Nothing Is Lost In Loving

By Brenda Moguez

When Stella Delray unexpectedly loses her job a week before Christmas, which is also the anniversary of her husband’s death, she is forced to stop talking to his ashes, come to terms with her loss, and get her life back on track for her young son’s sake as well as her own. She never expected that posting an ad on Craigslist would send her into the arms of not one but two men, one of whom is her former boss. Now she’s working as an admin for a retired Broadway star, bookkeeping for an erotic video production company, and writing love letters for the mysterious "Oaklander." Adding to the craziness of her new life, her monster-in-law resurfaces and the father-in-law she never met shows up on her doorstep. With the guidance of her best friend, Bono, Stella will learn to redefine the rules she’s always lived by.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781509206971

Book preview

expectation.

Chapter 1

It’s All Behind Me

For two years, give or take a week or three, I’ve carried my dead husband’s ashes around with me. He goes where I go. It wasn’t planned, but then these sorts of things never are. Momentary craziness just happens.

Stella, what would it hurt if you asked Jack out to lunch? Bono asks while running her fingers through her long strawberry-blonde hair.

She has a first name, but I can’t recall the last time I called her Pam. She’s been Bono, pronounced like Sonny and Cher, not Bono from U2, since we met.

It’s not as if he’ll say no. You travel with the man all the time. I’m sure the two of you have had drinks and shared meals over the years. He’ll say yes, you’ll go to lunch, have a grand time, and talk like adults do, she states with the confidence of someone who believes all social occasions are chummy and involve true confessions.

I stifle a yawn and glance at the clock hanging on the wall left of the bay window on the other side of the room. It’s almost four a.m. Bono slips off the bed and sets about smoothing the bedclothes, which takes seconds since she never bothered to crawl under the covers. Since I mentioned the recurring not-for-prime-time-viewing dreams involving Jack, she’s been like a dog with a ham hock bone, interrogating and pushing me to contrive a reason to ask him out on a lunch date.

Of course we have, but there are usually other people with us, clients and my co-workers, who like me, report to Jack. You’re sleep deprived and talking crazy. I shake my head in disbelief and wonder what Bobby would say about my dreams. Knowing him, he’d agree with Bono. The last thing he wanted was for me to hibernate. I wrap myself in my bathrobe. December winters in Northern California can be damp and chilly.

Before Bobby died this was his office, where he wrote music, mixed, and jammed. It’s the only sound-proofed room in the house. Now it’s more of a guest room, not that I changed anything. His guitars, a dozen of them, hang on the walls. Another four sit in stands around the room, and the electric piano is on the other side of the pine desk in front of the window. He enjoyed the view of our made-to-look-unruly English garden while he was writing or working on a piece.

Pssh. Details. Totally ignoring me she proceeds to dig a brush out of the vast black bag she is never without, which sits regally on the floor next to the bed. She gingerly pulls it through her long wavy hair. I need a haircut, she mutters to herself while trying to detangle her locks.

I reassert my case on the off chance she’s too tired to counter. She’s of the opinion two years is one year too long to mourn. "Critical details, I spout with limited bravado. As a rule I don’t spend too much time in this room. The battered pine dinner table we purchased at an estate sale in the Oakland Hills served as a desk because it was twice the size of normal office furniture. I need the room to spread out when I’m working. Besides, we need to keep the spark in our marriage," he argued with a wink on the afternoon we bought it. Not that we ever had to worry about the passion embers dying out.

Now, the office remains mostly untouched other than a weekly dusting. The wire basket in the upper left corner is still filled with sheet music, finished and unfinished songs. His Mac, which I haven’t logged into since the funeral, sits in the center of the table, and the jam jar filled with a rainbow assortment of Sharpies is strategically stationed between the sheet music and the computer. The desk is mostly used by Santi, our son—an ancient soul for an eight-year-old—and Bono.

Bobby and I changed Santi’s diapers across the table more times than I can bear to count. I don’t tread lightly over the past. The incidental memories we made in the passing of a day are addicting and all too alluring. After his death I could cocoon myself in. I held on to the past with a vengeance. According to Bono, the dreams of Jack are the first signs of life in me. I tried but failed to convince her letting go and breaking with the past is nearly as difficult as saying good-bye. She’s understanding and patient, probably more than she should be, but she’s adamant I’ve settled into the comfort of an unhealthy routine. She’s determined to separate me from my dependency on the past and my sports bottle.

