Page 30 of Gray Hair Don't Care
Lela tamped down any disappointment she might have had at the fact that however Donovan had briefed his mother, he had not mentioned that he and Lela had been friends in college. “Hello, Mrs. James. It’s very nice to meet you.”
She waved it off. “Please. Call me Eileen. Life is too short for formalities.”
Out through the door came a bald, muscle-bound man. He was wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, which first read “banker”, but he was also barefoot and wearing chunky diamond stud earrings, so Lela was unable to draw any conclusions at all about what he might do. He was holding a sizable carved wood box with a brass lock on the front. “I’m here for everyone’s phones.”
Eileen smiled wide. “Stuart, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Stuart.”
He kissed Eileen on the cheek, then presented the box to Donovan. “You must be the oldest son.”
“You must be the new boyfriend.”
“Donovan. Manners,” Eileen said.
“Mom. I’m fifty-one. Plus, isn’t heactuallyyour new boyfriend?” Donovan dropped his phone into the box.
“I don’t mind. It doesn’t bother me at all.” Stuart moved on to Echo and Lucius, then made his way over to Lela.
In many ways, she was happy to be rid of her cell for a few days. Work had been so non-stop, that the idea of forced unplugging for a weekend was like to a trip to a spa. “Thank you.”
“Wonderful,” Eileen said. “Let’s go inside and get you all settled. We’ll meet for cocktails at five, and dinner will be at six. For now, I need a nap.”
“Where’s Austin?” Donovan asked her.
“He got here a half hour ago. He’s upstairs unpacking. Genevieve’s flight was delayed, by the way, so she won’t be here until later.”
As they all filed inside, Lela overheard Eileen. “Lucius, do you know the origin of ‘happy as a clam’?”
“I don’t,” Lucius said.
“It refers to a clam at high tide. They’re happy because they have a short reprieve from death,” Eileen said.
“Oh,” Lucius replied.
Lela felt as though she was getting her first glimpse of what might be off with Donovan’s mom.
As they walked into the yawning yet cluttered foyer, it took a moment for Lela to take it all in. Kitschy 1950s-era floral wallpaper in aqua and cream blanketed the walls, while a Louis XIV settee upholstered in what was surely historically inaccurate lime green velvet sat waiting for a visitor to rest their tired feet. There was a carved marble bust of a man topped with an actual fedora, and a vast collection of nudes—sketches, oil paintings, and watercolors, in mismatched candy-colored frames. Ahead was a grand flourish of a staircase with a delicate wrought-iron handrail ascending to the right, then looping back around to a landing on the other end. Anyone who went upstairs had no choice but to go out of their way.
Suitcases in tow, Lela and Donovan started up the hardwood steps, which were covered in an ornate eggplant carpet runner. “Did it look like this when you were growing up?” she asked.
“Sort of. She’s constantly at rich people’s estate sales, so she’s added quite a bit since I was a kid.”
She followed him down one of several halls. “But isn’t she a rich person herself?”
“Yes, but she’ll never come close to spending it. She’s cheap as hell.”
“Did she grow up poor?”
“No. I think she enjoys squeezing the life out of things.”
Lela couldn’t ignore the possible double meaning in this answer. “And she grew up in this house, too?”
“Virtually all by herself, other than a caretaker, gardener, and a nanny. She was an only child and my grandparents traveled extensively.” Donovan stopped in front of a door and opened it. “Mom said she wanted you in here. We call this the pink bird room.”
“Like flamingos?”
“No. Pink. And birds.”
Lela stepped inside and immediately caught Donovan’s drift. She really loved pink, but this was a whole new level of rosy adoration. Everything, from the bed to a mountain of throw pillows, from the heavy Dupioni silk drapes to a pair of chairs near the window, and even a faux-fur ottoman were decorated in shades from soft and pale to vibrant and electric. Littered about the room were dozens of antique bird cages, painted in a non-pink array of colors. They hung in clusters from the ceiling and two had been turned into lamps on the bedside tables. They were perched on shelves, and a few had been left on the floor in the corner. “Got it. Pink. And birds.”
