Good Christian Bitches (8 page)

S
haron Peavy knew she was not the perfect woman. She knew she was moody, insecure, flawed, and hard to stay in a relationship with, or at least that was the feedback she had gotten from men over the years. But she had read enough self-help books and been to enough relationship seminars to know that she was lovable just the way she was, and that if one man said no, there would always be another man coming up quickly behind him to say yes—so she’d been told.

But the older she got, the longer the dry spells between men seemed to be. Sharon was well known as a “covert competitor.” The stories were legendary. She was the type that was always competing with someone for someone or something, but her opponent was never aware they were anything but the dearest of friends. When women who’ve never had to play that game encounter someone like Sharon, they end up hurt, deceived, and betrayed, but walk away from the experience just being very grateful they’ve never had to hone those skills and that they weren’t the type to have to try and make someone else look bad in order to try and make themselves look good. But Sharon had perfected this long ago and was truly a master of the game.

She was also self-evolved enough to know that her attractiveness to men wasn’t entirely spiritual, and that they were not drawn solely to that tiny kernel of lovability that she possessed. She knew that a lot of men were interested in her simply because, in addition to all her other fine points—a great sense of humor, an adventuresome nature, and pretty eyes—she had absolutely, positively perfect boobs. Some said she had the very best rack in Dallas.

The truth was they weren’t store-bought, they didn’t need an assist from a Miracle Bra, and they had never been surgically enhanced. They were naturally, absolutely perfect, and she was exceedingly proud of the fact that it was common knowledge they felt real. At the gym, on the rare occasions when she went there, she frequently saw women in their twenties glancing admiringly and curiously at her, and she would look right back at them. Those girls might have been ten or fifteen years younger, but they had nothing on Sharon Peavy—or so she had convinced herself.

She was also one of those women who would be the first to complain about how she hated it when men wouldn’t look her in the face because they were too busy staring at her chest, but she dressed to show it off anyway. So when Sharon needed something—companionship, attention, affirmation, or information—she knew that all she had to do was show some cleavage and the world was hers. Most men would say that Sharon had a great body and a face to guard it with. Most women just considered her hard-looking. One particularly disenchanted suitor had told his buddies that without makeup, Sharon looked rougher than a truck stop waitress. But even he couldn’t deny that she had a great body.

And she knew it could get her places. As she arrived at the Mercedes dealership the morning after her and Heather’s chat with Darlene, Sharon wore a revealing, scoop-necked electric-blue Dolce & Gabbana top she had “borrowed” from a Hillside Park friend. She didn’t want to buy a car—she was determined to find out who the gentleman was who had bought Amanda her car.

She parked her four-year-old BMW, a gift a boyfriend had given her in a fit of perfect-body-inspired generosity, power-walked across the parking lot, and approached the first salesman she could find and asked for a manager.

“Dean,” the salesman said, “she needs your help.”

With his eyes focused squarely on Sharon’s chest, Dean dropped his jaw. He found himself unable to speak for a moment.

“She doesn’t need anything,” he finally said. “She’s perfect the way she is.” And then to Sharon, brightly, “How may I help you, ma’am?”

“I’m from the head Mercedes office in Stuttgart,” Sharon said authoritatively. “Could we talk in your office for a moment, please?”

Dean blinked several times, trying to reconcile the idea that this most attractive woman had anything to do with the head office.

“I left all my business cards on the plane,” Sharon lied. Somehow the comment galvanized the still-awestruck Dean into action.

“Right this way, ma’am,” he said, leading her past the longing glances of the other car salesmen to his private office.

Once seated, Sharon thought about doing the Sharon Stone “crossing and uncrossing of legs” thing, but Dean was obviously already so flustered that that might have sent him over the edge.

“How are—how are things in Stuttgart?” he asked.

“Great.” Sharon tried to think for a moment about how things really were in Stuttgart. She’d never been, but she’d once dated a German. In her time, she’d covered most of the categories. Her German ex had been scrupulously hygienic, and come to think of it, he had pitched a fit about the dangers of air pollution.

“Smoggy,” she added as an afterthought. “Very smoggy. Especially this time of year.”

