Tears and Tequila

Chapter One

All she could see was the emptiness.

No flowers bloomed beside the gray stones. No weeping willows reached down to caress the ground. The trees were bare. The sky was gray. The air held a mix of cold and snow.

From the back of a taxi, Joey Lerner’s eyes took in the endless lines of gravestones snaking out over the brown winter grass of Pinelawn Cemetery on Long Island.

She toyed with a balsa wood plane while the taxi flew past a sign: GRAVE SITES #750–#1249. She checked the slip of paper in her hand and yelled, Stop! The taxi screeched to a halt. Over there, she said, pointing to another street. The driver put the taxi in reverse and drove, stopping at another sign: GRAVE SITES #1250–#1749.

Be right back, Joey said, untangling her long legs. Then JFK, please.

The driver flicked the meter to waiting. Joey stormed across the graveyard in a green winter jacket, purple scarf, jeans, and red cowboy boots. The wind whipped her long, dark hair across her face as she walked over a gravestone poking up from the grass. Oops, she said. There was another one next to it and another in front of her.

Sorry, Joey said to one of the stones as she tripped over it, barely righted herself and began to hopscotch over some of the graves, walking on others set in the grass like stepping stones, until she was standing on a new, plain gray stone in the family plot, bearing her grandmother’s name: Josephine Lerner 1929–2011 Beloved Mother and Grandmother. The words sent a flush of warmth through Joey’s body. She stepped aside.

Death is not sexy, Nonna, Joey said. Take it from me. Death is a four-letter word. Right, Dad? Grandpa? She looked around at her father’s and grandfather’s markers before sitting in a heap in the family plot. So, she said, you’re all in here. And I’m out here. And we all agree, don’t we? Death sucks. She stopped, her throat suddenly tight with emotion.

Dad, Joey said to her father’s stone. You always said I should find a job worthy of my talents. And you, she said to her grandfather’s stone, told me I need to become who I am. Turning back to her grandmother’s marker, she said, And you always said life begins at the end of your comfort zone, Nonna. So that’s what I’m doing. Taking a flying leap into the unknown. Sure, I’ll probably land on my ass. But when I do, I hope you’ll be there to catch me.

Her voice caught. Every cell in her body remembered how many times she’d been there. But today she needed to pretend, to act as if she didn’t feel the crushing sorrow that engulfed her.

Her fingers traced the letters of her grandmother’s name one last time. I miss you. More than I can ever say.

Joey stood and pulled the homemade balsa wood glider out of her purse. Josephine Lerner was written across the wings in red nail polish. This one’s for you, Nonna, Joey said in a wobbly voice as she tossed the glider into the air.

She watched as the glider soared higher and higher above the graveyard until it seemed to merge with a plane winging its way across the sky and the sound of the engine filled Joey’s ears. She didn’t notice the tears falling on her cheeks until the cold air hit them.

Hours later, Joey was tucked into seat 32-C, the last row in Coach on AA flight #32 to LAX, her hands white-knuckled as she sat amidst a topsy-turvy scene of turbulence.

We’ve begun our descent into L.A., the captain said over the intercom, and this is just a Santa Ana condition, folks. No cause for alarm.

Joey sat erect, her mouth in a tight line, looking out the window at the landscape below. Her first sight of Los Angeles was a brown layer of smog above a flat valley of strip malls surrounded by mountains. Houses made of ticky-tacky. No real towns, just one big sprawl. It was a landscape as foreign to her as the moon.

As turbulence hit again she squeezed her eyes shut until the plane landed safely. Joey slung her heavy carry-on over her shoulder and rushed to the women’s room, elbowing past deplaning passengers.

Sorry, she said. Late for an interview.

She ducked into a stall and pulled a change of clothes out of her carry-on. Wedged into the stall she managed to take off her winter clothes without dropping something into the toilet. She put on a sleeveless white shirt, a short denim skirt, and platforms that made her long legs seem even longer. She walked out of the stall and checked the washroom mirror, patting down the top of her long curly hair, a mane that looked different every day. Today it had a bad case of the frizzies as if it too were nervous about what she was doing. She looked into her slightly desperate eyes through her new pink-tinted sunglasses.