Letting go of the sports bottle filled with Bobby’s ashes isn’t going to be easy. It’s oddly comforting having his ashes with me. I can’t imagine ever letting him go. I should, but the thought of getting rid of the ashes, and Bobby, for good paralyzes me. It’s why his music room remains pretty much as he designed it, except for the daybed I added since Bono, my best and only friend, assumed the role of babysitter. Since the funeral, she’s spends a couple nights each week with Santi and me. My refusal to let go of the past has put both our lives on hold. She sees the dreams about Jack as a sign my mourning period is coming to an end. As much as I hate admitting it, she might be right.

You’re just asking him to have lunch, not take you to bed. Don’t be such a drama queen, she teases. It’s been ages since you’ve been on a date. It’s just practice. Besides, you have to start somewhere. Might as well be with someone you know, even if it’s just a test. You don’t have to tell him about the dreams.

I can’t ask the CEO out for lunch unless there is a business reason. I snort. He’s not a pal. All of our conversations revolve around work, and I can hardly look him in the eyes since I started having the cable-channel dreams.

If you’re having dreams about a man, your body is trying to tell you something. Pay attention! She winks at me and slips out of her Star Wars fleece pajama bottoms.

I leave her to finish undressing and make my way to the kitchen. The pot of coffee I put on earlier should be ready about now. She’ll want a mug for her drive across the bridge into San Francisco where her bakery, Bono’s Beautiful Buns, is located. As soon as she’s gone I’m going to climb back into bed. I was never a morning person. I still can’t fathom how she manages to get up so early to bake the bread and the cakes she’s renowned for. I step to the left side of the hallway as the hurried shuffling of bare feet approaches me from behind.

Bono passes me, muttering, I can’t find my shoes. Her snort disturbs the tranquility of the pre-dawn household. I’m late.

Yep, but Carlos is there and no doubt has ovens blazing. I bet the first loaves are turning a golden brown and the scent of honey-wheat is waking your neighbors on Stockton Street, I assure her. And check in the living room. I think you left your shoes next to the sofa, I manage to utter before another yawn sneaks in. She detours right into my bedroom. I assume she is headed to the bathroom to finish dressing, leaving me alone to consider what she said about Jack and lunch. She’s mad as a hatter, that one. Asking Jack anywhere is the craziest idea she’s had lately, but I can’t stop myself from thinking about it. It’s a good thing fantasies are permissible; otherwise, my life would be a complete bore.

I stop to glance out the French doors, the gateway to the backyard. The trees keep time with the wind and tap against the windows. It’s a typical December, crisp and cold by San Francisco standards. I hesitate long enough to register the black skies before heading toward the galley kitchen. I arrive as the last drops find their way into the glass canister.

The freshly brewed French roast is seductive and tempting, but the lure of sleep is more enticing. I resume musing over Bono’s insistence about Jack. Was it a mistake telling her about my dreams? It’s filled her with hope of my recovery. She’s been nagging me to rejoin the human race, and now she’s convinced the dreams are a sign my heart is primed to let go of the past and ready to love again. Dating is one of the social conventions I deplore. If I had a choice between dating and a double root canal, I’d pick the latter, but maybe, just maybe, the former wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I can’t decide.

Is the coffee ready? Bono asks from the other side of the kitchen island. What are you thinking about? she presses.

Nothing. I avert my eyes before she has a chance to see into me, and then blurt out, I can’t ask Jack out for lunch because he’s married. My body sags a little.

You said he’s separated and living on his own. Has his status changed at all?

I nod my head before dropping it slightly. No, it hasn’t, but—

Okay then, no reason to admonish yourself. He doesn’t need to know why you’re asking him out to lunch. Just ask him out. It’s only an experiment. You have to get back in the game, woman. Bobby never wanted you to crawl into yourself and give up living. It’s been two long years. It’s time… Her voice cracks as she swallows her own grief in a gulp of air. It’s time to say good-bye.

The tears I thought were over threaten to fall. I know, but I can’t. I just—

It would break his heart if he knew you were carrying his ashes around in a sports bottle.

It’s BPA-free. I manage a weak smile.

Bono walks around the island and takes both my hands in hers. Stella, I don’t know if there is ever a right time or if there is a way to forget a lover. I doubt it. But I do know you’re too young to be old and your heart has more love to give. She squeezes my hands and lifts her eyebrows in question.

A dry sob breaks free and hovers overhead for a few seconds.

Baby steps, okay? She blinks back her tears.

I nod in agreement. I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier. It’s the anniversary of his death today, I manage to say with a slight crack in my voice. But you’re right. It’s time to say good-bye and let his ashes fly free over the Bay. I say it more for me than her. Even though I have been thinking about it for a while, the resolve to go through with it wasn’t there until I say it aloud.

