“She’s on her honeymoon, I guess, and her mother isn’t answering. I, I’m desperate. I looked in the yellow pages for caterers and churches in Aspen Meadow, and your name sort of sounded familiar, so I called you.”
“But why—”
“Oh, right, right. Well, to make a long story short, I want to get back into my daughter Cecelia’s life.”
I’d majored in psychology, and I knew Carl Rogers would have wanted me to spit that right back at him. And anyway, I didn’t know what else to do. “You want to get back into your daughter’s life,” I said slowly.
Tom raised his eyebrow and gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head:
Norman O’Neal’s voice rose hopefully. “Do you think I have a chance? Of getting back into Ceci’s life?”
I licked my lips and tried to think of what to say. “Let’s put it this way, Norman,” I said, finally. “I’d say you’re going about it in the wrong way. You could start by apologizing to Cecelia and Dodie, and sending them a big check.”
“Please, Goldy, help me.” Norman O’Neal took an unsteady breath. “Have you ever had a close brush with death, Mrs. Schulz? You’re married, aren’t you? Should I call you Mrs. Schulz?”
“Mrs. Schulz is fine. And yes, I’ve had a close brush with death.”
“Doesn’t it make you reorder your priorities?”
“Mr. O’Neal. Norman. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Look, I have a granddaughter I’ve never seen. I know she’s just adopted, I mean, not Cecelia’s by blood, oh, that didn’t come out right. But still, I want to be part of Cecelia’s life, sort of start over, you know? I want to get to know this granddaughter, even if she is just adopted, you know.”
“Just adopted?” I thought of Julian, who was “just adopted,” and had turned out just fine, thank you very so much. “You might want to rethink your diction when it comes to referring to your granddaughter, Norm. And where does the brush with death part come in?”
“I heard my granddaughter almost died! So I wanted to reorder my priorities. Please, won’t you help me? Wait, wait a second—”
“Almost died? What do you mean?”
There was no reply, just some gargling from the other end.
“Norm,” I said, “really, I’d love to help you—,” but was interrupted by the sound of Norman O’Neal once again puking his guts out, this time on the hospital floor.
8
I hung up rather than listen to those horrible noises. I then told Tom about the remorseful, confused, and oh-so-sick Norman O’Neal.
“Sounds like your typical alcoholic after a blackout,” Tom said. “He wants like hell to make amends, at least he likes the idea of making amends. Only thing is, he wants somebody else to make them for him.”
“Maybe I should go see him in the hospital,” I replied. “He did sound pretty awful. Plus, he said Cecelia’s daughter almost died! Have you heard anything about that?”
“No, I haven’t. And you’re kidding about visiting Norman O’Neal in the hospital, right? As if you don’t have enough on your plate already.”
“Never tell a caterer she has too much on her plate.”
“Miss G., please. You want to go see Norman O’Neal, I’ll go with you. But at least wait until you’ve done Billie Attenborough’s wedding,” Tom advised. “By then the dust and/or mush may have settled in Norman O’Neal’s brain, and the three of us might be able to have a civilized conversation. Although I doubt it.”
“By then he’ll have gone home from the hospital.”
“I’m sure Dodie O’Neal will tell you where he lives.”
“Or maybe he’ll be in rehab,” I said. “Then I’d never be able to reach him, or at least, not for thirty days, or what ever it is. Now I’m all worried about Cecelia’s daughter. I’m going to call her.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
But I dialed Dodie O’Neal anyway.
“Hey, Goldy,” she said. “Saw your name on the caller ID. I gave you the right amount of money, didn’t I?”
“Of course, Dodie. But Norman just called me from the hospital.”
“Oh, is that what the calls have been about from Southwest? Please tell me he’s dying.”
I cleared my throat. “He said Cecelia’s daughter had a brush with death. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“She’s in bed, fast asleep. Was Norman still drunk?”
“He was pretty sick. But he sounded as if he wants to make amends, or to have a relationship, or something.”
Dodie snorted. “He calls you again, tell him to contact my lawyer.”
“I felt sorry for him,” I said lamely.
“Goldy, don’t fall for his act. He’s a son of a bitch. He manipulates women into bed with him, he gets women to do his work for him, he gets women who are going through divorces to pay him more money than is sane. He would manipulate the boulders in my front yard, if he could.”
“I just wanted to let you know about his call.” I told her again what a lovely wedding Cecelia had had—even though I’d missed most of it, of course—and signed off.
Tom was emptying his pockets, carefully placing his keys, badge, notebook, and wallet on the counter. He stopped for a moment to give his words their full effect. “I don’t get you, Goldy. A drunk—a lawyer, no less—comes and almost screws up the wedding of one of your favorite clients. He makes said client—the bride, no less—cry. He makes his granddaughter cry. The lawyer takes a swing at our priest. Our priest pops him one, and the offending father-of-the-bride, who, let us not forget, was entirely in absentia as his daughter was growing up, passes out. The drunk lawyer gets hauled off to the hospital, where, when he wakes up, he probably begins preparing his papers to sue Father Pete. But he takes a break from preparing those papers, and calls you to blubber. And you feel sorry for this asshole?”
“Oh, Tom, he just wants to have a relationship with Cecelia and her daughter. And you make it sound so —”
“You want to do something for a few drunks? Make cookies for the AA meetings we have down at the jail. Trust me, drunks who are drying out love sweets. But do nothing for that SOB Norman O’Neal. You do anything? Visit him, send him flowers? He’ll say in court, ‘See, even the caterer felt remorse over what happened, she brought me roses.’”
I shook my head. “I married a cynic.”
“No, you married a realist.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss. “Not meaning to bring up the past. I mean, with the Jerk and all. But you’ve already felt sorry enough for one asshole to last an entire lifetime.”
“That’s hitting below the belt, Tom.”
“My dear sweet wife,” Tom said as he gathered me into his arms, “first of all, I would never hit you. Second, there are any number of fun things I would love to do with you that involve activities below the belt.”
And so we went to bed, although we didn’t actually go to sleep for a while. Tom had a number of those activities in mind, and I was more than willing to try them out.
As I was drifting off to dreamland, I realized that unlike many of the people I worked for, I hadn’t thought getting married was any big deal. It was being married—to Tom, that is—that, along with having Arch, had been the very biggest deal of my life.
SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED with weak sunshine and birdsong. I lay in bed thinking how much better the night before, with Tom, had been than the day I was about to have was probably going to be. The prospect of spending my Saturday with Charlotte Attenborough and the dreaded Victor Lane at Gold Gulch Spa did not fill me with joy. Even the leavening presence of my godfather wouldn’t help. I wished fervently for rain, lots of it, and a cancellation of all plans.
“Come on, Miss G.” Tom leaned over and kissed my cheek. I luxuriated in his scent of aftershave and soap. He placed an iced espresso with cream on the night table. “I have to go meet with the medical examiner.”
