remove yesterday had turned into a dark bandit mask around her eyes, proof that she was just as tired and wrung out as she’d told me she was. She put Cole in his carrier, one of those all purpose models that doubles as a car seat and also fits into a baby carriage and a grocery cart. Then she plopped down at the table and assumed the expression of someone who’d just lost all her friends and had no prospects of getting new ones.

On cue, a wave of pity swept over me. Despite her protests that she was better off without “the flaming narcissist,” she had to be deeply hurt over his rejection of her and Cole.

“Coffee?” I leaned across the table and squeezed her shoulder, and she beamed me a grateful smile.

“Sure. I’m still on California time and this is way too early for me to be out of bed. Right when I drifted off to sleep after you brought him up, Cole started howling.”

I’d heard him, all the way downstairs in the family room. Now I wished I’d gone back up and taken him to give her a break. “Does he wake up a lot at night?”

“God, does he ever. If I’m especially tired, the little imp thinks after midnight is play time.”

“Christian used to do the same thing. And speaking of Christian, he’s going to love having Cole around. He always wanted a little brother. Of course, he won’t be home from college all that much.”

“I’ll bet he’ll make a terrific babysitter.” She put a dab of sugar in her coffee and whirred her spoon in the cup as if she were carrying out an experiment to see if coffee would whip up like cream.

DeLorean hadn’t told me much about the break up. We were both tired yesterday and I hadn’t pressed her. But I figured this was a good time for her to tell me what she had in mind as far as finding a job and a place of her own.

I fixed her a couple of slices of cinnamon toast without asking if she was hungry. I got a carton of plain yogurt for myself and topped it with banana slices.

“What happened with you and Baldwin?” With anyone else, I’d have been less direct, but DeLorean was my sister and if she was going to live at my house, I needed to know what was going on.

“He was a creep. I wanted an acting or modeling career followed by that perfect marriage I’ve always dreamed of, a little house with a picket fence, kids.” She bit her lip and blinked back tears. “Baldwin wanted a good time, not a commitment. He was furious when he found out I was pregnant. I’d never seen him so angry. Like it was all my fault. But I swear, we only--”

I held up my hand. “Spare me the details.”

As if her son had understood what she was saying, Cole let out a wail. DeLorean lifted him and cuddled him close.

She nuzzled his hair and said, “Poor little man. I didn’t pick a very good daddy for you, did I?”

DeLorean had been crazy about dolls when she was a little girl and she always said she wanted a dozen babies when she grew up. The problem was, she seemed to have started on the baby collection prematurely. I felt bad that Cole would grow up without his father. At least by the time T. Chandler and I divorced, Christian was nearly grown. But I’d still felt guilty, despite Christian’s reassurances that his father had treated me badly and didn’t deserve me.

“I know it’s awful right now, but you’ll get back on your feet. Meanwhile, you’ll have to manage on whatever child support Baldwin gives you.”

“Child support?” She stared at the wall. A delicate pink flush colored her cheeks. “Would you believe he’s buried to the hilt with child support payments and alimony for his two ex-wives? There’s barely enough left for me to buy diapers, even if he decided to support Cole.”

“What?” My voice went up a full octave. “I never knew he had ex-wives and child support. Anyway, I thought Baldwin was rich. He certainly bragged enough about his expensive furniture and his decorator and his Porsche--his whole designer life.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you about his marriages? It must have slipped my mind because I’m sure it’s something I would have told you. Anyway, after two failures, Baldwin said he was afraid to commit, even though he fooled me into believing him when he said I was the love of his life. And he would be rich—he makes plenty of money--except the wives and kids get it all. There are three of them. Kids, I mean. Besides Cole. All that stuff you saw--the apartment, the furniture, his car? Credit cards. I blinded myself to the truth until it was too late.”

She said this with as much emotion as a waitress reciting the dinner special at the Crab Shack. Obviously she’d rehearsed and was doing her best to minimize the impact. My ex is a deadbeat. Could you please pass the orange juice?

I slumped in my chair like a deflated beach ball. DeLorean was going to have to manage on her own—with my help--because her baby’s father seemed to have overbooked when it came to providing for his children. Or maybe in his case it would be more appropriate to follow Mama’s example and say “offspring.”

“It’s not the end of life as you know it on planet earth. We’ll find you a job and eventually you’ll be ready to move on.”

“Job?” DeLorean looked at me, with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “I’m too broken up right now to even think about work. Besides, you live a million miles from nowhere. How am I supposed to get to work without a car?”

A neighborhood in the suburbs of Mount Pleasant was not exactly the frontier. I pondered for a few seconds. I had a small emergency savings account. “I might be able to help with the down payment for a car. Nothing fancy or brand new, but transportation’s all you need.”

She was shaking her head before I finished speaking. “I couldn’t possibly afford daycare. I mean, it’s not like I’m qualified for a high paying job. All my salary would go to keep Cole, probably in some understaffed nursery where he’d be lonely and neglected in a wet diaper all day. He’d cry his heart out, you know he would, and I’d feel like a terrible mother.”

