Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

Yippee!! Immense relief swept through my body. The heavy “unemployed with serious deficit load” I carried vanished in the wind. “Really?”

  With a broad smile, she nodded.

  My entire being grew lighter than a feather. “Thank you, Miss A. You won’t have any regrets.”

  “You’re welcome. I believe in you.”

  Her genial smile caused me to feel accepted, too.

  “However, I cannot pay a lot. Not until we reach specific significant sales—which we will. I’m determined to be a success—at all costs. You see, I’m old-fashioned about marriage, and I believe in true happy ever after.”

  The hourly wage Miss A. mentioned sounded standard for the times and desirable over nothing. I could cinch my budget tighter and make do for a while.

  We chatted a little longer to get to know one another better. Miss A. explained she lived elsewhere, until recently, when she decided to relocate to Sommerville, a familiar stomping ground from younger days. She revealed her prior retail experience in women’s clothing, and after working in a wedding salon in the Northwest, she desired to open a store of her own.

  “Good news,” I said. “I have a potential customer.”

  Miss A raised her brow. “You're a fast worker.”

  “My sister.” I nodded, happy to share. “Her ‘I Do’ day is months away. And she needs major help.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to meeting her. An influential couple has an appointment in the store in a few days to plan their wedding, too.”

  “Influential couple” caused an image of Jonson Leggett the Third and Barbie Fenster to pop in my head. Silently, I prayed “anyone but him.”

  Miss A. shifted forward to set aside my paperwork on an adjacent table. With a tug, she adjusted her jacket placket into place. “Now, if you don’t mind, I suggest—for the store’s purposes—we call you Miss Hattie.”

  Weird. Me being called Miss Hattie sounded weird, like what-I-called-my-Sunday-School-teachers weird. I twerked my mouth sideways. Didn’t matter. If “Miss Hattie” was my store name, “Miss Hattie” it would be. My main goal, other than pleasing her, was to keep the job; so, naturally, I would agree to most anything—within reason. Like knifing and maiming wouldn’t be a part of the job, except in self-defense, which shouldn't be a problem in a wedding salon. “Of course.”

  “Excellent. You have plenty of expertise which will easily transfer to my line of business,” Miss A. said. “I can teach you about the wedding industry. You appear eager to learn.”

  Confidence swelled in my chest, nearly busting my shirt’s buttons. “I am.”

  “So, how about starting tomorrow? The store opens at ten in the morning and closes at six in the evening, except for Thursday and Friday when we close at nine. We aren’t open on Mondays either, except for now while we stock the store. If you could arrive a bit before ten tomorrow—perfect.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Wonderful.” Miss A. stood and, with a wave of her hand, indicated the way to the front door.

  When I arrived at the door, I set my hand on the handle and paused. One question plagued me about the opportunity. “By the way, Miss A—”

  “Yes, dearie?”

  “Does Wedding Wonderland sell invitations?”

  “But of course.” She patted my shoulder in a grandmotherly fashion. “I have contracted a specific printing company to work with.”

  An “uh-oh” sensation sank to my feet.

  “Everything is done on-line. You’ll learn the ins and outs.”

  Based on my not-so-good past job at Button and Bows Stationery Company, I felt duty-bound to bone up on my proofreading skills. I couldn’t lose another job because of misspelled names similar to female body parts.

  Chapter Three

  At my recent birthday bash held at my parents’ house, I introduced my sister, Tracey, to her fiancé, Stuart Steems. I watched love blossom at first bite.

  Sitting off to one side at a table covered in a red-checkered tablecloth, Stuart munched on chips, which he liberally dunked in Mom’s tasty cream cheese picante dip. In an admirable way, he maneuvered a whole triangular chip in his mouth without any mishaps.

  Stuart worked at Northside, Lancaster, & Brookside Accountants as a senior Audit manager. He interviewed me for the temporary administrative assistant’s job for the firm’s managing partner. Near the end of the interview, he invited himself to accompany me to my birthday party.

  I didn’t want to take him based on his geeky look plus his “interesting” social skills; however, despite his excessive begging, I followed a page from one of Mom’s lengthy lectures on “politeness” and succumbed to his puppy dog expression. I did outline dating boundaries.

