Chapter Five
Two sips past buzzed, my muscles relax, melting into the support of a cushy patio chair that reclines and spins. Like a kid who can’t help herself, I grip the armrest, plant my feet, then whirl myself in the other direction.
With less light interference from the city, the smear of stars twinkle brighter, their reflection dancing across the surface of the water in intervals.
Because here, Lakeview isn’t merely a name but a promise.
Each house backs to a body of water, natural or man-made, save the homes bordering the golf course.
It really cranks up the forever-escape vibes, making the outdoors feel more outdoorsy.
I’ve eaten the majority of the tortilla chips that used to be in the large silver bowl in the center of the table—Rita made her salsa, enough said.
We’ve heard the woeful tales of Sophia and Edmund and Sophia and Antonio from Cougar Lane, who now keeps three to five girlfriends on a steady rotation.
“For him to think I’d settle for a man who fits me in when he can,” she huffs.
“I thought Edmund was different, but when he proposed, he presented me with a fidelity clause he refused to commit to himself.”
Ugh, I thought the dating pool was supposed to improve with age, not return you to the shallow end. I’d say so but then they’d remember whatever misguided plans they’ve concocted for me.
“That’s why I like my men like I like my drinks.” Grandma Helen hefts her nearly empty glass in the air. “Extra strong and gone by morning.”
My smile lifts as the spinning of my chair slows, and I attempt to find clusters and connect constellations, which feels extra appropriate seated next to Wanda.
She’s the one who taught me how to spot them and the myths that came along with them, tales I passed on to my siblings when we used to lie on the trampoline at night.
While I did my best, nobody tells stories like Wanda. The other side of that double-edged sword came whenever she’d call without warning and deliver my horoscope with such dread that I’d end up having the bad day she predicted.
That wasn’t clairvoyance so much as paranoia.
“Mia, are you ready to spill yet?” Gertie asks, and every pair of eyes swings in my direction.
If they think they’ll extract details by sharing theirs, they’re sorely mistaken.
Rather than respond with the real answer of “No and I’ll never be,” I stop the rocking of my chair, pretend to contemplate it for a moment, and shake my head.
“Well then, can you be a dear and use your young, lubricated joints to refill the chip bowl?” A metallic zing accompanies the bowl sliding across the table, Vonetta not bothering to wait for an answer.
While they’re definitely getting rid of me so they can talk strategy, now I want chips to go with my puddle of salsa.
Why is it I can never get portions quite right?
Too much salsa, not enough chip; too much energy, not enough zip; too many articles about long-lasting erections after a lengthy season of not catching enough dick.
Great, somewhere around my second margarita I’d turned into a Boozy Seuss.
A residual flutter goes through my gut as I recall dimples flashing in bronze skin. His grin is there, burned in my mind’s eye one moment, and the next my vision’s eclipsed by the burly blond who held the door for me, that intriguing line in his forearm.
Then I’m pushing out of my chair and shaking my head, refusing to get carried away by glimmers of attraction. Besides, while the latter’s actions implied chivalry, his words said he yelled at old men.
Since the Cronies are going to devise their plans regardless of what I say or do, I take my time in the kitchen.
I refill the bowl and shove enough chips in my mouth that I can hardly chew as I peek inside the freezer.
The variety box of “assorted frozen novelties,” is still sealed, meaning Grandma Helen stocked my favorites just for me.
I snake my arm inside, pry open the box, and seek out a Sundae Cone by touch, missing the added height of my heels, if not the pinch of my toes.
With the bulbed end and ridged bumps that hint at the nuts underneath… Okay, my brain really needs to cool it with the double entendre, although that speaks to how long it’s been. Perhaps I should go ahead and hand my dating life over—it’s not like the grannies can do much worse.
Once I’ve peeled and discarded the wrapper, I shove the ice cream end into my mouth, snag a bottle of water, and head outside again, minding the screen door so Fifi won’t sneak outside.
Everyone turns toward me, the happy laughter and chatter trailing off.
“What?” I garble around the nutty, fudgy goodness. With a slurp, I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “There’s more in the freezer. Does anyone want one?”
“Don’t mind us,” my grandmother says. “We’re just reminiscing on days past, when our metabolism allowed us to eat those sorts of things.”
