by Vicki Batman
Miss A.’s mouth shaped an OhmyGod “O.” “Why that’s…that’s…disgusting.”
“Disgustingly true.” I bobbed my head. “Jonson Leggett the Third is not a nice person. Luckily, my sister uncovered his true colors before children entered the picture.”
Miss A. stood with rigid arms. Her fists balled tightly, outrage evident on her face. “He messed around while… Oh”—she fluttered her hand in front of her face—“now, he’s a client. Oh. Oh. Oh. Poor Barbie. I feel so sorry for her. What is she getting herself into?” The color drained from her face as if she would collapse any moment.
I didn’t handle hysterical people well. Taking her by the elbow, I guided her to a reception chair and assisted her in sitting. I raced to the mini-fridge for a water bottle, which I thrust in her hands.
Miss A. drank greedily. “I had high hopes Barbie and Jonson’s event would launch Wedding Wonderland as a premier shop to visit for all wedding needs. Won’t happen with them now.” She took a deep breath, and once calm, she finished the bottle. She struggled to gasp. “How horrible. How despicable.”
“Yes, ma’am. Later, I found out he was married before Tracey.”
“Your-your sister… She didn’t know?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He should have told her. It’s the honorable thing to do.”
“Yes, ma'am, but Jonson and honorable are incompatible.”
“Marriage is based on love—yes, but also, on values we admire like truth and honesty, not lies and deceit. Someone should have said something to your sister.” Miss A.’s fist pounded the chair’s arm.
“You’d think. People in love do silly things.” Dropping into the matching armchair, I slumped against the comfy pillow back and lengthened my legs, flexing and unflexing my toes. “Blame the whirlwind courtship. He was divorced for three months. The bastard charmed Tracey off her feet and swept her to Sin City on a friend’s private jet for a quickie marriage. For the total sum of a few hours, my sister experienced utter happiness.
“Jonson had a chance encounter with a floozy he met at the bar who interested him more. Tracey went to their suite to change clothes before dinner, opened the door, and heard the unmistakable sounds of laughter—his laughter and another woman’s. She stayed in the closet, while they did the, um, nasty.
“After they left, she found a red lacy thong in the bed but never said a word to Jonson. Just asked room service to change the sheets and dispose of the leftover lingerie. While they did, she stood in the hallway and phoned me. I had never heard my sister cry rivers of tears. My heart ached for her. I begged her to take the first flight home, but she wanted to iron out everything with him.”
Miss A. lifted her hand and shrugged. “People make mistakes.”
“Not him. He’s irredeemable. I swore I would have revenge someday.”
“Be careful with the revenge notion, Hattie. Revenge is bad for everyone involved. Trust me on this.”
“So I’ve heard.” I returned to a proper seated position with my hands in my lap. “He’s worse than a snake in the grass, a jerk, creep, slime ball, and a whole lot of other nasty words my mama told me never to say combined.”
“I can understand how you feel. My ex and Jonson share comparable characteristics.” Miss A. pressed a finger to the tip of her nose. “I also understand if you don’t want to help Barbie and him with planning their wedding—”
I shook my head. “I need to help. I can handle myself like the professional I am. I promise to be agreeable. And nice. Very nice. You don’t have to worry about anything.” To confirm my oath, I shaped three of my fingers in the Boy Scout symbol. “On my honor.”
She cocked her head. “If you’re sure, Hattie.”
All her glittery self had faded. Her immaculate white coat suddenly appeared less shiny, tarnished, like exhaustion dimmed her persona.
“I am.” I bobbed my head. “I can’t imagine Jonson coming back here anyhoo. Definitely, not his style.”
Chapter Eight
Over the next few days, Miss A. and I worked fast and furious in preparation for the grand opening of Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland. On the day of, the shop buoyed with festivity. Moms, soon-to-be brides, chummy girlfriends, friends, and an assortment of odd-ball relatives filled the store with their high-pitched squees.
Miss A. and I poured champagne and sparkling cider and passed tiny petit fours, flourished on top with a blue, daisy-like flower, especially procured from bakeries the store recommended. My mom bought goodies for mahjong from one of them.
