Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (3 page)

“I still can’t believe that conversation I had with her. I swear, I was telling myself to be polite, but it just wasn’t happening.”

“She’s such a hag,” Tia says. “And just so you know, hanging out with me is going to get you blacklisted from the upper echelons of Pelican Cove society, because Lenore’s claws sink deep into the social scene here.”

“Well, thank goodness,” I say, laughing. “Maybe that’ll keep me away from her so I won’t be tempted to judo-chop her in the face.”

Tia starts laughing and assures me it would be okay with her if I judo-chopped Lenore in the face. When we finish eating, Tia orders us each a slice of key lime pie, and those arrive a few minutes later on chilled saucers. After the first bite, I graciously thank Tia for the suggestion, because it’s almost ridiculous how tasty that pie is.

We talk and carry on some more, exchange phone numbers, then agree to meet again for lunch soon. I head home and spend the remainder of the afternoon lounging around with Mason and Buster Loo. For dinner, I make shrimp kebabs, which Mason cooks on the grill while Buster Loo stands guard in case a wayward piece of anything happens to land on the ground.

After eating, we head out onto the back porch to watch the sun set. Leaning against Mason in the swing with Buster Loo curled up in my lap, I feel my worries slipping away with the daylight. I miss Chloe and Lilly; I miss hanging out at Ethan Allen’s bar; and I really miss Pier Six Pizza; but there are no sunsets by the sea in Bugtussle. What’s there instead is a surplus of small-town drama, and I don’t miss that at all. My life is here now. With Mason and Buster Loo. And today I met my first new Florida friend.

4

M
onday morning, Mason has already left for work by the time I get out of bed. I throw on some junky shorts and an old T-shirt and take Buster Loo for a walk along the gloriously landscaped sidewalk, which offers magnificent views of the Gulf. He scurries and sniffs and flounces around while I take big long breaths of the salty ocean air and think about how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place.

When we get back home, Buster Loo barrels over to his doggie bowls and I barrel upstairs to shower. I get dressed quickly, then head to the gallery, excited and anxious about the first official day of business for Mermaids of Pelican Cove.

When I get to the gallery, I go up to my studio and grab the fish-shaped
OPEN
sign I painted last week. I take it outside and hang it on the little hooks Mason installed on the column next to the front door. I walk back inside, thrilled out of my mind, and take a seat behind the counter. I look around, not sure what to do next.

Jittery and eager to do something constructive, I get up and walk around the gallery, straightening every piece of art whether it needs it or not. I wander into my office, but, discouraged by the stacks of junk that need to be dealt with, I head back to the front counter, where I notice a basket of brochures and business cards that must’ve been left by people who attended the opening on Saturday night. I don’t recall putting out a basket, and after thinking about it for a second, I’m sure that was Chloe’s doing, because she’s all proper like that.

I dig out all the business cards, find one from Kennashaw Home and Garden that I promptly toss in the trash, then stack the rest on the counter and start flipping through the flyers and brochures. I toss the ones that have little or no relevance to me personally, like one from a Montessori school and another about window installation, and make a neat stack of the ones I might need, like the menu for Big Boy’s BBQ and a pet-grooming service. At the very bottom of the basket, I find a brochure about the West Florida Festival of the Arts that’s held every year in nearby Pensacola.

I heard about this festival when I was a junior at Mississippi State University, and there have been several times throughout the years that I’ve seriously considered submitting an application but never did because I always chickened out for one bullshit reason or another. I look over the brochure and start getting excited when I think about sending in an application.

The festival is in November, but the application deadline is the first of September, so I need to get busy if I’m really going to finally do this. I have to send three high-resolution pictures of my work, plus the submission form and a small fee.

I run into my office to get my camera and have to dig through five different cardboard boxes before I find it. I walk around and snap pictures of what I think is my best work and then decide that since I have a few weeks, I might need to paint something new and altogether different. Feeling inspired, I head upstairs to the studio. When I’m halfway up, the doorbell chimes, and excited by the prospect of my first real-live customer, I run back down and around to the main hall of the gallery, where, much to my dismay, I find Lenore Kennashaw.

She’s standing smack-dab in the middle of my gallery in between two other ladies who look to be about her age and social status.

Great.

