“Thanks, Darlene,” I managed to croak through her bone-crushing hug.
My mother put down her knife. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Thanks, mom.”
“Don’t go to the clinic if you are,” my father added, not looking up from his plate. “Noodles are a bit overcooked.”
I pushed my chair back from the table. “Excuse me.”
I carried my glass to the refrigerator for a refill, Andrew, as always, only a step behind, glancing back at his mother as she danced around the living room, trying to get my mother to join her in a congratulatory hug that was never going to happen.
“Well, that went pretty well,” he whispered in my ear. “Admit it. It could have gone a lot worse.”
“Yeah. My mother could have struck a match and set me on fire. That would have been much worse.”
He brushed a stray wave of mahogany hair from my face. “Come back to the table, babe. I promise I won’t let her anywhere near a match.”
“If you honestly expect me to sit out there with those people the government insists on calling my parents, then you are even more out of your fucking mind than they are,” I hissed.
“Don’t swear, Frances.”
“I’m sorry, but you don’t know them like I do. I have had to deal with these people for the last two decades. Two decades, Andrew! What you’ve seen tonight? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. And not some cute, innocent little iceberg covered in polar bears and shit. A killer one, like the kind that took down the Titanic.”
He attempted a laugh. “Your mom’s not that scary.”
“If by ‘not scary’ you mean, I’m-so-lucky-she-hasn’t-cut-off-my-testicles-and-fed-them-to-Ginger-for-breakfast-yet, then yeah. I guess she’s not so scary.”
“Ginger?”
“Her tea- cup poodle.”
“Frances?” my mother called from the table. “I was looking around for a bathroom and I don’t see one. Should I just assume there’s an outhouse?”
I glared up at Andrew. “Take a left at the chandelier, mother,” I answered. “If you reach the private veranda overlooking the vineyard, you’ve gone too far.”
“It’s to the left, Jean.” Andrew leaned around the refrigerator, smile still in place as my mother breezed past us without a backward glance.
“Come on, Frances,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Can you at least try to play nice? For me?” He wrapped his long arms around my waist and lowered his face to mine, teasing me with whisper soft breaths and warm, gentle brushes of his lips. “I want your parents to like me.” He nipped at the curve of my neck, forcing a shiver across my flushed skin.
He was such a cheater.
I placed both hands on his chest. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. They already love you. It’s me they have a problem with.”
He pulled me closer, allowing me to take shelter in the rolling hills of his arms and the hard planes of his chest. “If it’s any consolation, my mother absolutely adores you.”
“Good, because I’m leaving my family as soon as I’m inducted into yours. I’m going to do exactly what they did to me when I was growing up.”
“You’re going to forget to pick them up from summer camp?”
“I’m going to ignore them. For good.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you,” he laughed, rustling my hair with his breath as he placed a chaste kiss to the top of my head. “Mmmm. Your hair smells like coconut.”
“It’s my new shampoo.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s cheap.” I smile up at him. “But I’m glad you like it.”
“Once more into the fray?”
“It is a lot like going into battle, isn’t it?”
My mother chose that moment to step out of my bathroom, holding between her fingers the pair of pink, thrift store sweatpants I wore to sleep in. She held them away from her as if they were contaminated. “Frances, why do these pants have the word ‘Hottie’ written across the rear?”
I closed my gaping mouth and looked at my fiancé, straining to hold in a laugh as he took his seat at the table. I followed him with a resigned sigh.
“It’s so everyone knows, Mother. It’s so everyone knows.”
3.
We arrive in Kansas City early the next morning, the sun casting a pale pink glow across the city as it begins its ascent into the sky.
I depart the bus, managing to find Martin among the swarm of the elderly. “Thank you,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“No. Thank you.” His face splits into an impish grin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve spent the evening with such a beautiful woman. All the women on my next bus will think I’m hot stuff.” He laughs with an affected rasp and pats my arm with a gentle hand. “Take care of yourself, Frances,” he says, extending the handle of a brown suede suitcase. “And don’t worry, dear. I know it sounds silly, but things have a way of fixing themselves. It’s the natural order of things, you know.”
He throws me a final, droopy smile and heads in the direction of his next bus, the wheels of his suitcase clicking his path against the tile.
I work my way through a maze of counters, pay phones, gift shops and vending machines, somehow finding the ticket counter I need amidst all the commotion and chaos of the Kansas City bus depot.
“One-way to San Francisco, please.”
The attendant types for a moment on his keyboard. “The closest I can get you is Colorado Springs. You’ll have to connect to California from there,” he says without glancing away from his computer screen.
I should have known better than to expect this to be easy. “Fine. One way to Colorado Springs.” I slide my money through the window.
He finally smiles, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth. “Bus 121 leaves from Door 10 at 8:00 A.M. tomorrow morning.”
“Wait, what?” I’m almost positive I haven’t heard correctly. “Did you say tomorrow?”
