Queen Bee Goes Home Again (15 page)

“His wife left him for a rich man who paid more attention to her. And he admits it was his fault. He spent so much time with his church that he neglected her.”

Uh-oh. I'd said too much. “Erase that. I shouldn't have told you.”

“So the vows were broken by your spouses. You're both free, in God's eyes.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.” Something awful occurred to me. “What if this is a test?” It got worse. “For both of us?”

“I have no idea what to tell you.”

That was one of the best things about our friendship. When we didn't know an answer, we said so.

Wrung out, I flopped back against my pillows. “Which puts me right back where I started.”

“Poor baby, poor baby, poor baby, poor baby.”

A huge yawn ambushed me. “Thanks, sweetie. 'Night.” I hung up and sank into exhausted sleep, but my dreams were invaded by highly inappropriate fantasies about me and my minister.

I apologized to God in the dreams, but it didn't help.

I got up at three for my regular bathroom trip, feeling like my soul needed a good scrubbing, but still without a clue as to what to do.

As they say in my 12-step enabler's group, “When you don't have an answer, don't just do something, stand there.”

So I went back to bed and dreamed of Connor Allen, over and over. And over.

 

Twenty-one

The next morning Miss Mamie woke me with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and my copy of the
Gainesville Times
in the other.

I sat up abruptly, despite my sore muscles. How the heck had she gotten into my apartment without my hearing her?

How had she gotten in, period? I'd had the locks rekeyed a week before I moved back and not given her one, on purpose. I loved my mother, but I had to have at least
some
space to call my own.

At that moment, though, I was
way
too groggy for a confrontation. “Well, hey, Miss Mamie.” I sat up and took the steaming mug, tasting a sip. Just right: half strength with two Splendas. “To what do I owe this?” I stopped short of saying
intrusion.

“Well, sweetie, I figured after a kiss like that one last night, you might be dreaming of somebody special, but it's already ten-thirty. Time to get up and go for it.”

That kiss? What the …
I bowed up like a Chihuahua taking on a Great Dane. “You weren't supposed to see that! Y'all were in the kitchen!”

“We were,” Miss Mamie said, all wide-eyed innocence. “Till we came out to make sure you were okay.”

Ah, yes, the immortal mother-justification. “Okay, my fanny,” I snapped. “Y'all were
spying
on me.”

I'd scarcely gotten there, yet the walls already had eyes.

Help.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn't blow this one last chance.” Miss Mamie patted my hand. “This man is a true catch. Don't let him get away. It's terrible to be alone when you're old.”

Ah, the guilt card. If I didn't go along with her, I was guaranteeing a long and lonely demise. She'd pulled that one out so many times, it had totally lost its power.

“I'm not alone,” I said, “I have you and Tommy and Tricia.”

“I mean a
husband,
” she insisted. “Even though your daddy's out of his mind, I know he's still here. That makes it easier for me to soldier on.”

The martyr card. She'd also played that one too many times to be taken seriously. I wasn't buying it, so I counterattacked with a concerned, “Would you ever want to remarry if Daddy died?”

My mother waved the mere thought of that away with her perfectly manicured, buffed nails. “Good gracious, Lin, there's no comparison. I'm ninety years old! And I'll love your daddy till I die.”

How, after all their fighting, escaped me.

“You're only sixty,” Miss Mamie said. “The new forty. And you've never had a devoted husband. But you deserve one, and maybe God, not that real estate contract, put Connor Allen right next door just for you.”

“Miss Mamie, I do not need another husband, good, bad, or indifferent,” I said with decreasing conviction. “I'm going to college.”

My mother clucked under her breath, then got sarcastic. “What? You want a football player?”

“Ocee doesn't even have a team, and you know it,” I grumbled.

She rose from the edge of my bed. “You're no girl,” she said frankly. “And Connor Allen seems perfect. Don't waste this chance, Lins-a-pin. Remember the story about the boats and the helicopter.” She headed for the door.

A devout man on his roof in a flood turns down two offers of rescue by boat, and the emergency helicopter, saying he's trusting God to keep him safe. When he wakes up in heaven, he says to God, “What happened? I was trusting You to save me!”