I know it is, honey. She looks away, lost in her memories.

I look up at the ceiling and back at her. I’m scared—no, terrified—of letting go. He was the only man to see me naked for half of my life. What if I fail or have fallen out of fashion? Bobby loved me, but he was blind to my flaws. I wonder how hard it is for women my age to get a date.

You’re on the cusp of thirty-seven and still have your curves. Your ass hasn’t dropped below your knees, and you buy good bras. Whether you realize it or not, you can still pull in the once-overs from men. I’ve seen it when we’ve gone to dinner. Don’t worry about your looks. You’re going to be fine, just fine. Now fill me a mug of coffee. I have a ski slope wedding cake to finish.

A ski slope? That’s a bit—

Weird. I know. You going to be okay? Her head tilts slightly toward her left shoulder.

As long as I have a perky ass there is nothing stopping me.

We both laugh, really laugh, for a long minute.

Chapter 2

Unexpected Freedom

Mommy, get up. We’re gonna be late for school. I can’t find my Spidey shoes.

It’s Thursday morning, a week before Christmas. Santi is one of those kids who springs to life the minute the sun peeks through the curtains, but fades quickly once it burns into the Pacific. I roll slowly from my right side onto my back. I need a mental health day.

Wear the blue and white Nikes.

No, I need the Spidey ones. They’re faster. We have races today.

Did you leave them in the bathroom last night after you had your shower?

Santi, like his father, stomps. Bobby wasn’t one to tread lightly anywhere. You always knew when he was close by.

Found ’em. Mommy, we’re going to be late.

I consider plausible reasons to call in sick. There is always the sinus headache, which wouldn’t technically be a lie since I had one yesterday but worked through it. I could say I have food poisoning or gout.

Mommy, get up, an annoyed little voice commands.

I pull myself up and swing my short limbs over the bed where they dangle too far from the floor. My queen-size platform bed requires a step stool or longer legs. I jump up when climbing into bed and slither down when getting out.

Santi likes to be early, whereas I slip in anywhere I have to be just under the wire. We agree to be respectful of one another’s approach to schedules, most of the time. School doesn’t start for forty-five minutes, and I made your lunch last night. Take a breather. Toast or Cheerios?

Peanut butter toast, please. Mommy, your cell phone is buzzing.

I make the jump to the cold white faux marble floor and dart for my cell. The phone buzzes away on the blue Spanish tile covering the kitchen counter. Hello, Stella Delray.

Hello, Stella. It’s Jack. Did I wake you? I realize it’s early.

His husky voice sends shivers pulsating down my spine. Good morning, Jack. I’m awake. It’s been a long week. I can’t tell you how glad I am tomorrow is Friday. Jack is clueless I have a lust crush on him. It started a few weeks ago, the restless nights and vivid dreams. I’m self-conscious talking to him in my nightgown, but I haven’t so much as batted an eyelash or thrust my hips in his direction. He’s not my type.

Part of me suspects Jack and I would connect, given the chance to peel back our layers and expose our secret selves to one another. My right-brain self knows our connection is a dicey one, an unlikely scenario given he is somewhat married. According to the rumor mill, he separated from his wife, Victoria, after their only child left for college.

I’m beat. I think my voice is back in bed under the covers, I say, thinking inappropriate thoughts.

I know the feeling. I could have used a couple extra hours of sleep this morning myself.

Did you need something? I thought we had a one p.m. today.

We do, but I wanted to catch you before our meeting. It won’t take more than a few minutes. He sounds clinical, like he’s reading from a script.

Sure. I’m afraid I don’t have more than a couple. I have to drop Santi at school.

Okay. I’ll make this quick. I’ve decided to leave the company. I’m working through the end of the year.

Wow, this is unexpected. I fight to keep the shock out of my voice and for an insane moment consider asking him out to lunch.

Of course, I’m disappointed he’s leaving. I enjoy working with him, not to mention my eyes are partial to traveling the length of his body. I can’t help myself. His voice woos, and it feels as if invisible hands—his—have slipped through the telephone to caress me. Are his hands gentle as well as tender when he’s holding a woman’s heart? I wondered. Does he hold it with care? He puts a blazing fire in my belly and reminds me how lust feels. My desire boils off my skin, its vapor forming a cloud and surrounding me with a cushion of billowy passion clouds. Elvis love tunes play in surround sound inside my head. Bobby was never keen on Elvis. Shake it off, woman, my inner Stella commands.