“Allowed us to eat much of anything, really.” Sophia places a hand to her belly, constantly hard on herself for the slightest change in her weight despite the fact she’s in phenomenal shape. “A mali estremi, estremi rimedi.”
“Sure,” I mutter, because Nonna Sophia doesn’t so much care if we understand what she says, only that everyone’s looking at her while she says it.
“I used to love onions.” Gertie releases a longing sigh. “Raw and piled on my hot dog or caramelized with portobello mushrooms and red wine and served over beef tenderloin.”
The rest of us hum along at the sound of that, even Arlene, so she must’ve already had Vonetta’s cooking.
“Now, if I eat a sliver as tiny as a fingernail,” Gertie continues, and I shudder at the mention of food and fingernail trimmings in the same sentence, “I have heartburn for a week.”
Rita pushes away from the table, standing and wrapping an arm around my waist as she reclines her head against mine. “You know what I miss?”
“Sex,” Wanda supplies, but when it comes to the residents at Lakeview going without, I’ve read evidence otherwise.
“Having energy,” Vonetta says. “Remember being able to go a whole day without a nap?”
I used to go weeks and months, and then I took that big nap that ruined everything, and here come the intrusive thoughts, rapid-fire style.
I failed a client, and myself. An invisible fist clamps around my throat. I let everyone down.
And once I screw up this chance, nobody will ever hire me again.
Sophia smooths the spot between her eyebrows with a couple of fingertips, tugging my attention back to her. “Frown lines that didn’t require Botox to go away.”
“Dancing,” Rita says over the top of them, snagging my hand and spinning me out so fast I nearly lose hold of my ice cream.
She quickly curls me back to her, surprisingly strong for a little old lady.
“If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self to dump Hector rather than give up my professional Latin dancing dreams. He told me it didn’t look right, having another man’s hands on his fiancée—”
“Blech,” I say, and I’m not alone in the sentiment. Toxic masculinity’s so 2016.
“Back then, I thought jealousy was an attractive quality in a man.” The corners of Rita’s smile tighten with regret. “Before I experienced the violent side of it.”
I’ve never heard much about Rita’s first husband, the one who led to her fleeing Cuba with her children. She shakes her head as if confused over finding herself speaking of him. “Point is, your hips”—she grips mine and swivels them in a figure eight shape—“are made for the cha-cha.”
“Thank you?” I go to take another bite of my ice cream, having reached the crispy waffle cone. It cracks along the seam and drips out, barely missing the top of Wanda’s blond head when she reclines and gives my booty a pat.
“Such a cute figure.” She continues praising and patting, as though I’ve downed a football rather than dessert. “Legs for days, too.”
Gertie snags Vonetta’s glasses right off her face, popping them on the bridge of her nose as she leans around the table. “Check it out. Her veins are still delicate and hidden beneath smooth skin, keeping their inside business on the inside.”
I didn’t realize veins had outside-the-body business, and I’m pretty sure biology has my back on that.
Wanda’s gaze lifts and narrows, and I instinctively wince and try to prepare myself, but she’s too much of a wild card. “I’ll never understand why you bother with a bra. If my tits were that small, I would’ve burned more of mine.”
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, (from her and my well-endowed roommate in college), but I don’t want to give the real answer—that going braless is outside the lines.
Wanda cups her breasts over her clothing, grinning down at her ample cleavage with the unabashed awe of an adolescent boy. “At least these implants stay put.” She shimmies to demonstrate. “I’m finally in my braless era.”
“Yeah, me too,” Grandma Helen snarks, “and I didn’t even have to see a plastic surgeon. I just tuck ’em into the waistband of my panties every morning and go.”
Laughter fills the air, and I giggle along, even as heat flushes my cheeks. I just hope it’s dark enough to cover my embarrassment or I’ll never hear the end of it.
From the corner farthest from the patio door, Arlene’s quiet voice drifts over. “If I had your figure, going shopping for a new wardrobe—for a new swimsuit—wouldn’t be so daunting.”
Between my margarita, sugar buzz, and the fact that she practically melts into the background, I’d almost forgotten about the new member.
“I haven’t changed my hair or clothing since 1967.
That’s the year I gave birth to my eldest.” Arlene doesn’t seem to be talking to us so much as just out loud, her self-consciousness palpable as she twirls the end of her braid round and round her finger.
“I know my appearance is out of style, but I feel like nothing else looks good on me.”