Love, Louisa Page 5

  “Sarabelle is overweight and—and I am not interested. I am not in the market for a man, and if I were, a conceited clod like your Dante Rivera is the last one I’d choose.”

  “Now I am really worried, Lou. If you can look at a hunk like Dante and not go all shivery, then you really have retreated from the real world.”

  “Why, because I want to make a place for myself, by myself? What’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong is you’ll never find a husband that way, never have a real home of your own, or children. You do want kids, don’t you?”

  Louisa didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the two brats in her backyard toss clods of dirt and marigold seedlings at each other while the dog barked in an agitated frenzy.

  “You do hate my children!” Annie wailed. “I told Mama you did!”

  Chapter Six

  By the end of the long weekend, Louisa felt the way her fence looked: miserable, mangled, and dragging on the ground. They’d both been trampled on, and she couldn’t blame it all on the obnoxious renters next door. She waved good-bye to her sister and her family with tears in her eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Lou. Mama will call every night. And we’ll come back real soon.”

  That’s why she was crying.

  Now she had to see about fixing the fence for Galahad, who was on a tie-out rope, wrapping himself around the bushes, the porch furniture, and Louisa’s legs. Either that or she’d have to go walk him at eleven o’clock at night, with a flashlight. No flashlight was bright enough for that.

  She thought of putting the dog out in back without a rope, because he always came when she called him, but what if Galahad chased a rabbit or a cat? Worse, what if he went after a raccoon that could tear him to pieces? The idea of losing her dog, of seeing him injured, was wrenching. In such a short time, the mutt had become an indispensable part of her life, so much so that she wondered how she’d managed without him. And he returned her affection tenfold. He’d romped with the children, but never close enough to be stepped on. He’d taken food from Jeff, but never wagged his tail after Jeff yelled at him for barking during the sports scores. He’d let Annie scratch his ears, but never rolled over for belly rubs the way he did for Louisa. He liked her best. For sure Howard had never given her half the love, the constant devotion she got from Galahad. The dog listened better, too.

  So she’d get his fence fixed, if she had to give up chocolate and yard sales, both.

  The renters next door—she never found out their names, or which couple actually held the lease, or if they were even a couple—might not be entirely to blame for the wrecked fence, but one of the jerks in a mile-high Suburban had definitely snapped off another huge branch from the old oak tree at the corner of the two properties. At least the branch had fallen on their side of the yard, but not, to her regret, on the effing car.

  They’d destroyed her sleep again with their all-night parties, too. So Aunt Vinnie’s nephew was going to talk to them? Hah. She had a thing or two to say to the man herself when she saw him. Then she remembered he might agree to work for her and tried to get a rein on her aggravation. The man was a boor—a beautiful boor, granted—but he said he might have some old lumber around. You had to cut some slack to a guy with tools, if he ever showed up.

  He didn’t. Another man, shorter, older, dark-skinned, came to drag back the garbage cans. Then he returned a half-hour later with a chain saw and started to hack up the thick oak branch, tossing the pieces to the back of an old pickup.

  Louisa didn’t see how she could get the logs to hold up the split rails, but oak burned in a fireplace, didn’t it? Louisa waited ’til the worker stopped to put more gas in the chain saw, then went over.

  “Excuse me, I was wondering if you are just going to throw out that wood.”

  The man grinned at her. “Mr. Dante, he says to take it away before the lady next door beeches.” Bitches? So he thought her a complainer, did he? Louis pasted on a smile. “I am not complaining. In fact I am pleased you are taking care of the mess so quickly. I would like some of the wood, though, if no one else wants it. I guess I’m half-owner of the tree.” Not the half that had to dispose of the heavy branches, thank goodness.

  “Mrs. Louisa, yes. Mr. Dante, he says so.”

  “That’s Miss Waldon, or just Louisa. I’m not married.” The man grinned wider. “Mr. Dante says that, too. Me, I’m Rico.”

  If blabbermouthed Dante Rivera worked for free, it was too much. Louisa turned her back on Rico and the free firewood. “Just tell Mr. Da—Mr. Rivera, that I would like to speak with him, when he gets a moment of time.”