Dean nodded knowingly, as if intimately familiar with the subject of seasonal smog in Stuttgart. “We have that same problem here in Dallas, ma’am,” he said, groping for common ground.

“Mmm, I’m sure you do,” Sharon murmured. Then she got to the point. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here. Basically, Stuttgart sends me around to all the dealerships as kind of a secret shopper, but not really.”

Dean struggled both to simultaneously follow what she was saying and keep his eyes off her chest, neither of those an easy task. “Well, I’m not really a secret shopper, in the sense that I’m not shopping for a car.” Sharon’s explanation served only to pitch Dean into a greater state of confusion and despair.

“What I’m trying to say is . . .” Sharon started to think that maybe she should have come up with a simpler story. “. . . Is that I’m supposed to look at a random transaction y’all have completed in the last twenty-four hours? And just make sure everything was up to the standards that we at Mercedes try to instill in our dealerships.” Dean and Sharon exchanged a look of great relief—Sharon delighted that she had actually gotten her story straight, and Dean grateful because he finally understood, at least on some level, what she was talking about.

“You just want to make sure that we’re satisfying our customers,” he said, translating Sharon-speak into something that he could understand and explain to himself.

Sharon brightened. “That’s it exactly!”

“Um, sure. We’ve delivered about a hundred cars this week—I could get you all the QED reports you want, or phone numbers of the customers, or anything.”

“We’ve chosen at random,” Sharon said, going back to her story, emboldened by the success she had already achieved, “for our study a black Maybach. And we’re trying to focus specifically on black Maybachs that have been delivered to residential customers in the last twenty-four hours. Do you have any vehicles like that that might have been delivered in the last twenty-four hours?” She tried to sound professional.

Dean was flustered, fantasizing so heavily about taking Sharon into a dark corner of the repair shop that he could barely remember the question. “Um, I’m sure we have. . . . I’m not really in charge of the deliveries. But I could make a phone call for you. I could find out exactly that information, ma’am, if you’d give me a moment to make that call.”

Sharon smiled, angling herself at Dean in such a way that he found it truly impossible to keep his mind on his business.

He swallowed hard. “Ma’am, let me just get Yolanda on the phone, and I can get you that information,” he said, his voice starting to crack like an adolescent boy’s.

Sharon smiled primly. Unbelievable, she thought, this is actually working.

Dean reached for his phone, misdialed, misdialed a second time, then waited a moment as the phone rang on the other end.

“Is Yolanda there?”

Short pause.

“Could you find her, please? This is Dean. I’ve got a quality-control person from Mercedes of Stuttgart here in my office, and we’ve got a quick question for her.” Long pause.

Dean glanced at Sharon, and then for safety’s sake, restricted his gaze to the calendar in the blotter on his desk.

“Yolanda! I’m sitting here with—I’m sorry, your name was?”

Sharon came up short. She hadn’t even thought of a name to give. If she gave her real name, someone in the dealership might recognize it. After all, she
was
“somebody” in Dallas. She rapidly looked around the office for something to clue her in and noticed all the “Top Sales” awards on Dean’s walls.

“Sharon . . . Sales,” she said as convincingly as she could.

Dean nodded. “Like I said, I’m sitting here with Sharon Sales? Of the Stuttgart office? She’s a QC specialist and she wants to know if we’ve delivered any black Maybachs in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I need to see the paperwork,” Sharon said.

“She needs to see the paperwork,” Dean repeated, then listened.

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Sharon. “We delivered two black Maybachs yesterday—one to downtown Dallas and one to a residence in Hillside Park. Do you want the paperwork on both?”

Sharon thought quickly. She tried to make it sound as random as possible when she spoke. “What if we just did . . . the home delivery one in . . . what was that neighborhood you mentioned? Hillside Park?”

“It’s one of the nicer neighborhoods here in town. It’s just over Brookshier Road.”

“That would be ideal,” Sharon agreed.

Dean smiled with relief. It was just too much to be sitting alone in his office, even though it was a glass-walled office, with Sharon Sales from Stuttgart. Mercedes was known for springing quality-control experts on its dealerships, but the combination of sex and power that Sharon exuded was just too much for Dean.

