Fat Girl (17 page)

“Well, the purple’s not working for me either.” At an enviable size 6, my friend is not facing the same issue. “Try on the red one,” she encourages.

I peel and shimmy my way out of the clingy satin, on the verge of tears. It’s not just how much I hate trying on clothes that’s making me weepy. I remove the next unlikely choice off the hanger and slip it over my head. I slide up the hidden side zipper and knot the halter around my neck. Long chiffon straps hang down my bare back.

Turning, I reluctantly peek at my reflection in the full-length mirror—something I usually avoid doing. The shirred waist bears intricate beading, and the A-line skirt floats in soft waves to just below my knees. The most daring part of the dress, aside from the bold color, is the fitted bodice, which plunges at the neckline. If I thought the low V-neck top I wore to the Glam Bar on Thursday night was stepping out of my comfort zone, this is taking a flying leap.

Even though my wardrobe has come a long way from the baggy attire I used to wear for concealment over fashion, I still prefer the coverage of dark, conservative clothing. Nothing that shows too much skin or draws unwanted attention to myself. But admittedly, the dress itself is feminine…pretty…and very sexy. Something I wish I had the self-assurance and body to pull off.

“How’s the red one?”

At the sudden intrusion of Lexie’s voice, I blink away the ridiculous tears. Honestly, I’m acting like a basket case. “It’s not me.”

“Let me see.”

“I wanna see, too,” Jordyn chimes in, but without Lexie’s restraint she whips back the curtain.

Their eyes pop and their mouths drop open.

Embarrassed, I cross my arms over my breasts. “I told you it’s not me.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me? The Twin Peaks in San Francisco have nothing on your boobs,” Jordyn says, glancing from me to her small chest beneath a sweetheart neckline. “If I had a rack like yours, I’d walk the streets topless.”

“Jordyn!” Lexie admonishes her. After sending Elle an apologetic smile, she turns to me and makes a spinning motion with her finger. “Twirl! I want to see the back and the flow of the dress.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” she insists.

Rolling my eyes, I reluctantly oblige the arbiter of style and self-consciously pirouette. The skirt sways around my legs with the movement.

“Love it!” Lexie exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly. “The dress is fabulous on you, Dee. Very Marilyn Monroe.”

“Please,” I say with another eye roll, even as I feel a rush of pleasure at her flattery.

“I’m serious. You look glamorous and tastefully provocative.”

That sounds like a stretch, but even if I don’t look all that bad, I still can’t. The dress is completely out of character for me. Then I check the price: $499!

At my gasp, Elle says, “The fit is perfect on you. I’d be happy to take off 20 percent.”

I do a quick calculation. Still pricey. And still out of my league. But urged on by my grinning friends with their thumbs jutted up in support, I cave. “All right. I’ll take it.” For now. I figure I can return it later, when I come to my senses and buyer’s remorse sets in.

Four hours later and $700 poorer, I’ve had enough and so has Jordyn. Lexie gives shop-’til-you-drop a whole new meaning. Loaded with our parcels—mine containing the new dress, a silk wrap, strappy sandals, and a sequined evening bag—we stop in at the Thai Village for dinner.

O
ver spicy basil chicken and a bottle of nicely chilled
Pinot Gris,
Lexie regales us with tales of her imperious mother. The latest is Miranda Townsen attempting to turn what was supposed to be a lighthearted birthday celebration into a who’s who event.

“It’s bad enough that she’s treating my thirty-first as though it were my coming-out party, but when I saw the guest list of more than a hundred people, many of whom I hardly know, I put my foot down and limited her to fifty. Richard backed me up, which I’m sure is the only reason my mother relented.”

“Well at least Dr. Snooze came in handy for something,” Jordyn says, balancing a piece of chicken on her chopsticks before spearing it into her mouth.

“Be nice,” Lexie chides her for the not-so-affectionate name she has bestowed on orthopedic surgeon Dr. Richard Schnauss. “Richard’s a lovely man.”

“Richard is dull and uptight,” Jordyn corrects her. “But he’s rich and well bred. That’s why your mother has wet dreams about you marrying him.”

“Ssh! My God, Jordyn, don’t you have any filter?” Lexie says, shooting a nervous look at our fellow patrons. “I’ve known Richard and his family for years. He’s kind and comfortable.”

“Who wants comfortable? There are two types of men,” Jordyn lectures her, as if she were the authority on the male species. “There’s the gentle surf.” She opens her mouth for an exaggerated yawn. “That’s Richard. Predictable and
bor
-ing. Then there’s the tidal wave,” she exclaims, her face lighting up. “Now he’s a wild ride you won’t soon forget. So why stick with boring when you deserve thrilling?”

“I’m not like you, Jord. To me, sex isn’t some kind of wild adventure.”

“Oh, honey.” She looks at Lexie with sympathetic hazel eyes. “That’s just sad. Let me introduce you to Eduardo. Give him an hour and you’ll be a changed woman.”

“I’m not interested in any of your hand-me-downs,” Lexie balks. “I like Richard.”

“Of course you do. You like everybody. But,” she asks, pointing her chopsticks at Lexie, “are you
in
like with him?”

