Peace, Love and Chocolate - Chapter one.

CHAPTER 1

 Thursday, December 20, 2007, New York.

            Sometimes I think my mother would have loved me more if I’d been born with four legs. Four legs, like one of her Jack Russell Terrier show dogs. The ones she reserves her praise and affection for. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs but I’m glad they weren’t coming on this trip.

      “How’s it going back there?” my mother said, as she jerked her layered blonde hair in my direction.

      “Fine, I’m practicing my human pretzel routine in case I ever want to join the circus.” Somehow, I ended up sitting on top of suitcase wedged between my mother’s trunk and the ceiling of the taxi, my cheek pressed against the cold December window.

      “Half the fun of traveling is getting there,” Mia chirped from the front seat.

      Whoever said that bon mots was a liar or had never traveled with my mother Mia, the first of the one name super models from the '70s. She’s pushing fifty not that she looks it thanks to Botox or a deal with the devil. You can be sure on her 50^th she’ll be spouting the 'Fifty is the new thirty' mantra to all her other yoga-toned and tan friends. 

       I turned up the collar of my sensible Eddie Bauer parka and barked, “shut the friggin’ window, I’m freezing.” And so the adventure began.

       Mia turned around and trilled, “just think, Tara Poo, we’ll be basking in bikinis in no time.” I know she was imagining the cruise as a luxury Love Boat but let’s face it, the Poseidon Adventure or maybe Titanic without the romantic bits was more likely.

       What could be better than sailing the high seas with Mia? Hmm, let me count the ways. Swimming in shark-infested waters, dodging old farts on walkers, being stabbed in the foot by a cane stampeding to the buffet, my mother, the original helicopter parent hovering 24/7...

      “Tara darling, are you listening?”

      “Yes, Mia.” I removed my i-pod buds from my ears and drawled, “you know, I’m not sure if a cruise is such a good idea. I mean, aren’t they for older people stuffing themselves at buffets?”

      “Don’t be silly. Cruises aren’t like that anymore. Lots of younger people are going and even families. There isn’t just a buffet. There are elegant sit down meals with fabulous 5 star food.” She sounded exasperated. “Didn’t you read the brochure I sent you? Anyway, it’s too late to back out now. It’s all paid for.”          

      I twisted my torso to face front and poked her on the shoulder. “Never mind the food or age of the passengers. It’s still a shitload of strangers stranded together in the middle of the ocean with no escape.”

      Mia adopted her sharp toned voice. The one she used to train her dogs. Her head swiveled, Exorcist-like around to face me.  “And your point is?”

    I could see her perfectly arched eyebrows rise to a peak as I gathered my thoughts. “It’s claustrophobic. The cabins are probably the size of your dog kennels and what if I don’t like anyone I meet? And what if I suddenly want to leave? And don’t say you can walk the plank.”

      Her tone changed as if I had just announced that I’d grown three heads.

      “Leave? Why on earth would you want to leave paradise? They have everything you could possibly want or need on board. "She waved her arms as she  rattled off, "there's a theater, planetarium, a casino, a nightclub, the biggest library at sea, Oxford University lectures, workshops on a million subjects, lots of restaurants and bars. Oh, and Canyon Ranch spa.”

      Bingo! Spa, the magic word. Thank God for small mercies.

      Our taxi zipped down Riverside Drive next to the frozen gray Hudson River. The familiar New York skyline shimmered in the distance. I hadn't been in the backseat of a car with my mother in the front seat since my father died, five years ago. It was always the two up them up front with me lounging alone in the back seat. I never minded not even as a child. There were always road trips to places I loved like ski resorts in Vermont and every summer, visits to my grandparent’s summer place, an old farm near Woodstock.

       On those warm summer days, I used to dangle my feet outside the window. A sibling would have eased the boredom but I made do with counting out of state license plates and listening to top 40-radio. I loved the feel of the wind on the soles of my feet until my father, a surgeon would bark, “put your feet down.  You could get them sliced off if a truck goes by too closely.”

      I pressed my nose against the cold glass window feeling seven again. My heart prickled with sadness as warm air from my mouth evaporated on the glass. Above the headrest, I could see the back of Mia’s head and hear the same perky voice she always had. Without seeing her face, I imagined the beautiful young hippie chick draped in long scarves and headbands. No, that was last week. Some things never change including her wanting me to call her Mia and not mom or mother.     

