by Jayne Denker
"Of course we did!" she exclaims immediately.
I groan. "I was hoping you'd say no."
"I detect a hint of Eau de Connacht. He never did approve of us."
"He doesn't approve of anything."
"Nothing fun, no. My question is, why do you care?"
"I don't!"
"Good," she replies. "Don't. Nothing good can come of it."
"Connacht Garvey is a judgy-pants. There's no way I can get on his good side, and I'm not interested anyway."
"He does have a lot of good sides though."
"Don't you growl with lust, woman. It's…icky."
"What are you, nine? You still prefer horsies?"
"Boys aren't icky. I'm saying you making lustful noises over Conn turns my stomach." The lingering effects of day drinking don't help, I neglect to add.
"So why are you and Conn reminiscing about our reign of terror, anyway?"
"I have no idea. He got a bug up his butt about it this morning. Don't you growl again," I warn her.
"Mmmm…Conn Garvey's butt…"
I crawl into bed and cradle my water bottle like a teddy bear. "Will you focus, please?"
"Oh, I am focusing."
"Quit that. Tell me you and I weren't that bad when we were together."
"Honey, we were terrible. Remember when we flashed the sailors' retirement home?"
"Oh God…" It's occurring to me that maybe I've blocked a lot of memories I'd rather not recall.
"Or when we used to crash the middle school dances and demand the seventh grade boys dance with us?"
"Thank goodness we were only fifteen at the time. We could have gotten in real legal trouble."
"Oh, we didn't do anything filthy with them." Taylor pauses. "Wait. Did we?"
I can't believe Taylor's got me laughing, today of all days. Now I don't feel the need to go to sleep right away. Instead, we spend an hour trading memories of our adventures growing up in Abbott's Bay: hacking the school computer before the first day of school and changing everyone's schedule around…hiding in the woods at the country club and replacing golf balls that landed nearby with impossible-to-see green ones from the miniature golf course…sending love letters from one random townsperson to another (that effort actually resulted in a couple of real relationships, come to think of it, although the married and otherwise attached subjects of our pranks ended up in hot water)…on and on. By the time we ran out of memories, I realized we weren't bad, exactly. I'd call us mischievous. Most of the time anyway.
"It just goes to show Conn has no sense of humor," Taylor concludes, "if he considers our epic adventures a form of terrorism."
"Oh, he's all right. He does, however, need to get that stick out of his butt."
"Mmmm…"
"Do not!" I cut myself off with a huge yawn.
"Sounds like you've had a day."
"You have no idea."
CHAPTER NINE
I'm almost back to normal the next morning. To be on the safe side though, I stay within my own four walls for a while. The slightly stale granola I have for breakfast is a small price to pay to avoid Deep Brew C…and Conn. I consider it my penance.
Before I give my apartment a long-overdue cleaning, I go through yesterday's mail and open up the weekly edition of the Abbott's Bay Bugle. Yes, it's a paper newspaper. Because the Bugle staff members' average age is about ninety-two and a half, digital is not really their thing, yet they never seem to get around to asking their great-grandchildren to help them out. The Bugle's website is cutting edge—for 1998—and the "latest news" posted there is almost as old, so paper it is.
It takes less than five minutes to skim the entire thing, and the general news (articles on the beginning of the summer season, planned construction zones, and the recently completed lighthouse renovations) and sports stories are minor impediments on the way to the juicy yin and yang of Abbott's Bay gossip: the police beat and the "Bugle Bites" social column. Unlike inclusion in the police beat, being mentioned as a Bite is something every resident wants. Except for the blind gossip items at the end of the column, Bites on the Bottom.
I read the Bites carefully but don't see any mention of Dad, and that's my fault. It's my job as campaign manager to get the town residents talking about him. I make a mental note to drop by the Bugle office soon. With cookies.
There are only two blind items this week, neither of which I'm really interested in deciphering. One is a comment about an older gentleman doing some not-too-secretive early morning skinny-dipping. Obviously he's not interested in shocking people if he's daring the frigid ocean this early in the season, in the early morning, to reveal not a whole heck of a lot after all that cold. The other is about a "familiar young Henrietta Higgins" taking a "suddenly lovely, freckled Eliza Doolittle" under her wing.
