Nine—Bo
I
was perspiring, which I loathe, so I needed another shower. But I was too behind to take the time for one—my sister would be here any minute. So, in addition to being sweaty, there was a knot of conflict tangling in my gut—oh, the joys of anxiety. I had to focus. I’d already lost nearly an entire day of work scrambling to get ready for our tenant— a day that I could not afford. A normal person would prioritize. But my personality doesn’t really do priorities; everything muscles its way into the number one position, which can be a little knot-producing and sweat-inducing.
Case in point: Katrina Gearhart, the producer of the airport soap opera Winged Passion , is a fan of my work. Last week she commissioned a choker in the shape of a snake that is to be found on a dead body in episode eleven of next season. It’s a great opportunity for me, as the piece is to be featured repeatedly as a clue in the murder of the dead person on whom it will be found, and Bo Sutton dba Sutton will subsequently appear in the rolling credits at the end of the show. It’s a thrilling prospect—achieving it should take precedence. And it does…and will. Eventually.
My problem is my sisters. Their lives intersect with mine, and their issues somehow become my issues because we share genetics and loyalty. Exhibit A: Mia and her dropped-bomb which effectively exploded all my business plans into oblivion—temporarily. And ten minutes after that bomb, elder sister, Camille dropped another in my lap when she informed me that she had miraculously managed to escape her tyrannical farce of a husband for a few hours. She will be convening her book club—where else but right here on Lullaby’s freshly mopped patio, tonight . Of course. And of course, she’s begged me to whip up something for her friends to nosh on for the event. I’m very good at that sort of thing so because I love her and pity her, I will accommodate her. The knot feels made of barbed wire.
I’m not whining, just acknowledging the actual fact that there is just one of me to deep clean the pool house, super sanitize the bathrooms, vacuum, polish, and reorganize, put together Camille’s food, complete the preliminary drawing of the killer snake, and order the materials, including the teardrop African emeralds that last week were still on backorder.
I groaned, audibly. I didn’t have the time or the proper hygiene to adequately welcome a stranger into Aunt Lully’s home. But none of that seemed to matter—she was on her way.
I had just finished vacuuming when I heard Mia pull into the garage. My hands went a little sweaty—a little more sweaty—but otherwise I refused to telegraph my anxiety— deep breaths. Deep. Breaths. Mia would see it, of course, but hopefully I would not alarm this poor girl with my skittishness. I don’t do well with new people. Mia got all the social ease Camille used to have. I got the least, which I’ve always found to be monumentally unfair.
When I came back from shelving the Dyson, Mia and our new lodger were in the foyer, where the girl’s blue-eyed prettiness disarmed me—I don’t know why—and naturally ignited my demon angst. Inward sigh. Thankfully, she was busy being a little shell-shocked, so I don’t think she noticed. Aunt Lully’s house has that effect on people: 6500 square feet of Provence-inspired Mediterranean luxury replete with superior workmanship set in the bluffs high above Monterey Bay.
“Bo, there you are,” Mia said. “I want you to meet Ivy Talbot. Ivy, this is my brother, Bo, which is short for Benjamin Oliver. You can call him Bo or Benjamin. ”
“Hi,” I said, proudly betraying nothing of the circus going on inside me.
“So nice to meet you,” the girl said with southern warmth and a timid smile. A smile that sort of amplified her prettiness which sort of amplified my anxiety.
“Hi,” I repeated, and then I went mute. She smiled a bit wider, a bit nervously and my eye started to twitch. Was it? Was my eye twitching? Thank goodness Ivy Talbot kindly looked away seeming to lose interest in me as she resumed her perusal of Lully’s home, giving me the chance to rub my belligerently dancing eyelid.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said in a soft drawl, hopefully none the wiser. “So quiet.”
I nodded, blinking furiously.
Mia rolled her eyes at me. “We’re taking Ivy’s stuff out to the pool house, then we’re headed to the Del Monte Center for some shoes. Do you want to come with us and hit Whole Foods?”
I was tempted—so tempted. I needed several things, but it was too soon to be shopping with a stranger. “I don’t have time,” I coughed, not fooling my sister. “I’ve got macaroons ready to go in the oven—for Camille. But maybe you could pick up some organic onions? Their fresh catch? Some baby reds?”
“Make me a list,” Mia harrumphed, walking Ivy through the foyer to the kitchen where French doors lead to the courtyard and the pool house beyond.
“It’s all so clean…” I heard Ivy say, as well as Mia’s, “That’s all Bo. My brother’s a bit of a germaphobe.”
I wilted. And Ivy Talbot caught my wilt as she turned back to me.
“It was nice to meet you,” she said again smiling, and then hurried out the door.
“You, too.” I muttered under my breath. “Thanks, Mia,” I added. “For that succinct description of me. Germaphobe. Don’t mention that I’m also very well-read, have a master’s degree in literature, own a thriving company, am a gourmet cook, and run marathons… I’m just clean.” I sighed, bothered, as my sister and our new renter laughingly made their way across the patio. Then I noticed the fingerprints Mia left on the glass and grabbed the Windex.