  The sarcasm was wasted on Rico, who just kept smiling. “I’ll tell the boss, Mrs. Louisa. He’ll find time.”

  *

  Dante was not thinking of Louisa at all. Not of her fence, at any rate. He figured that if he put off fixing the cursed thing long enough, the annoying female would be back in the city with her tight-ass lawyer. So what if she and her sister had stopped by Aunt Vinnie’s at last, with a pot geraniums—a pot that he’d have to plant? One visit didn’t mean the Waldon woman could walk on water, the way Aunt Vinnie was singing her praises. Of course, with those incredible long legs… No, he didn’t have time to waste thinking about any transplanted hothouse bloom—and he didn’t mean the geranium.

  What he had to think about today, between getting three other houses ready for tenants, his nephew to Little League practice on time, and getting his boat in the water, was his ex-wife and her expletive-deleted baby.

  “What do you mean, you won’t sign the release and waiver of paternal rights?” Richie Newhouse, Dante’s lawyer and driving range partner, yelled across the tees. “Susan and this C. A. Chalmers are promising you freedom from child support.”

  “I read the damn contract. An abrogation of all rights and responsibilities in perpetuity.”

  “Well, hell, Dante, isn’t that what you want?” Richie hit another ball and cursed when it hooked left. “I mean, you don’t want any six-year-old dumped on your doorstep calling you Daddy when Susan’s latest relationship sours, do you? Worse, she could sue you for college tuition in eighteen years, for a kid you’ve never seen. Or the kid could claim part of your estate when you’re dead. Sign the damned papers already.”

  Dante set down his golf club and watched his friend hit another hook. “But it’s my kid.”

  “Christ, it’s your sperm, nothing more.”

  “What if those two aren’t any good as parents? What if they screw the kid up?”

  “Then they’ll have to pay the shrink bills, not you.” He teed up another ball. “What do you want, visitation rights and the rest of that crap? Susan won’t go for it.”

  “But I might never have another kid. What if it’s a son?”

  “Sons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. You think Junior’s going to be your fishing buddy? Think again. He’ll be out drinking, driving too fast, giving you gray hairs as soon as he’s out of diapers. You want a son? Take one of mine.”

  “A daughter, then. A pretty little girl.”

  “With braces and ballet lessons and you’ll never see your bathroom again. Trust me, you’re better off out of it. Besides, who says this is your last chance at paternity? You’re what, thirty-five? Damn, you’ve got a half-century of potency ahead of you, maybe more with the new drugs. You’ll find some sweet young thing sooner or later who’ll put a ring through your nose. Pardon, she’ll put your ring on her finger, and then she’ll turn into a goddamn maternity ward, just like my second wife.”

  “I’m not interested in any twenty-two-year-olds now. I can’t imagine having anything to say to one when I’m forty-five.”

  Richie waggled his eyebrows. “That’s the secret, my friend. You don’t talk to them. But, hey, didn’t I hear you have a knockout new neighbor over at Whaler’s Drive? One of the Waldon girls?”

  “Yeah, Louisa. She’s trying to fix up the old place.”

  “Isn’t she the one with the vanish
ing groom? How old is she, anyway?”

  “Don’t even think about it, bub.”

  *

  Dante wouldn’t think about it either, as he drove to his next appointment. He wouldn’t imagine any golden-haired little cherubs with Louisa Waldon’s green eyes, no way. Hell, that woman gave off such a chill she made Susan look warm and cuddly, and the last time he’d snuggled with his ex-wife was a heck of a long time before the divorce. He’d bet the belligerent blonde was as cold as a winter flounder, and that was why Louisa’s tax attorney had taken a walk. Either that or she had a drinking problem. He pulled into a parking space thinking, Thank god Louisa Waldon wasn’t his problem.

  Susan was.

  He was here, he was going to do it, give Susan what she wanted, the same as always. She’d wanted to get married, even though he knew they were way too young, so he’d given her a ring. She wanted to be an artist, so he’d built her a studio. A potter. He’d built a kiln. A sculptor, or was it a puppeteer next? Then she’d wanted a divorce, so he’d given her that too, along with the real estate office he’d started. Now she wanted a baby, and he was going to give her that, damn it. How could he refuse when she looked up at him with those pansy-brown eyes? He hadn’t been able to say no to her when he was twenty, why should he start now?