The idea of Jack’s hands sliding under my worn nightshirt is stuck on repeat in my mind. It’s probably not a good day to work. The only thing on my mind is Jack undressing me. I really need to take the day off, listen to music, and maybe write a love letter to my dormant love life. Since deciding to free Bobby’s ashes, I feel new, shiny even, as if I could walk across a tightrope juggling chainsaws without a net. If not for Jack’s voice in my left ear bringing me back to focus, I’d probably continue daydreaming.

Anyway, this is only part of the reason I phoned. His voice drops to a whisper.

He has my full attention. You have something more surprising?

Due to current economic conditions, he begins.

The beating under my flimsy shirt is deafening. He didn’t call to tell me about his move. He’s firing me.

Chapter 3

On My Own

The voice of Ava, my monster-in-law, plays in surround sound inside my head, blocking out Jack’s scripted speech. She’ll rejoice in my misfortune. I can hear her telling the judge, Stella is unemployed and unfit to raise her son. Until she gets back on her feet, it’s only logical I take custody of my grandson. My news will rock her world. Ava has been after me ever since I had Bobby cremated instead of laying him to rest in a Nob Hill family plot.

Focus, Stella, the little voice shouts. There’s enough cash in the bank to last six months, but the economy is still in the toilet. This is not a good time to be unemployed. As if there is ever a good time, I whine inside.

Stella, did you hear me? Are you okay? A touch of worry sails through the wires and lands like a thud on the counter.

I hit the mute button to block the dry sob growing behind my breastbone. Breathe, one thousand-one, one thousand-two, one thousand-three, one thousand-four, hold for six counts. I grip the edge of the counter, which keeps me rooted to the kitchen floor and from drowning in the acid panic flooding my veins. Damn. I’m losing my job. Ava will come after Santi again. Damn. Stop! Don’t you dare cry on the phone in front of a man, especially not Jack. Inner Stella swoops in and takes control.

Stella? His voice is no longer a whisper.

I unmute the phone. Yes, I’m here.

Is everything okay? Did you hear what I said?

Yes, I heard, and I’m fine. You jerk, what a stupid question. The news is unexpected, of course. Thanks for the heads-up. I need to make a graceful exit from the call. I manage to choke back my sob. I assume our meeting is canceled. There’s probably no point in me coming into the city to talk about the business plan for next year. Since I’ll be living in a cardboard box under the Bay Bridge, you selfish prick. Good luck with your new venture. It sounds great.

Yes, our meeting is no longer necessary, but Human Resources will probably want to meet with you.

I’ll coordinate the details with Grace. Take care.

Thank you. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet. Are you okay with this? I can…

No, it’s all good. December you said. Is the thirty-first my last day?

Yes, end of December, and one month of severance. Stella, are you all right? Your voice sounds…

It’s all good. Ciao.

Just my damn luck, a week before Christmas, and today is the anniversary of Bobby’s death. If this is the first day of the rest of my life, I want a do-over.

You didn’t make my toast. You look funny, Mommy. Santi’s brows furrow like he’s trying to see behind my eyes.

I always look funny. We’re going to have to hurry now.

You were on the phone too long.

Way too long, honey. It’s fifteen minutes of my life I want to erase.

****

After dropping Santi at school, I’m on autopilot, not quite aware of the road between school and home. Arriving home I swallow two cups of pity me in one gulp and yell at Bobby’s ashes, which are standing innocently on the edge of my desk, before crawling back into bed. Buried under the goose-down duvet, I can almost hear my dead grandmother’s voice in my head. She’s always there when I can’t find the answers on my own, or like now, when I want to be reminded life isn’t always what you want it to be no matter how hard you try. Right now she would be telling me, It’s always a man that makes or breaks a woman in two.

I don’t think I’m broken in two, but since I continue to volley between weepy and angry, I’m not sure. Losing my job is too much to process so early in the day. Hiding under the covers from the light of day is preferable to my reality. Panic attack or a pared-down version of an emotional meltdown? Whatever happened to happily ever after and show tunes?

It took Jack’s call to remind me I have been a living dead person for too long. Technically, the dreams woke me up, but why split hairs? I burrow deeper into the bed built for two, ripping the sheets from the mattress with my frenetic tossing. I can’t find my center and continue to ride the swell of my emotions. I’m stuck between anger and helplessness.

