Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (31 page)

“No, my dear. In this case your fat sugar cube is the fact that Brad cheated. Because of your prenup you get everything in the estate . . . including all the stocks he hid under your name. They're all yours now. Legally.”

“Okay. How many shares are we talking about?”

“Well, Miss Johnson, a great deal. When your divorce is final, you will have a controlling interest in Keller's Department Store.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“You own it.”

“It? What do you mean . . .
it
?”

“I mean all of it, darling! You will
own
Keller's Department Store! The entire thing. Lock, stock, and barrel. For the first time in its history, Keller's will not be owned by a Keller. Maybe you should change it to Johnson's! Strange, isn't it? So sudden. But I told you it was a fat sugar cube. Those naughty little bunnies hid all their eggs in your Easter basket, thinking you'd never find them . . . and even if you did, you'd obey them. They never imagined you'd be so clever. They never saw this coming, did they, Jennifer? . . . Jennifer?”

21

Elegantly Invincible

F
lash forward a year.

A fairly boring year actually, filled with court cases, legal battles, and unsuccessful lawsuits as the Keller family frantically tried to “sue my ass off” and get their company back. At the final trial, when the judge delivered her final verdict and declared me the rightful owner of Keller's, the Honorable Ann Nelson brought her shiny black gavel down with a sharp
crack!
And then she looked at me and winked.

She did. She winked.

What a world! Suddenly I owned Keller's, but I confess, it didn't take me long to figure out I was a really crappy CEO. My first action was to close the store for a week and give all Keller's employees a proper vacation, which ended up costing us . . . I don't like to recall the exact number. I never was any good with money or sales projections and profit forecasts, which turned out to be a big part of the job. My dad is much better at it. Plus he likes having a big fancy office downtown. I have an executive office too, but I don't use it much. Usually the only occupants are an ever-growing tribe of dust bunnies under the couch and a bronze sculpture that sits on my desk and looks very much like a bat smashed against a grille.

I don't even have a secretary.

Emily's desk sits empty. I was sad, in a way, when I heard she'd left, and I packaged up all those lists I made her. I sent them to her along with a note.

 

Emily,

 

I'm not sure if you're still planning on marrying Brad, but if you are, you're going to need these a lot more than I am. Look out for yourself, Emily . . . you might be the only one who does.

 

—Jennifer Johnson

 

I'm not mad at her anymore. I'm too happy traveling around the world with Nick and the dogs on the SS
Nevertheless,
and even though we hardly ever come home now, I never worry about the store. I left it in quite capable hands. Not only is my dad the head bean counter, Lenny is the head of infrastructure management, and I hired a new president.

The new president was a big deal.

I knew I wanted him, but it took months of courting him and weeks of salary negotiation, not to mention having the entire executive suite remodeled exactly to his specifications, before he agreed to take the position. Everyone loves him. He's quirky and creative. Every day he sits at a vast Lucite desk, and he spins around in a huge pink vinyl wingback chair. “Okay, ladies!” he says. “Grab your fairy dust, we have work to do!”

Yes.

Christopher is the new president of Keller's Department Store.

Best decision I've ever made.

No contest.

Seemingly overnight he transformed our dowdy, frumpy department store into a chic upscale shopping destination. He put in endless hours, obsessed with removing all traces of the old regime. He purchased all new product lines and banished anything cheap or poorly made. Whenever “previous Keller” merchandise surfaced—an old box of skorts or a crate of nude pantyhose—he ordered a ritual fire. He wants nothing from the past. His team worked relentlessly, painting and redesigning every floor as Christopher oversaw every imaginable detail. He even took down all the big oil paintings of the Kellers and the long-gone board members that had hung in the conference room since the store opened. He purged the place until not a single image of any Keller remained.

“I want
fresh
ideas, people!
Chop-chop!
Dear God,
no,
honey. Take it away, before my poor eyes start to blister. How many times must I say it? We don't
do
downtrodden anymore. Everyone listening? We don't do downtrodden anymore. Or oppressive. Or soul-killing. Got it? Listen to me . . . and please somebody tell me there's a triple-foam latte in this office for me . . . because I'm not trying to sound dramatic, people, but if I don't get a coffee, I may— Oh, thank you! Wonderful! Thank you, darling.
Delicious!
”

He works his staff hard, but he works himself harder and with more clarity of vision than anyone else could. They call him Queen Bitchy Bee. He routinely asks his assistants if they know that he had the first legal gay wedding in Minnesota, thanks to Keller's CEO.

Yes,
his assistants moan.
We know.

“Did I tell you she paid for everything?”

You did.

“She said to me, ‘Christopher darling, I'm throwing your dream wedding. I'm paying for the whole thing and I don't care what happens afterward, so make it gay, honey.' I said, ‘Are you sure?' Because she had that whole horrible Christian Keller militia breathing down her neck all the time. And she said she was sure. When I asked her, ‘How gay should I make it?' she just looked at me and said . . . ‘
As
gay . . . as gay gets.
' Isn't that wonderful?” (Here I'm told there's usually the welling of tears.) “Gentlemen”—he sighs—“there's only
one
Jennifer Johnson in this world. No one else even holds a candle.”

Very sweet but totally untrue. I know a few people who are quite a bit more amazing than me. Greta now spearheads my international animal-rescue organization, ACE (Animal Care in Emergencies). I gave my Lake Minnetonka house to the Fang Gang, partially because they deserved it and partially because Mrs. Keller deserved it. Pho runs his thriving cyber-ninja business from the house and Bi'ch teaches survival training there with Dizzy Bee, who moved into the guesthouse. Star Fan married a very nice marine and is now pregnant. I knew we didn't have long with her. Pac Man is my angel. He's fearless.

