this morning. Love you.
Jen made a half laugh, half sob sound and typed back a response. Kirk was okay. Order was restored.
She stood and ran through her mental to-do list. Sheets, grocery planning and the list, if she had time. Then five minutes online looking for information on someone who could tell her why her little boy refused to talk.
“It’s not gonna happen.”
Pam Eiland allowed herself a slightly smug smile as she rolled her shoulders back to appear more in charge. Because she knew she was right. “Oh, please, Ron. You’re doubting me? You know better.”
Ron, the blond, thirtysomething plant guy and part-time coach of the UCLA volleyball team, shook his head. “You can’t grow bush monkey flower in a container. These guys like rocky soil, lots of sun and excellent drainage.”
“All three conditions can be created in a container. I’ve done it before.”
“Not with bush monkey flower.”
What was it about men? They always thought they knew better. One would think after nearly two years of her buying plants he swore wouldn’t grow in containers on her condo deck and then making them flourish, he would be convinced. One might think that, but one would be wrong.
“You said that about the hummingbird sage and Shaw’s agave,” she pointed out.
“No way. I totally told you Shaw’s agave would grow in a container.”
The man was incredibly intense about his plants. Intense and wrong. “I’m going to buy the bush monkey flower and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“You don’t even have a plan,” he complained. “You buy your plants based on the names.”
That was true. “When my grandson asks me about my plants, I want to be able to say they all have funny names.”
“That’s a ridiculous reason to buy a plant.”
“So says a man who doesn’t have children. One day you’ll understand.”
Ron didn’t look convinced. He collected the three one-gallon plants, shaking his head at the same time. “You’re a stubborn woman.”
“You’re actually not the first person to tell me that.” She handed over her credit card. “You’ll deliver these later?”
“I will.”
The words were more growl than agreement. Poor guy, she thought. He didn’t take defeat well. He would be even more crushed when she showed him pictures of the flourishing plants.
After returning her credit card to her, he tore off the receipt for her to sign, then he held out his hands, palms up. Of course. Because Pam and her regular purchases were not the real draw for Ron.
Pam opened her large tote. “Come here, little girl.”
A head popped out. Lulu, her Chinese crested, glanced around, spotted Ron, yelped with excitement then scrambled toward him. Ron picked her up and cradled her against his broad chest.
The tiny dog looked incredibly out of place against Ron’s How’s Your Fern Hanging T-shirt. Lulu was slim, hairless—except for the white plumes that covered the top of her head, her lower legs and tail—and wearing a pink sundress. The latter as much to protect her delicate skin as to make a fashion statement.
Ron held her gently, whispering into her ear and getting doggy kisses in return. It was an amazing thing, Pam thought. Lulu was a total guy magnet. Seriously—the more macho the guy, the more he was attracted to the tiny dog. Pam’s friends teased her she should put that power to good use. Which was not going to happen. She was old enough to be Ron’s...
She glanced at her plant guy. Okay, maybe not mother, but certainly his much older babysitter. Not that the age thing mattered. She wasn’t interested in any man. She’d lost the great love of her life two years ago. While she would never forget John, the sharpest pain had faded, leaving wonderful memories. They were enough.
Ron reluctantly handed Lulu back. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“She is.”
“You’re wrong about the bush monkey flower.”
“When I prove to you I’m right, I will mock you for your lack of faith.”
Ron flashed her a grin—one she was sure sent hundreds of coeds swooning. “We’ll see.”
Pam put Lulu back in the tote, slung it over her shoulder and headed out onto the sidewalk. It was mid-March. She was sure there was a massive snowstorm happening somewhere in the country but here in Mischief Bay it was sunny and a balmy seventy-two. There were skateboarders practicing their moves in the park, people on bikes and mothers out with small children.
For a second she thought about calling her daughter and suggesting she and Jack join Lulu and herself for a quick lunch. An excellent idea in theory, if not in practice. Because Jen would obsess about Jack getting too much sun or not the right food. She would also fuss about the table being clean enough, and then point out that it was wrong for Pam to bring her dog into a restaurant. And while Lulu was technically not allowed, she stayed in her tote and never made a sound. Which was more than could be said for a lot of the human patrons.
The point being... Pam sighed. While she would very much like to spend an afternoon with her grandson the same couldn’t be said about her daughter. Oh, she loved Jen. She would die for Jen or donate an organ. She wished her only the best. But—and this was something Pam hadn’t admitted to anyone but Lulu—since Jack had been born, Jen wasn’t very much fun.
She was obsessed with her child. Was he growing? Was he sitting up when he should? Did he maintain eye contact? Being around her was exhausting and stressful. And thinking that probably made her a bad person. She knew what it was to worry about kids. She’d been a bit of an obsessive mother herself. But nothing like this.
She reached into her tote and patted Lulu. “What do you suggest?” she asked her little dog. “Should we live with our flaws and go get ice cream?”
Lulu barked. Pam took that as a yes. She would, she promised herself, gird her loins and visit her daughter in the morning. But for this afternoon, she would enjoy the beach and the fun of repotting her bush monkey flowers. Later, there would be ice cream.
* * *
Off to later switch down.
Zoe wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t sure where to place the blame. A faulty translation program or human error. Either way, the message was getting lost. She glanced at the second document open on her large computer screen and began to type.
To turn off the unit, press down on the power switch. After thirty minutes in standby mode, it will shut off automatically. Because if you’re stupid enough to walk away without turning off an incredibly hot iron, we will do our very best to keep you from burning down your house. Personally I’m not sure you deserve that much consideration, but no one asked me.
Zoe
