Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched

by Kim Barnouin

  “I don’t get that,” Gunnar said. “He loves you to the point that he wants to marry you, but he’s willing to walk out of your life? I don’t buy this ultimatum crap. If you love someone, you don’t try to force them to be what you want. Like Keira’s mom is doing to her.”

  “Yeah, but Alanna’s boyfriend can’t wait around forever, either,” Keira said. “Maybe he just wants to face facts—hard as it is—that he’s not the one for Alanna. Maybe that’s all he’s asking—if he’s the one.”

  “And I’m being forced to decide now when I’m not ready. He might be, I don’t know. I’m not even ready to think about it.” Alanna stared into the food processor, then added the garlic, onion, cumin, and coriander that Keira had set out for her. “Don’t worry, Clem. I’ll bring it tonight. I’m just talking out loud.”

  The bigger problem was that she’d gotten me thinking. About Zach. First, I hadn’t been ready. Then I was. And now maybe he’d decided he wasn’t, after all.

  Text from me to Zach: Should I bring over a late plate for you?

  Zach: Crazed right now—no appetite. Maybe tomorrow. xZ.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Did I have time to think about what the shizz was going on with Zach? Not with paychecks to process, invoices to go through, inventory to count, specials to decide on for the New York Times reporter, and a bajillion phone calls to make about the Outpost. I got myself up and out so early Thursday morning that the birds were chirping in my ears as I walked up Montana, and I had to share the sidewalk with all the dog walkers and joggers. It was barely seven o’clock, but who could sleep when her fiancé was acting all weird? The only way to get him off my mind was to hit the office and take care of business.

  The chirps reminded me of my parents’ farm, which got me thinking about the red barn and how I’d approach the renovations. A small, but decent-size kitchen, with a back door leading directly to the fields. An office just big enough for me and my dad to share. The main dining room and lounge, and of course a juice bar. My mom, gardener extraordinaire, could take care of the landscaping right around the barn and create a simple back patio.

  “Woof! Woof woof!”

  I was a million miles away in my head, but I knew that bark. Lizzie, one of Alexander Orr’s dogs. I glanced up the street and there she was, wagging her tail and pulling on her leash to get to me. And there was Alexander, bigger dog Brit’s leash in his other hand, looking fresh-scrubbed and hot at the same time, as usual.

  I had to admit that sometimes, such as now, when Zach was pissing me off, I thought of Alexander and wondered what life would be like with him. Alexander didn’t play games, not that Zach was playing a game, exactly, but it felt like that. What’s wrong? Nothing. Is something bothering you? No. Zach, what’s up? Just really busy, Clem.

  Right.

  If something was bothering Alexander, it would show immediately in those earnest brown eyes, and when I asked, he’d spend an hour telling me every detail. The guy talked. Shared. He cared so much about other people’s feelings that he wouldn’t want to make someone worry about what was wrong in the first place. I wouldn’t even have to ask Alexander what the problem was. He’d tell me.

  “Hey,” he said, as I reached down to give Brit and Lizzie vigorous rubs under their chins and to scratch behind their ears. “Just getting home from last night?”

  “Ha. I’m heading to the restaurant early to take care of paperwork. And I’m gonna start deciding on the specials for the night the Times reporter comes. Do you know what you’re offering?”

  “Emil’s making it Mediterranean night, so that gives me a lot of leeway. Wish I could steal your falafel recipe. Yours is the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Why thank you,” I said, always happy when Alexander—who knew his food—complimented my work.

  He glanced away, then down at his sneakers, then in the nowhere-distance.

  “Alexander?”

  He shrugged, moving up the sidewalk a bit to let the dogs sniff a little plot of grass around a tree. “I hate this. I want you to win. But I want my bloody promotion.”

  Aha, I was right. Something was bugging him? He spilled—immediately. He didn’t disappear. Communication was everything. “Same here.”

  “Well, if I lose, at least you’re in. But I really want in.”

  I laughed. “Me too. Maybe a little competition will be good for us. Up our game.”