…Wait.
* * *
I thought the population of Abbott's Bay had increased at the end of last week, but that's nothing compared to Memorial Day. Those extra people I spotted on Saturday evening when I walked home from Conn's have multiplied exponentially almost overnight and are now absolutely everywhere—clogging the roads, filling the pier, and making the sidewalks along the parade route entirely impassable.
After excuse-me-pardon-me-ing for about a block, I want to give up, but I have to get to the start of the parade route to check on my dad who's driving one of the vintage convertibles—not behind the mounted police this year, I hope—ostensibly to chauffeur some of the local veterans who'll be waving to the crowd, but also to remind the residents he's up for reelection to the town assembly.
Somehow Hannah finds me in the crowd. I get a tap on the shoulder and turn around to find her smiling merrily. "I'm so glad you're still alive."
"Are you kidding? It takes more vodka than that to kill me." I give her a hug and then pull back to survey her outfit. Rose-colored linen skirt, crisp sleeveless blouse…I approve. Except…I pull her yellow-and-pink cabbage-rose-printed scarf from her neck, duck behind her, and wrap it around her head, tying it under her hair instead. "There you go. Now you look perfect."
"You have good taste."
"I'm glad you trust me."
"Melanie!"
An arm snakes around my waist and pulls me sideways. I turn to find Joann Forrester, Henry the grocer's wife, smiling at me delightedly.
Before I can greet her properly, she exclaims, "I had no idea! Congratulations! Fame suits you."
"…Thanks?" My eyebrows creep toward my hairline. "I'm sorry, Joann, what are we talking about, exactly?"
"Henrietta Higgins!"
Oh. The blind item in the paper. "That's hardly fame. Infamy, perhaps."
"Don't be so modest."
"Let's say the Bites on the Bottom writers are a little desperate for gossip…" I drift off, distracted by a woman standing nearby, staring at me with a hawk-like gaze. I have no idea who she is. I'm not one to blush and run, so I stand my ground and nod in greeting. She nods back. Okay then. Apparently we've passed muster with each other.
Still, she's weirding me out a bit, so I say goodbye to Joann with a promise to get together for coffee soon, grab Hannah's hand, and tug her farther down the block toward the start of the parade route. "Come on," I say over my shoulder. "My dad's been asking about you. I want you to meet him so he can calm down about who's in his rental."
I face forward again and walk right into the same woman who was watching me a few seconds ago. How she got from behind Hannah to in front of me in a blink, I'll never know. It's freaky. But all I say is, "Oh, I beg your pardon."
I try to navigate around her, but she blocks my path, demanding bluntly, "You're Henrietta?"
Rude. "No, I'm Melanie. Can I help you?"
"Henrietta Higgins," she says, eyeing me up and down. "Everyone's talking about you."
I don't have time to reflect on the implications of that, because with one wiry arm, the woman reaches out sideways into the crowd and hauls in a girl the way one of our fishermen would land a giant co
d. The young teen is obviously her daughter. Although it's hard to see her face because she's staring at the sidewalk, she has the same coloring as her mother—black hair, pale skin, and a slight build with narrow shoulders and hips. I look back at the mother who's staring at me expectantly.
"Yes?" I prompt.
"What's wrong with my daughter?"
Hannah and I exchange stunned looks. Neither of us manages an answer.
In the silence the woman demands, "According to the newspaper, you fixed her." She points casually at Hannah with her free hand, her other still gripping her daughter's arm. "So tell me what's wrong with my daughter." She gives the girl a little shake to make me look in her direction.
The woman's manhandling of her daughter makes me furious. I have to find my voice before she shakes the poor girl again, but nothing comes out.
"Look," she says, "I buy her the best clothes. Designer all the way. Tailored. I make sure she's clean and neat. But she always ends up looking like she just got out of bed. It's a nightmare. What's wrong with her?"
