Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (18 page)

“Don’t sell yourself short, my dear,” she says with a confident air. “Obviously you’re very well liked or you wouldn’t have been nominated five years in a row. And now that you’re in this year’s competition… well, I think you’ll find things will be different this time.”

“You really think so?” I ask. But in my gut, I know she’s right. This year, unlike any other year, I think I’ve got a decent chance of winning. I’m taking care of myself. I’m losing weight.

“You’ve got my vote,” Sam says.

“That’s very sweet, Sam, but you don’t count,” I tell him. “School staffs pick their nominees and then things move on to the county level.”

“That’s where you’re at now?”

I nod. “I have to fill out a questionnaire before Christmas, plus write a paper about myself. Then, sometime after the holidays, all the nominees are interviewed by the selection committee. It’s made up of mayors from each town, some advertising reps from the local newspapers—plus the president of the service club presenting the award.”

Failing to impress that committee—that’s been my downfall, year after year. But I’m done playing the nice girl. Forget modesty and all that crap. It’s gotten me nowhere in the past. I intend to schmooze with the best of them. I’ll fill out that questionnaire in my very best handwriting. I’ll write a paper glorifying my teaching efforts at providing our students with the best educational opportunities available. I’ve already volunteered for every single opportunity that would look good on my résumé. I’m running the spelling bees, heading up substitute teacher training, peer mentoring new teachers, coordinating the after-school program.

Although how the hell I’m going to find the time for all the commitments I made is beyond me. But I’m determined to do whatever it takes. This is my year and I am going to win that contest.

“I got such a kick watching Nick when they called his name.” Ruth laughs softly. “He looked so surprised.”

Nick Lamont, First-Year Teacher of the Year. But he’s the only new teacher in our school. No surprise there. Who wouldn’t vote for Nick? I certainly would.

I’d like to do more than vote for him.

“And Amy,” Ruth adds. “We can’t forget her.”

“Oh, right. Let’s not forget Amy.” That smug little kindergarten teacher pulled off a coup with her nomination as Primary Teacher of the Year. I don’t know how she did it; maybe she rounded up a voting block by promising teachers invitations to the cocktail party she’s throwing for Nick. Thank God I’m not up against her. Amy’s Primary, I’m Intermediate. Both of us could win our respective category.

Then again, we’re both competing for the same grand prize. Teacher of the Year.

Not to mention, we’re also competing with Nick.

What if it comes down to a vote between Nick and me?

No.
I take another swig of wine. Not going there, not going to think about that. Best Win Scenario: Nick walks away with First-Year Teacher of the Year, I waltz away with the Grand Prize, and Amy sits alone with a big fat nothing.

And if she thinks I’m stupid enough to let her get away with buying votes, Amy’s got another think coming. Our house is plenty big enough. Maybe Priscilla and I will throw a cocktail party of our own. And I’ll be sure to invite Ruth. The goodies she brought are going fast. I scan the large tray of assorted gourmet crackers, toasted baguettes, fresh cheeses, and yummy homemade avocado dip, ignoring the crudités provided personally for me by Priscilla. What’s the point in celebrating the holidays if you can’t enjoy them? This is life, not prison. I refuse to be sentenced to doing hard time munching carrot sticks.

And if I can’t eat, I’ll just have to make do with Sam’s wine. The thick smile on my face feels like cake icing that’s crusted with sugar crystals from sitting too long. Everyone laughs and I join in, even though I have no clue what we’re laughing about. Something Dr. Brown said. No. What
Harold
said. He wants us to call him Harold. He’s so cute. Well, not exactly cute. But Priscilla seems to think so and I’m not about to argue with her. Thanksgiving is meant as a day of giving thanks, and I certainly am… especially for this wine. I sink into the couch pillows, wiggle my toes, enjoy the warmth surging through my body. Who would have thought Sam would have such excellent taste in wine? He’s quite the Renaissance man. And quite attractive, too… despite those extra pounds.

“That is such a nice tie.” I mean to purr but the words slop out of my mouth. “Did you pick it out yourself? And I love your moustache. Promise me you’ll never shave it off.”

“I certainly have no plans to do so.” Dr. Brown fingers his tie and his pencil-thin moustache. “But thank you very much.”