  He stood a little less than six feet with spikey short black hair, startling blue eyes, and wore rectangular, wire-framed glasses in black he purchased specifically for the occasion.

  Sister Tracey, who dressed like the artsy type and also was employed as an accountant, rolled in more savings than moi. At every opportunity, Mom sang lofty praises about her youngest daughter’s career choice, which caused me sometimes to feel less than adequate, non-intelligent, dumb.

  Luckily, Tracey would be well-prepared to care for our mother in her advanced dotage.

  Tracey had zeroed in on Stuart seated across the patio, calmly eating and drinking. “Who is the gorgeous hunk?”

  Her scream pierced my eardrum. I pursed my mouth and wondered if her babbling referred to someone else. I thought, oh no, missy. Any hunk at my birthday party belonged to me—not her. Me. After many pointing fingers, I determined “the hunk” was Stuart who’d caught her fancy.

  Can anyone spell relief?

  A tiny part of me held sympathy for my sissie. Tracey didn’t connect with men easily. She lacked confidence. I implemented some of my wily moves—read skillful manipulation—and introduced them. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

  Subsequently, Stuart’s wardrobe improved immensely when he began dating Tracey, thanks to expert fashion advice from me via her.

  Ta-daaa. A curtsy would be in order.

  A record speed-breaking courtship ensued. While on his death bed after an unfortunate incident where our NLB colleague, Cathy Bartholomew—aka the Blonde Bimbo—shoved him down the stairwell, Stuart asked Tracey to marry him.

  I was shocked, but I wasn’t the only one.

  When told about the prospective union, Mother acted more than floored, like “required-a-pitcher-of-martinis” floored, but she recovered instantly and plunged into the BIG plans up to her elbows. After all, mothers wanted to see their offspring happily married ever after. No take-backs. And my mom wanted to make sure the fête would be the ultimate in perfection, worthy of a two-page newspaper spread in the society section of the Sommerville Express. The gossip tongues would wag for decades.

  Flipping my blinker, I steered onto Boston Avenue, took a quick right on a side street, and continued. Tracey’s and Stuart’s imminent nuptials took the pressure off me. Mom didn’t have enough hobbies like World Peace or Save the Whales to keep her busy. Distracting her shifted all focus off my back to match me with Allan Wellborn. She focused on her youngest daughter.

  Truthfully, Tracey and Stuart compiled a lot of questionable ideas for their “I Do’s” and needed a professional other than Mom to corral them. Miss A. would be a huge help in this department.

  I slowed my Jeep at the stoplight, studying the cars to my left and right while waiting for the light to switch back to green. Because of Stuart's ballroom dancing hobby, the couple wanted the wedding party, along with a few select friends, to take dance lessons, specifically to perform the tango during the reception—sorta like a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers floor show. Except for one thing—Tracey didn’t tango. In actuality, none of us did, apart from Stuart. Everyone agreed—very, very reluctantly—to their wishes for the special day. If we looked silly, we did so in a group where everyone looked silly.

  I dreaded tonight’s activity.
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br />   This evening marked our first lesson, which took place at the studio where Stuart and his regular partner—his mother—practiced. Locating the studio, I parked my Jeep and flew across the parking lot, flung open the door, and oriented myself. Most of us had shown on time and ventured into the rehearsal room, where we shuffled into a semi-circle to face the instructor, Ms. Yolanda.

  Ginormous mirrors lined the walls. The mirror ball fixture sparkled. Our footsteps on the hardwood floors squeaked.

  Ms. Yolanda dressed in a long silky caftan worn over black leggings. Her ebony hair was highlighted with one thick white streak originating at her widow's peak.

  Stuart presented his teacher, and in turn, he introduced each of us to explain our role in the wedding. As sister to the bride, I was designated Maid-of-Honor by default.

  After the introductions, Ms. Yolanda shifted us into two lines—girls on one side and boys on the other—to pair us with a partner.

  For today's lesson,” she said in a sing-song voice, “don’t worry about who is matched with whom. Since the girls’ line is longer, you at the end”—she pointed my way—“are left without someone. Doesn't matter. All will work out.”

