Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (17 page)

“The guy’s a fanatic.”

Exactly what I was thinking.

“You know the type,” he continues.

I nod. I’ve met my share of wacko physicians, thanks to Priscilla.

“I ignore most of what he says… except on Wednesdays.”

“You see your cardiologist every week?” He must be in worse shape than I thought.

Sam grins. “We play poker with a couple other guys every Wednesday night. He plays poker the same way he practices medicine—like it’s a matter of life or death.”

“What kind of diet has he got you on?”

“Some basic food plan. Fruits and vegetables. Portion control. Watch the fat content.” He spears a cherry tomato smothered in blue cheese and pops it in his mouth. “Get more exercise, he said. Eliminate stress. Get eight hours of sleep every night. Drink a glass of red wine with dinner every night. That’s the kind of advice I like.” He lifts his glass and toasts me. “But as for the rest?” He shrugs. “I haven’t got time to deal with stuff like that. I’ve got a business to run.”

My own appetite disappears as I watch him eat. Sam has no clue what he’s doing to himself—or his arteries. What he needs is a Priscilla in his life… someone to watch over him.

“What do you think your doctor would say if he knew you were eating that steak?”

Sam throws me an odd look. “What’s wrong with steak? I happen to like it.”

“And I like chocolate. But that doesn’t mean it’s good for me.”

“We’re talking about meat, remember?” His voice is low and guarded. “Who said anything about dessert?”

Poor Sam. The man is hopeless. “And as for that blue cheese dressing on your salad…”

His eyes narrow. “What about it?”

“You just told me your doctor said to limit the fats. But do you listen? No. Do you have any idea how many calories are in one tablespoon of blue cheese dressing?” I refuse to back down. Sam needs to hear this. If he won’t listen to his doctor, maybe he’ll listen to me. It’s for his own good.

“I don’t remember asking you to be my food police.” He shoves his half-eaten salad aside. “Do us both a favor, Patty. Quit the talk about food and diets.”

“But—”

“I said
no
.” His face is stern as he holds up a hand in warning. “I don’t want to hear it.”

I tear off a chunk of dry dinner roll and stuff it in my mouth. My cheeks burn and I’m sure they’re as bright red as the cherry tomatoes on my plate. Sam’s right. It’s none of my business what kind of dressing he puts on his salad, or if he orders steak, if he eats dessert. Who am I to criticize him? I know how much I hate it when Priscilla does the same thing to me.

We sit there in awkward silence and then his steak arrives—a thick slab of meat nearly covering his plate. Two thousand calories, guaranteed. That doesn’t include the potato, dripping with butter and a huge dollop of sour cream.

I cram the rest of my dinner roll in my mouth.

Sam ignores his steak and snaps open his briefcase. “I’ve been working on some spreadsheets.” He pulls out a thick file and rifles through the paperwork. “I’ve done a cost analysis and breakdown of your assets.”

“Priscilla and I don’t have any assets.” Our joint savings account is nearly empty… especially after last week when Sam insisted we didn’t dare wait any longer to replace the furnace. “We’re broke.”

“Actually, you’re not.”

“But we spent the money when we—”

“Forget about the money part, Patty. I’m talking about that house of yours. It’s your major asset. They don’t make places like that anymore. Wraparound porches and big front lawns. You’re sitting on a treasure. That’s the kind of house where people want to raise families. It might not be worth what it was a few years ago, but it’s still worth quite a bit. Plus, there’s no mortgage.”

“Don’t forget about the home equity loan. That needs to be paid once we sell.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to sell that house.”

“What?” I stare at him, feeling like Mama died all over again. Doesn’t he get it? I don’t want the house. I don’t want the grief. I don’t want the life.

“You do not want to sell.”

“Yes, I do.” I jab my finger on his paperwork. “You’ve seen Priscilla’s pay stubs. They add up to practically nothing. And my teaching salary isn’t much better. You know what they say about working in Northern Michigan.
A view of the bay is half the pay
.” I slump back against the booth. “We don’t have a choice. We have to sell.”

“Listen to me, will you? With some creative financing in place, you and Priscilla will be able to—”

“No.” I swallow over the growing lump in my throat. Talk about feeling betrayed. All this time I thought Sam was on my side. I thought he understood how I felt. I don’t want to live in that big old drafty house. I want out. I want a place of my own. A husband. A family. There’s got to be more to life than this.

