Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (22 page)

“Believe me, I’d remember.”

Except that I think he might be right. The memories are fuzzy but I’m sure I’ve seen him before. Not that I’m about to admit it. Bad enough he’s got me trapped in this leather prison. Where’s Nick when I need him? He promised not to leave me.

No, I promised not to leave him.

I struggle to unearth myself from the deep recesses of the couch.

“Hey, where you going?” The drunk grabs my arm, presses his thigh against my own. One hand finds my knee, gives it a little squeeze. “I bet a big girl like you knows just how to keep a man nice and warm.”

“Charlie, for Christ’s sake, what are you doing? Get your hands off her.”

I peer up at the petite woman in the clinging, rhinestone-studded, jersey-knit dress with long black hair and flat dead eyes. Like the man, she looks vaguely familiar. And she’s strong, too. Despite her tiny size, she grabs the man and hauls him to his feet.

“You disgust me,” she hisses in his face. “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know who this is?” She jabs a finger in my direction.

I blink. Somebody tell me. Who am I?

“What kind of man goes around making a spectacle of himself with his daughter’s teacher?”

The man staggers slightly as he throws me a woozy gaze. “She’s Lauren’s teacher?”

Phyllis Conard tosses her hair and throws him a furious scowl. “You make me sick.”

I feel sick myself. No wonder they look familiar. I met them both at parent-teacher conferences last month.

“I didn’t realize you were friends with Hugh and Amy,” she says, unsmiling. “I suppose you know each other from school.”

“Amy invited a few teachers to the party.” I struggle to my feet, grateful that I managed not to expose too much cleavage or thigh. “In fact, I’m here tonight with another teacher… Nick Lamont. He’s the guest of honor.” I stand on my tiptoes, scan the room. Still no sign of Nick. “Have you seen him?”

“Actually, I have.” The pinched look on her face softens. “We were just talking a few minutes ago. Lauren is in his reading group. Now I understand why she loves to read.” Her smile fades into nothing. “Actually, I’ve been concerned about her math scores lately. Perhaps she’d do better if she had Mr. Lamont for that subject, too.”

I grit my teeth and dredge up my most polite smile. “Where exactly is Mr. Lamont?”

“I think he’s somewhere over there.” She waves vaguely toward the front of the room, then turns to her husband. “You. Sit.” She points at the couch. “At least I’ll know where find you. Meanwhile, I’m going to get myself another drink.”

Charlie grabs my arm as she wanders off. “I’m sorry about what happened.” His words are still slurred but his face is red and he looks just like one of my ten-year-olds, embarrassed at being caught and mightily ashamed of what they’ve done. “Lauren’s a good kid. You won’t say anything, will you? You won’t hold this against her?”

“Of course not.” My anger and resentment are gone. All that’s left inside is a strange sort of pity for Charlie Conard and Lauren, too. No wonder she’s such a horrid little girl. Growing up with a mother like Phyllis and a father like him.

“I appreciate that, Miss Perreault…” He stumbles over the words and his feet, catching himself before he falls.

I grab his arm, help him maneuver to a seat on the couch. Lauren’s father is hardly in any shape to stand up, let alone navigate the room. “Mr. Conard, I’m going to find you some coffee. Promise me you’ll stay put.”

Nodding, he slumps back against the buttery soft cushions.

“And no more Christmas martinis,” I add.

“The hell with those stupid martinis.” He points to an empty nearby shot glass. “I’m drinking straight vodka.”

There has to be coffee somewhere. I struggle through the crowd, push my way to the food buffet, which is covered with an elegant silk brocade of red and gold that matches the Christmas tree. It’s all about matching. Everything has to be perfect. Perfect décor, music, food.

Everything is perfect, except this party. And the company. And the way I feel.

Deserted. Hungry.

I was so worried about fitting into this stupid dress that I never ate before leaving home. Smoked fish, cold shrimp, toasted baguettes, cheeses and spreads are laid out on the buffet table. Everything perfectly arranged, but not what I want.

What I really want is an omelet. One of Priscilla’s omelets, loaded with cheese, diced ham, green peppers.

