Hand-Me-Down

“So wait.” He stood and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m off to pick up the Brenners. See you tonight?”

“Maybe I should call the city clerk’s office,” I said. “The tax assessor. Get in touch with the owner directly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just because.”

“You’re bored. You don’t like the job.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We can change your title,” he offered. “VP of Administration.”

“It’s not that.”

“Princess of Post-it Notes?”

“I’m fine, Rip. I just want—I dunno. I’m ready for a change.”

“Take the course, get your license. You’d be a great Realtor. You know you should.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not living up to my potential.”

He shook his head. “Do I need to bring anything to Charlotte’s?”

“Just the plant from the back of my truck when you get there. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

“Sure. And Anne? Keep away from the tax assessor’s office.”

I worked until 5:15, and didn’t place any calls Rip would disapprove of. Double-checked the weekend’s open houses, and tidied some loose ends. It was Friday, and the weather was gearing up for the weekend. I stepped out of the office into a bright and balmy afternoon, with a hot sun and a cool breeze. One of those days that even the locals go to Long-boards on the wharf to sip margaritas and eat calamari.

In even better news, my pale lilac top and linen skirt still looked good when I got home—the true test of new clothes. The linen didn’t even wrinkle in the truck. See? It pays to spend more. Not to mention all the time I saved, not having to stare at my desolate closet, wondering what to wear.

Hair and makeup were another story. I was nearing the end of my haircut cycle, so everything was a bit shaggy and my roots were showing. A bad sign, considering my hair wasn’t colored. I tended to be a makeup minimalist—lipstick, blush and mascara, all done in two minutes. If I wanted to go glossy I usually relied on Charlotte to fix me up, but I couldn’t ask on her birthday. Besides, she’d wonder why, and I didn’t want to explain about Ian. Not only that we’d had counterfeit imaginary sex, but that he was stopping by with her gift.

I honestly didn’t know why I always skipped a beat with Ian. Kevin the nude model was just as handsome, and a whole lot nakeder. Rip was wonderful, and he was all mine—not engaged to some mysterious woman and a purveyor of aged yuck. Ian was an awkward childhood humiliation who kept reappearing, like an uncomfortable suspicion. At least I hadn’t invited him anywhere. Sure he was going to stop by the party, but a delivery didn’t count as an invitation.

So I did my hair and makeup myself, adding lip gloss and foundation in an attempt to appear polished, and avoided seeing Charlotte altogether.

I snuck in from the patio and up to the kids’ bedrooms, where I found Hannah doing handstands against the wall in the hallway. She was seven, and from birth had been the prima donna her mother had never become. Hannah ruled the house with an iron—though diminutive—fist. The only person she’d consistently obey was David, who she physically resembled and completely adored. Charlotte was too gentle to impress her, and she listened to me about half the time. I’d gone Emily on her tiny pink butt once or twice, and it had apparently made an impression. Her little brothers—Kyle, five, and Tyler, four—were her minions, and did her evil bidding with hyperactive glee.

“I’m doing gymnastics,” Hannah said, and shook her head to get the hair out of her face.

“You’re getting dirt on the wall, banana,” I told her. Like I was one to complain about making messes with sneakers. I grabbed her ankles and spun her around. She squealed—she loved roughhousing—and I carried her into her bedroom and tossed her on the bed.

She bounced on her mattress. “Do it again!”

But I sent her to round up the imps, instead. Fortunately, because this involved bossing them around, she was easy to convince.

Still, it was a quarter of six by the time I got the bath running. I offered a prayer to the God of Ritalin that the little nerve-wrackers would leap quickly in and out of the tub. Sadly, the God of Ritalin had apparently been replaced by the God of Cocoa Puffs.

I’d finally corralled the boys in the bathroom when Hannah discovered she couldn’t find Bath Barbie.

“It’s not a bath without Bath Barbie,” she wailed.

“Check your room, quick, while the boys get in,” I told her. “She’s probably hiding under the bed.”

“Bath Barbie doesn’t hide.”

“Then she’s napping—go!”

“She doesn’t nap, either,” she said. “She’s Bath Barbie. She bathes.”

I herded her into her room. “Check in the pile—” the mountain of toys in the corner. “And the closet.”

“She’s not in the closet,” she whined. “I can’t take a bath without Bath Barbie.”

“You might have to make do with—” I glanced around the room “—Bath Bunny. Or I’ll just toss you in the tub with your Bath Brothers.”

That got her attention. She started digging through the heap of toys and I went back to the bathroom and was greeted by the sound of splashing. The little angels were bathing themselves!

“What great guys you are—” Then I stepped inside. They’d poured a gallon of shampoo into the tub, and were sitting amid heaps of bubbles, fully dressed. Playing Tidal Wave. “Out! Out!”

They collapsed in giggle fits. Usually they were easier than Hannah, because they were used to bowing under the lash of her tyranny. But, of course, not tonight. I grabbed a couple of soggy shirts and dragged them from the tub.

“You little monsters. You know better than that.”

“Tyler had an accident,” Kyle explained, as I yanked them out of their clothes.

“I had an accident,” Tyler said.

“He was cleaning up.”

“What kind of accident?” I asked, sniffing the air like a nervous antelope.

“She’s not under the bed!” came Hannah’s voice, from her room.

“Look in the closet!” I yelled. “Is she in the dollhouse?”

“A wee-wee accident,” Tyler said.

Thank God. “So why’d you get in?” I asked Kyle, tugging his socks off as he sat with his bare bottom on the floor.

He started giggling again. Clearly it had just looked like a good time. “We used soap,” he told me.

“You used shampoo.” I sluiced off the top of the bubble-mountain with my arm, remembering a moment too late that I was still wearing my $200 pale lilac ensemble. “Dam-arnit!” I said. “Now you two—back in there and wash.”

“She’s not in the dollhouse!” came the Bath Barbie update. “Aunt Anne, the doorbell’s ringing!”