“Come on, DeLorean, you have no way of knowing what kind of--”

“There’s no reason to take a chance, no reason for me to trade my salary for daycare. I’ll just stay home with Cole and do your housework or something. When he’s older, and I’m over the breakup, I’ll decide what kind of career I want.”

What, when Cole was ready for college? My sister needed a reality check and she needed it now. If I could have afforded a live in housekeeper, I’d already have one.

“You have a degree in elementary education,” I ground out.

Her expression went serene. “True, but I’ve never actually taught school and I’m not sure I want to. I’m thinking of going back to college. Maybe I’ll get a nursing degree and help sick people. But right now--I couldn’t handle a job, not with what I’m going through.”

I bit back a remark that would have left scorch marks on my tongue. I could see DeLorean’s side--up to a point. And no one knew better than I did that jobs weren’t to be had for the asking. But she wasn’t a child to be looked after by her sister. And despite the fact that she was willing to trade housework for room and board, the arrangement would be hard on me.

Impossible. I really couldn’t afford to keep her and Cole, even though Veronica was going to be paying me more than I’d been making at the pawnshop. My savings would melt away in no time and I’d have to dip into my retirement fund. I couldn’t count on much money from selling the house, either.

A few years ago T. Chandler had insisted we move out of the old house, the one we’d lived in throughout our marriage, and buy this new place. It was more in keeping with his station in life, he’d said. We had almost no equity. That was another reason for my plans to sell out and take Veronica up on her offer to give me a room at her B&B in exchange for helping out a few days a week.

I was loading the dishwasher when something, maybe the way the big dish nestled against the medium dish, which pushed against the smallest one, seemed to suggest a solution. The dishes nested together all helping each other to stand straight in the rack. What if I could persuade Mama to sell her condo and come here to live with DeLorean and Cole? I’d be able to keep the house. DeLorean and Cole-and Christian--would have a home.

I half turned and looked at my sister and felt my eyes narrow in appraisal. Mama had hinted ever since T. Chandler left me that her condo was too small and I had a ton of room. I’d ignored her, not wanting another built in boss and life critic, not to mention the Chihuahuas. But with me gone, she'd be able to stay in the master suite at the opposite end of the house from the guestroom and maybe she and DeLorean might not argue too much or they could declare a truce. Mama might even take over babysitting and let DeLorean use the Cadillac so she could work.

I’d wait until I returned from taking Brad to the groomer and then I’d call Mama to come over and meet her grandson. I’d find a way to tactfully suggest the move. It wouldn’t matter if DeLorean objected. It wasn’t like she had options. And I was desperate for a solution, more desperate than either of them knew. I couldn’t tell them about getting fired, not yet while the awfulness still made me ache inside.

I took Brad for a walk, which meant that he dragged me like a pull toy all over the neighborhood. After we returned, he hauled me up the driveway toward the house, and I managed to divert him through the side door of the garage and from there to the utility room. There I left the hairy beast—devouring a plastic clothes hamper—while I fetched his crate and wrestled it into the van. Mission half accomplished. All I had to do now was persuade Brad that it would be a really good thing for him to jump in and go for a nice ride.

I finally opted for bribery, choosing to give him a hunk of leftover baked ham. In his enthusiasm he nearly made dinner out of my hand. I slammed the crate shut and latched it. Then I took the quickest route to the Pet Wellness Center, bypassing my usual leisurely path through quiet suburban streets, and sped down Highway 17. When I got back, I’d call Mama and diplomatically announce DeLorean’s arrival. Next I’d get through the drama of her meeting Cole and finding out about DeLorean’s current crisis. Finally I’d suggest that Mama move into my house.

I saw my turn, whipped the van down a side street, and bounced into the parking lot. My fingers ached, wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly they were in danger of leaving permanent imprints. I forced them loose, one at a time, and shook some circulation back.

When I opened his cage, Brad shot out in my direction. I lunged sideways and grabbed his leash. How DeLorean had managed him and the baby, too, I’d never know. The same way I’d never know what had led her to get such a high-maintenance pet to begin with. The workings of my sister’s mind have always been a mystery to me.

We galloped inside without me getting slammed into the front of the brick building or falling over the planter filled with yellow pansies. I looked around the white tiled room that gleamed like an operating suite. The smell of antiseptic and dogs blasted me in the face. A rack on one wall held an assortment of dog toys. The opposite wall was papered with photos of dogs freshly washed and brushed and looking reasonably pleased with their makeovers.

An uproar of barks and howls coming from the back of the building hammered my ears, and I hunched my shoulders. Brad responded with a few healthy barks of his own. I told him to hush, not that I expected him to listen.

The receptionist glanced up, ran her finger down the appointment book, and chirped, “Brad Marsh. Golden doodle. Right on time.” She waltzed out from behind the counter and gave Brad an appraising look. “My, aren’t we a mess. Goodness.”

“Goodness is not what I said when I met him, but I get your drift,” I said.