  “No worries, Hattie.” Stuart threw an arm across my shoulders and squeezed. “He’ll be here shortly.”

  He? I stared. Who the heck is he? Probably some nerdy accountant co-worker. Rats. I would forever be doomed to spend my life with geeks and dweebs.

  Stuart flicked a wave and abandoned me to join my sister.

  I wished not having a partner gave me an excuse to leave, but I didn’t. My sister’s future happiness depended on her big day being perfect. From behind me, the entry door banged, and with quick steps, somebody approached.

  Everyone swiveled to see the new arrival.

  Allan Wellborn. My mouth crooked aside. Not much of a surprise. But my heart did beat faster.

  “Come in. Come in.” Ms. Yolanda’s hands beckoned him forward, a large toothy smile shaped her mouth. “Your partner is the pretty girl.” Her directing finger indicated…me.

  Snickers emanated from the various quadrants of the room.

  I rolled my eyes. I should have known Allan was asked to dance. I didn't bother to glare Stuart’s or Tracey’s way. Even though preparing and interviewing for the new job exhausted me, I wasn’t dense. Me thinketh someone deemed it funny-eth to play matchmaker.

  Miss Yolanda guided Allan in the space opposite me. “Such a handsome young man,” she gushed while patting his lapels. “So glad you could join us. We’ll have you performing the tango in three easy steps.”

  Do three easy steps mean one easy lesson?

  After Allan tossed his sport coat on a chair, he turned his gaze toward me and stepped on his spot. He grinned.

  His sleek smile sparked the attractive sparkle in his eyes and possessed the ability to drive me crazy. Leaning slightly back, I located my sister and scrunched my brow. I couldn’t smack her since she stood conveniently out of boxing range. I cupped the side of my face and mouthed, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Tracey experienced this question lots of times. Ever since her toddler years, the things she did made our family wonder “what the hell she was doing.”

  She shrugged, ignored me, and pivoted to whisper in Stuart’s ear. Their shoulders bobbed as they giggled.

  I stored one itty bitty word, one tiny thought for her—later. Later, I would make her pay, just like I did when we were kids, and I solemnly convinced her the mud-covered ants she’d eaten were real chocolate-coated treats.

  I should have taken her allowance, too.

  With a sigh reaching all corners of my body, I stared at Allan. A crinkle of his nose mimicked the fun exchange between Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man movies. I loved the films and the characters’ banter.

  But he knew that.

  If I wasn’t so pissed, I might have laughed and scrunched my nose in return. Instead, I turned my attention to the toes of my shoes. I hadn’t spoken to Allan since our “door encounter” when neither of us got lucky. Through my lashes, I stole a look and grasped what I missed. Simply said, he was too big to ignore. Seventy-three inches and one hundred ninety pounds of lean—not mean—gorgeous man. My fingers itched to shove through his crisp, dark brown hair. I balled my hands. His eyes were the color of chocolate, my favorite food group. His towering size alone commanded attention. The bad guys he arrested were intimidated.

  Besides, if Mom found out I was rude to her favorite project, she would have lectured me with the “Wouldn’t Be Polite” discourse. A long speech, one dispensed many times, usually about him.

  “Hi, Hattie,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  I looked his way. Obviously, he scored nicer on the meter than me. I couldn't classify “seeing me a day ago” as a “long time.” “Hmm.”

  “You look spiffy today. New outfit?”

  Spiffy? Spiffy was not a guy word. I wore my interview clothes, nothing special for dancing.

  He scrubbed his palms as his gaze roved the studio. “Here we are. The tango in three easy steps.”

  From my throat came an unladylike sound.

  “Not buying it? You don’t believe—what’s the teacher’s name again? Miss—”

  My grunt sounded more like a laugh. “Miss Yolanda, stupid.”

  He shook a finger in front of my nose. “Your mother wouldn’t like you calling anyone stupid.”

  Ha. I knocked away his finger. “Neither would yours—”

  Ms. Yolanda clapped for our attention. My friends and I rotated her way. “Class,” she said. “You need to get used to the movement and rhythm. Girls, place your hands on your partners’ shoulders, and gentlemen, place your hands on the girls’ waists. Perfect you two tall people at the end. Beautiful.”