      When we’re out together, no one mistakes us for mother and daughter. I don’t resemble her except for maybe our emerald cat’s eyes and generous C-cups. She has legs like a gazelle and bouncy hair made famous in shampoo commercials. Me? I have thin limp hair and fat ankles. We’re different in so many ways. I’ve often wondered if she’d picked me up at some orphanage during one of her exotic locale fashion shoots.

       I shut my eyes for a few seconds and listened as she prattled on the way she always did. For a moment time stood still.  A moment of bliss until she turned around again.

      “Wipe your mouth, she said. "You have something on your lip.” Mia poked the air in my general direction.

      I hid my mouth behind my hand and mumbled, “it’s cold sore… from stress. It’s almost gone.”

    She turned around, her eyes wide and said, "how is any man going to want to kiss you? You've got to relax. Breathe the yoga belly breath I taught you." Before I could turn on my i-pod again she sucked in all the oxygen from the cab and chanted, "OM".

      Kissing a man, any man, was the last thing on my mind. No amount of breathing was going to make this trip go away. Wait.  Maybe they wouldn’t let me board once they saw my face.  I wiped off the rest of the concealer which covered the crusty sore.  Maybe they’ll think I have some deadly disease. Fat chance. What do I tell them? That I’m overweight, unemployed, separated from my cheating husband and masquerading as a heartbroken leper colony look-a-like?

      “Could that be it?” Mia pointed to an object way down the river. I squinted against the noonday sun. “I don't know.” The object appeared to be a ship. A small one. We got closer and the tiny ship got bigger and bigger. It was like seeing a hulking cartoon character come to life.

      “Holy shit! She's humongous.” I said, instantly forgetting all my problems.

      “Don’t swear. Didn’t I teach you any manners? Oh my fucking God, she's beautiful.”

      Meet my mom, the walking, talking Barbie doll of contradictions.

      Then there she was, the Queen herself. The Queen Mary 2 stood proudly, her elegant black and white body topped with a maraschino cherry red funnel. The two other cruise ships flanking her resembled bathtub toys.

* * *

      Our mountain of luggage joined the other mountains organized by a melee of porters. An excited jumble of voices surrounded us. Mia groaned, “we should have left even sooner.” Lines of people snaked up and down the embarkation room, the size and height of an airplane hangar. “Well at least this gives us a sneak peek of our fellow passengers.”  Two wheelchairs glided by pushed by their elderly spouses. I whispered my discontent, “see, I told you there’d be nothing but old farts.” 

      “What about those guys?” She pointed at a quartet of twenty-something guys, all dressed in black. “Must be artists or something groovy.”

       I sneered, “nobody says groovy anymore. They look like slacker musicians to me. Kind of cute but probably gay Euro trash.”

      We inched forward in the line. “You’re right, Mia said, I may be a fag hag but these boys aren’t marriage material.” She gave me a concerned look. Well, as much as one can with a Botoxed brow. “Maybe Ben isn’t so bad after all."

      I tuned her out. Funny how a short three letter name, B-E-N, my husband's could flood my brain with so many conflicting emotions. I must have had the same scowl on my face as I flashed back to the scene of me opening the door of our brick Victorian and promptly shutting it. Asshole. I had breathed deeply and flung open the door again. My handsome 6’1” tousled-haired hunk of a husband stood there holding two Starbuck’s lattes with my favorite extra whipping cream and cinnamon.

      He smiled that crinkly smile that used to make me go weak in the knees. “I was hoping you hadn’t had your coffee yet.”

      I barked, “what are you doing here?” as I grabbed the latte. No use wasting good coffee. He waltzed in and stuck his perfectly patrician nose in the air.

      “Do I smell brownies?”

      “Yes, not that you’re getting any.” I crossed my arms in front of me trying to look Amazon-Goddess fierce. He breezed by and plopped down on the couch. So much for fierce. He spread his legs apart the way that jocks do and looked contrite.

       “Look, I know you’re upset and there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better but…” This is the part where he could have redeemed himself. The part where he could have gotten down on his knees and begged forgiveness and promised to cater to my every whim for the next fifty years. He ruffled his hair and said three little words.

      “I am sorry.” Those were not the three little words I had in mind. Sorry, doesn’t cut it the apology department when you’ve seen your best friend bouncing on your husband’s Johnson. He looked away. Was that a hint of guilt? His legal eagle eyes spotted my suitcases. “You moving out?” Ben straightened up and sounded a little too eager. “You know, if you’re moving, I’d be happy to take over the apartment. A lot of my stuff is still here and there’d be less for you to move out.”

      I put out my hand like Diana Ross singing Stop in the Name of Love. I could see why he was a good litigator.