I booked appointments for girls to try on gowns, handed out drawing slips for three one-hundred-fifty-dollar gift certificates, passed out trinkets, and answered a myriad of questions. The loud chatter and laughter had me nearly covering my ears; however, an infectious babble surrounded everyone and caused me to smile too much. My cheeks hurt.
In her element, Miss A.’s enthusiasm could be heard throughout the store. She flitted from group to group, depositing a welcoming word here and there, comporting herself as the most gracious hostess of all time.
At four, I checked my watch, happily noting only three more hours ’til closing. I eased off my right heel, rubbing the toes and the ball of my right foot across the top of my left. I wished I’d planned better and booked a slot at the new reflexology studio four doors down from Wedding Wonderland for a foot massage because of death by sassy shoes.
Instead, I popped two ibuprofen and soldiered on.
Returning my water bottle to the credenza, I turned to observe the customers. When I looked to the entry, I gasped. Please, dear Lord, tell me it ain’t so.
But it was true.
Jonson Leggett and Barbie Fenster were about to enter the store.
Nothing, nothing I could do.
Uncharacteristically, he exhibited extreme politeness when he held the door open for the former Miss Sommerville Automotive Parts. Barbie’s countenance cornered the market on wedded bliss and floated beyond glowing to starry-eyed stellar as she set on Jonson a look which promised “under the sheets” music as she passed through. Jonson looked—boy, I hated to admit—okay. He didn’t deserve any more credit.
Jonson and Barbie dodged brides and groups to the desk where I stood.
He paused at a display long enough to snatch up a ten percent-off store card. When he reached the check-out desk, he thrust the discount in my face. “Apply the discount to our purchase.”
Even though I detested speaking with him, I took the time to rotate the card to pretend to study the advertising copy, although I already memorized what Miss A. had printed. After a lengthy scrutiny, I shook my head. “Sorry, sir. You made your purchase before the designated date.” I pointed to the last line.
Jonson rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Quit harassing me, Hattie. Clear it with Miss A., your boss, in case you need a refresher course. Now. Or you’ll be sorry.”
His antagonistic ’tude nearly caused me to yell. I counted to ten, took a deep breath, clamped my lips, and gave him a hard eye. “No need to consult anyone,” I said firmly as I pushed the card toward his belly. “The ad is perfectly clear.”
He braced his hands on the table and leaned.
A fetid whiskey stench soured Jonson’s breath. I wrinkled my nose and turned my head to my right. Lightly, I cupped the left side of my face to take a fresh breath. Wanting to fumigate the room with lavender spray just topped my Hit Parade.
“You have always been a hard-ass,” he said. “Just do it.”
“Jonson.” Barbie pulled on his arm. “Please. Lower your voice. Be respectable. People are staring.”
He shook his arm from her grasp. “Back off, Barbie. You’re irritating me again.”
I gasped. Irritating? Again? Not all sounded hunky-dory in their paradise.
“But Jonson”—Barbie glanced at the customers, their attention snagged by his outburst—“You’re embarrassing me.”
His eyes flattened into a squinch. “I don’t care. She’s a bit
ch.”
“Jonson, stop. Please. Don’t talk so…ugly.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Pretty please. For me?”
“Why?” Jonson jerked his arm away. “I don’t care if the truth hurts anyone, especially her.”
Wow, his snarl sounded like a rabid dog’s. I pinched my thigh to keep from whacking him.
The front door opened. My sister wiggled her way through the blissful throng toward the desk. Similar to when Prince Charming found his love, Cinderella, Tracey’s whole being radiated happiness.
Crap. Had I eaten a hallucinogenic mushroom because my worst nightmare became a reality?
I swiveled my head from Barbie and Jonson back to Tracey. I rubbed my forehead, unable to decide what to do, what to do. With these two, anything could happen. Beads of sweat dribbled along my spine.
“Hi, Hattie.” Slanting across the desk, Tracey blew me an air kiss and dropped her handbag at her feet. “Mother declared Corrinne’s three-year-old daughter should be the flower girl-slash-ring bearer. I see disaster written all over my plans and my wedding. You have to help me—”
Jonson pushed in front of Barbie. “I’m here first.”