Lots of changes happened in the Keller family too. Sarah opened her own clothing boutique, and Brad moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career as a songwriter . . . so he'll be coming home soon. Sadly, Mr. Keller left his wife for Ada, a fact that made me feel a little bad, until Mother Keller herself remarried and was happier than anyone had ever seen her. She married Pastor Mike at Grace-Trinity, a real coup by any standards, and it catapulted her into the highest echelons of church-lady power. So basically she's in heaven. Her own Lutheran Jerusalem. Martha Woodcock defected across the street, to Mount Holyoke Lutheran.

All I know is life is designed to be a disaster.

In every way you can possibly think of. We get lost, we fall down, we marry the wrong people . . . life is a mess. It's also oddly, eerily perfect. Rough seas and stormy passages build something quite ferocious inside us. Something uncontainable and even ugly to others but something wildly free.

Strange miracles come in odd packages. The people who wound up helping me the most weren't rich and famous. They were surly Hmong teenagers, limo-hearse drivers, homeless old men with diabetes. They taught me that if you want to come in from the rain, stop searching for shelter. Look for something else that needs help and protect it, because when we shelter something else, no matter how small, we become shelter ourselves. We never need to look for it again.

Magnetic north is shifting, which means the old maps are wrong and getting wronger. Old routes won't take us where we want to go. So we must find the new ways ourselves, slowly, carefully, often in the dark, and sometimes falling down. We are the new mapmakers. Strange miracles are hurtling toward us right this very moment, so hang on. Miracles are coming as fast as they possibly can.

Acknowledgments

T
he author would like to acknowledge the fact that many people helped her with this book, including the unstoppable Jeanette Perez, the saintly Amanda Bergeron, the irreplaceable Carrie Kania, the indomitable Cal Morgan, the full-of-savoir-faire Alberto Rojas, the unkillable Jen Hart, the adorable Mary Sasso, and the mysterious Julia O'Halloran. Special thanks to Laura Cherkas, my production editor, and to Natsuki Schwartz for Japanese translations. You're all as much a part of this book as I am . . . which may call for certain apologies.

Deep thanks to all my agents, my lawyers, and all those who would sue . . . the fiercesome John Stout, the dapper John Larson, the lovable Tom Weiss, and the indefatigable Stephanie Unterberger. Also to the lovely Elizabeth Sheinkman at Curtis Brown London, and the sharpshooter duo of Debbie Deuble and Steve Fisher at APA. God love your wily, sharky hearts, every one.

Many friends helped me with this book, probably because I had their phone numbers. Rick Bursky sent poems, Billy Collins wanted to, Joyce Carol Oates provided ongoing sparks, Neil Gaiman told me I could . . . so I did. Special thanks to Harry Drabik, who provided sanctuary. Marcy Russ took notes, My Lee Xiong double-checked my Hmongs, Ari Hoptman killed all the joy, Jeffrey Hagen took pity on me, Jodi Ohlsen counseled, Chris Strouth knows his bad porn, and Christian Barnard sent treats in the mail. Andrew Bendel could have been helpful but wasn't. Tim Peterson was available for caffeine infusions, Bart Regehr always astounds, and Andrew Peterson is a living idea machine. David Sunderland makes everything pretty. Love to the Breadloaf Kittens 2000—I always am grateful to you—and Matty Dillon, Jim Zervanos, Leslie Blanco, Speed Weed, Miss Meghan Cleary, Thom Didato, and the other hardworking Borts out there all writing away in the dark.

Thanks and apologies to the Ludington-Klings for the completely inappropriate use of their beloved dog's name, Farfel, and to high school friend Billy Davis for becoming a deacon against his will, and to the Swenson gang for wacky authenticity, and also to the Morganthalers, a lovely family in every way. Hurrah to the hale souls of Key West, specifically Judy Blume, who inspires me; Grand Vin, who let me write on their porch; Tom Favelli and friends; Meredith and Michael, who conjure 3-D poetry; Michael Baier, my cajoled mentor; my adopted German family the Seigerts; and Pepper, Tennessee Slim, Cookie-Man, Deb, and all the rest of the Key West gang . . . my world is better and much weirder because I know you. My deep love and sympathy to the Commodore and Jane McKean, along with the whole schooner
Appledore
crew, who lost their first mate, J. C. Smith, while I was writing this book.

The author's family endures a lot. Love, thanks, apologies, rain checks, and IOUs to Judeman, Colly, H.K., J.T., Katie, Oscar, and a myriad of cats, who stood by helping every which way they could. So did Cindy, Becky, Paul, and all the Nelsons from afar. You're one heckuva family. Who else expects you to show up with vodka and pie?

Big love to Sir Lawrence Swenson, who truly is wonderful in every way and who makes me smile constantly. Lastly, thanks to Walter, my egg-roll-shaped pug, whose ongoing wants and immediate needs make me a better, stronger, and vastly more patient person.

I love all of you.

Also by Heather McElhatton

Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

Million Little Mistakes

Pretty Little Mistakes

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Credits

Cover design by James Iacobelli

Cover photographs: Bride and groom © by Tetra Images/Getty Images; paper bag © by Ljupco Smokovski/Shutterstock

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

JENNIFER JOHNSON IS SICK OF BEING MARRIED.
Copyright © 2012 by Heather McElhatton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-206439-4
EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062064400

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