“Actually, Harold, I was talking about Sam.” I toast him with a playful smile. “Although if you asked, I’m sure Priscilla will admit that she thinks your moustache is quite becoming. Jack, maybe you should consider growing a moustache.” Memories of a dusty basement put a crooked grin on my face. “You never know. Ruth might love it. I recently discovered that moustaches make for quite the kiss.”

Priscilla jams a plate in front of me. “Try some of these cucumbers. I sliced them just for you.”

“No thanks.” Who need vegetables at a time like this? My glass is empty. I’ll have some more gift of the grape.

Priscilla grabs the wine bottle before I can and moves it out of my reach. “Harold, why don’t you tell us about your practice? Immunology is a fascinating subject.”

Someone needs to set my sister straight. No one wants to hear about medical procedures.

“I specialize in immunology and infectious diseases. We assess the patient’s needs, then determine the best method in which to proceed. Of course, blood work is the telling factor.”

Blood? I stare at my glass and my stomach crawls to a stop. Blood is exactly the color of the wine we’re drinking. “Could we please talk about something more pleasant? This is a holiday, remember? I don’t want to spend it discussing bodily fluids.”

Priscilla rises from her chair. “Patty, would you please help me in the kitchen?”

“Since when do you need my help? You know I’m a terrible cook.”

“Patty.”

Oh, God, how well I know that tone of voice. She’s issuing a demand, not an invitation. I roll my eyes, sigh and wobble to a stand. What is Priscilla’s problem? There’s no reason for her to act so witchy… or bitchy. I giggle at my little poem as I stumble after her. This has turned out to be the most wonderful holiday, especially after all those days I spent worrying over Nick, the no-show. No worries now. And I love this pleasant relaxed feeling. It would be so wonderful to always feel this way and freely speak my mind.

“I don’t see why you need my help,” I grumble, trailing her into the kitchen. “I’m having a good time.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Priscilla yanks open the oven door. “And for your information, so has everyone else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I lean against the refrigerator and watch as she bastes the turkey. “You sound mad. Are you mad?”

“I should think that would be obvious.” She slams the oven shut and whirls to face me. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re drunk, Patty. First you embarrass Harold, then you embarrass Sam, then me. You’ve embarrassed yourself.”

“I have?” Suddenly the world doesn’t seem so friendly. I sift through fuzzy thoughts, trying to remember exactly what I said. Unfortunately, my mind refuses to cooperate. Whatever I said, it must have been terrible to put Priscilla in such a snit. She looks like a modern day she-warrior ready to do battle, wielding that turkey baster. Good thing it’s merely plastic.

“Everything okay in here?” Sam pokes his head through the door.

“Patty and I are having a little discussion.” Pots and pans bang as Priscilla slams around the kitchen.

“Sounds like a pretty loud discussion.” He ventures into the room with a wary look. “FYI, they can hear you in the living room.”

“And they sent you in to check for survivors?” I ask. Mama always said it’s not nice to tease but it’s hard to resist. Sam is usually so full of confidence, but not at the moment. Maybe he’s spotted Priscilla’s turkey baster. “Which one of us do you plan on rescuing?”

He moves closer to me, chuckling softly. “You girls should behave.”

Priscilla levels the turkey baster directly at Sam. “I don’t see what you’re laughing about. You are just as much to blame as she is.”

“Me?” He blinks. “What did I do?”

I lean against the sink, giggling at the protest in his voice. At least I’m not alone in facing Priscilla’s wrath.

“Don’t play all innocent, Sam Curtis. This is all your fault. You’re the one who brought that wine. Just look at her. She’s drunk.”

With her blue eyes flashing and that rosy blush staining her cheeks, Priscilla suddenly looks like she’s never been sick a day in her life. What’s prompted this sudden burst of good health? Something… or
someone
. I feel the thick smile plastered on my face stretch like silly putty. Maybe I should have a little talk with Dr. Brown. Hopefully he hasn’t already made plans for Christmas.

Priscilla throws down the turkey baster. “Sam, I’m putting you in charge. Don’t you dare let her back into that living room until she sobers up.”

“Thank God she’s gone,” I whisper as she slams out the door. “And thank God you showed up. She scares me.”

But he doesn’t. He’s so close, I could reach out and touch him. I lift one finger, softly trace the curve of his cheek. “My hero.”

