Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (7 page)

When the meeting is dismissed, Roger walks back down the street with Don and Becky, and I insert myself into their little crowd. Roger is telling Don about how he rigged up a motion-sensor camera, and even Becky laughs when Roger talks about the look on Cindy’s face when she saw herself up there, as guilty as sin. I ask Roger what kind of dog he has, and he tells me that he has a black pug named Moses that he loves like a son.

I stand in the Collinses’ yard and hem-haw with them for a minute; then Don tells us he has to go to bed. I shake Roger’s hand and tell him that I’m very sorry about the cat piss in his car, but that he certainly made my first trip to the homeowners’ meeting unforgettable. He chuckles and takes off toward his house. I decide to ask Mason if we can invite him over for dinner sometime, because that Roger is quite a character. Plus Buster Loo might like to meet Moses.

I head back to an empty house and talk to Buster Loo as I do a few loads of laundry.

Mason gets home late and falls asleep on the sofa while I’m relaying the finer points of the board meeting. I wake him up and drag him upstairs, and I swear he’s snoring before his head hits the pillow. I run my fingers through his hair a few times, then kiss him on the cheek and lie down on the bed beside him.

I hear Buster Loo scamper up the stairs, and a second later, he’s snuggled up between Mason and me. I flip off the lamp and lie awake in bed thinking about Cindy and Margo and wondering how people get to be so abnormal.

11

T
hursday morning starts out slow, and by slow, I mean not a soul stops by before noon. I drive to Bee Bop’s Burgers & Shakes and order a cheeseburger, and while I’m waiting for it, my phone rings and it’s Tia. After making sure I know who she is, she invites Buster Loo and me to accompany her and her wiener dog, Mr. Chubz, to the Peanut Festival this Saturday. She goes through the details and I quickly accept, happy to have something to do besides make a casserole for a neighborhood social that might or might not be as entertaining as last night’s homeowners’ meeting.

She goes on to tell me that she and a couple of her friends have what they call Girls Night In every Thursday night, and they all pile up at someone’s house for drinks and gossip. She asks if I’m interested and I tell her that I most certainly am. Much to my disappointment, she tells me that tonight’s get-together is a no-go because the hostess had to keep two of her four kids home from school today because they were sick.

“My house has to be spotless before I can have people over,” she explains. “And Jalena can’t do anything without a month’s notice, but definitely plan on coming to my place next Thursday night.”

“I can host Girls Night In tonight,” I say, because I haven’t had a Girls Night Anything in more than three months and I’m ready to have some fun. “We could meet at the gallery.”

Tia is quiet for a moment, and I get nervous thinking that if she says no, then I’ll feel like one of those women who tries too hard to push the friendship too fast and talks about stuff like anti-itch cooter cream before it’s appropriate.

“Tell you what,” she says finally. “How about we have it at the gallery next Thursday?” Oh, this is horrible. I should probably just go ahead and start a conversation about hemorrhoids right now. “Because we’ve already called it off for tonight.” Or ask her if she wants to talk about the last time she had diarrhea.

“Okay, that sounds good,” I say lightly, trying
not
to sound like the disappointed eager-beaver weirdo that I obviously am.

“That way you’ll have time to invite some of your friends as well,” she says, and that really stings, because I think about Lilly and Chloe and get depressed and homesick, because you don’t have awkward conversations like this with people you’ve been friends with forever. “I can’t wait for you to meet Jalena,” Tia continues, and I can tell she’s hedging. “I think you guys will get along great.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” I say, making every effort to sound sufficiently excited as opposed to overly excited, completely embarrassed, and/or totally disappointed.

“Okay, great! I’ll see you on Saturday, then!” Tia says, and I tell her good-bye and toss my phone into the passenger seat like I just found out it was rotten. I finally get my damn cheeseburger, and after I eat it, I wish I had six more. I order a brownie sundae, which I eat on the way back to the gallery.

To try to get my mind off my extraordinary ability to make a fool of myself, I decide to go ahead and send in my application to the West Florida Festival of the Arts. I go to my office and look up the guidelines, carefully reading over them one last time to make sure I haven’t overlooked any relevant details. I get my camera, go upstairs, and take several pictures of the painting I titled
Marina
at Blue Oyster
, then go back downstairs and transfer those, along with photos of my other favorites, onto my laptop. I study each photograph carefully before choosing what I think are the three best pictures of my three best paintings. I go online and pull up the application, fill in the all the necessary blanks, and then upload the pictures. On the next screen, I’m prompted to pay the small application fee, so I grab my purse and realize that my debit card isn’t in my wallet.

