Page 103 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
I haven’t seen Malcolm’s son in years, and that’s been intentional. Archie made it clear I didn’t belong in his world from the minute Mom and Malcolm married.
Archie was sixteen. I was nine, insecure and desperate to fit into Mom’s new life. And Archie? He made sure I knew I was just the annoying tagalong—his exasperated sighs and eye rolls said it all. Things never got better between us.
Malcolm gave the beach house to Archie to hide it from Mom, so it makes sense that he’s living there.
“Am I dry? Are you sure?” Mom’s not talking to me anymore, and if she’s not trapped in a massage chair, we’re close to the end of our conversation.
“You’re sure Archie will be moved out when I get there?” I ask.
“Absolutely certain. He’s signing over the deed today and Sybil promised he’ll be back in Australia by Sunday. He’s going to work for Malcolm—poor kid.” Mom’s breezy assurance is less comforting than the fact Sybil was involved with the details. Nothing happens without Sybil. If she says it’s taken care of, it’s taken care of.
“Does Archie know I’ll be the one living there, not you?” I’m not sure how I feel about his knowing.
On the one hand, I’ve spent years not caring about what Archie thinks. On the other hand, I sort of like the idea of him moving out, so I can move in.
Actually, there’s nosort ofabout it.
Ilovethe idea of Archie Forsythe being forced out of the beach house so I can move in. Mom should have led with that.
“It’s none of his business who’s living there, or Malcolm’s for that matter,” Mom says, all sympathy for Archie gone. “Their little trick to hide the house didn’t work. It’s mine, and I can do what I want with it.”
I think I like this version of Mom who doesn’t let Malcolm intimidate her.
We say our “love you’s” and Mom hangs up. I’ll talk to her again before she leaves on her cruise. In the meantime, I’m still processing. I fall back on my mattress, which lets out a small squeak of air.
In three days, I’ll be living alone for the first time, by the beach, working for the biggest designer in LA. With no rent to worry about, I can eat three meals a day, and none of them have to be Top Ramen.
A door slams, Ashley stomps around, slamming cupboards, and singing. Not badly, but loudly. After two years of living with a Broadway hopeful, I unwillingly know all the words to all the songs to all the musicals.Allthe musicals.
Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.
But her singing doesn’t bother me today.
The beach house isn’t mine, and I don’t want it to be, but in seventy-two short hours, I’ll have it all to myself.
Chapter 2
Piper
My first day back in sunny LA is going to be rainy. The turbulence as we land is the first clue. The slate-colored ocean and muted skyline are the second. The sky is heavy and dimly lit, like someone turned down the brightness dial on California.
I’d looked forward to watching the sunset from the back patio of the beach house, but by the time my Uber driver takes me from LAX to South Bay, the dark clouds open, setting loose heavy drops of rain. Slowly at first, then with the intensity of a crying toddler.
That should be a warning that things willnotgo as planned, but I use the code mom gave me to open the front door and roll my suitcase inside like there’s nothing ominous about rain in the middle of a Southern California September.
Also, this house is stunning! Its own version of sunshine.
The entryway glows with light wood floors, white paint, and lots of windows. The one bit of color in the foyer is provided by a Murano vase—probably an original—sitting on a small, black table just inside the entry.
Mom must have negotiated for all the furnishings in this place, or they’d be gone, right?
As I walk toward the kitchen, I can’t stop smiling. I actually get to live here!
A noise comes from a back room, and I freeze. The clanking and banging sounds like somebody could be breaking in, except there are more cameras and locks here than a high security prison. But then the noise is followed by an even more terrifying sound: Singing.
Really, really, terrible singing. Closer to yelling than anything musical.
And what kind of thief yell-sings while stealing? Not a very smart one, that’s what kind.