“There are no buses leaving for Colorado Springs tonight, ma’am. The earliest one is in the morning. There are, however, buses that leave for Dallas, Texas and Montpellier, Boise, Idaho. Do either of those locations interest you?”
“Has Idaho ever interested anyone?” I ask, growing increasingly frustrated by the second. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”
He slides me my ticket and moves on to the next person in line.
Marvelous. I can’t seriously be debating spending my night inside a bus station, can I?
Yet, with minimal funds and no other viable alternatives, it looks as though that is precisely what I will be doing come nightfall.
I spend the next several minutes taking in my surroundings, watching as packs of passengers, either coming or going, swoop past with neither a word nor glance in my direction, heads bowed over their phones, eyes focused on information signs overhead. The station, though crowded, is airy and bright. Several elongated, wooden benches line the floor, spaced evenly between the windows and walls, more than a few of which are already occupied by weary travelers.
A glowing neon sign of a small gift shop catches my eye. I shift my bag on my already aching shoulder and head over to the store.
Bins and shelves display an odd assortment of candy, bottled drinks, and newspapers. The wall to my right is completely dedicated to tacky, overpriced t-shirts, aimed at tourists with too much money and a desperation to find some way to immortalize their trip to the never-ending party that is Kansas City. An older, overweight woman in a pink polo shirt stands vigilant at the cash register, obviously taking her job way too seriously. She eyes me with the precision of someone who has caught her fair share of shoplifters. I try my best to smile and make my way toward a small spinning rack, a few paperback books crammed haphazardly onto the open shelves.
I pick one and flip it over.
“Joy Thompson has done it again! This is one thriller of a novel!” -- The Missouri Press.
Diana is a struggling a
rtist living in Manhattan, waiting tables, and waiting for her time to shine on the Broadway stage, slinging drinks instead of singing. While working the late shift one evening, she unwittingly finds herself at the mercy of the Italian Mafia. But things only get worse when she uncovers their horrible secret. Who could have suspected the most dangerous men in the city are a deadly coven of the vampires! Can Diana resist the passion and power that—
No thank you. I try another one.
“Stewart Nash, Chicago’s finest private investigator has never failed to crack a case, and now he must figure out the whodunnit of the century! Can he solve the mystery of the snatched-up purse snatcher?”
Next.
“Felicity Summers has made the decision of a lifetime. Leaving behind everything she knows, she takes off with little more than a one-way ticket to London.”
Hmm. This one has possibilities.
“Felicity must struggle to find her way in a new city while staying true to herself. But she soon finds that it’s not quite as easy as she hoped. Especially not with a handsome and mysterious stranger following her every—”
“That’s a great book.”
“Huh?”
Leaning against the wall directly across from me is a guy dressed in a plain black t-shirt and torn, faded blue jeans. His face is angular and tan, holding no hint of boyish roundness, lined with cheekbones that are covered by a dark dusting of scruff to match the mess of brown hair on top of his head, dark like mine, but falling into his eyes with a grace my waves could never accomplish.
“I said that’s a great book.” He bounds over with a child-like energy, brushing bangs off his forehead with the back of his hand. He stands a full head taller than me, and has little trouble peering over my shoulder. “I mean, talk about an ending. When Felicity has to shoot Jason to save her own life? I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a little bit.”
Unbelievable.
I toss the book back onto the rack and make a hasty exit.
“Aren’t you going to get it?” he calls after me.
I shake my head, not bothering to turn around. “I’m not in the habit of reading books I already know the ending of!”
I walk back into open depot, feeling the human spoiler alert’s eyes on me as I make my way over to one of the wooden benches. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow.
I settle my bag across my lap, molding it into an uncomfortable yet effective pillow, curling myself around it as the dull murmur of people and buses lull me to sleep.
“We raise our glasses and wish you the best of luck in your new life together. I hope you will cherish every day and continue to grow in your love for one another.”
The speaker was Uncle Ian, my father’s only brother, a man I’d met a total of three times in my life. Which was why I was more than a little confused as to how he’d ended up in charge of making a speech.
“To Andrew and Frances!” he finished with a grand flourish of his champagne flute.
“To Andrew and Frances!”
The crowd chanted our names in a booming unison before downing their drinks. I did the same, feeling the bittersweet liquid slide down my throat. A single drop slipped over the rim of the glass and down onto my new, red satin dress.
“Fuck.”
Andrew’s arm tightened around my shoulder.
“Sorry.” I apologized for the expletive and wiped down my dress with the back of my hand.
Uncle Ian gave us each a congratulatory hug before stumbling back to his wife, no doubt having found plenty to occupy his time at the open bar Andrew’s family had paid for. Darlene had spared no expense in providing a tasteful social gathering in honor of our recent engagement, inviting almost a hundred of our closest acquaintances to wish us luck and stuff their faces on crab cakes and hummus.
I glanced down at the empty champagne flute in my hand. I was going to have to remedy that.
