California Girls

“In the kitchen.”

Finola set her bag on the entry table and kicked off her shoes. As she entered the kitchen she saw at least half a dozen boxes stacked by the back door. One was open with the contents spread on the table. Her mother brushed a stray strand of hair off her face.

“After Zennie left I was so upset, I had to do something so I dragged these boxes in from the garage. It was that or sit around and drink.” Mary Jo sighed. “Not that there won’t be wine later, but at least I’m doing something constructive first. Did you know?”

The question was direct enough that Finola knew there was no point in pretending she thought her mother was asking if she knew there would be wine later.

“Zennie told me a few days ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“She wanted to be the one to share the news.” Finola walked over to the table and looked at the collection of odds and ends. There was a photo album, some old dress-up clothes and a few books. She glanced back at her mom.

“I think she’s an idiot,” Finola said flatly. “She’s all caught up in the romance of the moment—giving her best friend a baby—but what if something goes wrong?”

“That’s what I said. This is so much bigger than she thinks. She’ll be carrying that baby, she’ll feel it growing inside of her and start to care. I remember how I felt when I first found out I was pregnant with you.” Mary Jo’s expression softened with a smile. “Your father and I were so happy. It was a dream come true.”

Finola couldn’t imagine being anyone’s idea of a dream, but it was nice to hear.

“What a mess,” her mother said. “Nigel cheats on you with that ridiculous singer, Glen dumps Ali and now Zennie’s having a baby for someone else. I swear, I must be the worst mother on the planet.”

“I’m happy to put all the blame on you,” Finola said without thinking.

Her mother stared at her for a second, then burst out laughing. “It’s always the mother, isn’t it?” Mary Jo pointed to the pile of junk on the table. “Let’s get this cleaned up. We’ll go through the other boxes, then drink the wine I opened.”

They sorted through the first two boxes quickly. The dress-up clothes were assessed for wear. Those still viable were put in the giveaway pile while the rest went into the trash. The books were sorted and the photo albums stacked to be gone through later.

The second box was more of the same, with the exception of several pairs of painted wooden spoons.

“Those are ugly,” Mary Jo said, reaching for the spoons. “They should be tossed.”

“No way.” Finola grabbed them and waved one in the air. “These are our fighting spoons.”

Her mother looked at her blankly.

“We used to have sword fights,” Finola explained. “Upstairs. The three of us battled.” She smiled at the memory of time spent with her sisters. She’d been older and not as interested in play but they’d always been able to entice her into joining them with the fighting spoons. “Trust me, Zennie and Ali are going to want to keep these.” She plucked out the two dark green spoons. “These are mine.”

“If you say so.”

There was a box of old summer clothes from when the sisters were young and a very dusty and slightly moth-eaten fur stole. Mary Jo shook it out before wrapping it around her shoulders.

“Your father bought this for me.” Mary Jo smiled sadly. “Your biological father, I mean. We were so poor, but so happy. We’d been invited to a fancy party and wearing fur was all the rage.” She pursed her lips together. “It wasn’t like today when any kind of fur has a stigma. Back then it was all good. Your dad found this at a thrift shop.” She sighed as she walked back and forth in the kitchen, the fur contrasting with her T-shirt and yoga pants. “I felt pampered and oh so beautiful.” Her smile turned wistful. “Your father had a way of doing that. He could turn any occasion into something special.”

“Do you still miss him?”

“Less than I used to, of course. He was a wonderful man. I’m sure over time we would have had our ups and down, but he was gone when everything was still perfect.” She looked at Finola. “Then it was just you and me.”

She draped the fur over a kitchen chair. “I know it’s silly, but I think I’ll keep this. Maybe I can get it cleaned. It’s not in horrible shape.”

Memories were powerful, Finola thought, wondering what she would want to keep from her marriage when—

No, she told herself firmly. Her marriage wasn’t ending. She and Nigel were going to get through this and come out stronger than before. They had to.

She put the next box on the table and opened it. Her mother was still stroking the fur so didn’t notice the box until Finola pulled out a large green-striped hatbox.

“This is nice,” she said. “But I don’t remember it.”

Mary Jo looked up. “Oh, there it is,” she said, almost to herself. “I’d wondered... You shouldn’t open it.”

“Really?” Finola laughed. “You’re keeping secrets.”

Her mother surprised her by running her hand across the box. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. It’s been so long. Go ahead. I’ll get the wine.”

“Now I’m intrigued.”

Finola quickly cleared off the table and set the hatbox in the middle. She sat down, then carefully removed the lid. Inside was a hodgepodge of greeting cards, jewelry boxes, folders and several scripts.

Her mother returned with an open bottle of pinot grigio and two glasses. “Go ahead. Go through it, then ask your questions.”

Finola opened one of the robin’s-egg blue boxes with the words Tiffany & Co. embossed on the top. Inside was a beautiful starfish brooch encrusted with diamonds.

“Holy crap, are these real?”

Mary Jo poured the wine. “They are.”

“You can’t keep something this valuable in the garage, Mom. It should be insured and in a safe-deposit box.”

“I suppose.” She took the brooch and held it in her hand. “It’s pretty, but not me. Still Parker insisted.”