Or maybe there isn’t.

Maybe this is it.

And suddenly I wish I hadn’t hired him. What does Sam know about anything, anyway? No wife, no Priscilla, no kids to distract him. He’s all alone and can do as he pleases. Plus he lives in a condo, which—from what he’s said—sounds like a little piece of heaven. All the modern conveniences, no rusty plumbing, no big backyard. No neighbors complaining if the lawn isn’t mowed.

Who needs a lawn? Give me a second-floor condo with a private balcony and I’ll manage just fine.

“You turned to me for financial advice, so at least listen to what I’m saying. If you hang on to the house—”

“No!”

“For at least another year… maybe two, tops. It won’t be forever.” Sam reaches across the table and gently covers my hand. “I know it’s not what you want but it’s in your best interests. Meanwhile, think of that home equity loan as a financial Band-Aid. It’ll help you make improvements that have got to be done.”

I stare at his hand atop my own. Do I shrug it off? I stare at the paperwork covering the tabletop. Do I sweep it on the floor? But what good would that do? I’m tired of fighting. Tired of being broke. Maybe Sam is right. After all, he is the expert. We’re paying him good money—money we don’t have—for sound financial advice. Maybe it’s time I started listening.

“There’s something else that home equity loan will buy you,” he adds. “Probably the thing you need most of all.”

“What?”

“Time.” He squeezes my hand. “Using that money will buy you time to bring Priscilla around.”

He’s made a good point. Priscilla’s become an expert when it comes to evading the issue of selling. Up until now, I haven’t pushed hard enough. I haven’t wanted to force her hand. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it. I could make her life a living hell. I could threaten to move out, to leave her behind in that big old house. Priscilla would freak. We’ve never been separated except for the years I went off to college. Even then, she wasn’t alone. Mama was still alive.

The mere suggestion of me leaving would have poor Priscilla packing in a heartbeat. She’d lug every one of our suitcases from the dusty attic. And every step would break her heart.

I can’t do that to Priscilla. I love her too much. It wouldn’t be fair.

I tug my hand from his, slump back in the booth. “Do you really think waiting a year is best?”

“I do.” His eyes soften. “I promise you, Patty… it won’t be forever.”

“All right. I’ll wait. But I’m not happy about it.” I feel like I’ve lost the battle—for now. Hopefully Sam knows what he’s talking about and has some strategic plan in mind because I’m not so sure. Convincing Priscilla won’t be easy. That much I know in my gut. But maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. Maybe with Sam’s help, I can bring her around. Maybe if she sees how other people live, that it doesn’t have to be like this, things might go smoother.

Sam clips the paperwork together and carefully slides it in his briefcase. I watch as he finally cuts into his steak. We’ve been talking for some time and the meat has grown cold. White blobs of fat congeal around the edges.

Maybe he won’t eat so much.

“Have you decided about Thanksgiving yet?” I ask. Priscilla invited him for holiday dinner more than two weeks ago. “Or are you visiting your sister in Arizona this year?”

“I decided to stay in town.” He stabs a piece of meat, washes it down with a sip of wine. “Eileen’s working during the holidays. I plan on flying out to see her at Christmas.”

“So, you’re coming for Thanksgiving?”

He smiles. “Looking forward to it.”

Wait till I tell Priscilla that Sam will be our guest. She loves cooking big holiday dinners. And if I think hard enough, I’ll dream up some more people who would appreciate an invitation for a turkey dinner with all the trimming. The more, the merrier… and the better my chances of getting a conversation flowing in the right direction. Topic to be discussed: the joys of condo ownership. Sam has one. And so do Ruth and her husband, Jack. They downsized a few years ago. Maybe I’ll talk to Ruth at school tomorrow. Hopefully they don’t have any plans for Thanksgiving. Priscilla knows them both and enjoys their company.

And Priscilla loves having Sam around. She trusts him.

So do I.

Especially now I know he’s on my side.

One more year. A person can get through anything for one year. And when the year’s up, no matter what Priscilla says, we’re going to sell the house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He isn’t coming. I reminded him twice that dinner starts promptly at two. I glance at the grandfather clock standing guard near the hallway, its spindly hands inching toward the hour. Soon there’ll be two solemn bongs, followed by Priscilla’s announcement of Dinner Served. The living room will empty out as everyone gathers in the dining room to share in the feast. The table will be full except for the seat I saved next to mine.