I leaned into Andrew, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before he could protest. “I’m going to get another glass,” I said, showing off the empty one in my hand as proof.
“Wonderful, honey,” he answered, only half listening. He released my shoulders, rushing off to speak to a man standing halfway across the ballroom, his nearly bald head dominated by a stretch of shiny, pink skin. I watched as Andrew shook his hand, clapping his hunched back as if they were old friends.
I found my sister on the far side of the room, leaning back against an already crowded bar, downing the remains of what looked like some sort of rum-based fruit drink. She plunked a pink umbrella into the nearly empty glass.
“If you’re going to drink this much, you might as well carry the bottle around with you,” I advised. “At least that way you could leave the bar.”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “Why on earth would I want to do that? You can’t possibly expect me to have fun at this party without a drink or two.”
“I think we both know you passed the threshold of ‘a drink or two’ three drinks ago.”
She picked up her newly refilled daiquiri. “You’re awfully judgmental for someone who’s finished off more mimosas than a bible study at Sunday brunch.”
“Why do you think I’m switching it up? One 7&7, please,” I waved a hand at the bartender.
“Good choice,” Katie agreed, waiting for my drink to arrive before starting on hers. We clanked our glasses together and tipped them back. The bartender stared at us with raised eyebrows, a precocious smile tugging at full lips.
“Where’s John,” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the gorgeousness currently serving us drinks. I couldn’t stand Katie’s husband. He was one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state, making top dollar lying his ass off to make sure drug runners and mob bosses walked free. I never understood what she saw in him. Aside from the paycheck, that is.
“He left,” she answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Got a call about some case he’s working on. Urgent. Had to go.”
“What a shame.”
“He has an important job.”.
“I guess you should have married someone who doesn’t spend his days spreading trash on the street like confetti.”
“Technically confetti is trash.”
I ignored her, choosing to drown my retort with a long sip of my drink.
“So, do you actually know these people?” she asked, changing the subject with an abrupt wave of her glass.
“Not really.” The truth was I only knew a handful of guests milling about the ballroom. I didn’t even realize so many people had been invited until they’d started swarming the venue. “I know you and Andrew and some of his friends. And her and her.” I pointed out Andrew’s mother sitting at a table with his aunt Susan, the evil twin version of Darlene who never married and never liked me, preferring her three- story townhouse and cat collection. “And her and him.”
The her and him in question were our own parents. Our father was in deep conversation with another man, miming a golf swing with a serving spoon while my mother sat alone at her table, observing the room with indifference, a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Katie voiced, a curious expression flickering behind her eyes. “Because I know you’re marrying into all this. But is it just me, or does everyone here seem…”
“Like they all have the same Bobby Darin song playing in their heads?” I finished for her.
“Well, that too. But they seem… I don’t know… a little… How can I say this without being offensive?” She paused, searching for the right words. “Classier than you.”
I answered with a look that perfectly encompassed how aware of that fact I really was. I knew I’d have to work to fit in, to be accepted into their world of highballs, pashmina scarves, and Pat Boone. It was a battle I’d waged nearly every day since meeting Andrew.
“Here you go.” The bartender returned with an unrequested refill on my 7&7. His eyes travelled across my shoulders, over the neckline of my dress, cinched j
ust low enough to be scandalous. “On the house for the prettiest girl here,” he said with a quick wink.
“They’re all on the house, cutie.” I returned his wink with one of my own, ignoring the rational side of my brain screaming at me to stop flirting. “It’s an open bar.”
He grinned, tilting his dark head to one side. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Frances! There you are!”
I heard Andrew’s mother before I saw her.
“Mwah!” Darlene leaned in, surprising me with a tight embrace, a kiss for each cheek, and the overpowering scent of Elizabeth Arden perfume.
“Katie, you’ve met Darlene,” I choked, struggling for air against her ample bosom.
“Yes. Hello again,” Katie offered dismissively, keeping a hungry gaze on the flirtatious bartender’s backside. Not that I could blame her.
Darlene wrapped a fleshy arm around my waist. “Honey, there are some people who are simply dying to meet you!” She spared a quick glance at my dress. “Pull up your top, dear,” she whispered urgently into my ear. “A lady of measure hides her treasure.”
Before I even knew what was happening, I found myself being dragged away from the comfort and seclusion of the bar, leaving Katie to flirt her way through another drink or two. Darlene pulled to a stop in front of two identical, rotund men with intelligent, twinkling eyes, both bald and sporting thick black mustaches that seemed to only draw attention to the lack of hair on their heads.
Most alarming, however, was their skin, tanned to the crisp burnt orange of a well-worn catcher’s mitt, almost as if they’d spent the previous decade living inside tanning beds.
“Frances,” Darlene said, “I’d like you to meet my brothers, Bud and Bogie.”
“Hello,” the one called Bogie said, extending his hand.
“How do you do?” Bud asked in a rich voice that sounded as if was being forced into a British accent that didn’t quite fit.
One More For The Road Page 3