“Thank you,” he told Yolanda. “She’ll be right there.”

“I’ll take you back to Yolanda’s office,” he told Sharon as he hung up, relieved to move her down the line.

Sharon, however, wasn’t relieved; she didn’t want to carry her charade to another person. “I don’t understand,” she said, confused. “Can’t you get the records for me? I just need to see the bill of sale.”

“It’s a different department,” Dean explained apologetically. “You know how it is. We just sell ’em. Yolanda’s group does all the record-keeping associated with delivery, warranties, the rest of it. I’m sure it’s the same in every dealership.”

“Oh, of course.” Sharon nodded rapidly, as if she had the slightest idea what she was talking about.

“Right this way, then, Ms. Sales,” Dean said, standing up to escort her out of his office and then down the hall.

Sharon followed, disappointed. Who was this Yolanda, anyway? Was she going to buy the idea that she was Sharon Sales from the Stuttgart office?

“That’s Yolanda right there,” Dean said, opening an office door and pointing. He gave her a little wave. “Yolanda, this is Sharon . . . Sales. She’s the QC from Stuttgart. Well, good luck, and safe travels.” He then got himself out of there as quickly as he could.

“Um, hi,” Sharon said in her most professional voice—which wasn’t all that professional, even she had to admit. “I’m Sharon Sales? From the Dallas office? I mean, from the Stuttgart office?”

Yolanda did not stand to greet her guest. Yolanda, a no-nonsense Latina born and raised in San Antonio, had little use for the self-important Dallas women who breezed into the dealership, bristling with impatience, ill-concealed racism, and stacks of their husbands’ hard-earned cash. To her practiced eye, Sharon looked like just one more Hillside Park wannabe.

“I left my business cards on the plane,” Sharon explained, flustered by Yolanda’s steely gaze.

“No doubt,” Yolanda said, not giving anything away. Sharon broke eye contact then, noticing that Yolanda’s blouse scooped even lower than her own. Great.

“I won’t be but a minute of your time,” she said, trying to sound as professional as ever. “I’m from—”

“Stuttgart,” Yolanda said, her tone dripping with disbelief. “You want to see the bill of sale for the black Maybach we delivered to a residence in Hillside Park yesterday. Is that correct?”

Sharon, uncertain about what to do with herself since she had not been invited to sit down, gave a nervous nod.

“I’m sorry,” Yolanda said after checking her records. She put her elbows on her desk. “The car was purchased anonymously for cash. There is no name on the bill of sale. Do you still want to see it?” Her tone challenged Sharon’s entire sense of authority. Sharon, flustered, felt what little control she had over the situation rapidly ebbing away.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “For cash? With no name?”

“And in any event,” Yolanda replied, eager to put this conversation to an abrupt end, “the transaction has been rescinded. The car was returned to the dealership earlier this morning. Would you like to see the car? I can assure you there was nothing wrong with it.”

“That—that won’t be necessary,” Sharon averred, backtracking slightly.

“Did you say your name was Sharon . . . Sales?” Yolanda asked, making a note on a yellow pad.

“Yes, b-but . . . I’d better go now.”

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Yolanda agreed, studying Sharon’s whole game, which she had to admit, was remarkable. “Let me guess. You’re checking up on your husband because you think he bought his girlfriend a Mercedes. Is that correct?”

Yolanda fixed her steady, terrifying gaze on Sharon, who was speechless.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Yolanda told her. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get another husband in no time. Have a nice day, Ms. Sales.”

Sharon meekly backed out of the office and practically ran out of the dealership, clicking her Dior heels on the highly polished showroom floor and nearly tripping as she ran. Once back in the safety of her gently aging BMW, she slammed the driver door. “Shit!” she yelled as loud as she could. Fortunately, she was out of sight and earshot of Dean, Yolanda, or anyone else at the Mercedes dealership.

Sharon yanked her cell phone out of her purse and called Heather.

“What’s up?” Heather said, bypassing “hello” or any other greeting.

“The guy bought it for cash,” Sharon said angrily. “And she returned the car! She didn’t even keep it. Now we’ll never know who bought it.” Silence.