Nick’s chair will be empty on this day meant for giving thanks.

Thank God he’s not coming!

I’ve been dreading this holiday dinner since last week when Nick overheard me chatting about it with Ruth. Somehow he ended up with an invitation, too. I’m not sure how it happened; did I invite him or did he invite himself? I spent the entire weekend in a panic. What if he doesn’t like the food? Our house? The company?

And what’s going to happen when he sees Sam is one of our dinner guests, too?

Damn that Nick. All the worrying he put me through, only to be a no-show—especially on the one day I manage to look good. No, not just good. Today I look great and feel great in this black velvet pant set resurrected from the back of my closet. It finally fits now that I’ve lost a few pounds. Even my hair cooperated today. Wild curls are tucked high atop my head, save for a few stray tendrils trailing down the nape of my neck. Draped in black velvet, pearls at my ears and around my throat, I feel sleek and voluptuous, sweet and sexy. If Nick had bothered showing up, I’m sure he would have been impressed. Everyone else seems to be… especially Sam.

I shoot him a sweet smile. God bless Sam and his contribution of this marvelous cabernet. He brought along two bottles, and it’s not the cheap grocery store variety Priscilla and I buy on those rare occasions when we splurge. Sam brought the good stuff. Normally I don’t drink, but fear of witnessing a showdown between Nick and Sam inspired my first glass… and the second. But now Nick’s a no-show, there’s no need to worry about heated glances full of testosterone or barbed comments flying across the table. Just relax and celebrate.

“Would anyone like to join me?” I lift the bottle and wave it with a bright smile. I’m not sure if it’s my third or fourth, but who’s counting?

“We’ll be eating soon.” Priscilla’s voice floats across the room. “Maybe you should wait for dinner.”

And maybe my sister should mind her own business. I love her dearly, but today is a holiday and I intend to have a good time. I pour myself a generous glass and purposely ignore her. “Sam, what about you?”

He throws me a funny look and covers his glass with one hand. “All set, thanks.”

“I’ll take a refill.” Jack Proctor leans toward me with his empty glass.

“My pleasure.” I fill his glass with a liberal hand and a gracious smile. No wonder Ruth is always so content. Who wouldn’t be, with a man like Jack waiting at home every night? Tall and rugged with silver hair and an easy smile, he’s a born gentleman. Lucky Ruth.

And lucky Priscilla. Dr. Brown’s tranquil gray eyes are as kind as his smile. No worries there. I settle back in my chair, toast her happiness with another sip of wine, and toast my own cleverness for inviting him to join us today. He’s obviously enjoying himself, waxing forth on the marvels of modern medicine as he rocks in Priscilla’s favorite chair. Normally that chair is off-limits to anyone but her. But she’s the one who escorted him to his seat—once she recovered from the shock of seeing him standing at our front door.

Contacting his office, arranging the invitation, and managing to keep the surprise from my twin was definitely worth the effort. Never in a million years would I have guessed Dr. Brown would be the one to steal her heart away. Short and slim, bland and bald, this immaculately groomed man with the beeper on his belt seems totally clueless that he alone provides the cure for what ails my sister. Who needs a medical degree to diagnose Priscilla’s malaise? I can sum it up in one word…
love
.

“Isn’t this all so lovely?” I smile happily, glance around the room. It looks like it could be straight out of a Normal Rockwell painting. The logs in the hearth snap merrily, the men are in suits and ties, the women look so pretty. Best of all, there’s no bickering. Only happy, smiling faces. Happy Thanksgiving, me!

I lift my glass and toast them all. “Isn’t this fun? Thank you all for coming today.”

“Thank you for inviting us.” Ruth raises her own glass. “We have so much to celebrate. For one thing, your nomination as Teacher of the Year.”

“Intermediate Elementary Teacher,” I correct her with a modest smile. Though I’ve got to admit that every time I remember how it felt hearing my name announced at last week’s staff meeting, I still want to leap to my feet, pump my fist in the air in my best Rocky imitation. Yes! It’s official! I’m in! I made it! “Plus it’s only the preliminary round.”