Smile, she instructed her reflection, even if she couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under her eyes. And she saw no point in thinking about waking at 3:00 AM and wondering why she was moving to a place where she knew exactly one person.

You need this job, she reminded herself, reaching into her purse for her cell phone. She read a text with a name and address, panicked when she saw the time, and raced through the airport, her carry-on slipping off her shoulder. She yanked a small canvas duffle and an oversized suitcase off the carousel and ran outside.

The warm Santa Ana wind blew her hair into her eyes. The temperature was in the high eighties. Taxi, Joey yelled, hailing the first cab she saw.

Goddammit, that’s mine, said a small, plump blonde who cursed at Joey in an Australian accent as she pushed a fully loaded luggage cart.

Sorry, said Joey, stepping out of the way before the cart ran over her foot.

As the woman streaked past, Joey noticed she wore long, turquoise feather earrings and a black sweater with a belt cinched a bit too tight, red leggings, and Ugg boots. She commanded the driver to load her bags into the boot, slammed the door, and the taxi pulled away.

Joey took the next one.

Where to? the driver asked, lugging Joey’s suitcase to his trunk.

Joey read off the text on her cell. Oasis. And hurry, please. I’m late for an interview.

And where is Oasis?

Something Oaks, she said, handing him her phone. Thousand Oaks? Million Oaks? Quaker Oats?

Sherman Oaks, lady, the driver said, handing it back as he pulled out of LAX. Your first time in L.A.?

How’d you guess? Joey settled into the seat as the driver took off for the 405 freeway north. She checked her phone. She was10 minutes late. She thought of calling, but decided to ignore the churning in her stomach and just show up.

On the way she passed the time looking out the window. Spindly palm trees were blowing in the wind; a pink neon sign read LIVE NUDES. There was a different gas station on every corner, low buildings and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Red or purple or white flowers bloomed in every front yard or in pots on porches. No subway signs. Four lanes of traffic that crawled on the 405. Drivers with heads bent, texting while they drove or talking on cells. By the time the taxi got off the freeway and followed a sign to Ventura Boulevard, Joey felt like a stranger in a strange land.

Are we almost there? she asked the driver, checking her phone again. She was now 45 minutes late.

Think so, he said.

Hope so, she said. I’m late.

Made it here in record time, he said.

When they got caught at a traffic light, Joey glared at it, willing it to change, even though she didn’t know which way they were going. Impossibly, as she looked at the other side of the street, she saw a corner lot with towering pine trees and a sign: Oasis: An Adventure in Learning.

Thank you, she said to the job gods who had, for once, smiled down upon her.

You’re welcome, said the driver as he drove across Ventura Boulevard and pulled into a pothole-riddled dirt parking lot in front of an old bungalow court on a large property. A dozen brightly painted rundown cottages ringed the parking lot, with hand-lettered signs: Hummingbird, Nasturtium, Birds of Paradise, Pink Ladies, and more. Joey noticed that each bungalow also bore a painted mural: deep-sea corals swayed with the tide; lusty women danced in forest glades; jungle warriors leapt hand in hand with lions and tigers.

A group of teenagers played guitar beneath the pines. Women of various ages painted at easels. Men and women were drumming in a circle or fencing in pairs. A list of the day’s classes was scrawled on a chalkboard in neon-colored chalk; tie-dyed flags blew in the Santa Ana wind; spider plants hung from macramé holders.

Joey felt as if she’d landed at the Woodstock-1969 stop on a Disneyland ride.

She emerged from the taxi and drew herself up to her full height, imagining a string pulling her head skyward. She was picturing herself acing the interview when a tall man drove in on a Triumph Bonneville T100 motorcycle and parked next to the taxi. He smiled at Joey and pulled off his helmet, revealing a thick head of black hair with a streak of gray. She noticed he wore a motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and flip-flops.