“Shit!” I yell, because no one is here to hear me. “I must’ve left it in the car after I paid for my lunch.”

I walk out to my car, and I’m bent over with my ass in the air when I hear a loud truck pull into the parking lot. I grab my debit card out of the console and turn to see Kevin Jacobs leaning out the window of his big Chevrolet pickup, smiling and waving. I cram the card into my pocket and strike a pose like I think a stripper might just before she jumps on a greased-up pole. Then I wave back.

He climbs down from the cab and I walk over to the sidewalk and he smiles and says, “What’s up, Ace?”

“Hello, Kevin,” I say, wondering what he’s doing here but not really caring.

He’s wearing a royal blue T-shirt with a white number five on the front, black athletic shorts, and tennis shoes that look like they have little rubber bulldozers attached to the bottom. On his head I see what looks like a brand-new Florida Gators hat.

“Walk you inside?” he asks.

“Why, certainly,” I say with a bit too much Southern drawl. I look at his cap. “Thought you were a Roll Tide man,” I say, careful not to slip back into my Scarlett O’Hara tone.

“Why would you think that?” he says, reaching for the gallery door.

“Well, you were wearing an Alabama hat last time you were here,” I say, walking past him and into the gallery.

“Aren’t you observant?” He follows me inside.

“Which is it?” I ask, walking around behind the counter so I have a sizable obstacle between me and Mr. I Wanna Sex Him Up.

“Which is what?” he asks, leaning on the counter, getting close enough for me to smell his seductive scent. I think about those men’s body-spray commercials and decide maybe they aren’t so far-fetched after all.

“Are you a Florida fan or an Alabama fan?” I say, taking a step away from his aroma. “Can’t be both!”

“I’m both,” he says, smiling. “I went to both schools, so I’m entitled.”

“Really?” I say, genuinely interested and thankful for such innocent small talk so I don’t say something stupid like, “Would you like to see my boobs?”

“Yep. Went to Bama on a football scholarship, got injured, packed up and went to Florida for a year, quit, and came home and went to work for my daddy.”

“Doing what?”

“Construction.”

“So you build houses?”

“Not much.” He shrugs. “My dad retired fifteen years ago and I ran the family business for a while, but then things got slow and me and the crew had to start going wherever we could to find work.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, well, most of the crew. The guys with families had to find other jobs so they could stay around here, but the rest of us just ramble around like a pack of wolves.”

I nod, wondering if the whole crew is as sexy as he is, and if they are, would they make me a pinup calendar or something. I look up at him and he smiles. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?”

The only thing that pops up into my mind is “Are you here to make love?” so I just stand there and grin.

“No?” he says, eyebrows raised.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Jacobs?” I ask, wondering what kind of man fragrance he’s wearing and if Satan bottles it himself or has the other people in hell do it for him.

“I’m looking for a painting.”

“Then you came to the right place,” I say. “Do you have something in particular in mind?”

“It’s for my mother,” he says, and I stop thinking about him naked. “She likes flowers, and I had to unwrap that big picture I picked up here last week and that looked like something she would really like.”

“Oh,” I say, flattered out of my mind.

“Personally, I liked the boat picture better,” he says, looking at me. “But that’s beside the point. Momma’s birthday is tomorrow, and I’d really like to surprise her with something nice.”

“Follow me,” I say, walking out from behind the counter. “What size are you looking for?”

“What do you suggest?”

“Where will it go?” I ask as I walk across the floor of the gallery, thankful I wore my make-my-fat-ass-look-good jeans today because I can sense his eyes on my backside. “Like, what kind of room do you think she might she hang it in? The kitchen? The sunroom?”

“I have no idea.”

“That’s helpful,” I say, teasing.

“Sorry.”

I get to where I’m going and whirl around, and he’s a lot closer to me than he needs to be. He looks down at my boobs and then takes a step back.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I almost ran right over you.”

“My fault,” I say, praying I don’t break out in hives, because I’m so hot for him that I feel light-headed. “I should have brake lights installed.” There we go! Here I am: The master of squelching sexual tension, Ace Jones, is on the scene. Kevin starts laughing, and I stammer, “Not sure exactly, uh, never mind.”