Creep. He didn’t even utter an “excuse me” or “please” or anything nice.
“Sir, you…” Tracey turned to face Jonson. In a flash, recognition fanned over her face. Her eyes bugged. “Y-Y-You!” Her spittle flew, landing on Jonson and Barbie’s shoulder.
I extended a tissue box toward them.
If Jonson could have murdered my sister right then, he would have. Every facial feature of his morphed into an ugly shade of reddish-purple. His pupils darkened in a more beady and dangerous way. He bared his teeth like a snarling wolf.
“Back. Off. Tracey. We’re first,” he said.
Barbie plucked a tissue and crumpled it against her mouth. She stared at Jonson and stared and stared.
Had Barbie not seen this side of her fiancé before, the monstrous scary one my family and I knew of?
Barbie looked at Tracey, then Jonson. “Jonson”—she set her hand on his wrist—“let’s go, darling. We can come back another day.”
For the second time, he shook her off.
Her clasp on his arm tightened. “Hon, you’re a tad overwrought. Come on.”
Disrupting the merriment of the store opening—unacceptable. I wanted to stand back and watch Jonson explode but not exactly a professional stance. I needed to defuse the situation before it climaxed into something butt-ugly, and knowing him, would be gorilla hairy and butt-ugly.
I pointed to Miss A.’s office. “Tracey, would you go over there—”
“Go to hell, Hattie,” Jonson said.
Fury festered inside me, climbing and ratcheting to a detonation point like Mt. Etna. Enough is enough. I balled my hands into fists. “Look, buster, you can’t tell me what to do—”
“You’re such a bitch—”
Tracey leaned across Barbie. “You sick womanizer. You can't talk to my sister like—”
“Jonson”—Barbie cocked her head in a questioning tilt—“who’s…Tracey, and why is she callin’ you a womanizer? And why is Hattie a bitch?”
Looking at Jonson, I grasped Barbie had no clue about his adulterous past and wondered how she missed it. But now, now I had the perfect moment to tell all. The whole mess. The whole enchilada. The whole sordid sickness. Miss A. might not—would not—be thrilled with the results, but I bet a fracas in her store would be less welcomed.
I had to do what I had to do—unzip my big mouth and spill all. I waved my hand toward my sibling. “Barbie, let me introduce you to Jonson’s ex-wife No. two, my sister, Tracey—”
“Ex-wife? Number two? What ex-wife?” Barbie took one step back. Then another.
Shock would be a good word to describe the look on her face. Beyond shocked would be better. Her gaze took in Tracey, who clenched her hands and nodded “yes” toward Jonson, who most likely wanted to strangle all of us. A curtain of rage spread over his face.
“No.” Barbie slowly raised her hands to curve around each side of her jaws. She shook her head. “No. No. No.”
Nobody verbalized anything. Barbie pointed at Tracey. “You never told me anything about being married before, Jonson. Why she's…ugly.”
Unbelievable. I had never known anyone could be as shallow as Jonson. Wrongly, I’d supposed Barbie didn’t deserve him. Now, she rivaled him.
I looked at Tracey, my precious sister, whose eyes welled with tears. The overflow dribbled down her cheeks.
Seeing my sister’s heart bleed intensified the tension in my chest. If I could have, I would have decked Barbie for her outrageously rude comment. Incredibly insensitive.
“I’m not ugly.” Tracey straightened her spine. Her eyes blinked machine-gun quick. “You’re stupid for being involved with this piece of trash.”
“I told you to butt out, Hattie.” Jonson closed in on Barbie, his arm circling her shoulder. “Darling,” he said in a soft sweet voice, “don’t pay any attention to these-these—”
Barbie jerked back. Her body went rigid. “Jonson, you told me you were never married. You practically swore on a Bible.”
If the argument hadn’t been so volatile, I would have laughed at her comment. How on earth had she missed seeing Sommerville Express’s front-page announcements of his divorces? If Barbie married Jonson now—what a rude awakening. His lies could fill an ocean liner.
Tracey brushed away the teardrops. “Th-that’s what he told me, too.”
Barbie stilled. “Hattie said you were number two wife. Was he married before you?”