"Don't ask me!" I blurt out, interrupting what seems to be turning into an endless rant. I know these kinds of moneyed women. They'll keep carping until they get results. Obviously this issue has been eating at this one for a long time, probably the girl's entire life. I don't even know the kid, and my heart breaks for her. She's radiating defeat already. It's clear from her…"Posture."
"What?" the mother snaps.
I take a breath and start again. "There's nothing whatsoever 'wrong' with your daughter."
"But—"
I hold up a hand to stop her. "It's not the clothes or how clean she is. It's her posture." Reaching out carefully, I detach the mother's claw-like grip from her daughter's arm and turn the girl toward me. "What's your name, sweetie?"
She lifts huge brown eyes to glance at me for a split second. "Zoë."
"Okay, Zoë. I want you to do me a favor, all right? Just relax." I gently push her shoulders back and down, since she's kind of hunched. Then I straighten her hips, push in her torso a bit, and generally make sure she's standing up straight and her body is aligned. The last thing I do is put a finger under her chin and lift it up so she's looking me straight in the eye.
"That's different," the mother murmurs. "That's better!"
She looks impressed, but I'm not feeling it, because she starts berating her daughter.
"I've been telling you to stand up straight for years! Look how different you look!"
Oh, I have to stop this, or I'm going to start swinging. "Zoë, are you here for the summer?"
"Yes."
"Well, welcome to Abbott's Bay." I brush her hair out of her eyes, and give her a reassuring smile. "I want you to have the best time this summer. There's so much to do and see, so get out there and have fun." Although I'm still talking to the girl, I direct a veiled threat at the mother: "I'm positive I'll be running into you all over the place, and I want to see you happy, okay?"
I try to move past them, but the mother grabs my arm—damn, I don't know how her daughter puts up with it—and stuffs something into my hand.
"You're good," she says. Which is not a thank you, but it is in keeping with what I've seen of her personality so far.
When they're gone, I open up my hand. There's a fifty-dollar bill in it.
"Wow," Hannah says over my shoulder.
"Ew!" I don't want her money. "I'm seriously questioning the quality of people visiting Abbott's Bay these days."
"What about me?"
That isn't Hannah's voice. I look around, hoping Zoë and her mom are back so I can return this blood money, but instead I'm face to face with a petite, slim blonde—also probably a summer person, as I've never seen her before either. "I'm sorry?"
"You fix people?" she asks eagerly. "Can you do your fixing thing on me? Tell me what's wrong with me?"
My God. What's gotten into these people? Are they serious? Do they actually think there's something wrong with them? This young woman is perfect. She's beautiful, in a Barbie-doll kind of way, with a size 2 body, blue eyes, expensive highlights, and fancy manicure. She can't be questioning her looks. She also seems to be well-mannered—more than Zoë's mom, that's for sure—so what could she be asking for?
And since when do so many people pay attention to and discuss the Bites, anyway?
"Go on," Hannah urges me. "Do your thing."
"I don't have a 'thing,'" I hiss at her.
"These folks think otherwise. Might as well." To the young woman, she says, "Melanie's been so great with me."
"You're not helping, Hannah!"
"Melanie?" the stranger repeats, blinking. "I thought her name was Henrietta."
"It's a joke…never mind." I sigh and look her up and down. I can't critique this girl. It's not polite. But she's standing there, eyes alight, waiting. "Uh…too much spray tan? You might want to, er, back off on that a bit?"
Her mouth falls open, and I expect her to storm off, offended, but instead she exclaims, "For serious?" then rummages around in her purse.
Coming up with a fairly large compact, she flips it open and stares at herself in the round mirror for a long time. I mean, a long time. I exchange glances with Hannah, who shrugs.
I'm about ready to slink off when the girl whispers, "Wow. Nobody has ever told me that before. Not anybody in my family, or any of my friends, or my boyfriend. Do I look, you know, ridiculous?" All I can do is shake my head dazedly. The girl grabs my arm—people have got to stop clutching at me today—and cries, "You're right. You're absolutely right. I do look ridiculous."