  Quite possibly, her reference to “tall people” meant Allan and me. I certainly didn’t feel “perfect” nor “beautiful.” I did feel annoyed, like roughed and irritated.

  I was all too aware of his hands when they circled my waist; I did feel squirmy with the profound nearness of him. The man-heat his body emanated my way made me want to fan my face. I swallowed deeply. Lordy. Dancing with him? Sexy.

  Recognizable tango music commenced. Daaa dum dum dum dummm, dadada dada, dum da dumdum, da dada, dum da dum dum. The class followed Ms. Yolanda’s lead. Allan and I stepped to his right and whipped to the left. Over and over, we familiarized ourselves with the sequence so it would become second nature.

  My fingertips tingled with a hyper-awareness of Allan’s muscular arms and smooth movements. Without a doubt, he lifted weights and ran every day. In middle school, his mother enrolled his sister and him in deportment classes, which included dance lessons. Based on his past, quite possibly, Allan was already familiar with the tango. Two beats later, he stepped on my toes—er, maybe he wasn’t.

  Surprisingly, Mom hadn’t forced me to attend the classes. The mystery of how I avoided the torture sessions would go to Mom’s grave. The best of friends, my mother and Mrs. Wellborn agreed on everything. I had, however, attended classes in Teen Scene where young ladies learned how to apply deodorant, clean their combs and brushes, pluck their eyebrows into perfect arches, and walk with a book balanced on their heads.

  A while back at an engagement party, I danced with Allan, and at the time, my body melted into a puddle. He scraped me off the floor and took me to his place for a memorable evening where both of us believed—wanted—we’d have almost wild, almost sex. Only de rien happened because his cellphone interrupted, which left quite an unfavorable impression.

  When I checked on him, I found a pensive look pinned on me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  To preserve my sanity, I would answer just enough to get by. My defense mechanism would keep him at arm’s length. “Yep.”

  He and I maneuvered through a set of steps. “So,” he said. “Stuart and Tracey are taking their vows.”

  “Yep.”

  “The wedding party is here to le
arn a dance for the big day.”

  “Yep.”

  He tilted his head. “Are you talking to me?”

  I coupled my hand with his. I felt my palm grow sweaty. “Yep.”

  He sighed. “Hard to converse with someone when the someone only speaks one word at a time.”

  I firmed my lips. I summoned everything I possessed not to laugh.

  I concentrated on the instructions. My foot slipped wrongly, and I screwed up our turn. My shoulder bumped Allan’s left shoulder, the one where Blonde Bimbo shot him.

  Instantly, his right hand massaged the spot.

  Horrified with what I’d done, I took a few steps back and slapped my hands to my cheeks. Stupid. He might still be in pain. Stupid-stupid-stupid. “I’m so-so-so sorry, Allan. God, I’m so clumsy. I didn’t mean to bump your owie. Did I hurt you? Do you need anything?” As I lightly fingered his shirt sleeve, my hand trembled.

  “Hattie, I’m fine,” he said low and slow, his right hand captured mine and brought it to his chest. “No worries. Everything has healed. Just a small scar.”

  His heart beat a steady rhythm against my palm. I didn’t remember a small scar. I remembered a large puckered hole leaking scarlet. My eyes filled with hot tears, and I shifted my gaze to the studio window. I blinked and brushed my cheeks.

  His finger turned my chin to face him. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded “yes,” but truth be told, anxiety had buried in my soul over how Blonde Bimbo shot him and the responsibility I encompassed because of his injury. When the Bimbo finally comprehended Allan cared more about me than her, which didn’t jibe with her game plan to reel him to the altar hook-line-and-sinker, she hatched a new strategy—no one would get him. She also stole my undies, poisoned two co-workers, and shoved Stuart down a flight of stairs, almost killing him.

  When someone I cared about hurt, I hurt. Maybe my emotions had taken over. Maybe I should be healing better than this.

  Guys tended not to express emotions and the ilk out loud. Most of the news I acquired filtered through the Mothers Always Know Network.

  I shook my head to purge the emotional trauma which swirled in my brain. Directing my attention on the divot at the base of his neck, I leveled my shoulders and returned my hands to the designated spots for coupling with my partner. “Let’s try again.”