Lovesick (35 page)

“It does, but not for the reasons you think,” she says. “Daddy loved that pharmacy. It gave his life such meaning, especially after Lara and I left, and Mom died. I know he secretly wished that it would stay in the family forever, and I’ve always felt so guilty that I couldn’t give that to him. But I didn’t want to run a pharmacy, and neither did Lara. I think that’s why he allowed himself to get into such debt—because he knew that Day’s Pharmacy was in its golden years, too. But then you came along, and everything changed. It was like a light switch went off in his head. You have no idea how impressed he was with you, sweetheart. He had plenty of pharmacy techs, interns, and apprentices over the years, but Daddy never reacted to any of them like you.”

“But then
you and I
started dating …,” I conclude flatly.

“No, you’re wrong. We started dating right away. He felt that way about you
after
he knew about us. Even after you dropped out of pharmacy school. In the beginning, Daddy didn’t know what to make of you. But how could he resist someone who came so highly recommended,” Paige brags.

She continues: “I kept tabs on you after high school. I knew you were back in town. I knew you were in pharmacy school. Daddy didn’t really need an intern, but he took one. Like it was any coincidence that I visited him on your first day of work. My father could have let you go when you quit pharmacy school. But instead he hired you full-time. You were
it
for him. Just like you were
it
for me. You were going to run the place. You were going to be his son. You were going to take over someday and carry on the tradition.”

“I feel like I’m always … always disappointing your father, even now,” I say.

Paige takes my hand. “You’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is, he loved you,” Paige insists, her eyes welling up with tears. “He loved you.”

We’re both quietly crying now.

The Martinez fireworks are now under way and Ruth’s porch swing provides the most splendid riverside view.

“I have fresh-squeezed raspberry lemonade!” Ruth announces as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping.

I take mine from her.

“So what’s with this wedding?” Ruth says, squeezing her butt between us.

“The costs are getting out of hand, and so far, we’ve received forty-two yeses, and zero noes. Actually, forty-four, Ruth is coming with a date,” Paige informs me.

I give Ruth a kiss on the cheek.

“Maybe I can return the dress,” Paige suggests, sadly.

I’m touched by the offer, but I tell her no way: “You’re wearing that dress.”

“We need to cancel the hall,” Paige admits.

She’s right. We’ll lose the $500 deposit, but it will still save us
a fortune, including the penalty fee we’d pay if we used an outside caterer.

“Maybe we can renew our vows there in twenty years,” Paige dreams.

“One wedding at a time,” I beg.

Ruth gives me a look, but it’s of no use, I’m not committing to another wedding, to the same woman, twenty years after we still haven’t had the first one.

“Have you collected on Rhonda Rally’s tab?” Ruth asks.

Rhonda Rally?

“Her sister, Fay, hasn’t got one red cent, but Rhonda’s loaded and she owes you a bundle. And what about that little tart, Lucille Braggs?”

I don’t remember seeing Rhonda Rally or Lucille Braggs on either Gregory’s Co-Pay program or Lara’s hit list.

“Where are you getting these names?” I ask Ruth.

“That young lady and I talk,” Ruth says.

“When did Lara start recruiting?” I wonder to Paige.

“No, no, not her,” Ruth insists. “I know who Lara is. I’ve been chatting with that adorable girl, the one with all the tattoos and the jewelry in her tongue. She knows what’s what.”

MARTINEZ is everything Crockett once hoped to become but never managed to achieve. The county seat of Contra Costa County is about twice the size of Crockett and ten times its population. People know the City of Martinez because it’s the Bocce Ball Capital of the country, the birthplace of Yankee legend Joe DiMaggio, and the home of the original vodka martini. It is in Martinez, not Crockett, where you pick up Amtrak, where you take your
driver’s exam, and where Paige and I just finished filing for a marriage license.

It’s also where you buy lingerie.

Paige takes me by the hand into the floozy bordello Frederick’s of Hollywood. She says she needs something for her trousseau, and I have to help. This way I don’t end up buying it back only to burn it later.

Everything about this place makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to risk overhearing a female customer explain to the sales-clerk why the latest plunge-pushup bra doesn’t accommodate her “ladies” or why she finds certain G-strings more comfortable than others. I don’t need images of what all these couples look like fornicating. Sure, I can appreciate the inventive combination of under-wire, gel packs, cups, pads, straps, spandex, nylon, satin, and silk that go into a Frederick’s design, but I think buying lingerie should be a more private affair. This probably makes me a prude.

The more Paige and I browse the exotic array of underwear and bras, the more I realize that I’m a meat and potatoes guy. I pluck a pair of white cotton “hip-hugger” panties off the “2 for $25” table and dangle them in Paige’s direction for approval.

“Those are so cute!” she says, with a polite but patronizing tone. “Don’t you want something
special
for our wedding night? Maybe fishnets, or how about a corset!” she says, excitedly.

She holds up a teeny triangle-shaped piece of red silk attached on both sides by tiny strings and asks me what I think. I adamantly shake my head no. It leaves nothing to the imagination. This is that rare case where “more is less.”

A scrawny, conservatively dressed man about my dad’s age with a thick 1970s porn star mustache joins us at the panty table. His “lady friend” cozies up to him. The man picks up a frilly black pair of underwear with ruffles and enthusiastically presents it to his lover. She approves. These two intend to have sex, soon, possibly on this table. I’m ready to go home.

“So first the pharmacy and now the house,” she says. “Tell me your honest opinion, Andy, there’s no way we can save the house, is there?”

There is just no way.
The Rite Aid offer came in at less than half of what I estimated we’d get. That alone sealed the house’s fate.