Is it my fault for holding on? Is it Jack’s fault for waking me up physically? Have I been blind to the world because I let the grief swallow me? Is my wanting to let Bobby’s memory go the reason I lost my job? Is imagining Jack’s hand unbuttoning my jeans life’s way of punishing me? How the hell am I supposed to get on with my new life if the old one continues to kick me in the ass? I can’t imagine forgetting Bobby, but I want to get over the endless aching and feeling as if everything in life comes with a price tag. I want to get ahead, but I’m not sure how to do it anymore. I need a plan.

The truth is I was never in love with my job. Maybe like is a more apt description. It’s not what I started out wanting to do with my life. The pay was good. I settled because it allowed me the freedom to work from home a couple days a week, which kept my childcare costs down.

Bobby always nagged me to quit and write a book. Every girl who has ever read Jane Eyre wants to write the next great love story. But being ever practical I took a job after Santi was born for the security it promised. The salary of an almost-famous country-western singer is inconsistent. My regular paycheck covered the drought times and gave me peace of mind. Two dream lives in one family was impractical, and since Bobby had more traction, he lived his dream and I kept us anchored. It’s not as if Jack has taken away a dream, only the money that fueled the possibility of dreams. Don’t wallow. I peek out from under the covers.

It’s hard to be depressed in this room. There are too many memories. The bedroom walls are the color of Arillaga roses—a silvery pink. They match honeydew-green and multi-colored pink rose-colored bed linens. Throw pillows offset the muted silvery-pink walls. The window sheers share the same pantones as the walls, and the sweet peas inlaid on the fabric look like the design of the garden in the Blue Door watercolor painting hanging over my desk. Bobby and I bought the painting on our first trip to Spain.

It’s a painting of Kennedy St. Clair’s studio door, which resembles my front door. Our house went up in 1940, back when architects took a little extra care to include built-in bookshelves, corner nooks, and shelves built into walls for a woman’s curios. Bobby and I fell in love with the house on sight and signed the paperwork the same afternoon. Later, after we moved in and pulled up the re-location beige shag carpet, we found the original hardwood floor undamaged.

The bedroom is where Bobby and I would sip wine, but now it is where Santi and I read books together before bedtime. The shelves are crammed with books, china, and assorted knickknacks, which give the house the feel of curio shops found in beach towns. Each trip home he’d have a bauble and say, For rainy days, Stella. Pretty things are for rainy days. It’s a home filled with china not used for eating, watercolors, books, old LPs, CDs, and a baby grand piano in one corner of the overcrowded living room. On the walls hang plates of china, each piece an outcast but together a collective. A pattern formed because no piece looks alike, rather like Bobby and I were.

It’s a home decorated to keep the world out, so unlike the road where Bobby spent most of his time. He said once he walked through the front door, he reconnected with his creative self, which had withered from life on the road. Being home, he’d regain his strength.

Done with hiding under the covers, stuck in emotional limbo and somewhat frenzied, I call Human Resources to sort out my termination and start the paperwork, and then spend the remainder of the morning sitting around in my yoga pants, drinking coffee until my stomach burns. I draft a couple cover letters, update my resume, and post both to all the job boards.

Chapter 4

I’m Every Woman

Calling Bono after Jack’s call would have been the smart thing. I don’t have many friends. Actually Bono is one of the few I would call an all-seasons friend. The sort who picks up the phone when you call at two a.m. and says, "Okay. Where are you? I’ll be there." with no cussing or questions asked. I curse myself for not hitting speed dial sooner.

Delray, everything okay?

Yeah, why do you ask? Can you tell I’ve had eighty-two cups of coffee?

Do I hear a sob in the back of your throat?

More like a tsunami of sobs. I know you’re in the thick of things over there with the wedding cake and the holiday baking, but can you give me a call later after your afternoon run and before you go to dreamland?

"Sure. You know I can stay up past nine o’clock once in a while."

The exciting life of a baker. I don’t know how you manage your wild life.

Bitch. I have to finish this cake. Hang on until we talk later.

Love you.

No, you don’t. You have nowhere to hide since the FBI Witness Relocation Protection Program rejected your application, and now you’re stuck with me. Stop crying.

I’m not. I have allergies.

Since when?

I’ll talk to you later. I am going to hide under the covers for a few more minutes before deciding what to do with the rest of my life.

Well, at least you’re thinking about it. That’s a foot in the right direction. Bye.

She thinks I’m freaking out about letting Bobby’s ashes go. Poor thing, she hasn’t a clue about my latest drama. Somewhere between making peace with my loss and deciding it was time to set Bobby’s ashes free, I imagine a brand new world. Life would bloom as if it was a season, the rain in my heart would stop, all around me