  He nodded and looked at me for a moment, the way he did when he was getting all regretful that we weren’t a couple. “I’d better get these guys home for their breakfast. If you need anything, call me. Even though I’m the enemy.”

  “Ditto.” I absolutely loved Alexander Orr.

  Ten minutes later, chai in hand, I headed into the restaurant and went straight to my office. I took care of the boring stuff first, then planned to add a few new possibilities to the specials for the Times reporter, but at the thought of Alexander forever a sous chef or even fired for not getting Fresh in that article, I decided to forget that for right now and focus on the Outpost. I picked up my cell, my Outpost notebook and pen at the ready. First call: to the loan officer at my bank to talk numbers. Yeah, my eyes bugged a time or two during the convo, but the numbers she talked about let me put a check mark next to Loan. Second call: highly recommended contractor for a basic idea of renovation costs on the barn. More eye-bugging, but now that I had an idea of what kind of loan I’d get, I knew my budget, and I could go with the good contractor instead of the crappy one my sister’s law firm used to add showers (because sometimes she and her coworkers actually slept at the office—shiver). Third call: president of the Bluff Valley chamber of commerce for info on how many restaurants were within a fifteen-mile radius (twenty-three), not including fast-food joints, how many vegans (one), how many farm-to-table restaurants (zero), how many restaurants on a farm (zero).

  I heard Zach whispering in my ear: There are none because it’s not sustainable. Because there’s no market.

  But I believed there was a market. And once word got out about a farm-to-table vegan restaurant on an established farm, people would flock.

  For the next hour, I read five articles on the farm-to-table movement, getting more and more juiced about the Outpost. Hell, yeah, this was going to happen.

  “Darling, of course the wedding won’t be vegan,” Dominique said, her expression horrified. “No one besides you and Avery wants to eat beans for the main course.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Dominique had arranged this breakfast meeting on Thursday morning at her house in the Hills, a beautiful Spanish-style “bungalow” that was at least four thousand square feet.

  “You can have a vegan plate. Some interesting pasta.” She clicked at her iPhone. Before I could say anything, she’d stood up and clapped her hands, twice. What was that about? “All right. Now, moving along to the fashion show.”

  “Fashion show?”

  Suddenly, the French doors opened and a model wearing a satin wedding gown came sashaying in as though she were on a runway. The dress was white and had a 1920s flapper quality to it with asymmetrical beading and flounced hem. The model stopped, propped a bored hand on her hip, then pivoted and strutted back toward the French doors.

  “I thought I was looking at sketches,” I said.

  “We’re way past that, dear,” Dominique said. “And besides, this is like live sketches. I liked the lines on this one. Stark, but with a sweet, fierce quality. A bit like you.”

  Was that a compliment? Of sorts, maybe. Sweet and Fierce headed out and Ethereal entered. There was something angelic meets Roman about the dress. Next was a forties-style lace gown that I loved, something I could imagine actresses like Katharine Hepburn or Lauren Bacall wearing. Something of a ball gown came out next, a bit like Sara’s dress, but so intricately beaded it looked heavy. Finally it was the Kate Middleton, with the long sleeves and high neckline.

  “Wow, Dominique, I have to admit I liked a few of those very much.”

  Her look of
surprise was priceless, but she tried to hide it. “Of course you did. Which was your favorite? I’ll need to book the seamstress immediately.”

  “I appreciate the fashion show, I really do, but I don’t think any of those are really right for the farm. Maybe something like the first one, but without a train.”

  “Good God, Clementine, you’re not planning on wearing something country, are you?”

  I smiled. “I don’t know. I’m not there yet.”

  “Darling, why don’t you let me worry about the dress. I’ll send you over to my seamstress to have your measurements taken.”

  “Actually, I want to worry about the dress—but not now. When I’m ready, I’ll go shopping.”

  “Well, really, the wedding needs to be cohesive.”

  “My dress doesn’t have to go with the tablecloth and flowers.”

  “Well, really, it does.”

  “Dominique, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I’ll take care of the dress on my own. I think my mother wants to go shopping with me.” That wasn’t even a lie. My mother did want to go dress hunting with me. She knew my taste and would be a big help.

