Life According to Lucy. Cindi Myers
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bed creaked as he stood and came to stand behind her. “She started keeping some of her things in here after you moved out.” He cleared his throat. “Guess I haven’t gotten around to cleaning them out yet. I can move them into the attic if you want.”
He reached for the jacket, but she stopped him. “No, that’s okay.” She shoved the jacket and the clothes behind it to one side and hung her things on the rod. “There’s still room for mine. It’ll be okay.”
She looked at her cropped, red leather jacket next to her mom’s old houndstooth. Mom had never liked that jacket much, but now Lucy thought the two of them looked right at home together.
“Let me call the hall.” Daddy interrupted her reverie. “At least you could get a decent job out of it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be an electrician.”
“Why not? It’s good, honest work. Kept a roof over your head and food in your mouth for plenty of years.”
She turned away and rolled her eyes. Looked like she was in for lecture number seven on Dad’s top ten hits. So much for thinking the rent here was free. She’d forgotten about the listening tax.
She made a show of looking at her watch. “Gosh, look at the time.” She smiled brightly. “What should we have for dinner?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going out.” He turned toward the door. “I’d better get a move on or I’ll be late.”
She followed him down the hall. Her first night home and he was going out? “I thought we were going to go through the potting shed tonight.”
“You do it, hon. I’m going out.” He disappeared into the bathroom at the end of the hall.
Out? Her dad? She shrugged and wandered into the kitchen. The refrigerator held a quart of milk, a wedge of green cheese, half a package of sliced ham that was drying out around the edges, a jar of pickles, a twelve-pack of Bud and three Diet Sprites. The cabinets yielded some crackers, a can of tomato soup, a box of Lucky Charms and a jar of peanut butter. Lucky Charms? She hadn’t eaten those since junior high.
She was digging into a big bowl of sugar-frosted oats and marshmallows when Dad came out of the bathroom. A cloud of Brut preceded him down the hall. She let out a whistle when he appeared. He’d traded in the khakis and bowling shirt for starched jeans and a striped western shirt with pearl snaps and gold stitching around the yoke. Light bounced off the glossy surface of his boots. “So what do you think?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen you this dressed up since Aunt Edna’s third wedding.” Comprehension slowly stole over her sugar-charged brain. “You’re going out,” she gasped.
He reached for a western-cut sports coat. “That’s what I said.”
“I mean—you’re going out with a woman.”
He grinned. “Yeah. Don’t wait up for me.” He kissed her cheek, then left, the scent of Brut trailing after him.
She slumped in her chair, feeling as if she’d slipped into some alternate reality. Her dad? On a date? Mom had been gone only a year—wasn’t that a little soon? Only yesterday he’d been a grieving widower. Now he was all decked out like Garth Brooks, telling her not to wait up for him.
She carried her cereal bowl to the sink and dumped the contents down the drain. Who was this woman anyway? Some floozy he met in a bar? He’d been married to her mother for thirty years—what was he doing dating someone else?
Part of her realized she was being totally irrational. Her dad was a grown man. He had a perfect right to date.
The thought did nothing to make her feel better. This was her dad. Dads didn’t date. Okay, some did, but not her dad.
Then an even worse realization hit her. It was Friday night and she was home alone, while her dad had a date.
On this pathetic note, she opened a beer and wandered out the back door to the potting shed. Her parents’ house used to be a carriage house for the big Victorian next door, which now housed a hair salon, a new age bookstore, a pottery studio and four upstairs apartments. A six-foot high wooden fence separated the two properties, though Mom had had lattice panels installed in two places so the folks next door could look in on her garden.
The showiest flower beds were in the front of the house, devoted to an ever-changing array of colorful annuals. But the backyard was home to Mom’s prized roses. She had over thirty bushes in every color imaginable, including a purple rose that was almost black. All the roses had names, which Mom had tried to teach Lucy, but of course, she couldn’t remember most of them now.
The potting shed resembled a kid’s playhouse, with real glass windows on either side of a bright blue door. Lucy guessed this was appropriate, since it was sort of her Mom’s playhouse. She shoved open the door and the scent of potting soil and peat, mingled with undertones of White Shoulders, engulfed her. She swallowed a lump in her throat even as she glanced toward the workbench that ran along the back of the shed. She almost expected to see Mom there, up to her elbows in dirt, grumbling about aphids or spider mites or something.
But of course, she wasn’t there. Only a jumble of clay pots, seed packets, fertilizer spikes and flower stakes crowded the workbench. She took a deep breath and stepped into the shed. The least she could do was try to get the place in order.
She set aside her beer and began stacking the clay pots. On a shelf, she found an old shoe box that held seed packets filed in alphabetical order. Ageratum, alyssum, asters, bachelor buttons, basil…She recognized the flowers from the pictures on the front. Probably some of these were meant to be planted in the beds out front, but which ones?
Underneath everything else, she found a spiral-bound notebook with a picture of a Japanese pagoda on the front. Garden Planner was embossed in gold beneath the pagoda. She smiled, recognizing a Christmas gift she’d given to Mom several years before.
She pulled an old bar stool up to the bench and opened the planner. Important Numbers was the first page. Along with numbers for garden club members, seed companies and a local nursery was the following notation, in Mom’s clear handwriting: When in doubt, call Mr. Polhemus!!
Mr. Polhemus was a leathery-skinned old man who tilled the beds each spring and delivered mulch for the roses. Mom swore by his gardening knowledge. During those last six months, when the chemo left Mom too weak to plant, he’d even come over one Saturday and set out the fall annuals.
The planner was divided into months. Mom had made notes to herself for each month. Lucy flipped though the pages until the notation for September caught her eye: Always remember the importance of having a plan.
Was Mom talking about gardening or life? She frowned. Maybe her problem was she didn’t have a plan. After all, would a person with a plan be sitting at home—in her dad’s home—alone on a Friday night?
She turned the pages in the book until she found a blank sheet of paper, then fished a pen from an old soup can in the corner of the workbench. Number one, she wrote, then chewed on the end of the pen, trying to decide what was most important.
Get a decent job, she wrote.
Number two: Find a decent man.
She looked at her list. Okay, so maybe she could stand to include a little more detail. Like what constituted “decent” in either category.
She closed the book and shoved it aside. It was all too much to think about right now. In one day she’d endured the humiliation of being evicted, then been forced to move in with her father, of all people. To add to her misery, her supposedly still-grieving dad was now out on the town with who knows what kind of scheming floozy. Honestly, why was all this happening to her? Had she been cast in some new kind of reality show? Sleeze-o productions presents, How Low Can You Go! starring the lovely Lucy Lake as Hapless Victim number one!
She wandered out into the garden. The streetlight on the corner cast a soft glow over everything. Traffic over