And Sam at the table. If he’d been the one escorting me to this party, guaranteed he never would have left my side. Is he still at our house or has he gone home? He usually stays long after dinner is finished and the three of us sit around the kitchen table telling stories, playing cards, eating popcorn, having a good time. Just like a family.

Except Sam’s not family. He’s merely our accountant. Someone who keeps tally on the bills. Just wait till he sees my credit card statement and discovers how much I doled out for this little black dress. It reeks of peppermint and it’s full of bad memories. I will never wear it again. Same goes for the shoes. They pinch my toes and hurt like hell. I had no business wearing them or being at this party, either. What am I doing here, anyway? Alone, embarrassed, hurting, and hungry.

The server behind the buffet offers me a plate.

“No, thanks.” I spy the coffee urn near the end of the table. “Do me a favor?” I point through the crowd. “There’s a man over there sitting on a couch. He needs some coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“Certainly.” She nods. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. Would you like anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m leaving.”

For the first time tonight, I’m grateful Nick and I came in separate cars. At least I can make a quick escape with a clear conscience and no explanation. I make a beeline for the foyer, retrieve my coat, pull it tight around me as I head out the door. The snow has stopped, but the clear sky and twinkling stars invite a bitter cold. A sheen of ice covers the sidewalk and I teeter on my heels as I maneuver the long walk. The road is slick. Just as I reach my car, I nearly take a nasty spill, saving myself by grabbing the door handle. I burrow behind the wheel, start the engine, swearing softly as I wait for the heater to warm up. My back hurts where I wrenched it, but my pride hurts even more. Will I ever learn? Why do I always try to be something I’m not? It’s time to face facts. I’m thirty years old and I’ll never be a beauty queen.

Sam was right. Next time, I’ll wear the damn boots.

Sam
. As if my spirits could sink any lower. I check the green digital glow of the car’s clock. I can’t go home yet. I don’t dare. It’s way too early. He’s probably still there. I can’t face him. Not after the way things ended tonight.

No boots. No date. No fun.

And even if he is gone, how can I face Priscilla? If by some miracle she’s finally talking to me, she’ll grill me about Amy’s house. She’s always wanted to see it. She’ll press me for details about the party, the guests, the food…

Food.

I throw the car in gear and head down the icy street. My stomach’s empty and a dull headache pounds at the back of my head. No wonder I feel sick. The last time I ate was breakfast this morning. I take the corner and steer away from the downtown area, opposite the direction of home. There’s a small convenience store not far from here. I’ll pick up something, enough to tide me over until Sam leaves. Until Priscilla goes to bed. Until it’s safe to go home.

Just a sandwich. And maybe some potato chips. I’ll bet they sell cookies, too.

I jam my foot on the gas.

Let the feast begin.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Just think, Miss P. Only four more days until Christmas vacation.” Tyler throws his math assignment on the corner of my desk with a toothy grin. “And eight more days until Christmas.” He slaps his hands together and whistles through the crooked gaps in his teeth.

I try to keep a straight face. Sometimes I just want to laugh at these kids, they’re so cute. “You sound pretty excited, Tyler.”

“You bet! I hope I get that brand new snowboard for Christmas,” he says as he darts back to his seat.

If the weatherman’s forecast proves correct, Tyler will have lots of fun playing in the snow. God bless fifth-grade boys. They’re so different from the girls and not much has changed in the years I’ve been teaching. By the time Christmas rolls around, most of the girls have put away their toys and are more interested in playing with real live boys—most of whom, just like Tyler, don’t have a clue. Things will be different ten years from now. This goofy little kid who shuns girls and lives for recess will be a man. His buzz cut will be gone and Tyler will probably have more than his fair share of girlfriends. But not yet. For now, he and his buddies seem more interested in shooting hoops with Mr. Lamont.

“Finish your math papers and hand them in, please. It’s nearly time for lunch.”

Katie and Lauren saunter up to my desk. Katie tosses her paper on top of Tyler’s. She’s written the answers in red and green ink. “Christmas colors, Miss P. Aren’t they pretty?”

Lauren flings down her own inked-up paper. “We thought you’d like them.”

I stare at the gaudy papers. So much for using red ink to make my corrections. Swear to God, Lauren’s little clique will test me to the very limits before this year is through. I bite back the retort sitting on my tongue. After all, it’s Christmas. Why not cut them a little slack? They already think I’m a grinch.