      “So you want to shack up with your lover in our marital home, in my old apartment with the best view in Boston where the rent hasn't gone up in over ten fricking years?”

      “Yeah that Mr. O’Grady must really have liked you not to raise the rent.”

       I swigged at the latte forcefully, burnt my tongue and spluttered, “it so happens I’m not moving but when I do, you will be last person I rent it to.”

    He smiled and pointed at my chin. You have some whipping cream on your chin.” He

sweetly inquired, “so where are you going?”

      “If you must know, I’m going on a Caribbean cruise. For Christmas.” I licked my finger clean of the remaining cream. “On the fabulous Queen Mary 2.” A flicker of a smile broke on those luscious lips I used to love kissing. His smile cracked into wide-open guffaw.

      “You? On a ship? On the ocean? You get seasick in a bathtub. Remember how green you got on the ferry to Nantucket?” I puffed up my chest and huffed, “the ship is so big it’s like being on an island. Besides it’s got stabilizers and all that.”

      He eyed me suspiciously and asked, “who are you going with?”

      I bit my lip and mumbled, “Mia’s taking me.”

Ben slapped the leather arm of the sofa and hyena-laughed. I suddenly noticed what a stupid laugh he had.

      “You’ve got to be kidding. You - and your – mother? Together - on a cruise? It’ll be hard to place odds on who'll jump ship first.”

      I glared at him, my hands on both of my ample hips. Hips, perfect for child bearing if I ever got the chance.       

      In measured tones, I hissed, “I think you’d better leave. Now.”

      He held up both his hands. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I love your mom. It’s just that you two aren’t exactly close.”

      He leaped up and headed for the hall closet. “Anyway I just came to get some more of my clothes. Maybe I could come by while you’re gone to get the rest of my stuff.” He grabbed an armful of his Italian suits. “So I won’t bother you anymore.” With his vision obscured, he had the nerve to ask, “can you get the door, love?”

      I slammed the door with visions of cutting his remaining clothes into slivers. Slowly with manicure scissors to prolong the pleasure. I thought I’d smelled smoke coming out of my ears but it was just the brownies burning in the oven. “Oh fuck! Fuck Boston and this New England shit architecture. And while we’re at it, fuck Boston cream pie, the Boston tea party, duck boats, Sam Adams, clam chowder, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck but especially Ben Devereaux. Fuck Harvard, fuck pahking your cah in Hahvahd yahd. Fuck them all. I’m moving back to New York!”

      “Tara, Tara Poo? Stop kicking your luggage.” I felt a hand on my arm and I snapped out of my reverie. My mother blinked and bobbed her head up and down parrot-like and said, “you really do need a vacation.”

      I smoothed a stray lock of hair behind my ear and nudged her bony elbow. “Look, that couple is going straight to the embarkation counter without waiting in line.” Mia turned to see a well-dressed middle-aged couple bypass the hoards. “They must be in Princess or Queen class. They don’t have to wait.”

      I pouted, “what are we, in Cinderella class?”

      “Darling, I couldn’t justify paying more than double to up grade. Anyway we are in B1 which is the top of the Britannia class of 15 levels including C and the dreaded D which is a windowless cabin deep in her bowels so don’t complain.”

      A brisk hour later we were had our folder of boarding tickets, maps and were smiling for the cameras. Once for our ID badges which doubled as our cabin keys and once for the ship’s photographer. Mia posed as if she was doing a shoot for Vogue. Mine resembled a mug shot. I prefer being behind the camera.

    I frowned when I saw my name Devereaux on the ID and wondered if she existed anymore. The name on my birth certificate is Tara Katherine Margaret Kelly, which sounds like a mouthful of mashed potatoes. In school, I was Tara Kelly which sounded flat and boring and always came out of my mouth in a mumble. I had longed for the day when I could take my husband’s name and prayed that he'd have a nice name. I loved Ben’s last name and I loved being Tara Devereaux. It sounded classy and exciting like an actress or romance novelist.  Now it shouted out to me: Loser. Reject. Fool.

       Mia patted my arm. “Smile, you look like you’re going to a funeral.”

      I've always wanted to be more outgoing like her. I remember seeing her on TV for the first time at the Westminster dog show. That’s like the Oscars of the dog show world. I would have been quaking in my boots but there was Mia strutting around the ring basking in the spotlight. Her dog didn’t place, let alone win Best in Show but that didn’t faze her. Only Mia could find the fun in dysfunctional which is easy for her since it’s her middle name. The gangplank bounced under my feet as I counted my last steps on terra firma. Fourteen days and counting. How was I going to survive?