“I don’t think so,” I say, kissing her softly on top of her head.

Paige leans her head on my shoulder.

“I was thinking about how hard you’ve worked to collect all that money,” Paige says, browsing some more.

Paige points to the thigh-high stockings on the long-legged headless mannequin. I approve and she tucks a plastic-wrapped pair under her arm.

“Had we known, had we just sold the pharmacy and the house right from the start, we might have been able to use that money and whatever you collected to pay off some of our
own
bills and maybe even finance this wedding,” she admits. “But if I had to do it all over, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ll always love you for trying.”

“There
is
a silver lining,” I inform her, kissing Paige on the lips. “And you know how I know? Because
I have a chart,”
I announce, pulling it from my pocket.

Paige shakes her head. “Of course you do,” she laughs.

“But you’ve never seen a chart like this one. It’s called a doughnut diagram,” I explain. “Similar to a pie chart, a doughnut diagram can be used to show how proportions contribute to the whole, but in many ways it’s
better
than a pie chart because you can compare two different series of data.”

“Boy, you really know how to put a girl in the mood.”

Paige unhooks a silky black number from the half-price rack. She drapes it against her body.

“This is called a teddy. Similar to a bra and panties, a teddy can be worn underneath clothing, but in many ways it’s
better
than a bra and panties, because it has this little convenient snap on the bottom,” she says.

Paige curtsies all proud of herself.

“Buy that,” I bashfully tell her.

“Yay!” she says excitedly. “Now
that’s
the honeymoon spirit. You now have permission to tell me about your delicious doughnut diagram.”

“It’s pretty simple, actually. The inner ring represents the money we have. The outer ring represents what we owe. That bite in the top left-hand quadrant of the doughnut represents the difference. Between the bills, collections, sales, and the Rite Aid offer, I estimate Gregory still owes about $30,000. But here’s the silver lining: now that we’re selling the house, we don’t have to pay another dime. All that $30,000 becomes forgiven debt. Lara says there is a lien on the pharmacy and another on the house. We just let the creditors sort out the money from both sales. If any other money trickles in, we should try to keep that for ourselves. If only I could figure out a way to make this doughnut diagram solve our Medicare doughnut hole problems.”

But Paige stopped listening a while ago. Her eyes are fixed on the man tapping on the storefront window. Tyler Rich waves his shopping bags hello, points to the entrance, and lets himself in the store.

“Pay Day!” he yells across the floor room. “Hey, you two!” he says, consolidating his bags in one hand so he can ignore me and give Paige a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.

I should probably be proud of the fact Paige wants to wear thigh-high stockings and a black teddy with me (and not him), but having Tyler Rich here, inspecting Paige’s potential sex purchases, only makes me livid.

“How
are
you two?” he asks.

My heart is racing. Fists clenched. I’ve never been in a fight before. Paige gently touches my shoulder, but neither of us speaks.

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt whatever you two were doing,” he says finally. “I’ll let you go. I’m sure we’ll talk later, Pay Day.”

Tyler punctuates his last sentence with a wink.

“Stop calling me that,” she says coolly.

Tyler Rich wasn’t expecting that.

“I’m confused,” he whispers loudly. “Now he won’t let you have friends?”

“How many times do we have to go over this, Tyler?” she says. “You and I are not actually friends. I’m not entirely sure we ever were. It’s been ten years since I saw you last, and I think it’s time for you to move on.”

The three of us stare at one another amid the pushup bras.

“Sounds like ‘closure’ to me,” I add.

Tyler bobs his head and slinks off without saying another word.

Before he’s even out the door, Paige looks at me lovingly. Then she dramatically holds all of her purchases over her head and asks, “Do you think they’ll let me wear these home?”

PEOPLE love Paige’s sugar cookies.

The key, she says, is you need to undercook them slightly. This way they’re soft in the middle and crispy on the edges. It also doesn’t hurt to use tons of real butter and loads of C & H white sugar. Lydia also taught her that a dab of cider vinegar cuts down on the sweetness of the frosting.

Paige spent all morning baking. She doesn’t care that it’s the fifth of July. She’s made American stars and flag-shaped cookies, decorating them in painstaking detail. Paige has a definite flair in the kitchen. The baking skills come from Lydia, the creativity from Gregory.

We grab a few fresh batches and make the neighborhood rounds, starting with Belinda’s mother, Marylyn, two blocks away.

I don’t think Marylyn will ever forgive us for standing her up
that day. Marylyn offered to cater our wedding
for free
, and how did we repay her? By not having the decency to drop the woman a quick phone call notifying her that no one would be eating her chocolate raspberry soufflé. It took me two days to work up the courage to leave her a discombobulated phone apology. I learned later that Paige sent Marylyn flowers and a kind note, but by then, it was too late. Marylyn was furious. Belinda delivered the official message to me at work: “The offer to cater your wedding is ‘irrevocably rescinded.’”

Paige and I exchange encouraging looks.
We are a united front.
Paige holds the ribbon-wrapped plate of cookies up high like a peace offering. Then I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

A moment later Marylyn’s daughter answers. Belinda looks healthier than usual, dressed down in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Belinda’s dyed her hair from pitch-black to a conservative shade of brown. She still has the lip ring and the silver barbell in her tongue, but no dark makeup.

As soon as she recognizes us, she quickly and quietly closes the door behind her.

“That’s a nice gesture,” she says of the sugar cookies, “but I think Mom needs more time. My family is famous for its grudges. Mom and I are still pissed at each other over something that happened three weeks ago. The topic escapes me, but she was wrong.”

“Then
you
enjoy them,” Paige suggests kindly.

Belinda hesitantly takes the plate.