“Your parents adore you and you know it. Are they resigned to living in the house the Braves paid for yet?”
When Jarret began to make major league money pitching for the Atlanta Braves, he paid off the mortgage on Bud and Marion Cooper’s home in McHenry, Illinois. To show their gratitude, they hung a lone Braves’ banner on Jarret’s wall of fame in their den. Chicago team posters papered the rest of the room.
“You know my parents. They’re too stubborn to accept me playing for a rival team. I still can’t get them on a plane out here to visit Dodger Stadium. I’m happy you’ll be at the game, Lizzie-Bear. Are you bringing the egghead? Or is he writing a book report tonight?”
I ignored the question and Jarret’s refusal to call my boyfriend Nick by name. If “he” or “him” didn’t fit, Jarret used nicknames degrading Nick’s job teaching religious philosophy at NoHo, the progressive community college in North Hollywood. Somehow in Jarret’s mind, my relationship with brilliant scholar, accomplished author, and oh-by-the-way adorably sexy Nick rated inferior to being married to a cheating, drinking, smoking, seven-figure Major League Baseball player in the twilight of his career. Jealous for my attention, Jarret dug for excuses to get mad or feel bad—as if the real reasons for our divorce never happened.
“Mom, Robin, Dave, and I will be cheering for you, Jarret. Pitch a winner.” I started my car.
“Lizzie, wait.”
“What?”
“If you give me a lucky kiss good-bye, maybe I’ll hit a homer for you tonight.”
Our affectionate game-day ritual from the past warmed me into a smile. “Here.” I blew him a kiss. “And when you hit your home run, blow the kiss back.”
Bypassing the morning rush on the 101 Freeway, I took Ventura Boulevard east to Studio City. Twenty-five minutes later, I turned left on Tujunga Avenue and crossed the bridge toward my two-story bungalow tucked into Colfax Meadows on Farmdale Avenue.
I parked at the curb, leaving my driveway clear for Stan’s truck. My driveway. I reveled in pride each time I walked the brick path to my porch. The bungalow had deteriorated into an eyesore before I bought it two months ago, left abandoned until lawyers and out-of-state relatives sorted out the estate of the deceased owner. Each new sign of improvement, like the row of purple-and-white pansies planted along the path, reflected a new beginning for both of us. House-proud.
A gardener had trimmed the overgrown trees and shrubs, reseeded the lawn, and cleared out the backyard so the neighbors would stop glaring at me as if the property was haunted. Dilly helped me organize a crew to renovate the worn and dated interior. Before my move, they painted a spare bedroom so my year-old kitten, Erzulie, and I had a room to sleep in and my clothes had a place to hang while my new home came to life.
Spending my day juggling painters, electricians, deliverymen, and my full-time psychology practice became a time-consuming trick. Instead of the romantic summer jaunt Nick planned for us last spring, he took the research trip to Mexico alone last month while I tended to house renovations. Within six weeks, the team had stripped old paint off the fireplaces in the living room and master bedroom, scraped the wallpaper in the living room, dining room, and downstairs half bath and painted the rest of the house. New appliances were purchased and delivered, and the original 1940s tiles in the kitchen got scrubbed and polished. Except for the bathrooms, my home was coming together.
Stan swore he’d have the renovations on both bathrooms upstairs and the half bath downstairs done in five to seven days, tops. Stan was an optimist, too.
Erzulie watched from the bay window in the living room while I carried the boxes from the car trunk into the house. Stan, a middle-aged gay Adonis in white painter’s pants and beat-up construction boots, arrived at nine with his assistant, Angel, a rotund Mexican sporting a walrus mustache and a sweet demeanor. While they worked their noisy magic upstairs in my bathrooms, I settled on the living room floor to arrange books into the built-in bookcases bordering the fireplace. Behind me, Erzulie, a blur of taupe fur hiding in, under, and behind furniture, never tired of exploring the nooks of her personal amusement park we called home. She came out for food, her litter box, and to cuddle.
Soon my college textbooks, a collection of old high school yearbooks, and an accumulation of unread novels lined the bookcases framing the fireplace. I left one shelf empty for the research texts waiting at Jarret’s. The rest of the books in the final box—a blushing collection of erotica my best friend, Robin Bloom, had sent as a joke on my thirtieth birthday—would hide upstairs in a closet or a bottom dresser drawer.
I sat back on my heels and stared at the shelves, unsatisfied by the visual imbalance. Nope. I wouldn’t be happy until I achieved symmetry.
Jarret called at ten. “I found the other box. What do you want me to do with it?”