Books slam shut as the lunch bell shrills and thirty seconds later I’m herding twenty-five noisy ten-year-olds to the cafeteria. Five minutes later I’m back at my desk. Tyler’s words jingle in my mind as I stare at the stack of messy papers covered in Christmas colors.

Only four more days till Christmas vacation.
I grab my lunch from the bottom drawer. Carrot sticks and half a cheese sandwich face off against the stack of math assignments. I’m tired of eating lunch at my desk but it happens every year. T’is the season. I’m jammed with work and not enough time to spare. Completing that contest questionnaire and writing that paper about myself was a royal pain, but it’s finished and in the mail. I grab a bite of sandwich, a purple pen from my drawer, and dig into the math papers.

“Got a minute?” Nick strolls through the door and across the room. He lounges against a corner of Eric’s desk.

“What’s up?” Hopefully I sound cool and calm, because inside I feel jittery and upset, sick to my stomach at the mere sight of him. I haven’t seen or talked to him since Amy’s party last weekend. He never phoned, which really hurt, but in some odd way I was also glad.
Don’t ask, don’t tell
. The last thing I want to hear is some flimsy excuse about why he dumped me. Knowing Nick, he’ll come up with some grand excuse and talk in circles until the whole thing sounds completely innocent and makes total sense. Knowing me, I’ll end up feeling sorry for him, guilty that I left, and probably even apologize.

“Come on, Patty, I know you’re upset.”

“Me? Upset? What makes you think that?” Damn right I’m upset. Who wouldn’t be? I never should have gone to that party. Big mistake on my part. It’s obvious Nick and I are merely friends and we’ll never be more than that, no matter how much I wish things were different. Women like me don’t end up with men like him. It doesn’t make sense. No matter what everyone says, the way you look counts. People like to put a pretty spin on things and say it doesn’t matter, but it does. They just won’t admit that looks are important.

If I wasn’t fat, I would have won that contest two years ago.

And Nick will probably win—at least the award for First-Year Teacher. His good looks, confidence and easygoing style attract women—and men, too—just like a magnet. Except for Sam. He’s never liked Nick.

“You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t you think it’s time we talked?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” If he thinks I’m going to let him suck me in again, then Nick’s got another think coming. He ignored the fact that I was his date. He abandoned me at that party. Does he have the slightest clue how much that hurt? How much it still hurts, three days later?

“Look, Patty, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. And I don’t blame you for the way you feel. If someone did that to me, I’d feel like hell.”

“Can we just forget it, okay? I’m busy.” I shuffle the math papers into a neat stack, avoiding his eyes as I feel my resolve starting to slip. My head says
go away
, but my heart hasn’t quite caught up yet. I take a deep breath. He’s got no idea what he put me through, deserting me… and for Amy, of all people. I spent the weekend hiding in my bedroom, reading diet magazines, eating cookies and potato chips, stuffing down my tears.

And to think I actually cried over him. What a waste of Kleenex.

“I figured you’d take it all wrong. That’s why I wanted you to hear my side of the story. Believe me, I never expected her to put the moves on me.”

I try not to roll my eyes. How stupid does he think I am?

“She’s a real piece of work. How the hell you put up with her is beyond me.”

“You do what you have to do,” I say with a shrug. I learned long ago to stay far away from the kindergarten room.

“Phyllis has a one-track mind. That woman doesn’t know how to take
no
for an answer.”

“Excuse me?” I stumble over a name I never expected to hear.

“Phyllis Conard.”

I stare at him hard. “Lauren’s mother?”

He frowns. “Who did you think we were talking about?”

I force the image of Amy clinging to his arm out of my mind. “Never mind.”

“You’ve got to give her credit for trying. She’s one determined lady. No matter what I said, she was going to get her way.”

“God, Nick, I can’t believe you’re telling me this.” I think about last Friday night, the crush of people at Amy’s party, Charlie Conard’s hand creeping up my thigh, Phyllis staggering off to find herself another drink. And if I’m reading him right, the two of them ended up together. Nick broke every moral, ethical, and professional standard a teacher lives by.