  The Waldon woman’s eyes had fire in them, he’d give her that. Not an ounce of whiny wheedling in them. Damn, why couldn’t he get that fence-crazed female out of his mind? Susan was the one begging him to say yes to her latest hobbyhorse. The only difference was this whim couldn’t be stuck on a shelf with the art supplies, gathering dust. Unfortunately, Susan was thirty-five too, the same age as Dante, and she was running out of time for motherhood, no matter what miracles modern medicine promised. Besides, she swore she was going to do it, with or without his help.

  “Oh, say yes already, Dante,” she’d said. “You wouldn’t want me to have some pimply college kid’s sperm father my baby, would you? He might lie about his intelligence or his health or his psycho uncle.”

  Of course Susan had managed to say no to him at least a thousand times during their marriage. She was still saying no.

  “Why don’t we make your baby the old-fashioned way, for old times’ sake?” he’d asked.

  “Over my dead body,” was her answer.

  Yeah, that would be just like old times.

  At least there was a male attendant at the sperm bank, a skinny Black guy in a white lab coat, very efficient, no smirks.

  “Magazines and videos are in the room,” he told Dante as he walked him down the hall and handed him the labeled vial.

  “What, no topless dancers?” Dante joked, trying to appear nonchalant, as if he did this every day. No, he didn’t want the attendant to think he did this every day.

  “That’d be extra.”

  “Extra?”

  “You’d be surprised what some of our clients request.”

  “No, I mean extra, as you’re charging me for this?” He walked back to the front desk. “You can just keep your damn jar.”

  The attendant was confused. “Well, someone’s got to pay for the lab work, and storage. I mean, we can’t run this place for free, you know.” He looked as if he was ready to push a button calling for security or something.

  “I didn’t mean you should. I’m not paying, is all. I’m willing to give my wife—my ex-wife—my all, but I sure as Hades am not going to pay for it. She wants this baby, she can cover your expenses. The woman got half my bank account; she can afford it.”

  The man clucked his tongue in sympathy and took out another form to write in the new billing address. “Susan Johnson Rivera. Your ex-wife, huh?”

  “And her new lover, if you can believe that. C. A. Chalmers. Get that on there too.”

  “So why doesn’t this Chalmers dude, uh, you know?”

  “Why isn’t he here, being mortified to death?” Dante took back the vial with its new label. “Because the frigging C.A. stands for Cora Alice.”

  The African-American attendant whistled. Then he winked at Dante. “Want I should fill your bottle? Now that’d be justice.”

  Dante was still chuckling when he went into the little room. He flipped on the VCR, paged through the top magazine, and then he did what he’d been trying so hard all day not to do: he thought about Louisa Waldon.

  That worked.

  Chapter Seven

  When Louisa got back from walking the dog, the oak branches were neatly stacked along the side of her house. They were on the cosmos seedlings, but she wouldn’t quibble. Somewhere in one of her books, she was sure, was how long she had to wait before burning green wood. Proud that she knew what green wood was, and that you shouldn’t put it in the fireplace, she didn’t want to sound dumb—again or still—by asking at the hardware store. Aunt Vinnie’s nephew would know, naturally, but it would be a cold night indeed before Louisa asked that condescending creep for advice. She supposed he was still “thinking” about working for her.

  Rico seemed nice enough, so she could ask him, if she ever saw him again, and if his English was good enough to understand the question. For that matter, she might even ask him if he’d do some of the heavy work for her. Then she could tell Mr. Dante his services weren’t required and he could stop thinking. She’d never been above hiring another firm’s employees, so she shouldn’t have scruples now about hiring away the handyman’s helper. Meantime, she ought to tip Rico for stacking the wood for her. He could have just left it dumped out by the sidewalk. Ten dollars? Twenty? But if she gave him that much now, he was liable to think she could afford higher prices later, which heaven knew she could not. Besides, Louisa could never figure how much to give the doorman at Christmas; that was Howard’s job.