God shakes his head. “I sent two boats and a helicopter. What does it take?”

But I wasn't trapped on the roof in a flood.

Or was I?

I dared not tell Miss Mamie that Connor had asked to court me. “We've both agreed not to see each other till after Christmas, so he can concentrate on his church, and I can concentrate on testing out of some of my required classes.”

Miss Mamie turned and rolled her eyes, then headed for the door, muttering, “Right in her lap, and she pushes him away.”

“Please lock the door on your way out,” I hollered after her. “And leave your key inside.”

Not that she would.

Help, help, help.

I got up and went to nuke some precooked bacon, then put on a face because Connor Allen might see me on my way to or from the house.

Passing the bathroom mirror, I saw my fuzzy crop of curls and stopped to tame them into a reasonable shape with my fingers. Better.

Definitely needed some makeup.

Makeup, in the summer, just to go clean with the Mame.

I mean, really.

Seriously, renewed self-awareness at my age was a curse, not a blessing. Just when I'd made peace with my smile lines and sagging self.

I looked into the mirror again and the worst happened.

I saw myself as I really was, zeroing in on the once-proud bustline that hovered at my elbows.

Before The Kiss, I wouldn't have cared. But thanks to dadgummed Connor Allen, darn it, I decided I needed to jack up the girls with a bra under my cleaning T-shirt, just in case he saw me.

Shoot! Shoot, shoot, shoot.

A man in my life—even one on
hold
—meant
brassieres.

My ideal bra quotient had dropped to three hours, max, yet there I was, going to clean for the rest of the day—in the heat—in a very expensive torture band.

Connor had better see me; that was all I could say.

 

Twenty-two

By noon the Mame and I started on the last room of the ninety-five-degree third floor—halleluiah, amen. Working together, we'd developed a system that started with my climbing the ten-foot stepladder to clean the overhead fans and lights and replace burned-out bulbs, then both of us sponge-mopped the high ceilings with Pine-Sol. Then I went back up the ladder to wipe down the crown molding. Then we used sponge mops and Pine-Sol on the walls, changing the rinse water often because of the dust of a decade. Next we vacuumed, moving everything, then cleaned the glass and mirrors with Windex, then sprayed the backs of the furniture with Citrisafe and polished the rest, then put everything back in place. Next, we put hypoallergenic encasements on the mattress and pillows, then changed the bed. And last, but not least, we WetJet-mopped ourselves out and closed the door, leaving the ceiling fan on to dry everything out.

When we were finished with the third floor—halleluiah—I dragged myself and the cleaning gear to the back stairs and collapsed on the top step, too hot and tired to get up.

“Poor baby.”

I ducked as my mother passed me, gripping both rails for support.

She bloomed in the heat; said it warmed her old bones. “Come on, honey,” she told me. “It's only eighty-five on the second floor. And there's plenty of cool in the kitchen, plus chicken salad and fresh sliced peaches in the fridge. Let's have lunch and regroup.”

Ninety years old, and she lasted longer than I did.

I forced myself to my feet and followed after, clanking mops and cleaning supplies. Two more flights.

I left the cleaning supplies in the hall on the second floor, then headed down for a dose of cool air and homemade food, quoting Nietzsche in my mind for the twentieth time that day.
What does not kill me makes me stronger.

Of course, Nietzsche died in an insane asylum, but left that quote for the rest of us peons in the world.

I couldn't stand the cinch of the bra band around my chest for one minute longer. I untucked my T-shirt so I could loose the hooks on my expensive shaped-foam bra with no underwires, but my silhouette didn't change, because the cups were formed to a 36 C, so nobody could tell my “girls” had immediately dropped back down to my elbows behind it.

I took my first deep breath in hours and thanked the Lord, then reached up under my shirt to rub the gouges the bandeau had left in my skin. Completely unself-conscious, I was still rubbing when I pushed into the kitchen.

Where Connor Allen sat beside Tommy at our table.