"No!" I yelp. "I never said that. I mean a lighter shade, maybe not so…you know what? This is crazy. You don't need to change one bit—"
"I've been walking around looking like a freak, and nobody I trusted even told me."
"Freak? I never said you looked like a freak!" But she kisses me on the cheek—what!—and hands me a twenty before stepping off the curb and crossing the street, still studying her reflection.
The thuds of the bass drums sound in the distance as the high school marching band starts its first tune. The parade may have begun, but I appear to be a bigger spectacle. I feel eyes on me. Lots of eyes. And there are whispers. I catch snatches of "Bugle Bites" and "Henrietta—you know, like Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady?" I want to correct them that it was Pygmalion first, but I want to avoid engaging, so I don't bother. There are also various comments about Hannah's "transformation," which is crazy. I helped her get a few new outfits. Big deal.
"Let's go," I say to Hannah, who's somehow ended up with a paper poppy and a small flag in one hand and a red, white, and blue sno-cone in the other.
"But—"
"Wait. What am I saying? I order you around way too much. Stay and watch the parade. You don't have to follow me everywhere. I'm sorry I even suggested it."
I start to walk away. Hannah's right there beside me. "Melanie?"
"What?"
"What if I want to hang out with you?"
I glance over skeptically but say nothing.
"Come on. Who cares what the Bugle Bite said?" Over my dismayed groan she adds, "It was cute. People have been stopping me ever since the paper came out, asking me what you did for me. And you know what? I tell them."
"I didn't do anything for you."
"You did so much for me."
My slightly queasy stomach quiets down a bit. "You don't think of it as…" I wave the dirty money in front of her. "A business transaction?"
She grins. "Maybe charity, since I didn't pay you."
"Hey, Melanie!" someone shouts. It's one of the young landscapers my dad uses to take care of his properties. I wave, and he calls, "How much for you to fix my sister? Might take a whole day. Hell, might take a whole month!"
I never did like that guy.
My wave turns into a different gesture entirely before I manage to disappear into the crowd.
CHAPTER TEN
Now I can't go anywhere without people approaching me,
exclaiming "Do me next!" It's unnerving. I want no part of this…this…Miss Melanie's Finishing School for the Awkward and Clueless or whatever you want to call it. Granted, I might be a little free and easy with my advice, but I don't market myself as a professional…anything. I'm not a fixer, not a beauty consultant, not a shrink. Not a "Henrietta Higgins." (Oh sure, the first time in recent memory the fossils at the Bugle get clever, and I happen to be the target. Thanks a bunch.)
Today it's a relief to be sitting in my usual seat at DBC, drinking my usual triple espresso, with Conn in his usual spot behind the bar, everything perfectly normal, nobody bothering me. Deep Brew C is more crowded lately, but that's also normal with the summer adjustment in population. I'm glad to see the number of customers is up, even though it means I might have to fight harder for my favorite chair, because I've seen Conn with a pile of official-looking documents in front of him more than once since the time I stepped in it asking if he was in financial trouble. It upsets me to see him hunched over the far end of the bar, fingers clenching his short, light brown curls as he studies whatever is on those papers. I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. There's irony for you: I want to help him, and he's the only person who would never ask me.
I stand and stretch, ready to meet some incoming renters to hand over the house keys, when I feel something poke the middle of my back.
"Don't move another inch," a voice growls. "You are so busted."
I freeze for a moment then raise my arms in surrender. Some tourists sitting nearby stare openmouthed, and I wink at them before spinning around and pulling Taylor's finger backward toward her wrist. "Amateur. You think you can take me without a fight?"
"Ow! Ow, ow, ow! Okay, I give up!"
I look over my shoulder and raise one eyebrow at the tourists, who are still frozen in their shocked pose. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. If you know what's good for you."
It looks like they're actually about to scramble when I realize what sort of a display we're putting on. Are we thirty years old or a third that? I start to straighten my clothes, but Taylor derails my attempt to regain my dignity by grabbing me in a headlock. Now all I can see is the floor and her fashionable heels.