I muster up all of my self-control and decide to be pleasant, no matter what. If Lenore Kennashaw wants to push my buttons, she can damn well do it, but she’ll break her fingers trying before I give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. I put on a happy face and step out to greet them, thinking that Lenore Kennashaw will pay top dollar for anything she buys today.

“Well, good morning, Mrs. Kennashaw,” I say with sweetness dripping like warm molasses. “How
very
nice to see you today!” She’s wearing a dark green boatneck top, superstarched plaid shorts, and ugly green sandals. A long gold chain with a small hammer pendant hangs around her neck.

Lenore Kennashaw touches the tiny hammer and appears to be surprised by my hospitable tone. I give her a good stare down, then reach out to shake her hand, thinking,
I’m from Mississippi, bitch, the Hospitality State
. She looks at my hand like I just wiped my tail with it and then glances at her sidekicks, who are staring at her like they find her hesitation offensive. She reaches out and shakes my hand.

I smile.

“My friends wanted to come by,” Lenore says, not moving her gaze from mine.

“Well, I’m happy you were kind enough to accompany them,” I say politely, not moving my eyes from hers. “It’s
so
good to see you again!”

I turn to the taller, plump lady, who’s just stepped up to my right.

“Well, hello,” I say kindly, “I’m Graciela Jones.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Jones,” the lady says. “I’m Ramona Bradley. I missed the opening because I was out of town, but Lenore told me all about it.”

Ramona Bradley has on a hot pink polo and black capris that have tiny pink flamingos like polka dots stitched all over them. She’s wearing black leather wedges and her manicured toes are the same color as her shirt.

“I’m sure she did,” I say, smiling at Ramona Bradley like she’s the queen of England. “Mrs. Kennashaw placed the winning bid for the prize piece at the auction,” I coo, wanting to add,
Then left without writing a check for it
, but instead I say, “Such a lovely and benevolent woman.” The short lady to my left gives me an odd look, but I keep smiling.

“She donated it to the charity house,” the short lady says flatly.

“Oh, really?” I say and show no reaction even though that makes me furious.

“Of course,” Lenore says. “I took it by there as soon as I left.” She makes a face like she’s referring to the removal of a dead, bloated skunk. “It certainly wasn’t suited to the décor of my home.”

“How very generous of you, Mrs. Kennashaw,” I say with more sweetness than a truckload of cupcakes. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m quite the versatile artist, so I’m confident I could paint something that would fit right in at your home.” I visualize an oil painting of a gigantic corncob wedged between clenched butt cheeks.

“Oh, really?” the short lady says, and I’m afraid she’s picking up on my insincerity. “Have you been to the Kennashaws’ place?”

“Oh no, but I hope to be invited soon,” I gush and step over to the little lady. “Graciela Jones,” I say, holding out my hand. “And you are?”

“I’m Sylvie Best,” she says, studying me. “I missed the opening as well.” Sylvie is wearing a denim one-piece dress that looks like it was designed for someone forty years her junior, and even with her high-heeled, cork-bottomed sandals, she can’t be more than five feet tall. Her skin is a leathery brown and she’s either in a permanent state of being startled or she’s had a face-lift. Or two.

“And you’re a friend of Mrs. Kennashaw’s?” I ask, looking over at Lenore.

“We’re both on the board of Caboose Charity,” she says evenly.

“I see,” I say and wonder how her annual donations measure up to Lenore’s.

“Ramona and Sylvie were anxious to see the community’s new art gallery,” Lenore says, looking around like one might look around a sewage-treatment plant. “And since we’re here, you should know that our annual fund-raising event is coming up, if perhaps there is another
masterpiece
you might be willing to part with.” She really pours on the sarcasm, and I tell myself not to take the bait because I need all my brain cells in harmony to execute my next snipe. She eyes a large portrait of potted calla lilies.

“Do you like that one?” I say, following her gaze, knowing the only reason she’s looking at it is because it’s the biggest piece in the gallery. The other ladies turn and look.

“That’s quite lovely,” Sylvie says.

“Thank you,” I say, calculating my next move. “Take that one, and since it’s for charity, I’ll also give you this.” I walk to the other side of the gallery and point to the boat picture that triggered our disagreement this past Saturday night. I look at Lenore Kennashaw and smile. “I do believe this is one of your personal favorites. Am I right, Mrs. Kennashaw?”

In your face, bitch!
I think. This covert-ops manner of exchange is not as much fun as kicking her in the shin would be, but it’s close. Lenore looks at me like she wants to kill me.

