Love, Albert

  Love, Albert

  Lynda Simmons

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews

  This eBook is licensed for personal use only. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyright materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 © Lynda Simmons

  www.lyndasimmons.com

  Cover designed by Robin Forsythe www.robinforsythe.com

  Cover photography Sidarta

  For the R&D Department

  You know who you are

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  ONE

  “Sorry darling, but I don’t see how we can make this work.”

  Vicky Ferguson hoisted the toddler higher on her hip and stared at the cell phone in her hand. So this was how it was going to end? With a phone call from a hotel room hundreds of miles from San Francisco and the parking lot where she stood — a woman in a rumpled suit with bare feet, two kids, and a trunk full of melting groceries? After all she’d done for that man? Not likely.

  But these matters required grace and calm, and a degree of finesse that was still new to her. So she took a deep breath and blew it out slowly while he went on and on about his expectations and disappointments. Murmuring “Uh-huh” and “I understand” at appropriate intervals while she untangled her son’s chubby fingers from the silver chain around her neck, waved her daughter Kira out of the backseat, and tried to think faster. There had to be a way to make the man see reason, and it was her job to find it.

  “Mr. Robinson, believe me,” she said when he finally paused for a breath of his own. “No one thinks you’re kinky.”

  “Kin-ky,” Jason said.

  Vicky winced, hoping the word didn’t stick in her son’s ever-widening vocabulary. It had been hard enough to convince the staff at the day-care center that Mr. Foch really was a client and not an expression of two-year-old anxiety.

  “Mommy,” Kira whispered. “Can I have a penny?”

  “In a minute,” Vicky mouthed, and made a point of smiling before speaking to her client again. “Mr. Robinson, I assure you there is nothing personal in this. It’s just that mirror tiles on the ceiling are so …”

  Ugly? Obvious?

  “California retro,” she said, taking heart in the way he repeated the words as she herded the children around the car to the trunk. “Unfortunately, the Claytons are from Utah, so you can imagine the problem.”

  Kira tugged on her sleeve. “Mommy, it’s important.”

  “Later,” Vicky whispered, waving her daughter away from the BMW in the next spot. Knowing only too well that any little fingerprints on that car’s shiny black door would lead to another letter from the Hampton Lofts Home Owners Association.

  Mrs. Ferguson. While we understand how difficult it is for a woman in your position …

  Her position? Seriously? Patronizing snobs.

  “Mr. Robinson, they really are a lovely couple,” Vicky said, stealing a quick glance at the elegant three storey building on the other side of the parking lot.

  Hampton Lofts. Upscale. Urban. Decidedly Chic. The sublet from hell since the day they moved in. She couldn’t for the life of her remember why she’d allowed her ex to convince her that it could ever be otherwise. But once she closed this deal, she would be one step closer to getting herself and the kids into a home of their own.

  “Yes, the Claytons are young,” she agreed. “And okay, perhaps a bit naïve. But they love the house and the neighborhood. All they’re asking is that you take down the mirrors before closing.”

  When Mr. Robinson told her he was going deep-sea fishing for a few days, Vicky hadn’t thought twice about presenting the Clayton’s offer. She’d simply included a seventy-two hour irrevocable, sent it off by email and headed home, positive he would say yes to the deal. But then he called, and she realized how truly annoying a man with decorating principles could be.

  He was prepared to accept the price, the closing, everything except the mirror-tile clause. That was his line in the sand. The point he would not cross, something Vicky understood only too well. But she was not about to let her dreams fall apart over twenty-four gold-veined mirror tiles.

  “Mr. Robinson, I appreciate the significance of those tiles, and I understand how difficult it will be to get them down. But wouldn’t it be great to come home from your trip and see a SOLD sign on your lawn?”

  “Mommeee,” Kira moaned. “I really need that penny.”

  Vicky popped open the trunk. “The ball’s in your court, Mr. Robinson.”

  “Just one little penny.”

  Vicky smiled into the phone. “So what do you say?”

  Mr. Robinson’s response was lost as Vicky watched the trunk slowly rise.

  Runaway tomatoes, fugitive jam jars, escaped spaghetti sauce, and underneath the melting orange juice, her brand new pumps. She glared at the new speed bumps in the driveway. With any luck, she and the kids would be out of there before the safety committee found any more ways to make Hampton House a great place to call home.

  She stood Jason up in the middle of the mess, fished her shoes out from under the juice and dropped them on the ground. “I’m sorry, Mr. Robinson. What were you saying?”

  “Tahini sauce,” Kira said, and plucked a small jar out of the trunk, holding it up where Jason could see.

  “Tahini sauce,” she repeated in her best announcer’s voice. “Rich, exotic. The new staple in every gourmet kitchen. Yours free when you order our new cookbook.”

  Vicky stared at the jar. That clinched it. Tomorrow she was canceling the extra cable channels. They had been Reid’s idea anyway. And who knew what might find its way into the grocery bag if Kira ever discovered the science channel.

  Kira glanced over at her. “Can I have that penny now?”

