Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (21 page)

“But she’s nice,” I say. “It’s just that we’re
so
different and we won’t ever bond over anything other than her dog. But I think she’s a good person. I really do. Just not very exciting.”

“Well, that’s okay, too.”

“Yeah.” I look at her. “So you didn’t consider Connor the marrying kind and you’ve dated an assortment of other fellows but you’ve never found that one that you just couldn’t get off your mind?”

“Nope,” she says without even having to think about it. “Not even close.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, holding on to the door handle as she wheels into the parking lot of the outlet mall.

“Is it?” she asks, and I just sit there because I don’t know what to say. “C’mon,” she says, getting out of the Jeep. “Let’s go get our fat-girl retail therapy on.”

34

J
alena shows me around to all the stores that cater to those of us above a size sixteen, and I end up spending a truckload of money and making three trips back to the car to drop off bags. Out of the fifty-something clothing stores at the Foley outlet mall, only six are what Jalena calls “fat-girl friendly,” but that’s okay because most malls have only one fat-girl-friendly store, two at the most, and unless they’re having one hell of a sale, I can’t afford to shop at either one.

We have lunch at the pizzeria and talk about how we wouldn’t be confined to the fat-girl-friendly stores if we didn’t love food so much.

“But I do,” Jalena says. “And that’s just how I am and that’s okay. Skinny people ain’t perfect; they just have a different set of snags.”

“And a better selection of places to shop,” I say.

“Well, we’ve got a better selection at restaurants and grocery stores, so I guess everything has a trade-off,” Jalena says, and we both start laughing. “Like those iced cookies at Walmart that I’m addicted to. Skinny girls can’t eat those every day like I do.”

“Freedom,” I say, picking up a piece of pizza. “It’s a sliding scale.”

“Nobody needs a scale, girl!” Jalena says. “We just need to be happy with who we are. All of us. Fat ones, skinny ones, short ones, tall ones, ugly ones, pretty ones, smart ones, dumb ones.”

“Well, it’s a lot easier to be happy when you have decent clothes to wear, so thanks for bringing me over here.”

“Amen and no problem,” she says.

On the ride back to Pelican Cove, she asks me what it’s like to be in love with someone for as long as I’ve been with Mason.

“It’s miserable!” I say, then tell her the whole story from the first time I saw him.

“I think y’all will be okay,” she says. “You said you were under a lot of stress when you first moved down here, working all the time and stuff, and now he’s under a lot of stress because he’s working all the time, so I think if you just give it some more time and let y’all’s work schedules even out, it’ll all work out just fine.” She looks at me. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” I say. “And I know I need to give us a fair chance by doing my part to make it work.” I look at her. “Why did you tell me that about Kevin this morning?”

“That’s need-to-know information that you needed to know,” she says, not taking her eyes off the road. “Even Reed noticed that y’all had chemistry, and he was drunk as Cooter Brown.”

“Really?” I say. “It was that obvious?”

“Well, he didn’t use the word ‘chemistry,’ but he did say that y’all looked like a pair of horny coon dogs.” She looks at me. “And after I talked to Kevin yesterday, I knew I had to let you know.”

“Got it,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

And then we start reviewing our plans to orchestrate the fall of Lenore Kennashaw.

* * *

Later that night, I’m trying on all my new outfits in the bedroom when I hear Mason pull up in the driveway. I slip on the sexy red dress I bought to wear to the charity ball and wiggle and squirm while I zip it up. I walk down the stairs as fast as the dress will allow, then strike a pose on the staircase just as Mason opens the front door.

He’s got a sack full of crab legs in one hand and a box of Corona in the other. When he sees me, he promptly puts the beer on the floor and sets the bag on the table by the door. He whistles as he walks toward me, then takes my hand and turns me around.

“Oh, baby, is it my birthday?” he says, running a hand over the silky fabric.

“I was wondering if you would be my date for the annual Caboose Charity Ball next Saturday night.”

“I’ll be your date for anything,” he says, sliding his hand behind my back. “I really like your new dress.” He pulls me up close to him and I can feel how much he likes it.

I hear paper rustling and look over to see Buster Loo up on the couch, straining toward the crab legs on the end table.

