Chapter 34
I spotted Di immediately. She was in front of the Inn at Three Corners, passing her business card to an unsuspecting mark in a Boston Red Sox cap. Annie arrived in tall zippered boots, a lavender dress she said she’d made, a floppy hat. We waited for Di to conclude her sales pitch.
At a table in the center of the room, we ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
“I have some news,” Di said, grinning as though she had a secret we’d never guess.
I hoped her bulletin wasn’t about real estate. But, of course, it was.
“I’m selling my home.”
“And then?” Annie asked.
“I’m moving in with Arlo.”
“Oh, Di, that’s wonderful. And he’s wonderful,” I said, feigning surprise, pretending Arlo hadn’t already broadcast the news.
“Planning a wedding?” Annie teased.
“Why? Do you want to be the flower girl?”
“I’d like to be matron of honor,” I chimed in.
“Why not? I don’t have any friends.”
“Annie,” I said, “what are your plans?”
“I’m not moving in with Arlo. In fact, I may be done with older men.”
Annie said she had signed up for a booth at a craft show. She intended to sell the dress she was wearing in a variety of fabrics. The style was trapeze—easy, relaxed. “I need the cash. According to Milton’s will, his daughter, Penelope, will inherit his house.”
Di shook her head. “Prospects are slim Annie is entitled to anything, but I insisted she see my attorney. I’ll go along. Equal justice under the law.”
I noticed an African American woman entering the restaurant. Slim, tall, with short, chic hair. I craned my neck to check out her shoes—dark-green high heels. She wore a knee-length winter-white dress, a knit she’d accessorized with a chevron scarf. There was something smart about her. I watched as she was seated at a table for two. Di and Annie were looking at her as well.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“A head turner,” Annie said.
“Guess who?” Di said.
“Someone famous?” Annie asked. “Is she in the movies?”
“No,” Di said, enjoying the intrigue.
“How old do you think she is?” Annie asked.
“Her son is about forty, so I figure she’s in her early sixties. Then again, she could’ve had him later in life.”
I was out of patience. “Stop with the math, Di. Who is she?”
“She’s a judge ... she’s also William Cook’s mother.”
“Lisa’s Will?” Annie said, completely up to speed on the situation.
Di nodded—cocky that she had this knowledge.
“Wow,” I said. “If she’s his mother, I understand what Lisa sees in Will.”
“Stop staring. It’s awkward for me,” Di said.
“We weren’t staring—and why is it awkward?” Annie asked.
“Good question,” I said.
“Because, if you remember, I’m Brian’s mother. Her son broke up my son’s marriage.”
“He didn’t break up the marriage,” Annie said. “It takes two to tango.”
I laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
“‘Two to tango’ doesn’t sound like anything you would ever say.”
“I lived with Milton,” Annie replied.
Di rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind us.”
“Tell me about the judge,” I said.
“If she passes by, pretend we don’t know her,” Di told us.
“I don’t know her.” I felt Di was being silly.
I watched as the judge stood, crossed the dining room to the women’s lounge.
Annie excused herself from the table.
Di, who couldn’t help herself, filled me in. “Her name is Barbara Miller. She studied music, was a performer—a singer—until she attended law school. Yale, I think. It’s all online.”
“What an accomplished woman. I’d like to meet her. I guess I will one day,” I said.
“You know what’s not online, Jodi? Whether she knows Lisa, or that Lisa is pregnant with her grandchild.”
“I’m sure her son told her.”
Di responded with condescension. “And why are you sure?”
“Because he’s her son,” I said as I placed a napkin in my lap.
Di chuckled. Or was it a guffaw? “You think your children tell you everything?”
“They tell me a lot.” Okay, so I was in denial.
“Then why didn’t you know your daughter’s marriage was about to blow up?”
“Oversight. She forgot to tell me that.”
I heard Annie’s voice, turned to see her with company. Barbara. Annie’s smirk led me to conclude she had gone to the ladies’ lounge on a mission—the intention of introducing herself to the judge and inviting her to our table.
“Barbara Miller, I’d like you to meet Dr. Jodi Wexler. Jodi is visiting from Florida.”
I rose to shake her hand.
Annie turned toward Di. “And this is Diandra Summer Lake.”
“First name in second homes,” Barbara said knowingly.
“Please take my card,” Di said like a teenager with a crush.
As for me, I was ill at ease, discomfited by the inside information I had concerning Barbara Miller, foremost that she was about to become a grandmother to my daughter’s baby.
I made believe the slate was blank. “Do you live in town?”
“No, I don’t. My son is a chef in the area. Perhaps you’ve tried his restaurant, Rockwell’s?”
“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t. But what a coincidence. My daughter, Lisa, owns the Farmer’s Daughter.”
“I know Lisa. I’ve been to her restaurant with my son. He’s fond of her.”
I knew immediately she had no idea how fond.
“Perhaps we have similar stories. As a child, William spent hours in the kitchen with his grandmother. He’s adapted many of her recipes.”
“Grandmas can be influential,” I said.
“You must be one. I hear from friends there’s nothing better.”
“I enjoy it,” Annie said.
Barbara appeared confused, as though she thought she had misheard what Annie said.
When Barbara returned to her table, it occurred to me that once Lisa gave birth in April, there would be a grand total of four grandmothers. Eight more and we had a jury, with a judge on it. For now, I was going home to Florida, where I belonged, with Jake, my friends, my patients, but I planned to take the initiative, to visit often, to create my own opportunity.
I glanced around the table, lifted my glass for a toast. “To Callie!”
“To Macallan,” Di said.
“To Mac,” Annie said.
“To our granddaughter,” we agreed, rising in unison.
“To us,” I said. “To us as well.”