“Perfect! How very kind of you, Miss Jones,” Ramona Bradley says, and then turns to Lenore. “Why, she’s lovely, Lenore, nothing like you said.”

“Ramona,” Lenore says, smiling nervously, “you must’ve misunderstood something—”

And Ramona unknowingly scores one for the home team!

Ramona looks like she’s about to launch into an explanation when Sylvie takes her by the hand. “Ramona, do you think your nephew would mind picking up these portraits for us and taking them over to the charity house?”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all because he’s such a fine boy!” Ramona says, clearly distracted. “Let me just give him a call.” She looks at me. “He has a very big truck.”

“Great!” I say. “How convenient.”

Ramona steps away to call her nephew while Sylvie stands there and stares at me. I look at Lenore and smile. She smiles back. Then she winks at me and my blood pressure goes through the roof. I stand there, holding my phony smile, thinking that if Lenore Kennashaw had known me before I moved down here, she wouldn’t put so much effort into rubbing me the wrong way because she would know that I might just punch her right in the nose.

“Miss Jones,” Ramona says, jerking me out of my reverie, “he’s out of town right now, but he can come by next Monday if that’s okay with you.”

“It is.”

Ramona wraps up her call, then slips her smart phone back into her Louis Vuitton bag. “His name is Kevin Jacobs and he’s a really nice boy. Well, I say boy; he’s not a boy—he’s almost forty years old and he’s a bit of a redneck like his father, but he’s very handsome.” She places her porky hands together as if to pray. “We really appreciate you giving so generously.”

“Thank you for giving me the opportunity to, uh, give,” I say, thinking about how ugly Kevin Jacobs must be if his ol’ auntie Ramona goes around telling people he’s a handsome redneck. “I’ll have the pieces packaged and ready to go.”

“Thank you so much for your time today, Miss Jones,” Lenore Kennashaw says as she turns to leave.

“Nice to meet you,” Ramona says, turning to follow Lenore. “Good-bye, now!”

“Good-bye,” I say. “Come back anytime.”

After the two of them walk out the door, Sylvie steps up to me and, in a very low voice, says, “Lenore and I have known each other for over forty years, Miss Jones. Our families moved to Pelican Cove around the same time and we’ve been the best of friends ever since.”

I’m not sure what to say and since the only thing that comes to mind is, “I don’t give a shit,” I just stand there and nod.

“Very few times have I seen her as upset as she was after you publicly accosted her here at your humble gallery. From what she told me, you were a most ungracious hostess, and that’s regrettable because people who succeed in this town tend to be ones with a bit more respect for, shall we say, the powers that be?”

My jaw drops and then I bite my lip because I know if I open my mouth again, it’s going to be bad for Sylvie Best.

“What I’m saying is that it would behoove you to knock off that phony smile and thinly veiled attitude and find a way to show some esteem for the people who can and
will
determine your success in our quaint little town. Understood?”

I take a deep breath and decide to let her know with as much profanity as possible that she will have nothing whatsoever to do with the success or failure of my art gallery, but then it dawns on me that she might not be bluffing. Tia just told me yesterday that Lenore’s claws sink deep into the social scene here, and while I’m not even sure what that means, I don’t know if I’m willing to run the risk of running my mouth and ruining myself on my very first day of business.

Seeing my hesitation, Sylvie smiles and nods. “That’s right,” she says, turning to go. “No need to say a word. Good girl.” She stops at the door and turns to look at me again. “You might make it in this town after all, Miss Jones. Especially now that you know where you stand.”

I watch her walk out of my gallery and get into a silver Mercedes-Benz. “Those bitches!” I say to myself, watching them pull out of the parking lot. I’m so mad I feel faint, so I go to the break room and get a Diet Mountain Dew out of the fridge. I walk up to my studio, stop in the doorway, and look out at the bay. I run the entire conversation through my head again and then, at the top of my lungs, I yell, “Those stupid bitches!”

I want to run and get in my car, ride around until I find that Mercedes, and then fist-whip Sylvie Best in her too-tight face until her eyeballs pop out, but that probably wouldn’t be good for business, so I just stand there, seething. Then I think about the paintings I just
gave
to those idiots and get even madder. I reluctantly go back downstairs to pack those up, telling myself it’s not for them, but for charity.