Mason turns to look, too, then looks back at me. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Now, Buster Loo,” he tells the dog when he reaches for the bag. “You know we have to cook these first.” He grabs the sack of seafood and the beer, which he takes into the kitchen, and I hear him cramming it all into the fridge. When he steps back around the corner, he’s loosening his tie with one hand and unbuttoning his shirt with the other. He puts his arms around my waist and we have the hottest make-out session we’ve had since the night I showed up on his doorstep and told him I was back.

He stops kissing me, takes off his shirt, and nods toward our bedroom. When we get upstairs, he unzips my dress, and when it falls to the floor, he admires my brand-new camisole.

“You need to go shopping every day,” he tells me, running a hand over the lace. “Baby, you are so
hot
.”

“I’ll understand if you need to get downstairs and boil those crab legs,” I tease.

“Fuck those crab legs,” he says, taking off his pants.

We fall into bed and have some earthshaking sex, during which I don’t think about anyone but him. After he falls asleep, I lie awake in bed thinking that talk I had with Jalena must’ve done me a lot of good.

Sunday morning, Mason wakes me up early because he’s ready for breakfast.

“You seduced me last night and I forgot all about eating supper,” he says as we walk downstairs. He starts the coffee and I start frying bacon and Buster Loo parks himself next to the stove and gets in his Coke-bottle stance. A minute later, Mason pours us both a cup of coffee and gives me a hug.

“I was starting to think you didn’t like me anymore,” he says.

“You know better than that,” I tell him.

“I do after last night,” he says and slaps me on the butt. He goes outside to get the paper, then comes back in and spreads it out on the bar. He flips through it section by section, reading me the parts he finds interesting or funny and asking me what I think about this or that news story. He sets the table and refills our coffee cups while I butter the biscuits and we sit down to eat. I smile to myself because
this
is more like the life I’d always imagined having with him.

After breakfast, Mason takes Buster Loo for a walk and I go out on the porch and plop down on a lounge chair. I think about the fact that I haven’t been to church since I moved down here almost four months ago and decide that today might be a good day to start back. Especially since I’ve got a brand-new dress and some cool new heels to wear. Plus I need all the help I can get staying on the right track and steering clear of temptation.

When Mason gets home, I ask him if he’d like to go with me and he tells me that he’s already told his workout buddies he would be at the gym today. He promises he’ll go next week, then asks what church I plan to go to.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’ll go to that big round one just up the road. You know the one with all the flags outside? Have you ever been there?”

“No, but if you like it, that’s where we can start going if you want.”

“Okay, great.”

An hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the Greater Praises Worship Center. I walk to the front, where I stop and stare for a minute at the stunning display of cut beveled glass. A nice-looking teenage boy opens the door for me, and I walk into a meticulously decorated lobby where people are milling around all over the place. Some guy gives me a very elaborate church bulletin and three mints with a picture of the church printed on the wrapper. Another fellow holds open the door as I walk into a gigantic sanctuary that’s shaped like a stop sign. I look up and see flags from a bunch of different countries hanging from the ceiling. A few people come up and shake my hand; then after a few minutes, the doors to the lobby simultaneously close and the lights go dim. I decide to have a mint.

Next thing I know, the lights go completely off and I’m standing in the pitch-black darkness. Music begins to play, softly at first, then louder and louder to the point where I start to get nervous. All of a sudden, beams of light start flashing across the auditorium in blue, yellow, and red, and then a light show commences that makes me wonder if that mint I just had might have been laced with hallucinogenic drugs. A spotlight comes on and whirls all around the room before finally coming to a stop on the choir, which somehow magically appeared on the large circular stage in the center of the sanctuary. Spotlights beam down on a band that starts jamming out to the music that’s already playing, and then the light show starts again. The choir is dancing and clapping and singing, but I can’t understand a word of their song. The recorded music stops and the band takes over and spends a few minutes playing some hard-core rock and roll, during which everyone in the sanctuary starts jumping around like monkeys, including the choir.

I’m thinking it’s about time for me to go when another spotlight comes on and beams down on the choir leader, who is doing what looks like a tribal dance as she makes her way down the middle aisle toward the stage. Something about that person looks very familiar, but it might just be that my mind has gone squirrely from all the special effects. The choir leader hops up onto the stage, holds up both hands, and points toward the ceiling. I watch as three movie screens descend simultaneously from the flag collection. The choir starts to sing and the band rocks even harder and the lights start flashing, and then it goes completely dark.