Joey felt a tug of attraction. She shook it off as she slung her small duffle bag over her shoulder while the taxi driver wrestled her giant suitcase out of the trunk. She paid him, and he drove off. By the time she stepped onto the pothole-riddled parking lot the tall man was walking down a path through the trees. She took another step, only to be trampled by the tiny feet of a small gray lizard that used her shoe as a bridge to flowering red bushes beyond.

Aaarrggghh.

Joey’s ankle turned in her platforms. Her carry-on slipped off her shoulder. She went down, sunglasses flying off her nose, last shred of dignity gone.

Are you okay? someone called across the parking lot.

The inquisitive face of an older woman peered at her from behind an easel. Mortified, Joey called back. I’m fine. A—…a lizard ran over my foot… She picked up her belongings and set off again, pulling her enormous suitcase behind her.

We’ve got a million of ’em, the woman said as Joey approached. We even named a cottage in their honor. See? She pointed with her paintbrush to a sign on one of the bungalows. Joey looked over: Leaping Lizards.

Um. Cute, she lied, as she arrived, dusty and out of breath, at the painter's easel. Can you tell me where the office is?

Over there. The woman paintbrush-pointed to a small stucco building with a sagging clay tile roof.

Thanks. Joey was about to rush off, but the woman’s soft European accent reminded her of Nonna’s and the warmth in her voice was the most comforting sound Joey had heard in months. The woman’s pink shirt was dappled with drops of lavender paint. A small leaf had fallen into her upswept light brown hair. She looked as if she was in her eighties, but her skin was porcelain and, when she smiled, her face lit up. Then Joey caught a glimpse of the artist’s watercolor.

Wow. I love the colors you’re using, Joey said.

It’s coming along. I’m Berta, by the way.

Joey.

Are you here for the job?

Drama teacher? Yes.

It’s filled.

What? When did that happen? Joey asked, shoulders sagging, all the air let out of her balloon of hope.

About an hour ago, and it’s too bad, if you ask me. The woman they hired is a phony.

How do you know? Joey asked.

Because she also told me my painting was nice, but she didn’t mean it.

Then I might as well leave, Joey said, reaching for her suitcase.

What are you dragging around in that huge suitcase? A dead body?

Joey laughed ruefully. More like my old life.

Why not leave your life with me and go to that interview?

Because the job’s taken.

"So? They have all kinds of classes and groups here. Go for an interview. If they don’t have a job for you, you can suggest one they should have."

Joey hesitated.

What do you have to lose? Go on, Berta urged. It’s right over there. An image of her bank balance flashed before Joey’s eyes. Leave that monster of a suitcase with me while you go see Daniel.

Daniel Wyndham? Joey asked, checking the text on her cell. The director?

The director and owner of Oasis.

Can you tell me anything about him?

Sure. Berta painted a flamboyant line of turquoise watercolor across her paper. He’s a triple threat. Smart. Sexy. Single. And he’s got a great ass.

Joey laughed. Too bad I’m not in the market.

Why not?

I’ve picked so many jerks, Joey said, holding up her forefinger, I decided my picker’s broken.

Nonsense. You’re too young to be an old maid, Berta said, returning to her painting. See you later.

Joey left her suitcase next to Berta’s red cloth bag, which was decorated with a green appliquéd parrot. She headed to the office with her small canvas duffle slung over her shoulder, passing blue-and-white glass wind chimes that jingled in the Santa Ana wind. Go get ’em, Berta called across the parking lot with a wave of her paintbrush, splattering paint drops into the air. Something about the woman’s enthusiasm gave Joey the courage to straighten her shoulders and rehearse what she would say: I’ve done so many different jobs, I can do anything.

Don’t tell him about all the jobs, she corrected as she climbed three rickety steps to a wooden porch. Or all the moves. And for God’s sake, don’t tell him Nonna said you have gypsy blood.