“What will Brad be needing today, Mrs. Marsh?”

I gritted my teeth, more from an objection to her sing-songy voice than to her calling me Mrs. Marsh. “This is my sister’s dog. She’s Miss DeLorean Marsh. My mother is Mrs. Regina Marsh. I’m Susan Caraway and I’m just doing my sister a favor bringing him over. Brad needs a haircut, and he has to have something done about his fleas.”

My lower legs suddenly developed a fierce itch, and I raised my right foot to discreetly rub it against my left calf. I did not feel a need to explain our family history and tell her that my mother and my sister used to be Miss and Mrs. Beauchamp, after Mama’s second husband, DeLorean’s father. But after Philip Beauchamp bolted, Mama and DeLorean officially went back to Marsh, her first husband’s name, so we would all have the same last name “like a real family”, as Mama put it.

“He’s badly matted, you know,” the woman said in accusing tones.

Yeah, his fur is positively ropy in places. I know that in an ideal world this kind of tragedy wouldn’t happen, but my sister has been too busy coping with a new baby and a breakup with the boyfriend from hell to be able to take care of him. I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for the dog’s condition, so you can stop looking at me like I ought to be arrested for failure to brush and deflea.

That’s what I wanted to say. What I actually did was to assume my dealing-with-customers voice from work and respond, “Do what it takes to restore him to mint condition, please.”

“The flea bath is a standard price for large dogs, but it’s going to cost quite a bit to do his coat. If you want a comb-out, which I don’t recommend since that will take hours, you’re looking at quite an expense. I’d have to ask my supervisor if we even have time. We can clip him down, though. That would be your cheapest way to go.” She quoted me a couple of prices.

I winced and chose the cheaper clip down. I signed a paper and watched Brad drag away a girl wearing a pink smock over black slacks fuzzed with enough dog hair to make yarn for a bedspread.

The bell at the front door sounded a cheery little tinkle. I glanced around and locked gazes with the customer who’d just walked in, a familiar bag slung over her shoulder. I clapped my hand over my heart and staggered backward until I hit the reception counter.

“Mama?” I’d have been slightly less taken aback if a white knight had breezed into the shop clutching a dozen red roses and begging me to ride off to Spartanburg with him.

Mama’s expression remained serene. “I brought Sweetpea in for a bath and a massage. He seems a little depressed, so Lydia suggested a spa visit. She says rescue babies are often insecure and she should know, because she certainly has helped so many poor homeless babies. From other kennels, you understand. I declare, it is beyond me to fathom why some people breed and don’t rescue.” She reached into her purse and drew out a shivering black and tan body. The smocked girl returned to whisk Sweetpea Marsh away.

Mama turned back to me and said, “Well?”

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.” I smiled brightly.

“What mother wouldn’t? Susan, I glanced in the shop window and caught a glimpse of that over-haired creature you brought in. Or that brought you in. I realize you’re lonely, dear, but it takes time to recover from a breakup. No matter how bleak your evenings, how lonely and tortured your soul, there’s no need to burden yourself. I declare, you’ll be the death of me. A few days ago it was ghost hunting and today it’s a giant, tangle-haired dog that could squish both my babies at once just by sitting down. Have you considered getting a hobby?” She moved in closer and leaned toward me. Tiny popped his head out of the purse and growled. “There’s a lovely woman from my church, Maude Kramer, who teaches art. I’m sure you’d enjoy sketching and watercolors down at the harbor. Even if it turned out you didn’t have talent, which I suspect is the case, art would be a lot easier than dealing with that animal. Very therapeutic and, who knows, tourists who don’t know any better might even buy your pictures.”

“It’s not my dog, Mama.”

“Thank God.” She let out her breath in a dramatic sigh. “For a few moments, I had serious maternal concerns.”

Too bad. She was about to go for a long ride on the serious maternal concerns wagon.

“It’s DeLorean’s dog,” I said.

Mama let out an unladylike squeal. “Your sister, DeLorean?”

“How many DeLoreans do we know? She flew in from LA yesterday afternoon.” I cringed waiting for the inevitable response.

“And you didn’t tell me? I can’t think of a single reason why you would want to keep news like that a secret. I am cut to the core.” She placed her left hand over her heart.

“DeLorean had a rough trip. She wanted to regroup so she’d look her best when she showed you her baby for the first time.” Not exactly the truth, but close enough. While I talked, I’d moved through the doorway, and Mama followed.

“As if I care how rough she looks after flying for hours in some cramped jet with an infant on her lap. My word, what you girls come up with sometimes would drive a lesser lady into therapy.” She opened the door of her Cadillac and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. I heard a stifled yelp coming from inside the purse. “My heart is thumping away with joy at the thought of seeing my new grandson and holding him in my arms for the first time.”

She was still talking when she roared out of the parking lot, made a u-turn in front of a fast approaching station wagon, and accelerated toward the highway.

I stared after her for a full minute. I considered calling DeLorean. But warning or no warning, Mama was going to show up and DeLorean was going to have to cope. I let the impulse pass.