He flinches. “Hey, stop that.” A quiver runs up his jaw as he jerks away.

“Sorry.” My heartbeat takes off as I search his face. He refuses to meet my eyes. “Are you mad at me, too?”

“Not mad. Just… don’t tease. Okay?”

“What makes you think I’m teasing?” My eyes zero in on his soft little moustache and I swallow hard. One step, and I could be in his arms. One step…

“Whoa!” He catches me as I stumble against the counter.

“Sorry.” I fan myself with one hand, pluck the clinging black velvet away from my skin. When did the kitchen get so hot? “I guess Priscilla was right. Maybe I have had a little too much wine.”

“You need something to eat. Let’s find you some crackers.”

“Don’t bother,” I say as I watch him hunt through cupboards and drawers. “I’m not allowed to eat them.”

“Why not?” He halts and turns to eye me uncertainly. “Are you allergic to wheat?”

The thought of me being allergic to any kind of food suddenly has me in a fit of giggles. “Priscilla’s the one with the allergies. I can’t eat crackers because they’re not on my diet.”

“Well, guess what? They are now. You need something to soak up that alcohol.”

“Don’t tell Priscilla,” I warn him. “If she finds out you fed me crackers, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle your sister.” He searches through another cupboard. “Where does she keep them?”

“Check the pantry. Behind the canned vegetables. That’s where she hides the goodies.”

Sam disappears and I lean against the counter, listening as he rummages through the cupboards. The room spins slightly and I close my eyes. Whatever possessed me to drink all that wine? Maybe Sam is right. I need some food in my stomach. Crackers will soak up the wine. I’ll only eat a few. No one will know. No one but Sam. And he doesn’t count.

Well, not much.

Well, actually, he does. The truth sloshes in my stomach. Sam counts a lot.

I don’t want crackers. I want…

“Victory.” Sam emerges from the pantry with a small box. “Hold out your hand.”

I lift a cracker to my mouth and nibble around the edges, eyeing him with a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He plants himself directly in front of me with the open box. “Come on, eat a few more. You’ll feel better.”

“I already do.” Obediently I take another bite. “You’re very sweet, Sam. Have I ever told you that?”

He shrugs.

“You don’t believe me?”

He smiles, but his eyes are wary. “Keep eating the crackers, Patty. Priscilla was right. You’ve had too much wine.”

“You think I don’t know a nice guy when I see one?” I lean in closer, eyeing his moustache. Tempting, enticing, much too delicious to ignore. “What’s that they say …
in vino, veritas
? The truth is found in wine.”

“Eat your crackers like a good girl and don’t be saying things you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?” I mean every word. He’s such a sweet man. Honest and loyal… the kind of man a woman can trust. He keeps his promises. He’s there when you need him.

He even showed up for Thanksgiving.

I lean into him, rest my head on his shoulder. “We don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.” He stiffens for a moment, then suddenly his arms tighten around me, and the sensation is heavenly, like a sanctuary closing its gates. There’s no need to be afraid. Whatever I say or do, I’m safe. I look up and search Sam’s face. “All those things I said earlier are true. I
do
like your tie. And as for your moustache…” I reach up, trace it lightly with one finger. “Promise you’ll never shave it off?”

“I told you not to tease,” he warns.

“Who says I’m teasing? I’m serious.” I snuggle closer, close my eyes. Being in his arms feels so good. “This is nice.”

“Nice? That’s all you can say?” he growls.

“What’s wrong with nice? Nice is good.” I stroke my hand against the thin fabric of his shirt. Under that shirt is soft chest hair and bare skin. A man’s skin. A man’s heart. My pulse quickens. “Nice is very good. Besides, I’m drunk, remember? My vocabulary is shot.”

“You’re not drunk. Slightly inebriated, perhaps, but…”

I pull away slightly, search his face. “But what?”

For a long moment he won’t meet my eyes. Finally he blows out a long sigh. “Drunk or sober, I wish you thought of me as more than nice.”

“Give me a better word,” I challenge.

Sam’s eyes darken. “How about if I show you?”

The swiftness of his kiss takes my breath away. I close my eyes and surrender to his lips crushed upon my own and the hard feel of his body pressed against mine. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is what I want. This is what I need.