Joey took a deep breath and knocked on the paint-peeling front door.

Chapter Two

The office door was yanked open by an ample African-American woman with a pencil stuck in her messy updo and a wrench in her hand.

"The damn toilet’s flooding in Pink Ladies, she said, on her way out. Name’s Marjorie. Office manager. Just sign the roster if you’re registering for a class and we’ll get back to you." She began to leave.

Oh. Um, Joey said. I’m here for a job interview. But I’m late, so …

No worries. What’s your name?

Joey.

Marjorie smiled. I like that. Daniel! she yelled down the hall. Interview’s here. Name’s Joey.

Just a sec, a man with an Australian accent yelled.

Go have a seat, Marjorie said. And welcome to Oasis—the land of never knowing what the hell to expect next. She wrapped Joey in a bone-crushing hug and ran out the door.

Joey stood in the doorway, flummoxed. Should she stay? Go in? Run? She hesitated before closing the door behind her, and stepped into a tiny foyer in the low-ceilinged bungalow.

The water-stained wood floor creaked under her feet as she squeezed through a gap between two empty desks. One held a large green laptop, the other a listing stack of purple-and-white Oasis catalogues. She walked into a tiny waiting room where a red-and-blue Tiffany lamp provided the sole light in the dim space. It was perched on a fake-wood bookshelf littered with well-thumbed paperbacks, rumpled magazines, beat-up toys, knitting needles in a basket of wool, a plastic pail of sea shells, and other assorted objects. Two red beanbag chairs, a cookie-crumbed shag rug, and a sagging blue futon couch with no legs completed the haphazard décor.

As soon as she sank into the couch on the floor Joey realized her mistake. When she tried to rise she was too low to get up. Trapped on the lumpy low couch, she began to sweat when she heard footsteps coming towards her.

Joey skootched her behind forward until her legs were splayed out in front of her. Knock-kneed and in the most awkward position possible, she tried to stand. She couldn’t. She’d just realized she’d have to crawl on her hands and knees to get up when she heard the voice with the Australian accent call her name. Joey?

Yes, she said, rising unsteadily. Her carry-on slipped off her lap and onto the floor. While she teetered on her wedges a tall, black-haired man reached out a hand to steady her.

Where I come from, a Joey is a baby kangaroo, he said, retrieving her carry-on. Crikey. That’s a heavy load.

It was the man on the motorcycle. The top of her head barely grazed his chin when she regained her footing. He looked about fortyish and fit, with a just-got-out-of bed face, tanned skin, and laugh wrinkles around green eyes with flecks of gold. His thick black hair, with its wide gray streak, curled over the neck of his blue sweater.

While Daniel’s hand held onto hers for a moment too long, Joey breathed in the scent of his lemongrass cologne. Then the familiar pain of rejection roiled in her gut. Damn you, Jack, Joey thought, moving her hand away. I’m named after my grandmother, she said, flustered. Josephine. Joey Lerner.

Daniel Wyndham, he said. Come on back.

Joey followed him down the hall to a messy postage-stamp-sized office. A portrait hung on the wall: a slender, gray-haired woman wearing a sari over white pants stood beneath an enormous tree bedecked with ribbons, apparently in the process of marrying the young couple before her. Daniel strode to a seat behind his desk. It was piled high with papers. A silver AirBook was perched precariously atop the pile. Oddly, there were bars on the windows, Joey noticed as she sat.

I came about the Drama Instructor job, she said.

I’m afraid that’s already filled.

I heard, Joey said.

From who? Oh, Berta, of course, Daniel said.

Yes, well, Joey said, tamping down her desperation, maybe there’s something else I could do here. She handed him a résumé, careful not to let her hand touch his.

You minored in psychology at Skidmore? he read.

Yes.

Where’s that?

Upstate New York, Joey said.

Is that where you’re from?

No. Actually, I’ve moved around a lot.

