Stilettos & Scoundrels (7 page)

“Me too
,
Dad,” I
said affect
ionately, realizing how much I
missed him. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Just over six feet tall
,
his dark wavy hair was now starting to turn silver, which always looked good on men. Not fair at all. He ha
d
dark brown eyes, almost black, but
they were
always sparkl
ing. My dad and I had
always had a close relationship
because
he had played the role of mediator on many occasions.

“It’s been too long since the last time you were here. I know you are busy with your life in the city, but we’re not that far away,” he chided gently.

“I know, I know. Mother never fails to remind me each time we talk.”
It was p
recisely
why I
had to force
my
self to call
home each week. I
loved
my
mother, but
I
hated being lectured and feeling guilty.
I was good enough at making my
self feel guilty.

“She only acts that way because she misses you
, King,” my
dad replied, using the long
-
time family nickn
ame, which, for the record, I
hated and always hated, wh
ich was precisely the reason my
dad still used it.
My
mother had always been an avid Elvis Presley fan. Since
I
wasn
’t a boy, she could not name me
Elvis
—something I was thankful for
every day. Instead, she named
me
Presley. Then
,
when
my
brother was born, her fixation on Elvis still going strong,
but recognizing that she could not have two children named Presley and Elvis,
she named him Jesse
,
after Elvis’ twin brother who died at
birth. Unfortunately, my dad started calling me
“
King
”
for the King of Rock ’n
’ Roll when I
was a baby. At the time, it was cute
,
and
at one p
oint
, I
a
ctually liked it. However as I
got older
,
it got to be annoying. Of course, he thought it was hilario
us. It never stopped driving me
crazy, especially as a teenager, which just meant he used the nickname even more.

“Can we stop with the nicknames
yet?” I
asked, only half in jest
;. T
here was a part of
me
that secretly enjoyed hearing it from him. “I am an adult and it’s not cute anymore.
‘
King
’
sounds like the name of a German Shepp
ard, not your daughter.” I knew I was wasting my
b
reath with this request, and my
dad didn’t even get a chance to reply
be
cause as they wal
ked up onto the porch, my
mother started in.

“It’s about time you got here. You said you’d be here around three and it’s going on six. We were worried sick,” she said snappishly, wringing the dishtowel in her hand
.
W
hile
I
didn’t relish listening to her,
I
thought it was comforting in an odd way
. It made me feel like I was finally
home.
My mother had
probably cooked all day and
I
was going to hear
about
how
I had screwed dinner up. I sighed. So maybe I
wouldn’t be able to last through the weekend after all
. I’d lived with my mother for all those years growing up
,
so it
shouldn’t be so difficult.
Patience
, I told my
self.
Deep breath
in…relax
. I
tried re
membering the calming things I
l
earned in yoga the few times I
tried it. My
attempt at yoga was short lived because it had to be about the
most boring form of exercise I
had ever tried
. When the yoga instructor said to be at peace with yourself
, I
had been thinking about work, food, or wine
—all the things I
would rather be doing
,
which was not exactly the most relaxing.
Don’t let her get to you
,
I
said to
my
self.
This was just the same crap we
went through every time.

“And
what are you wearing?” My
mother gasped
like she had just seen that I was
naked.

I looked down at myself, almost afraid by my mother’s expression that I
was
naked and didn’t realize it. What could poss
ibly be wrong with this? I had on my
favorite, albeit only, genuine Juicy sweat suit. It was a perfect fit, the kind where the pants fit snugly in all the right places and the jacket just barely reached t
he top of the pants, so when I
moved you got the br
iefest glimpse of tummy. I had been going to my
Pilates classes religiously for the past six weeks to be able to wear this.
W
hen
I p
ut it on this morning
though, I
wondered if I
should wait a few more weeks, but
threw caution to the wind and wore it anyway.
Who was going to see
me
on the drive to Alkon
other than
a bunch of truck drivers and th
e gas station employees where I
stopped? Pl
us, vibrant green was one of my
best colo
rs. It brought out enough of my
other great features that a little extra tummy (ok, ok…and ass too), wasn’t very noticeable. Or so
I thought. As usual, my
mother
was making me
fall back into the old pattern of self-doubt.

