Wallbanger(3)

punch with what I found. “You guys, this is too much!”

“We know how much you miss your old one,” Mimi laughed, smiling at me.

Years before, I’d been given an old KitchenAid mixer from a great aunt who passed away. It was over forty years old, but stil worked great.

Those things were built to last, by God, and it had lasted until just a few months ago, when it final y bit it in a big way. It smoked and went wonky one

afternoon while mixing a batch of zucchini bread, and as much as I hated to do it, I tossed it out.

Now as I stared into the box, a shiny, new, stainless steel KitchenAid stand mixer staring back at me, visions of cookies and pies began

dancing in my head.

“You guys, it’s beautiful,” I breathed, gazing with delight at my new baby. I lifted it out gently to admire. Running my hands over it, splaying my

fingers to feel the smooth lines, I delighted in the cold metal against my skin. I sighed gently and actual y hugged it.

“Do you two want to be alone?” Sophia asked.

“No, it’s okay. I want you to be here to witness our love. Besides, this is the only mechanical instrument that wil likely bring me any pleasure in

the near future. Thanks, guys. It’s too expensive, but I real y appreciate it,” I said.

Clive came over, sniffed the mixer, and promptly jumped into the empty box.

“Just promise to bring us yummy treats, and it’s al worth it, dear.” Mimi sat up, looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked warily.

“Caroline, can I please start on your drawers now?” she asked, stutter-stepping her way toward the bedroom.

“Can you start doing what to my drawers?” I answered, pul ing my drawstring a little tighter around my waist.

“Your kitchen! I’m dying to start placing everything!” she exclaimed, running in place now.

“Oh, hel yes. Have at it! Merry Christmas, freakshow,” I cal ed as Mimi ran triumphantly into the other room.

Mimi was a professional organizer. She’d driven us crazy when we were al at Berkley together—with her OCD tendencies and her insane

attention to detail. One day Sophia suggested she become a professional organizer, and after graduation, she did just that. She now worked al

over the Bay Area helping families get their shit together. The design firm I worked for sometimes had her consult, and she’d even appeared on a

few HGTV shows filming in the city. The job suited her to perfection.

So I just let Mimi do her thing, knowing my stuff would be so perfectly arranged I’d be astounded. Sophia and I continued to putz in the living

room, laughing over DVDs we’d watched throughout the years. We paused over each and every Brat Pack movie from the eighties, debating

whether Bender ended up with Claire once they al went back to school on Monday. I voted no, and I further bet she never got that earring back…

Later that night, after my friends left, I settled on the couch in the living room with Clive to watch reruns of The Barefoot Contessa on the Food

Network. While dreaming of the creations I’d be whipping up with my new mixer—and how one day I wanted a kitchen like Ina Garten’s—I heard

footsteps on the landing outside my door, and two voices. I narrowed my eyes at Clive. Spanx must be back.

Springing from the couch, I pressed my eye against the peephole once more, trying to get a look at my neighbor. I missed him again, only

seeing his back as he entered his apartment behind a very tal woman with long, brown hair.

Interesting. Two different women in as many days. Manwhore.

I saw the door swing shut and felt Clive curl around my legs, purring.

“No, you can’t go out there, sil y boy,” I cooed, bending down and scooping him up. I rubbed his silky fur against my cheek, smiling as he lay

back in my arms. Clive was the manwhore around here. He would lie down for anyone who rubbed his bel y.

Returning to the couch, I watched as Barefoot Contessa taught us al how to host a dinner party in the Hamptons with simple elegance—and a

Hamptons-size bank account.

A few hours later, with the imprint of the couch cushion pressed firmly into my forehead, I made my way back to my bedroom to go to sleep.



Mimi had organized my closet so efficiently that al I had left to do was to hang pictures and arrange a few odds and ends. I quite deliberately

removed the pictures from the shelf above my bed. I was taking no chances tonight. I stood in the center of the room, listening for sounds from next

door. Al quiet on the western front. So far, so good. Maybe last night was a one-time thing.

As I got ready for bed, I looked at the framed pictures of my family and friends: my parents and I skiing in Tahoe; my girls and I at Coit Tower.

Sophia loved to take pictures next to anything phal ic. She played the cel o with the San Francisco Orchestra, and even though she’d been around