And I see you’ve led different groups—Active Seniors, Acting Out Teens. Oh—and you’ve worked in hospice and recently interned with a psychiatrist in New York, co-leading groups.

And I taught Drama para Los Ninos to tiny tots in Mexico and walked dogs in Boston and worked in a bookstore in Manhattan and …

Daniel handed her paper back. That’s one wacky résumé.

I guess so, Joey said. I’ve always preferred to move around. Try something new. Keep it fresh, you know?

You sound like an idiot, she told herself. But every second she held his interest was another second he might think of a job for her. So she talked on as Daniel cocked his head and listened. He listened as if every detail mattered. Joey couldn’t remember the last time an attractive man had paid such close attention to her. She was aware of sweat on the back of her neck when Marjorie ran in.

The water’s hitting the high-water mark, Boss. Pipe’s about to burst.

Dammit, Daniel said, rising. This bloody place is falling apart. He ran out after Marjorie. Joey hesitated a moment before picking up her carry-on and running after both of them, still pitching herself for a job, any job.

Five minutes later, Joey, Marjorie, and Daniel were crammed into the tiny pink-tiled bathroom of Pink Ladies where Joey sat on the closed lid of the leaky toilet, handing a wrench to Daniel as he attempted to fix the pipe. So I—yes, I’ve moved around a lot in the last 12 years. My dad was an English professor, and he moved us from job to job when I was a kid. My grandmother used to say I inherited Dad’s gypsy blood.… Oh God, she thought. Shut up, Joey. Shut up.

At that moment the pipe burst. Water shot out, soaking Joey, Daniel, and Marjorie.

Shit, Daniel cursed. Call the plumber. He rushed out to shut off the water main.

Marjorie pulled out her cell. Call Perry, she told Siri. We’re sending his kids through college, she told Joey. Hello, she said a minute later, walking outside for better reception. Joey sat alone on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom. Her shirt was wet. She wondered how she looked. She wondered what she should do next. She’d just flown 3,000 miles, and there was no job. Plus, Daniel was right—the place was falling apart.

So Joey did what she always did at times like that. She opened her duffle bag and took out the only thing in it, a well-worn leather tool-belt outfitted with a leather-handled hammer, wrenches, pliers, work gloves, utility knife, tin snips, a level, soldering iron, solder, and an impressive assortment of pipes and nails and screws and a hacksaw—and got to work.

By the time Daniel returned Joey was sawing through the portion of burst pipe.

What the hell are you doing? Daniel asked.

Joey kept on sawing. Like I said. My dad was an English professor. But Grandpa could do anything with his hands. He taught me about plumbing and left me his tool-belt.

Daniel stared at it. Those tools are for a lot more than plumbing.

Yup, Joey said, plugging in a soldering iron. She painted a thin layer of soldering paste onto a new piece of pipe, uncoiled solder from a spool, and began to solder the new pipe to the old. As always, working with tools calmed her. My grandfather taught me how to use them all.

Flabbergasted, Daniel said, You seem to have forgotten something in your résumé: Handyman.

Handywoman, Joey countered, tightening a compression nut on the pipe.

Handyperson? Daniel asked.

Whatever, said Joey. She packed up her tools as Daniel went out to turn the water back on. The plumbing job was done, the toilet flushed. Joey put her tool-belt back into her carry-on. I’m sorry there’s no job at Oasis, she said when he came back with Marjorie. I would’ve liked to work here. The place is…unique.

Hang on. What else can you do? Daniel asked.

What do you mean?

Can you fix wooden stairs with dry rot? Patch a leaky roof? Put up dry wall?

Joey scoffed. My grandfather taught me to build cabinets out of hardwood with mitered joints. We installed hundreds of feet of crown molding when we renovated their apartment.

Jesus f-ing Christ, Marjorie said.

I’ve put in a hot water heater and a new boiler and…

You’re hired, Daniel said.

As what?