“Mother, I am a big girl now. I didn’t realize that I need to check in
,
”
I
retorted, annoyed that it
took all of two minutes for my mother to make me
feel sixteen again. “Besides, I said afternoon. Technically wouldn’t that give
me until five o’clock?” I
didn’t say anything about
my mother’s comment regarding my clothes, even though I
really wanted to. This was a fashion statement
, and it wasn’t my problem if my
mother didn’t understand that.
I felt I
must be reaching a new level of maturity and was getting bett
er at handling things, since I was able to let my
mother’s snide comments go like that.

No one
else ever made me
this mad this quick
ly
. Was it a mother’s
gift to be critical? My mother and I
were a lot alike.
We b
oth had the same dark red hair and hazel eyes. Sue Thurman was taller at five feet nine inches, to
my
five feet six inches, and
I
had all the boob
s, thanks to Grandma Margaret. I
inherited
her grandmother
“Ds
,
”
but they had
somehow skipped
my
mother.
It was something else my
mother always complained about
—s
he was sensitive about her
small tatas. Personally, I
didn’t see what the big deal wa
s
. They got in the way more than anything did.
But
maybe when
you are
blessed with boobs
,
it
is
hard
to
understand what it
i
s
like to not have any. My
friend back in Chicago, Samantha, always complained about her small ones too.

My
mother was beautiful and looked younger than
her fifty-nine years, as had my
grandmother, an
d her great-grandmother. I hoped I
was lucky enough to inherit t
hose genes. Unfortunately, our
personalities were also alike, which is why,
I often lamented, we
never g
o
t
along. I
felt that I
was the much easier one to get along with
, but I was not sure my
mother would always agree.

“Aren’t you just happy I’m here
,
M
other?”
I
asked, giving her a peck
on the cheek, trying to mask my
annoyance and
trying to
keep the peace, or at least prolong it awhile. “You look great.”
She was dressed in what I
always called the
“
Junior League uniform
”—
very conservative tan slacks with a mauve sweater set. Complete with the pearl buttons and a strand of pearls around her neck, she was the Junior League stereotype. Her auburn hair
was
pulled back in a chignon, and she was wearing minimal make up, just a swish of pale pink lipstick and mascara. She looked like she could host any kind of charity event at a moment’s notice and
,
on occasion, had. She had
a
knack
for being able to
throw things together at the last minute t
hat turned out fabulous. I
, on the other hand
,
often felt scattered and half pulled together, and that was on a good day. Always looking pulled together was someth
ing about my mother I
envied.

“Don’t be sassy with me
, young lady. Y
ou could have had the common courtesy to call and tell us. Isn’t that what your cell phone is for? You could have been lying dead in a ditch. How would we know? Guess they don’t care a
bout manners in the city,” my
mother said. “I hope you are hungry at least, though the food is probably ruined after sitting for so long.” With that, she stomped back in the house.
I looked back at my
dad for help
,
and he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He never seemed to let her criticisms bother him
. He j
ust rolled with the punches. His eyes twinkled with amusement. He found their sparring funny most
of
the time.

“Glad you still find this so amusing
,
D
ad”
I said, rolling my
eyes.

“What can I say? It’s what I live for,” he joked back. “It wouldn’t seem the same if you two didn’t bicker all the time.”

Even though I
had been here all of five seconds and had already been yelled at,
I
was excited about dinner, as my
mom was a great cook. She just didn’t understand
that three
big meals a day, fried, breaded, and always including des
sert, were not good for my waistline. I
never failed to gain two pounds
per day every time I visited. I couldn’t understand why my
parents
weren’t five hundred pounds. I
already had
enough trouble fitting into my size eights, mainly because I
had no willpower
and only did Pilates because I had to, not because I liked it. I also felt compelled to give my
self a reward after any form of exercise, and that typically included some form of chocolate. Some might say that was counterproductive
, but I
felt it was motivational. This was going to be a tough weekend in many ways
that I hadn’t anticipated. I
groaned.

Sitting down to a delicious pot roast, still moist
of course and not ruined as my mother had threatened, my
mother asked, “So
,
how long are you planning on staying?”

“I’m not sure. The interview with Senator Daniels is scheduled for tomorrow
,
and then I was planning to stay through until maybe Monday or Tuesday. I’ll need to get back to write up the piece by the deadline.” Th
at wasn’t entirely true, but I wanted an out if my
m
other really started driving me crazy. Then I
could leave and not feel as guilty a
bout it. I
w
as feeling really good about my
ingenuity.