a buttery yellow from the late afternoon rays. It had been a long time since I’d had guests at my table, and I wanted to impress them. Mrs. Reed had returned my call earlier and told me that although the triplets could be a handful, they were “good kids,” and they certainly seemed to be. Treating me to this marvelous dinner, at their own expense, spoke volumes.
My eyes, straying around the room, reminded me that this house was bought with all the furnishings and fixtures in a real estate bargain that ousted a family from its home. The globe that hung above us, lighting up the breakfast bar. The sumptuous Italian sofas. Even the Persian rug splayed out across the floor, in all its softly woven, silken glory, almost as big as the room. It too had come as a package deal with this beautiful Big Sur property. None of this felt like mine at all. The whole lot was their inheritance, which had been sold from right under them.
I could only imagine the sheer desperation their mother must have felt to get in so much debt to fund her cancer treatment. The family had been cornered. I felt personally responsible somehow.
Dinner was delicious. The way the three of them had cooked it as a team and chatted with one another was like an ensemble dance and, although I thought wistfully about being their choreographer and being part of it all, I was just an onlooker, a member of the audience. But then things evened out. I had an old collection of DVDs, of films they’d never seen before, and the triplets were a little wowed. Finally, I had something of myself to offer them. We watched Play Misty For Me, and then Rebecca. Amazingly, none of them had seen either. Watching classic movies was something Juan and I did often. The best was going to the cinema, but we’d also stay home with a takeout sometimes and binge on Hitchcock or black and white oldies and goodies. All About Eve, 12 Angry Men, Citizen Kane, A Streetcar Named Desire, and of course our beloved Casablanca. Those classics really meant something and with so much intrigue and heart. We’d recite our favorite lines to each other. He did great Bogart and Brando impersonations, and I surprised him with my breathy rendition of Marilyn’s “Happy Birthday Mr. President.” He teased me that I was his “dark horse.” I often wished I had the confidence to go blond like Marilyn, wear high heels, be a sexy siren or femme fatale like Rita Hayworth, but Juan always insisted he liked me just the way I was. “My funny valentine,” he’d call me. “My delicate English rose.”
It was pleasurable to take on the role of “educator” myself for a change, passing down my knowledge of classic movies to the triplets. To be sharing again, to chat and discuss the plots, the characters and their motivations. That first evening with them—bright and animated—stretched into night. Long and vibrant and really entertaining. The first fun I’d had in over six months.
And I hadn’t even had a drink.
Twelve
It became a ritual a few times a week with the triplets. Long discussions about thought-provoking topics then dinner and a movie. Sometimes two films in a row. We even played charades, something I hadn’t done since childhood. It was Jen’s idea. We had to look up the rules. Movie, book, or TV. Only miming allowed, no words.
It was a Friday. I was flattered that these gorgeously attractive youngsters were choosing to spend their Friday with me. Even Dan, who was bound to have a string of eager beauties texting him at all hours, wanting to go out with him.
Kate stood before us, miming, manically pointing at her eye. We were all on the sofa, rapturously attentive to her every hilarious move, her wild gesticulations. No teammates. We weren’t playing competitively. We were guessing a movie. Five words. Second word. It wasn’t long before Jen leapt up and screamed:
“Eye. Honey, eye… Honey, I Shrunk the Kids!”
“Yay!” Kate shouted. “You got it!”
“Although, grammatically speaking, it should be, Honey, I ‘Shrank’ the Kids,” I chimed in, my mother’s words spilling from my mouth. I shrugged. “That’s Hollywood for you.”
“Dudes, that one was way too easy,” drawled Dan. “Next one should be really tough.”
It turned out to be 2001: A Space Odyssey. And it was a little harder. I was impressed the triplets knew about this iconic film. Or were they trying to