  “Oh,” Dominique said, her face falling. “All right then. Of course. I’ll need a photograph of it when you get it, to make sure everything else I’m planning follows suit.”

  Why was so she controlling?

  “I have a board meeting in a half hour so I have to zip off, but we’ll need to discuss your registry. Of course, you’ll register at—”

  “Actually, in lieu of wedding gifts, I’d like guests to donate to the SPCA of LA and PETA too.”

  She stared at me. “You can’t be serious. I don’t even know what those acronyms actually stand for. Something to do with dog shelters and fur protesters?” She mock shivered. “When I was in New York City last winter, some unkempt young woman lunged at me and made growling noises. It took me a minute to realize she was protesting my mink wrap.” Dominique rolled her eyes.

  Mink wrap. I mock shivered. Gross. “As a philanthropist, I’d think they’d be high up on your list. Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. And PETA is People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There’s a local shelter I volunteer at whenever I can. The Montana Avenue Rescue. I’d like them added too.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Clementine. You’re darling, really. But there’s no need to make a statement at your wedding. Isn’t that a little . . . tacky?”

  “It’s not a statement. Zach and I don’t need a Vitamix or someone’s five hundred bucks. But the SPCA could use kibble and cat crates and dog beds and money to pay for neutering and vet bills. PETA’s awareness campaign—”

  “Oh, God, spare me. I have to run, Clementine, but we’ll revisit once I discuss with Zach.”

  Huh. Maybe I should have talked about it with Zach myself.

  My face must have given something away because she looked at me for a moment. With concern. “Darling,” she said, walking me out to my car, “maybe you should go over that list of Jocelyn’s—with Zach. You two should make sure you’re on board.”

  “On board with what?”

  “Life, dear. The same values. Please don’t take offense, but I foresee conflict.”

  “Zach and I are fine.”

  She smiled. Smugly. “Oh, you’re too sweet. Go over that list with Zach. I forget what’s on it, but maybe overturning a rock or two will be helpful, after all.”

  I wasn’t scared of what I might find out, was I?

  17

  Rustic-vegetable potpie with a biscuit crust. Smoky potato empanadas, falafel with tahini sauce, blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry. The more I heard Dominique’s voice in my head, condescendingly calling me sweet (aka fool), the more I cooked. Cooking calmed me as nothing else could.

  I stood at my station in the kitchen of the restaurant and drizzled tahini sauce over the three falafel cakes, then slid them inside a warmed garlic-infused pita full of thickly sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, red cabbage, and lettuce. Should I keep my falafel, every bit as delicioso as Alexander had said, off the menu just because Fresh was having Mediterranean night for the Times visit? Would keeping it be crappy to do to Alexander, considering my falafel had the edge over his?

  Wasn’t that the point, though? To win?

  And be the reason Alexander didn’t get promoted?

  Half the sandwich gobbled up, I put it on the serious-contender list. I’d figure it out later.

  I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. Someone else was probably hungry for my falafel. Someone I missed like crazy: Zach. I made another sandwich, wrapped it up, added a piece of my raspberry tort, whipped up one of his favorite juice blends—pomegranate-strawberry—and booked over to his office.

  Zach’s admin, an officious dude in a sweater vest, said he’d alert Zach that I was here, so I sat down in the reception area. The double doors to his suite opened, and Zach came, a look of surprise on his face.

  “I didn’t forget we were having lunch, did I?” he asked, looking worried that he had. Which was a good sign that he truly was just crazy busy lately.

  I stood up and followed him into his office. I’d only been here once before, and I was still surprised by the size of the place. Bigger than my entire apartment with gorgeous views of the ocean and the Santa Monica Pier. His desk was the size of a king-size bed.

  “Just thought I’d surprise you with lunch.” I took out the falafel and smoothie and put it on his desk. “I miss you, Zach. And I’m going to say this straight out—your mother is planning every detail of our wedding while I’ve never felt more disconnected from you. It’s weird.”