I look around in a panic, but all the doors are still closed and the only thing I can see is the faint glow of the movie screens. The place is so quiet I could hear a pin drop. The screens light up and I see the choir leader, eyes closed and hands stretched toward heaven. The music starts again, the choir harmonizes, and Lenore Kennashaw opens her eyes as the camera zooms in on her face.

She orders the band to start playing, and then the choir starts singing and everyone starts jumping around like monkeys again. Lenore starts chanting praises and I start making my way to the back of the sanctuary. I see a man posted up next to what looks like it might be a door, and when I get up there, he grills me on why I’m leaving. I look at him and he looks possessed, so I decide to take the easy way out and tell him I’ve got a raging case of the squirts.

I stumble out into the hallway, disoriented by the sudden exposure to daylight. I start walking toward the lobby, and the doorman follows me. I head for the beautiful cut-glass façade, picking up my pace with each step. I put my hand on the door and the man behind me starts shouting that I missed the ladies’ room. I run out into the parking lot past rows and rows of cars until I finally get to mine. I get in and drive home, extremely unsettled by the entire experience.

Mason is in the living room when I walk in. He’s back from his workout and fresh out of the shower. “Hey, baby,” he says. “You look beautiful. How was church?”

“I think I need something a little more low-key,” I tell him.

“Hey, you wanna watch some football?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Just let me change clothes first.”

I put on some old cutoff sweatpants and a T-shirt and go join him and Buster Loo on the couch. We watch football all afternoon, cook shrimp and crab legs for dinner, then a have bottle of wine on the back porch at sunset. The only time Kevin Jacobs crosses my mind is when I realize that I haven’t thought about him at all. I lean my head on Mason’s shoulder and smile because today was a good day. Except for that fifteen minutes I spent at that weird church.

35

M
onday morning, it’s back to reality, because Mason is gone when I wake up and I know I’ve got another full week of conference-room dinners to look forward to. I tell myself to think positive as I roll out of bed and get dressed. I take Buster Loo for a walk on the sidewalk that runs next to the beach and I’m happy when the sight and sound of the ocean lift my spirits once again. After a steaming-hot shower, I put on some new clothes and head to the gallery feeling good.

Buster Loo really loves his new gig as Gallery Dog, and it makes me happy to have him there with me. I give Gloria Peacock a call to see if she and Birdie Ross might be able to come down for the charity ball, and she tells me that she’s got some doctors’ appointments lined up that would take months to reschedule.

“I’m so sorry, Graciela,” she says. “It sounds like my kind of adventure, and I do hate that I’m going to miss out. Birdie’s going to hate she missed it, too, because that kind of thing is right up her alley.” I tell her it’s okay and she asks when I’m coming to see her. I promise her it will be soon. I hang up the phone sorely disappointed that part of my plan didn’t pan out.

When Avery comes in at one, she carries on about how nice I look to the point where I start wondering how bad it was before I went shopping with Jalena. I ask about her date and she tells me about Rob and all the creepy-sweet things he did over the weekend that ushered them from the “just talking” to the “hanging out” phase.

Turns out Rob comes from a wealthy family also, and Avery thinks that, should they graduate to the “seeing each other” phase, at least she won’t have to worry about him dumping her because she has money. She shows me a picture of him, one with her in it, and he doesn’t look as bad as he did in the one she showed us at Girls Night In. She shows me another one of him with his hair laid down instead of spiked up into a Mohawk and painted blue, and he actually looks really handsome.

“Bring him in here sometime so I can meet him,” I tell her.

“You wouldn’t mind?” she says. “I told him all about this place, and he thinks we have a very cool arrangement.”

“As do I,” I tell her. “Bring him in anytime.” Then I start worrying that they might start sneaking in here and having sex on the couches. “Where is he from?”

“Biloxi, originally, but he’s been living in Pensacola for the past few years.” She looks at me. “He rents a room in one of those awesome historic homes downtown. I think I mentioned that I would
love
to live in that area.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I remember you saying something about that.”

“Yeah, his place is awesome. The common area has really cool red leather furniture and the kitchen has all updated appliances. It’s fabulous.”

And so I stop worrying about my couches.