  “When I’m off the phone,” Vicky muttered stuffing groceries back into the bag with one hand and keeping Jason from taking them back out with the other. “Mr. Robinson, the offer is only good until midnight Sunday, After that the Claytons can walk away. And you know what they say about a bird in the hand.”

  “But Mommy,” Kira moaned, “you don’t understand.”

  Vicky shushed her with a look, set Jason on the ground beside her and lifted the bag out of the trunk. “So what do you say, Mr. Robinson?” She forced her feet into the pumps, slammed the lid and took Jason’s hand, hustling the children across the parking lot and giving her client one more nudge. “Do those mirrors come down?”

  Kira stopped halfway, arms folded, refusing to budge. “I need a penny now!”

  Vicky put a hand over the mouthpiece. “What on earth for?”

  “Because the moon is full.” She pointed up at the sky. “Daddy says a wish made on a full moon is sure to come true.”

  Vicky looked up at the moon then down into her daughter’s wide, trusting eyes. Damn you, Reid. Why couldn’t he just once give them something solid? Something real to hold onto?

  “Daddy w
as kidding,” Vicky whispered, hurrying Kira along again. “Mr. Robinson, if you’re worried about the mess, I can give you the name of a contractor. No I can’t guarantee the purchasers will pay for it. All I can do is ask.” She helped Jason onto the sidewalk. “I’ll get back to you. I understand. You too, Mr. Robinson.”

  Vicky hit END and stared at the phone. Was it her fate to spend the rest of her life dealing with unreasonable men?

  Dropping the phone into her pocket, she hustled the children around to the front of the building and tried to think of the name of the contractor her broker used. And what the job might cost. And how she was going to convince the Claytons they should pay for it. And what she would do if they refused.

  Too late, she spotted the family walking a dog toward them—a golden retriever, of course. She tried to wheel the kids around, head for the back door. But Jason was already squealing and Kira was jumping up and down. “Look mommy,” she said. “He’s just like Boing,” and Vicky knew she was in trouble.

  “See Boing,” Jason said.

  “Jason, honey,” Vicky said. “Boing is at Daddy’s, remember?

  It didn’t matter what Reid said, that was still the dumbest name she had ever heard for a dog. And it was not going to grow on her. Ever.

  “My doggie,” Jason hollered.

  Vicky pulled the last pack of emergency raisins from her pocket and shook it. “Jason, look what mommy has.”

  She opened the top, shook it again.

  “See Boing,” he hollered then grabbed the box and bolted, scattering raisins with every step.

  Vicky dropped the groceries and lunged, grabbing hold of his overalls and hauling him back.

  “My doggie,” he growled, chubby hands reaching for the dog as the family drew closer.

  Vicky recognized them. The picture-perfect Petersons—mom, dad and two lovely little girls who were eyeing Jason with open disdain.

  “He’s being bad,” one of them said.

  “He just likes your dog,” Vicky grunted as Jason squirmed and kicked, trying his best to get his hands on that dog.

  “We’ll hurry,” the Peterson mommy said on the way past, giving Vicky the kind of smile she’d been seeing all too often since she packed Reid’s bags—smug and pitying at the same time. Her position, indeed.

  “My doggie,” Jason wailed, then went completely silent—always a bad sign.

  “Kira, the door,” Vicky called, and scrambled to pick up the groceries. “Jason, honey. Look at the flowers.”

  But he wasn’t falling for it. Not with the dog moving farther and farther out of reach.

  Jason sucked in a breath.

  Vicky got to her feet.

  “Kira,” she yelled.

  Kira hit the button, the door opened and Jason let loose. Hollering in the way that only a toddler can. Holding that one perfect, piercing note longer than should be humanly possible.

  Vicky drew him to her, holding him close while he sucked in a shuddering breath and geared up for another round.

  “Mrs. Ferguson, I’ve asked you to speak to your daughter about the roses.”

  Distracted by the new voice, Jason fell blessedly silent, watching the maintenance man, Mr. Ogrizinski, hurry across the parking lot toward them.

  “The roses, Mrs. Ferguson.”

  Vicky turned to see Kira poking her nose into a bloom, and her feet into the mulch. “She’s only smelling them.”

  “She’s trampling, Mrs. Ferguson. She always tramples. Need I remind you about the ruling at the recent association meeting.”

  “I’ve seen the newsletter.”

  “And read it, too, I trust.” Mr. Ogrizinski puffed out his cheeks. “I see the other one has made a mess on the sidewalk again. What is it this time? Chocolate? Bubblegum?”

  “Raisins.” Vicky turned, carrying baby and groceries to the door. “My kids never have bubblegum.”

  “Mrs. Ferguson, I saw your husband teaching them to blow bubbles the last time he was here. Big, sticky, pink bubbles.”

  Vicky led the children inside. “I’ll speak to him about it.”

  “But in the meantime, who will do the cleaning up?” the caretaker called after them. “The same person who wipes up the mud in the halls, and the peanut butter in the laundry room, that’s who.”

  “And you do a fine job, Mr. Ogrizinski. Thank you.”