Seeing me, Connor smiled and jumped to his feet as I pulled my hands from my shirt in horror. Tommy took one look and barely managed to keep from laughing out loud.

“Lin, look who dropped by,” Mama said brightly, her back turned to Connor so he couldn't see the horror in her eyes as she glared at my dishabille. “He brought flowers. Isn't that gallant? I insisted he join us for lunch.”

Rats. Rats, rats, rats.

My bra's molded boobs had shifted when I'd rubbed the indentations and now pointed upward at an unnatural angle.

“How lovely.” I spun around and fled to the dining room to put everything back where it belonged, which took longer than it used to, but adrenaline enabled me to fasten the hooks under the back of my tee on the third try. Then I leaned forward and pulled the girls back into place.

Why
had I unhooked before I knew the coast was clear?

Phooey. Phooey, phooey, phooey!

I mean, I know I'd said I wanted Connor to see me, but not like
that.

I tucked in my shirt, then turned to face the music, hearing my Granny Beth's voice from across the pale.
Never complain. Never explain.

So I straightened my posture and glided back in like a duchess. “So glad you could have lunch with us,” I told Connor, who stood as I'd left him, like the gentleman he was. “Please, sit,” I instructed. “Mama, how may I help you?”

My mother arched a brow at my unnatural formality. “You've worked like a slave all morning,” she dismissed. “Just sit down next to Connor and rest. I'll have our plates in a jif.”

Awkward, I took the seat beside him.

Tommy was a study in repressed mirth.

I glared at him, telegraphing,
Don't you dare laugh.

Then I stared at the gardenias and zinnias in the centerpiece, but it didn't help.

Kiss. Kiss, kiss, kiss,
my inner hedonist reminded me.

It hummed in the air between Connor and me, but was almost drowned out by,
He saw you with loose boobs! Loose, loose, loose, behind the fake, fake, fake.

“So, how is your day going?” I managed to ask Connor with reasonable calmness.

“I had a funeral at nine,” he said, clearly feeling as awkward as I did. “Then I made an appearance at the reception afterward.”

A funeral? The flowers he'd brought stood in a tall vase on the other counter. White glads with lots of greenery. Of course.

I couldn't suppress a chortle.

Connor went beet red, then stammered, “The family insisted I take these, but they wouldn't keep till Sunday, so I thought…”

“‘Waste not, want not,'” I quoted with a smile, the tension gone. “Very resourceful.”

He let out a short sigh of relief.

Mama arrived with our plates heaped with white-meat chicken salad covered in toasted almonds and mandarin orange sections, garnished to the nth degree with butter-crunch lettuce, sliced avocados, and her melt-in-your-mouth green tomato pickles. Quart glasses of iced tea completed the meal. “Yours is Splenda, Lin, like you like.”

Only when we were all served did she serve herself and sit down. Mama looked at me. “Lin, would you please bless this for us?”

I knew she wanted me to audition for Connor, but I prayed the same way I always did when we bowed our heads. “Heavenly Father, thank You for all the wonderful things You have given us.” Saying those words, I was instantly convicted of my complaints about having to move home. “Please bless this food and the hands that prepared it, and open our eyes and hearts to the needs of those around us. In Christ's name, amen.”

Connor nodded his approval. “Well said.” He waited to start till Miss Mamie spread her napkin and picked up her fork.

As soon as she began eating, he went straight for the green tomato pickles on his plate, and when he started to chew, a look of glory spread across his features. After that first, celestial bite, he turned to my mother and said, “Miss Mamie, I've been eating for a long time, but yours are the most amazing green tomato pickles I've ever tasted. And that's not just preacher talk. Heavenly. Just heavenly.”

Mama preened. “I'll send you home with a couple of pints.”

Connor beamed. “Now, that's a gift that money can't buy. I will cherish them.”

The secret was in the proportion of alum to spring water, and how long she soaked the tomatoes before candying them with a touch more alum in the syrup. But when Mama had forced me to memorize her recipe, then help her make them, she'd made me swear on the Bible that I would never reveal her cooking secrets till time came for me to pass them on to the next generation of Breedlove descendants.