Just before closing time, Jalena texts me and tells me she’s on her way to the meeting at Caboose Charity and asks if I want to meet her at Credo’s later for a drink. I think about that for a second and, confident I’m over my crush, tell her I probably will. I call Mason and ask if he needs anything, and he tells me that Allison is taking care of dinner tonight. He asks me if I’ll come eat with them and I tell him Jalena invited me to Credo’s. He tells me that he doesn’t blame me for not wanting to have dinner in the conference room all the time and encourages me to go ahead and meet up with her. The guilt monster really gets after me, but I text Jalena and tell her I’ll meet her there at seven thirty.

I take Buster Loo home, and he retires to his doggie bed as I lie on the couch and watch the most recent
Saturday Night Live.
At twenty after seven, I flip off the television and head out to Credo’s. When I get there, I see Jalena’s Jeep in the parking lot and go inside to find her sitting at an indoor table off to the side. I sit down and take a quick look around, and she says, “He’s not here.”

“Good,” I say. “Not that I wouldn’t want to see him, but you know, the less temptation the better.” I smile and she laughs and tells me I’m not right.

She talks about the charity ball meeting and then pulls a folder out of her purse. She opens it up and pulls out a stapled stack of papers and a very fancy program brochure.

“These,” she says quietly, pointing to the program, “are all stacked up in the hallway outside the main office, so I think the ‘leaflet’ idea is going to be easy to pull off.”

“Great,” I say. I have a moment’s hesitation when I realize that we could really go through with this, and then I think about Lenore getting my application tossed from the art festival submissions and get mad at her all over again. I get my notebook out of my bag, put it on the table, and open it up to a clean sheet. I write the words “Special Addendum” at the top.

Jalena opens the program, then turns it around to where I can see Kennashaw Home and Garden listed in the five-star category.

“How does she do that?”

“She has one hundred percent control over the production of this program.”

“How did she manage that?”

“It’s something she volunteers to do and it’s a toilsome task that no one else wants.”

“Right,” I say and think about Margo the HOA president. “It’s funny how much control people can accumulate by volunteering for things the rest of us are too lazy or busy to do or are just plain not interested in.”

Jalena looks at me and says, “Why did I start thinking about politicians when you said that?”

“Why indeed?” I say. “And speaking of elected officials, does that organization not have a secretary?”

“Yeah, that’s Sylvie Best,” Jalena says, giving me a wry look.

“Of course,” I say, looking down at the program. “Well, there’s Sylvie in the five-star as well. Is that legit?”

“I don’t know, but I can see when we get those records,” Jalena says. “Her husband owns a couple of car dealerships here in town, so it could very well be.”

“Maybe it won’t be and I can add her name to this little notice,” I say, tapping my notebook.

Jalena laughs and we start discussing what exactly the memo should say.

“It needs to be professional and polite,” Jalena says. “Like someone is trying to make a serious clarification. It shouldn’t sound mean or hateful or judgmental.”

“Bummer,” I say and start doodling in the margin.

After a lengthy discussion and two pages of drafts, we finally decide the notice should read:

Caboose Charity greatly appreciates each and every dollar donated to our organization, and we strive to protect the privacy of our benefactors while adhering to the specific guidelines stated in our bylaws. In a recent audit of our records, it was discovered that a mistake has been made in one particular area of categorization. Correction is as follows:

Frank & Lenore Kennashaw (Kennashaw Home and Garden)—One Star

Thank you, and we apologize for any confusion this may have caused.

“Are you sure we should list her as a one-star, even though she’s really a two?” Jalena asks, eyeing my chicken-scratch writing.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Think about how much more that’ll get people stirred up. That’s what we need. We need people to start asking questions.”

“We cannot ever let anyone know we had any part in this,” she says warily.

“Covert ops,” I tell her. “We just can’t react at all if people start talking about it.”

She puts the program back in the folder, then slides the other papers to my side of the table. “Seating arrangement,” she says. “Lenore and Frank are at table twenty-two on page three.”

“Do you know what the place cards are going to look like?” I ask, looking over the names.

“No, they change that up every year,” she says. “But I have a plan.” She smiles at me. “Set-up starts on Wednesday, and they asked everyone to pick one night to come in and help, so I picked Friday.”

“Okay.”