  He took my hands in his and pulled me close. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, Clem. It’s temporary, though. Come sit down with me.” He took the falafel and smoothie over to the huge leather (ick) sofa by the floor-to-ceiling window. “Is my mother driving you nuts?”

  “I can handle her. She means well—ish.” I smiled.

  He took a huge bite of the falafel. “God, this is incredible. Thanks for bringing it. I was about to order in again.”

  “You ready for Sunday?”

  “What’s Sunday?”

  He’d forgotten that my parents were throwing us an engagement party? Was he this distracted? “The meeting of the parents. The hippie farmers and the corporate giants.”

  “My brain is going to explode—if I don’t check my calendar every five minutes, I forget what I’m doing next. This acquisition is going to kill me. And I think our parents will get along great.”

  Talk about brains exploding. The Jeffrieses and Coopers in the same room should be something to see.

  “Your mom and I were talking about Jocelyn’s list again. Now she thinks we should go over it. Make sure we’re on the same page, to use your kind of lingo.”

  He took a sip of the smoothie. “We are on the same page. Despite everything.”

  “About SPCA and PETA donations in lieu of wedding gifts?” I should probably have asked him if he was okay with that, but I’d figured he would be. Did Zach really want people like my cousin Harry or Sara shelling out 250 bucks to us? Did we want wildly expensive china for sixteen in some ornate pattern? No. We didn’t. I understood Zach and he understood me. He’d be fine with the donations.

  He smiled. “My mother left a voice mail ranting about that hours ago.”

  “And?”

  “I like cats. And dogs. And vicious minks.”

  I hugged him. I knew it. “What about your expectations of married life? That’s something I haven’t even thought much about.”

  “That’s kind of a big question. I guess I expect we’ll be partners. In everything.”

  But what if you disagreed with me on something I wanted to do? Such as the Outpost? I squeezed his hand and said, “Me too,” because it was true. And because once I had the logistics of the Outpost figured out and could show Zach real numbers and a business plan, he’d be on my side. If he wasn’t, well, guess we’d both find out what happened when we had a stalemate. The
Outpost would be mine, and the decision would be mine.

  After a knock at the door, a head poked in.

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t meant to interrupt, but it’s urgent.”

  “No problem,” I said to Zach. “See you tonight?”

  “Come over after you close.” He leaned over and kissed me, his hand cupping my face. He looked at me for a good long moment, then kissed me again.

  Finally. My Zach seemed to be back.

  “Let me make myself crystal clear, young lady,” Dominique screeched into my ear a few hours later. I held my iPhone out a bit so she wouldn’t blow a hole in my eardrum.

  And hello to you too. I’d barely answered her call before she started screaming.

  “Keira will not, under any circumstances, appear on that ridiculous abomination of a television show. She said your friend works for the show, which is how I’m sure she got herself on there. These are not the kinds of connections I’m interested in her making, Clementine. So undo this. Now.” Click.

  Whoa. I was staying out of this one.

  When I arrived at the restaurant on Saturday morning, I was just in time to hear Violet, Gunnar’s nine-year-old daughter, throw the tantrum of all tantrums. Did nine-year-old’s throw tantrums? Guess so.

  “No one wants to eat a vegan cake, Dad!” she yelled, tears streaking down her face. “Everyone’s gonna think I’m weird. They already think I’m weird. Just forget it!” She slid down the wall to her butt.

  Violet Fitch looked so much like Gunnar. Same almost-black hair—except Violet’s was past her shoulders in tangles of gorgeous waves—and catlike green eyes, long black lashes, and serious eyebrows. She wore a Fun concert T-shirt, yellow shorts, and flip-flops.

  “Violet,” Gunnar said, his voice a combination of frustration and weariness. He’d clearly had to drag her here.

  “Hey,” Alanna said to the girl in a gentle voice I hadn’t heard before, probably because I’d never seen her around a kid before. She went over to Violet and slid down the wall beside her. “I’m gonna make you a deal. If you don’t love, and I mean love, the cake we bake today, I’ll invite you and your dad over to my place tomorrow morning and I’ll make sure I have all the ingredients for a not-vegan cake. Okay?”