Look around, he said. We’re in shambles. You’re our new handyperson.

Thank God, Marjorie said, pulling out her phone to cancel the plumber.

But I’m not a licensed professional. I’m just an amateur fix-it person.

I can help, Daniel said. We’ll work together. Joey felt a flutter in her stomach at the thought. When can you start?

What’s the salary? Joey asked.

Daniel quoted a figure as they walked out of the cottage. I know it’s not a lot but I’m hoping it will be more soon. We’re making a lot of changes, he said, pointing to Hummingbird Cottage. Like the experimental program that starts there tomorrow night. But the porch steps are rotten and I haven’t had a chance to fix them. Will you take the job? Can you start now?

Joey thought for a moment. Yes. And no. I’ll take it. But I can’t start now. She pointed to her suitcase next to Berta, who was still painting at her easel. I just got off a plane from New York. I’ve got to get to my friend’s place and settle in. Can I start tomorrow?

If we’re still standing, Daniel said with frustration. Where does your friend live? he asked as they walked towards her suitcase.

She’s the manager at Ferndale Apartments.

That’s not far, Daniel said. Need a ride?

They were at Berta’s easel. Joey looked from Daniel to his motorcycle to her giant suitcase. Um. How will you…?

Yes, Daniel, she needs a ride, Berta said. And while Daniel figures out how to transport your ‘life’ let me show you where I teach. She squinted at them. You two get into a water fight?

Joey followed Berta to a small cottage. Berta’s Bungalow read the sign above a painted mural of Berta at an easel. She opened the door and they walked inside.

Paint-splattered tables and easels were scattered throughout the room; painted and unpainted canvases, large and small, leaned against the walls; metal shelves held jars and coffee cans filled with brushes, palette knives, and Chinese bamboo ink pens; large brown ice cream containers contained rolls of drawing paper; tubes of oil paints and watercolors, pastels and palettes were in aluminum pie-plates and shoeboxes; ceramic pitchers and Japanese cloths for still lifes lay on a table alongside an old mandolin and a three-foot ceramic spotted leopard.

Wow, Joey said.

Isn’t it a sweet mess? Berta said proudly.

Joey noticed that one window was covered with film. To bring out the play of light and shadow, Berta said, following her eyes, depending on where you stand. A tall, slender woman in purple jeans poured different-colored paints onto a wet canvas from small plastic cups. The colors ran together, creating intriguing designs.

Nice, Judy, Berta said.

In the center of the room three women were making charcoal drawings of each other, a vase of sunflowers in the middle of their small circle. Joey recognized Bohemian Rhapsody coming from an iPod.

Queen? she asked, surprised.

Oh yes. I loved Freddy Mercury, Berta said. Yet another fine artist lost to AIDS. Thank God that’s behind us. At least, I hope it is. So, how do you like my home away from home?

Smashing, Joey said.

Indeed, Berta agreed, her eyes sparkling. You’ll have to try painting sometime. Take one of my classes.

Painting’s not one of my talents. Unless it’s a wall.

You’re a house painter? Berta asked. How exotic.

Painter. Plumber. Amateur carpenter. I’m Oasis’s new handyperson.

Fabulous, Berta said. And you’ll be doing more here, too.

How do you know?

I have a feeling about you, Berta replied with a smile. And I always trust my feelings.

Thank you, Joey said, feeling Berta’s warmth wash over her.

Chapter Three

Joey was riding on the back of the Triumph, her arms around Daniel’s waist, her suitcase attached to the bike by a complicated bungee cord contraption. She tried to sit back far enough so her breasts weren’t pressing against his back.

Come closer, Daniel called back to her. Before you fall off.

She held on to him, the front of her wet shirt against his back, and leaned with his muscular body as he banked around curves and wove through the traffic until they pulled into Ferndale Apartments.

She dismounted, noting several pastel-colored three story apartment buildings, some with balconies, some without. She handed the helmet to Daniel.

Thanks, she said.

No worries,