“Each table is a ten-top, and most have two or three open seats in case people show up at the last minute or someone brings a date they didn’t RSVP or someone important or high-profile comes in or something like that. So my plan is to try to swap Lenore and Frank’s place cards out with a pair of blank cards at a lesser table.” She looks at me. “I’m going to look it all over Friday night and try to pick up two extra place cards, because blank ones are usually lying around everywhere. I’m going to wait until Saturday to actually attempt the switch, because everyone will be running around like crazy, so I think that’ll be my best bet in terms of getting away with it.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” I say.

“It’ll be an excellent plan if it works,” Jalena says. “Now let’s talk about that station wagon.”

“I’m going to call Mr. Pettigo on Wednesday and ask if I can bring my car in on Friday or Saturday,” I say. “If he offers to let me drive it, we’re good. If not, we’re shit out of luck, because that’s the only clunker I have access to. Let’s just say he does, though. Are you sure we’ll be able to get that old jalopy to the curb instead of her Mercedes?”

“The hotel doesn’t have valet parking unless there’s an event at the conference center,” she says. “They just hire temps and it’s all pretty lax because this is one of those deals where everybody knows everybody and they’re more worried about people feeling special than about someone stealing a car. So
if
we get the station wagon, then we need to take it over there and park it at the very back of the conference center parking lot. It’s just a big open lot across the street. The parking places are numbered, so I’ll have to know what spot the paddy wagon is in, in order to execute my switcheroo plan.” I nod and she continues. “Since I’m on the set-up committee, I’ll be one of the first ones there, so I’ll just keep an eye out for Lenore, and when I see her, I’ll slip out the door and walk out to the parking lot and see what her parking space number is. Then I’ll wait until the valets are really busy, pull one of them to the side, and explain that I left my purse in my car and my husband has the valet ticket and I can’t find him anywhere, and I just need to borrow the keys for one quick second to unlock the door. I’m just going to talk until he gives me the keys, and I’ll be all dressed up, so it’s not like I’ll look like a common criminal. When I get the keys, I’ll step aside and pretend to press the unlock button, but I’ll really be snapping the valet clip off. At that point, I’ll piddle around for a few minutes and let a few more people drive up, and then when I return the station wagon keys with Lenore’s valet tag attached, I’ll casually mention the parking space number of the station wagon.” She looks at me. “And I’ll make sure to be flashing plenty of boob during all of this.”

“You sure know a lot about valet parking,” I tell her. “Let me guess—you used to date a valet.”

“No,” Jalena says with a chuckle. “Me and another girl had to work the valet stand one year because a few of the temps got caught smoking weed behind the hotel.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Naw, but we only had to do it for like an hour. Just until they got two more guys to come in. It’s a process you pick up on fast because it’s so repetitious.” She looks at me. “What else?”

“Well, the station wagon probably won’t have keyless entry,” I tell her. “That thing is a real piece of crap.”

“I’ll be sure to hand the keys back to a different guy, then.”

“Good idea.”

“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll figure out something.”

“You mentioned boobs,” I say.

“There’s always plenty of that.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing. “So, let’s review. Phase one: Switch around the place cards. Phase two: Put inserts in
some
of the programs. Phase three: Valet service with a station-wagon smile. Wait—what are you going to do with Lenore’s keys if you’re able to get the tags switched around?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I didn’t think about that.”

“They need to find their way to the hotel lost and found, and then maybe it’ll all look like an accident,” I say. “Or something.”

“I can make that happen,” she says. “What about your little-old-lady friends?”

“I called Gloria Peacock today and she said they wouldn’t be able to make it,” I tell her. “Bunch of doctors’ appointments and stuff.”

“Okay, then,” she says and starts digging around in her purse. “Well, here are your tickets to the ball, my friend.” She hands me a small white envelope. “And the night of the charity ball, I don’t think we should be seen around each other.”

“Excellent point,” I tell her. “So, when are we going to break into the office?”

“I was going to say Thursday, but they might move the boxes to the conference center before then, so . . .”

“So?”

“So how about I type up our little announcement tomorrow at work? I’ll put four to a page, print ’em out, and cut ’em up, and then we go tomorrow night and put ’em in the programs? No one will move anything until Wednesday, and, honestly, I think the leaflets could be the only part of our plan that might really work, so I want to make sure we get this done.”

“Great,” I say, thinking that’ll get me out of another conference room dinner.