Page 26 of Nothing Less than Magic
“I went to town, then drove over to my handyman’s farm. He’s actually a biophysicist who’s on sabbatical from his teaching job to write a book. But he’s fixing my roof.”
She doesn’t seem to find that odd in the least and nods. “Why were you over there?”
The real answer is, I don’t know. His unfiltered opinions should be a blow to my already fragile ego, but strangely, I find them refreshing, even liberating. “He didn’t show up today, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”
“Maybe you should get a more reliable handyman.”
“Perhaps,” I say, not wanting to argue with her. “Finish unpacking and meet me in the living room.”
“Where is it?”
I shoot her a look. “If you have any trouble finding it, text me.”
While she’s in the other room, I build a fire, then scroll through my emails. Still nothing from Ronnie. What in the world is going on with her? This is so unlike my assistant. Before I can dwell on it, Lolly makes her grand entrance in a pair of jeans, albeit designer ones, and a cashmere hoodie. The four-inch heels have been replaced by a pair of furry boots that she probably bought at an over-the-top ski shop on one of her annual treks to Park City.
“Look at you,” I say. “Apparently, you do know how to dress for a weekend in the mountains.” The mountains of St. Moritz, but she’s at least making an attempt.
She plops down on the sofa, grabs the throw blanket off the back of the chair, and wraps herself in it.
“Between the heat and the fire, you should be warm in no time.” I want to say, if there was a little more flesh on your bones, you’d realize it’s sixty-eight degrees in here.
“How’d you find this place, anyway?” She stares up at the open-beam ceiling.
“Austin and I had been looking for a long time. Originally, we wanted something in wine country, but even a shack was over a mill.”
“First off, this is a shack. And second, the two of you are loaded.”
“Would you stop saying that? I’m not loaded. Yes, I make good money, but San Francisco is an expensive city. And if this was a mansion perched on a cliff above the ocean in Carmel, I wouldn’t love it more than I love this.”
“You’re just like Dad,” Lolly says. “Beer taste on a champagne budget.”
“Dad was a cop, Lolly. Mom was a housewife. Their budget was hardly champagne, unless you count Cold Duck.”
“You know what I mean.” She waves her hand in the air.
And the thing is, I do. Dad took perverse pleasure in driving the same car for twenty years, in eating the same leftovers five days in a row, and in wearing a pair of jeans until they were threadbare. It wasn’t because he couldn’t afford new ones; he just didn’t believe in waste. I suppose a similar ethos rubbed off on me. Not Lolly, obviously.
“There’s nothing wrong with being frugal,” I say.
“I much prefer the way Uncle Sylvester lives. Now there’s a man who likes fine things.”
“Is he still driving that Maserati?”
“Nope, a Porsche Cayenne.”
“At least it’s a grownup car. Ridiculously ostentatious, but grownup. The Maserati was embarrassing.”
Lolly laughs. “Yeah, kind of. I think Freud would say he was compensating for something.”
“Eww. Don’t make penis jokes about our uncle.”
Lolly tucks her legs under her. “You think Mom would’ve wanted us to go to Uncle Sylvester?”
“I do. Grandma was in no shape to raise two young girls, and Dad’s people . . . well, that wouldn’t have gone over well.”
“No, I guess not.” She pauses, letting the room fall silent, letting it say all the things we won’t. “And Uncle Sylvester loves us.”
“He does.” That was never a question.
