Along Came Zoe

“And, I just know it’s one of those damn scholarship kids,” she went on. “She gets these goofy ideas that it’s up to her to save the world. I think she may have pawned my tennis bracelet. Before I left, I turned my room upside down—”

“Did you ask her?”

“No, Phillip, I didn’t ask her. I’m striving for tranquility in my life and confronting Molly would be counterproductive—”

“Of course. Hell of a lot easier to let her pawn your jewelry.”

“I didn’t say she was pawning it, Phillip, I just said…oh, never mind. I don’t know why I even try to discuss anything with you. All I know is I’m sick to death of it all…I don’t care how politically incorrect it sounds, we’re paying God knows how much to send her to the best damn school in the area and she’s hanging out with…gardeners—”

“Gardeners?”

“I don’t know,” she said irritably. “The mother’s a gardener or something. Molly said something about her selling vegetables. Hold on a second…okay, the boy’s name is Brett. He’s called several times. Here’s his number.”

Phillip took a deep breath. “What am I supposed to say? Leave my daughter alone because you’re the son of a gardener?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Phillip. You’re the brain surgeon, you figure something out. I’ve got a book due at the end of next month and my agent is pressing me for updates. I really don’t have time for around-the-clock monitoring, nor, quite frankly, the inclination.”

“Give me the number again.” He took the phone back inside, jotted the number on the cover of last month’s New England Journal of Medicine, ended the call and, with no idea what he was going to say, dialed the boy’s number before he could talk himself out of calling altogether.

An answering machine.

“Hi, there, you’ve reached Zany Zoe at Growing My Way,” the recording said. “Asparagus and apples, beets and broccoli, carrots and cauliflower…well, you get the idea. Leave a message if you want to place an order, or drop by our stall at the Seacliff Farmer’s Market.

He hung up without leaving a message.

“OH, THESE ARE LOVELY, honey.” Janna, at the door of Arnie’s Seacliff Heights condo, took the bunch of mauve and pale blue larkspur Zoe handed her. “Hi, Brett, sweetie.” She embraced her grandson in a quick hug. “God, you get more handsome every time I see you. Got a girlfriend yet?”

Brett grinned. “Can’t talk about it,” he said with a sly glance at Zoe.

“Tell Grandma,” Janna said in a conspiratorial whisper. She’d evidently just come from the nail salon. Her nails—French tip—glistened in the sun-light, the aroma of fresh polish wafting all about her. Janna was fifty-eight but told everyone she was forty-five. A stretch, but on a good day, in the right lighting she could maybe pass. Tonight, she wore a cream linen pantsuit that flattered her curves and her hair was short, blond and artlessly unkempt, as though she didn’t drop big bucks to keep it looking that way. People were always telling Janna that she looked more like Zoe’s older sister than her mother and this thrilled Janna to no end.

“Come on.” Janna cocked her head at Brett. “Don’t be coy.”

“Three,” Brett whispered back. “But don’t tell mom.”

“You little devil,” Janna chuckled.

Zoe folded her arms across her chest. “Maybe you can get some of them to help out about the place. Weed the flower beds, clean out the animal pens, stuff like that.”

“You’re no fun.” Janna swiped at Zoe’s arm. “Your cousins are in the den watching videos,” she told Brett. “And Arnie’s barbecuing salmon steaks out on the patio.” She waited until Brett left, then brought her face close to Zoe’s. “Sweetie, please, please remember, don’t get into…you know, the housekeeper thing. Arnie thinks I lived for years in England.”

“Was I born there?”

Janna eyed her for a moment. “Please don’t be difficult, honey. This means a lot to me.”

“I’m not. If we’re going to have a revisionist history night, I just need to have my facts straight.”

“You know, Courtney was perfectly fine with this. I don’t understand—”

“Was Courtney born in England?”

Janna sighed. “Oh, just forget it, Zoe. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I didn’t think it was that much to ask. Your skin’s broken out, by the way,” she said as she carried the flowers into the kitchen. “A big blotch on your neck.”

Zoe’s fingers moved automatically to her neck. Eczema. An irritating—literally—skin rash that appeared if she ate anything with fish in it, or got stressed about something, like whenever she dealt with her ex-husband. Of course, it was a whole lot easier not to eat fish than it was to avoid dealing with Denny.

Just as she was leaving the house, he’d called to say that he wanted to take Brett to the desert over the July Fourth weekend. She’d said no. One, it wasn’t his weekend to have Brett, and two, the idea of Brett tearing around on his father’s dune buggy terrified her. Brett, of course, wanted to go. “You never let me do anything fun,” he’d complained as they drove over to the barbecue. “It’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, honey,” she’d said. At that moment, her left arm had started itching. By the time they got to Arnie’s place, she had tracks up and down both arms, and the backs of her legs were burning like crazy.

Now she could smell the fish Arnie was cooking on the patio. Had it even occurred to Janna to mention her daughter’s allergies? Probably not.

Her sister, Courtney, came into the kitchen, cell phone at her ear. Courtney’s two kids from her first marriage, a boy and a girl, were several years older than Brett. The boy, Eric, parked cars at a Seacliff steak house, where his sister, Ellen, was a cocktail waitress. “They’re both working in the service industry,” Courtney was always explaining, “while they decide upon their future directions.”

Translation, they’d both dropped out of junior college after a few semesters, and Ellen had moved in with her boyfriend. Not that Courtney would readily admit that: she’d recently remarried and worked as a receptionist in a travel agency, prompting Janna to describe her—without a trace of irony—as “my ambitious daughter.”

“Okay, bye,” Courtney said into the phone. “Love you, too. Big smooches, I won’t be late.” She hung up and gave Zoe a quick hug. “Hey, your skin’s all broken out.”

“I know.”

“Arnie’s cooking fish,” Courtney said sotto voce, as she adjusted her pistachio-colored sarong and white halter top. To ensure that they showed off her figure to best advantage, Zoe thought. Tall, wheat-colored hair and thin, that was Courtney.

“I’ll eat salad.”

“Oh, my God.” Janna, arranging the larkspur in a vase, clapped a hand to her mouth. “I forgot all about you, Zoe. Arnie wanted salmon and—”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” Janna would self-flagellate for the rest of the evening, and Zoe didn’t want to hear it, especially since nine times out of ten Janna served fish when she invited them to dinner.

“Ever tried Benadryl?” Arnie appeared in the kitchen, carrying a platter of salmon. “That would clear it right up.”

“Yep.” She looked at Arnie, who was wearing white pants, the stretchy waist kind that older men played golf in, and a yellow polo-neck shirt with, naturally, Seacliff Country Club embroidered in discreet small lettering above the breast pocket. “Doesn’t help.”

“I could always keep it under control.” Janna had started assembling a salad, overlapping circles of cucumbers, radishes and tomato on a bed of finely chopped lettuce. “I just didn’t have time to be constantly after you to do it.” She stood back to survey her handiwork. “That’s the best I can do with iceberg. I meant to ask you to bring some of your little lettuces, Zoe.” She turned to look at her daughter, frowned and leaned over to lightly stroke the top of Zoe’s head, much as she might have petted a small dog.

“Woof,” Zoe said

“Did you have it cut again?”

“Just the bangs. Did it myself. Attractive, huh?”

“Honey.” Janna’s expression was strained. “Why do you do this sort of thing? I’d give you the money for a decent haircut.”

Zoe raked her fingers through her hair. She’d paid last month’s overdue feed-store bill with the forty dollars—or however much haircuts cost these days—she’d saved by not going to the beauty shop.

“I like it,” she said.

Janna shook her head. “You have absolutely no vanity.”

“Is that a good thing?”