  In the elevator, Vicky slumped against the wall, reminding herself that soon it would all be over. They would find a house where Kira could smell the roses and Jason could leave a trail of raisins every day of his life and there wouldn’t be a soul around to stop them.

  The elevator opened on the second floor and she let the kids run ahead, almost hoping someone would open a door, give them a look. She was in the perfect mood for it right now.

  As luck would have it, she made it to her front door without incident. Turned the key in the lock and stood back while Kira and Jason raced each other to the living room.

  “No television,” she called after them, setting her bag of groceries down at last.

  The bag slumped over and a can of escargots she hadn’t noticed earlier rolled out and across the floor.

  Escargots and tahini sauce. She sighed and peeled off her shoes. Maybe the science channel would be an improvement after all.

  Pulling the clip from her hair and the phone from her pocket, she crossed to the desk in the living room. Blue jeans called to her from the bedroom, but first she had to find the name of that contractor.

  She thumbed through her list of contacts, hoping she had filed it under something simple like contractor or builder. She was about to try handyman when Kira raced past her to the window, and Jason plunked himself down on the living-room rug with a box of granola bars.

  Vicky watched him bite off the corner of the box and pull out a bar. Did that qualify as aggression or innovation? And should she bring it up to the teachers before they brought it up to her?

  “Mommy, I really need that penny,” Kira called. “The moon is right there, see? Hiding in the trees.”

  Vicky glanced out the window. Sure enough, there was the moon—full and round. Smiling as though she had all the answers and no intention of telling Vicky a single one.

  She looked down at Kira. “Honey, there’s no such thing as a magic moon.”

  Kira raised a brow. “But there’s a tooth fairy?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then daddy must be right.” Kira walked over to the balcony door. “Can I please have a penny?”

  Vicky sighed, resigned to losing yet another battle to Reid. “Don’t you need a fountain or something?” she asked, picking up Jason and his sticky granola bar before flipping the locks on the balcony door.

  Kira dashed outside and pointed over the railing. “Down there.”

  “That’s Mr. Ogrizinski’s birdbath.” Vicky smiled and took a penny from her pocket. Pressed it into Kira’s hand with a wink. “Go for it.”

  Kira closed her eyes and held a hand out over the railing. “I wish . . “ She smiled up at the moon. “I wish we could all live with Daddy and Boing again.”

  Vicky watched the coin fall, taking Kira’s wish with it. As much as she wanted to make her daughter’s dreams come true, there was simply no way for her and Reid to make it work anymore.

  Quiet, mousey Vicky, the one voted girl most likely to end up an accountant in high school, had made the mistake of falling in love with a rambler—a man with one foot on the ground and a passionate love of flight.

  They had traveled the world, living on pennies in rooms with nothing more than a mattress on the floor, wildflowers in a vase, and laughter, always laughter.

  Vicky thought she would be content to live that way forever, until they had children. Now she longed to give Kira and Jason roots, the kind she had grown up with, which meant a house, a wading pool, and a fence, things Reid would never understand.

  The coin splashed into the birdbath and Kira sighed and opened her eyes, content. Vicky could only imagine how
hurt her daughter would be when she finally realized her Daddy was wrong. The marriage was over, the separation papers drawn up, and all the penny wishes in the world wouldn’t change a thing.

  Kira jumped when the cell phone in Vicky’s pocket chirped. “The wish,” she said, her eyes round and filled with wonder. “It’s working.”

  Vicky shook her head. “It’s probably Mr. Robinson.” It had better be Mr. Robinson. She put the phone to her ear. “Vicky Ferguson here.”

  “Vicky, it’s me. Don’t hang up.”

  Even now, after six months, the sound of his voice was enough to hold her still, make her wait. So she made herself move instead. Carried Jason to the couch and the groceries to the kitchen, anything to keep from dwelling on that voice. “Reid, I’m expecting an important call—”

  Kira stood in the kitchen doorway. “I told you so.”

  “Coincidence,” Vicky whispered, turning away from her daughter’s hopeful smile. Just a coincidence.

  “Vicky, I have to talk to you.”

  “All I want to hear is that you’ve signed the separation agreement.” She opened a cupboard, banged Tahini sauce down on the shelf. “You did get it, didn’t you?”

  “I got it.”

  He sighed and she could picture him: tall and lanky, too lean perhaps for some, but strong and solid. His soft brown hair always a little too long, falling into eyes that were dark and heavy-lidded. A man with a wide grin and an easy laugh. Impossible to miss in a crowd, and technically still her husband.

  She heard a rustle and knew he was pacing the motel room he now called home. Always moving, circling, never touching down for long. Just like the Boeings they had named the dog for.

  “Vicky,” he said so softly it was almost a whisper.

  She felt herself moisten her lips, remembering that voice in the dark and his mouth against her skin. Kissing her, loving her, making her want him in ways that had shocked her eight years ago and only complicated things now.

  She slammed the fridge door. This was why she avoided him, why she had him pick up the kids at her mother’s and dealt with him only through her lawyer. She was weak where he was concerned. Weak and lonely and too needy by half.