He looks at my boobs again, then raises his eyebrows and shakes his head.

“Ok, let’s get down to business,” I say and start pointing at a painting of some daisies. “Are you looking for a happy, light-hearted image like that or something more along these lines?” I point to some petite pink roses with a twilight background and, in the distance, a sliver of the moon.

“Not that one,” he says, nodding toward the roses. “That looks a little too romantic to get for my mother.” He looks at me. “I don’t need her and Daddy sitting in the living room watching
Walker, Texas Ranger
, then looking up at that picture and getting all worked up by some affectionate notion and start making out and have somebody roll off the couch and break a hip or something. Then it’d be all my fault.”

I laugh out loud and he just smiles.

“I really think she’d like something like that big one I picked up here the other day.” He inspects the other pictures on what I like to call the floral wall. “What kind of flowers were in that picture?”

“Calla lilies.”

“It kind of made me think of those pictures on the wall at Las Cantinas.”

“That’s because it’s the same flower.”

“Are you Mexican?” He looks at me.

“My mom’s side of the family is from Spain, like way back a long time ago.” My cheeks start burning, and yet again, I can hardly believe the stupid shit that comes out of my mouth.

“Well, señorita, do you have any more calla lilies?”

“No, that was the only one.”

“How much was that one?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Whoa, now!” He says, “And you just gave it away?”

“That was the asking price, not the actual cost,” I tell him and then think maybe that’s not the best thing to say to a potential customer.

He points back to the daisies. “How much for that one?”

“How about a hundred bucks?” I say and don’t tell him that I just gave him a fifty-dollar discount for being so charming.

“I’ll take it.”

“If you’ve got a minute, I can wrap it for you.”

“That would be great.”

He follows me to my office and flirts with me until I’m afraid my cheeks will burn off my face. He appears to be the quintessential midlife bachelor, and it occurs to me that he goes around getting women hot and bothered for sport. The thought also crosses my mind that at his age and as many girls as he’s probably gotten freak-nasty with, he can surely see that I want to sex his brains out. To soothe my guilty conscience, I tell myself that looking at Kevin Jacobs is like looking at a T. rex exhibit in a museum. I can stand there all day long and stare, but it’s not like I’m going to mount it and try to ride it out the door. Satisfied with my commitment to chasteness, I get back to thinking perverted thoughts.

“So what’s with the jersey?” I ask.

“Flag football,” he says.

“Oh, really?” I say, thinking he could tackle my ass any day of the week, and then I remember that nobody gets tackled in flag football.

He asks about Mason and we make small talk about my fiancé while I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with finding him attractive because, hell, anybody with eyeballs can see that he is.

“I hope your mom is most pleased,” I say, handing him the package. I want to ask him why his aunt Ramona hangs around with mean old bitches like Lenore Kennashaw and Sylvie Best, because Ramona doesn’t seem to be quite so wicked. Then I start wondering if they sent him in here to try to seduce me in an effort to completely ruin my life and decide to just keep my mouth shut about that.

“I’m sure she will be,” Kevin says, and try as I may, I can’t make myself believe that he’s the kind of person who would be involved with something like that.

“Thanks so much for stopping by,” I tell him, and I’m fairly sure my face is beet red at this point. I’m going to have to get a watercooler with a spray nozzle if he’s going be a frequent visitor. Or maybe put a water hose out back.

I get up and speed-walk to the front of the gallery, step behind the counter, and silently curse my complete lack of professionalism. He picks up his package and follows me, but stops before he walks out the door.

“See ya!” he says, then does his two-finger salute-wave.

“Bye!” I say, bitterly disappointed in myself for being so disappointed that he’s leaving. I watch him walk out to his truck, then notice a silver Mercedes backed into a shaded parking space on the other side of the lot. I step up to the window and see Lenore Kennashaw sitting in her car. I stand and watch her, wondering if she can see me through the glass. Finally, I get mad and walk outside, ready to address whatever issue she has with me today. When she sees me, she quickly pulls out of the parking lot into the road, where a few cars have to slam on their brakes to keep from hitting her. I walk back inside trying to convince myself that Kevin Jacobs is not a minion of Lenore Kennashaw’s, and while I’m not a hundred percent sure he isn’t, there is no doubt in my mind that Lenore Kennashaw is out to get me.