  “What do you think, Galahad?” The dog looked up, hope in his eyes.

  “Good idea. We’ll bake him some cookies.”

  Regrettably, Louisa had no idea how to bake cookies. Aunt Vinnie would, though. Delighted to have company, Aunt Vinnie dragged out a dozen cookbooks and a shoe box filled with index cards and magazine clippings.

  “I keep telling myself I have to organize all of these someday,” the older woman said, over the noise of the morning talk shows on TV. “But I never get around to it. I don’t know where the time goes, I swear it. Hours just seem to fly on by.”

  Louisa would be happy to give some of her own excess hours, especially after dinner and before bed. She could keep Galahad out walking only so long before she had to face that empty house. The shows on summer television stank, even with the cable hookup, and renting tapes every day was too expensive. She had signed up for free Internet service through the library, but her access code was still being processed. If she read one more book her eyes would cross, and none of them, mysteries, biographies, best-sellers, held her interest anyway. Last night she’d started one of the jigsaw puzzles she’d bought for the kids at yard sales. Tonight she might have to try playing computer solitaire. Unless she learned how to make cookies.

  “Now these are Dante’s favorites,” Aunt Vinnie was saying, after she reshuffled a stack of newspaper cuttings.

  “Yes, but I want to make cookies for Rico, his helper.”

  Aunt Vinnie shook her head, sending hair clips flying.

  “Oh, do I still have these silly things in? I’m sorry, Annie.”

  “It’s Louisa, Aunt Vinnie, the younger sister.”

  “Of course you are. Couldn’t get to be the older one at this stage, could you? Now where was I?”

  “Rico.”

  “Oh, yes. You don’t need to be making goodies for Rico, dear. He has a girlfriend, Marta, who works at Osprey Hill.” Aunt Vinnie leaned a little closer and whispered, so whatever panel of unemployed actresses who were telling women how to lead their lives today wouldn’t hear: “And a wife in Colombia.”

  “Yeck.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s shown me pictures of his children. At least he sends money home all the time.”

  Then Louisa had to listen to th
e woes of Aunt Vinnie’s daughter Francine, who’d married a no-good bum who was always late with his child-support payments. That led to the local doctor who ran away with his nurse, one of the school teachers having an affair with the principal, and that last minister whose daughter got pregnant at Bible camp. Aunt Vinnie might not remember the name of her visitor, but she knew the personal lives of four generations of Paumonok Harborites. And their favorite cookies.

  Louisa didn’t mind that every recipe seemed to call up a new memory, because she was enjoying the comfort of the old woman’s company as much as Aunt Vinnie was happy to have a new listener. They had tea and that morning’s freshly baked blueberry muffins. Louisa got the recipe for them, too.

  Then it was time for her to leave, before she ran out of excuses why she couldn’t stay to supper. Dante would be bringing his nephew Teddy home after Little League, and then Francine would be getting off work at the bank. Louisa promised to stop by there soon to say hello, and come again, and bring Annie’s children to visit—when hell froze over—and reminded the old woman that no, her mother wouldn’t be out for the summer. Rose lived in Florida now, didn’t she recall?

  “Of course. Of course. With that nice man Bernie. I met him at the wed—”

  “No, no. They’re only friends.” Lord, Mrs. Rivera would be spreading tales of Louisa’s mother’s fall from grace all over town, along with her directions for snackerdoodles, or whatever the meticulously copied recipe was called.

  The absurd concoction had fifteen ingredients. Louisa thought she had two or three of them in the pantry: butter, sugar, and water. She left the recipe in the car when she got to the supermarket. Her days of catering to any man’s taste were over, by god. Not that she ever cooked much but breakfast for Howard—egg whites only, over easy—but she always ordered his favorite takeouts when they didn’t eat out, and kept his favorite biscotti and meringue cookies in a jar. She’d dressed the way he liked, wore her hair the length he liked—before she cut it off when she got to Barbados. No more. She was not going to start sweating over a cookie sheet for a complete stranger, not even if he was nice to old ladies and little children. Besides, Rico was the one who’d done her the favor, and he cheated on his wife.