Lexie hesitates and then answers, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Jordyn says, throwing down the gauntlet. “Then tell me this. Does he do it for you in bed? Does he leave you so wrung out you can hardly move?”

Lexie chokes on her bite of food, and tiny beads of sweat break out on her brow. “Relationships can’t survive on good sex alone,” she answers after dabbing her forehead with a napkin. “The fact that you don’t stay with a man more than a few steamy nights should tell you that.”

Unfazed, Jordyn says, “I like variety. Why tie myself to one guy when there are thousands out there!”

“So your goal is to become the female Wilt Chamberlain?” Lexie asks wryly.

“Better that than the doctor’s dissatisfied wife.”

After a year and a half, I’m used to their verbal sparring. The mismatched pair met as college roommates. Lexie, rebelling against her parents for the first time, had chosen to live in residence with the regular folks rather than join her mother’s sorority and live in “the house.” Although the two are as different as stilettos and flip-flops, somehow they work.

I love them both and admire Jordyn’s free-spirited nature, but I’m more like Lexie. I lean toward caution, mainly because of my hang-ups. So I understand why Lexie finds Richard a safe choice. He’s steady, reliable…tame. He’s not the kind of man that’s going to curl your toes with a kiss or make your body zing from a simple touch. He won’t take your reason or common sense away. He won’t make you forget yourself or yearn for things you can never have.

By the time the server clears our plates, their banter has fizzled and their attention shifts over to me.

“Spill it,” Jordyn says. “You’ve been distracted all afternoon, and judging by the look on your face when you arrived, I’ll hazard a guess that the visit didn’t go well.”

“Try disastrous,” I admit, toying with my paper napkin. Because my friends aren’t associated with the case, and because I trust their discretion, I tell them about the weird dynamics between the Franklins, Dwayde’s hostility toward them, and my suspicion that he’s hiding something.

“Couldn’t his animosity stem from the horrific way he lived all those years with his mother?” Lexie suggests. “From his perspective, they didn’t locate him until he was out of his crappy situation and already settled in with a family he loves. Adding to that, they want to uproot him from Chicago and everything he knows to live on a ranch in Kentucky. What child wouldn’t be hostile under those circumstances?”

“True,” I agree. “But I saw his reaction when his grandparents mentioned Dasher. He remembered that horse. And his anger is not consistent with them being strangers. I can’t put my finger on what he’s hiding or why, but my spidey sense tells me there’s more.” I’m too familiar with what secrets and lies look like not to recognize them. And Dwayde is safeguarding something big.

“So what made the visit disastrous?” Jordyn asks, raising her wineglass to her lips.

“When Charles Franklin told Dwayde he belonged in Kentucky with them, he blew up. He shouted that the Torreses were his only family and ran from the suite.” My friends pause in the middle of sipping their wine. “The grandmother was in tears, and I stayed behind a few minutes to persuade the grandfather to drop the case. I shouldn’t have taken the time then, but I wanted to strike while the emotions were fresh. Not that I think it made any difference. The Franklins are as determined to have custody as Victor and Isabelle are. But my delay gave Dwayde a good head start, and by the time I got out of there, he was gone.”

“You must have flipped!” Jordyn says.

My heart races at the memory. “After twenty minutes of asking around and searching…convinced he had run away, I was just about to call Victor—can you imagine his reaction to hearing his foster son had gone missing on my watch?” I shudder at the notion. “Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary.”

“
Whew!
” Lexie says. “Where did you find him?”

“I didn’t exactly find him,” I hedge, which makes my friends fix me with What-aren’t-you-telling-us looks. There’s no way I can avoid answering, so I say with as much nonchalance as I can muster, “Mick called me to say Dwayde had turned up at his place.”

“Holy shit! You spoke to Mick today!” Jordyn says at full volume, and this time I’m the one to glance around the restaurant to see if anyone has noticed her outburst.

“I saw him earlier when I went to pick up Dwayde from the community center for the visit. Then I spoke with him when he called. Both interactions were brief.” That’s mostly true.

Wagging her index finger at me with dramatic flair, Jordyn says, “I’m calling bullshit, Deeana Chase. It doesn’t matter how brief. Not only did you speak to your ex, you saw him and didn’t mention it. Why?”

For the same reason I didn’t tell them about Mick’s call on Thursday night or the flowers he sent on Friday. “There was nothing much to tell. Our paths are going to cross in the course of this case. I knew that going in. The point is that Dwayde’s safe, not that I saw or spoke to Mick.”

“You expect me to believe that’s all there is to it?” Jordyn huffs and Lexie’s eyes on me are just as doubtful.

“Yes.”

What else can I say? That despite everything, Mick still has the power to knot me with desire and break my heart in two? That one look from him has me torn between running for cover and running my hands all over his body? That speaking to him leaves me feeling hollow and lonely? That every interaction tosses me into a chaotic emotional mess?

I can’t say any of that. Because somehow admitting out loud what Mick does to me would give the feelings power. And if I allow Mick that kind of power, it will diminish his betrayal and all that I lost.