Tracey made a small nod. “Yes.”
“Don’t you read the papers?” I asked.
Barbie covered her mouth with her hands, her head ticking in another no-no-no. After a long moment of examining her fiancé and us, she dropped her arms and firmed her lips. “One thing I abhor is lying. A couple should have no secrets. Never-never, ever-ever. Why did you lie, Jonson? To me?”
From the corner of my eye, I caught Miss A. observing the hellish scenario. Eyebrows tilted. Her lips compacted together like clamshells. With a generous smile at the women she helped, she excused herself and made fast tracks to the reception area.
Before she reached us, I gave the slime ball a hard look. “I think you should leave, Jonson. I don’t want to call the police.”
“You would love to, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Your family would love to see me squirm.”
Jonson’s sneer reminded me of the ones on the faces of gangsters in the movies from the forties. I stretched my hand to the phone. “Want to find out?”
“Um,” Tracey said.
I pointed and gave her a stern look. “Don’t.”
Jonson fixed on my sister and me the worst of the best livid looks he possessed. If humanly possible, steam vented from his ears. I harbored a concern he would punch either of us. I grappled for Tracey’s hand, pulling her around the desk and behind my body.
In the nick of time, Miss A. swooped into the fray and wrapped her arms over Barbie’s and Jonson’s shoulders. In a sparkly voice, she said, “Barbie. Jonson. So lovely to see you today. Something you needed help with?” She raised her eyebrows. “Miss Hattie, what can we do for our star couple?”
Seeing the question in her expression, I gave the smallest of shrugs. “The gentleman”—I suppressed a choke while handing her the promo card he’d presented—“demanded today’s only ten percent discount. I told him his purchase didn’t qualify because they made theirs several days ago.”
“Very true.” Miss A. reviewed the promotional card. “However, Miss Hattie is correct, Jonson. For today only, we're giving away special promotions for Wedding Wonderland’s opening. I gave you and Barbie discounts when you bought her gown.” She placed the handout on the desk.
Jonson barely paid it any notice.
Miss A. smiled again. “Now, what else can I do for you?”
He jerked his head in my direction. “Why don’t you fire your bitch o
f an employee?”
Miss A. flinched. “Excuse me? Fire Hattie? But—”
“You heard me. Come, Barbie. We’re leaving this shithole and taking our business elsewhere,” Jonson said. “You owe us a huge refund. Just because we’re high in society doesn’t mean you can swindle a customer. My lawyer will be in contact.”
He fast-paced to the door, leaving his fiancée in the proverbial dust.
With a powerless plea, Barbie looked at Miss A., then to Jonson's retreating figure. She ran after him.
Barbie looked as if she finally comprehended her influence with him didn’t exist, and she needed more help than anyone could give her.
When the front door slammed behind them, Miss A. cringed.
Her mouth dropped into a large circle resembling a freshly landed, gasping-for-air trout. Fortunately, the music and the chatter masked the entire tirade.
Tracey’s shoulder bumped mine.
Without uttering a word, I understood the cold expression covering her face. Jonson had done many unspeakable things. A narcissist—what I diagnosed him long ago—swung to his own tune. Even though Barbie made an awful comment about Tracey, maybe she could escape his clutches now the truth was told.
I slipped an arm over my sister’s shoulders, holding her tight. “I’m sorry Barbie said horrible things about you. They aren’t true.”
“Ugly? Unbelievable. Unoriginal.” Tracey snorted. “Real ugly will be her living with him and his sick fun and games.”
Through the picture windows, I couldn’t help but see Barbie struggling to reason with him.
He clicked the sports utility vehicle’s key fob to open it.
I could swear on a stack of Bibles he said, “Barbie, get the hell in the car. Now.”
She did.
After backing out of the parking space, he drove away fast, clipping the island curbing, running over the purple and yellow pansies, and smashing them into paper pulp.
Miss A., Tracey, and I stared at each other. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen, and most likely, the others had the same notions. After long-held breaths, the strain following Barbie’s and Jonson’s departure eventually dissipated. I patted Tracey’s hand. “She’s a mean girl and said mean things.”
