“I’m not the one who’s going anywhere, you goddamned, miserable piss-poor excuse for a man. I want you packed and out of this house in ten minutes, you bastard. You and your little slut girlfriend.”
Bolting out of the bed, John stood there with all his flaccid, masculine glory dangling between his skinny bird legs. Thumbkin had shrunk to the size of a Spanish peanut.
“Hey, who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he roared. “Have you forgotten that I’m the one who says what goes around here?” He jabbed the air with a pointed finger. “Not you, you lard-assed, mealy-mouthed idiot. Go stick your fat face in a pig trough and drown yourself.”
Bringing her full girth into the room, Maisy stood arms akimbo at the foot of the bed. “Your grisly reign as Attila the Hun, head-honcho and chief decision maker has just crashed to a halt, John. I’m divorcing you.”
She glanced at her watch. “Now you’ve only got eight minutes. If you’re not out of here I’ll call the police first and then the newspaper. Let’s see how the conservative president of Henshaw Real Estate might feel about the smarmy extra-marital affair of his branch manager and his little hot-shot saleswoman plastered all over the local papers.”
Flashing a victorious smile, Maisy held her head high as she jabbed the air with an outstretched finger. “And don’t think for a minute I won’t do it. Any pride I once had is long gone, thanks to you. I’ve got nothing to lose—except for you, you rotten, stinking, vile, amoral sonuvabitch.”
Reclaiming the reins to her life, Maisy felt distinctly exhilarated.
Hearing Sharon mutter something under her breath, Maisy turned her vengeance on the twig. “As for you,” she warned, glaring at the woman. “Unless you want your name plastered all over the papers with that no good, fucking dickhead of a husband of mine, you’d better get your bony ass out of my bed and cover those puny pencil-eraser breasts before I come over there, grab you by that hennaed mop on your head and drop-kick your skinny ass down the stairs.”
Yes! God that felt good! Maisy felt twenty pounds lighter and less encumbered than she had in years.
An eye-popping, drop-jawed expression across her reddened face, Sharon let out a whopping growl. “John, are you just going to stand there and let that walking tub of lard talk to me like that?”
Clearly flabbergasted and motionless, John looked at Sharon. “Just get your clothes on and get out of here,” he muttered, scrambling into his pants. “I’ll meet you back at your place.” Heaving a gargantuan sigh of frustration, Sharon complied, whispering fat bitch to Maisy as she slid past her, ran down the stairs and slammed the front door behind her.
Galloping down the stairs a moment later, John promised, “You’ll pay for this, Maisy. Mark my words, you’ll be sorry.”
Maisy plodded down the stairs behind him. “Hah. That’s a laugh.” She panted breathlessly as she tried in vain to keep pace with him. “Believe me, John, there is nothing—nothing—in the world you could do to make my life any more miserable than you already have these past ten years. You’ve pushed me around for the last time, buster.”
Stopping dead in his tracks, John turned to face Maisy. His fist raised, jaw twitching and eyes blazing, he stepped toward her, causing her to catch her breath. Awaiting the worst, Maisy stood her ground with her chin—both of them—held high. This was it. John was going to kill her. She’d be a tsking, laughable finale to the evening news on TV.
And on the lighter side—after a fatal jab to the stomach, a morbidly obese woman exploded all over the walls and floor of her suburban Chicago townhouse tonight. An overwhelming odor of chocolate emanated from the remains. Reportedly busy celebrating his good fortune by screwing his red-haired, perky-breasted toothpick of a slut, the deceased’s husband couldn’t be reached for comment.
As Maisy bravely locked gazes with John, she silently prayed she’d fall on top of him and crush him to death after he struck the fatal blow.
Much to her amazement, John pulled back and turned away, mumbling a string of creative expletives under his breath. In a matter of minutes he’d stuffed the clothes from the bureau in his study into a suitcase, all the while fuming and ranting. Snatching John’s perfectly starched and pressed dress shirts from his closet, Maisy hurled them to the floor and kicked them toward her husband. Then she stomped all over them just for good measure. It was the most exercise she’d gotten in months and it felt sensational.
“Here,” she blurted, “bring these to your skinny little playmate and tell Fitch the Bitch that the laundress job is all hers from now on.” Maisy beamed with triumph as she spoke.
Instead of heading for food once John was out the door, Maisy sat down and designed a positive plan of action for herself. Bound and determined to drag herself out of the chocolate-coated pits of despair that had become her daily existence, she made a commitment to herself that there would be no more bingeing.
“And,” Maisy said at the recollection, “I kept that promise for a full year and a half—until yesterday’s chocolate fiasco.”
“Ms. Morganfield? Excuse me…”
Maisy’s attention snapped back to the present as she focused on Rob Lyons and Dawn Farley standing at her desk.
“Sorry to bother you,” Rob said. “We’re here to pick up the travel documents for our honeymoon cruise…”
“Oh,” Maisy laughed a little, “you’re not bothering me a bit. Sorry, my head must have been up in the clouds somewhere.” She waved her hand skyward, offering a cordial smile. “Preferably first class on a plane, heading for someplace exotic.”
They were so young and adorable. So innocent looking.
Including a gift-filled tote bag with their documents, Maisy sent the young lovers on their way. Her eyes brimmed with tears as the young couple bounced hand-in-hand out of the agency.
God, she felt old.
She glanced at her watch. Eleven already. Three hours had passed since she arrived and she’d accomplished nothing other than to answer a few phone calls, wallow in raw memories and steep in the depths of self-pity. Stupid and unproductive.
Drawing a resolute breath, she slapped her hand on the desktop. “Enough already, Mazel Lynn Morganfield.” It was high time she got her shit together and moved on with her life. Turning to face her computer monitor, she proceeded to check her active client files.
“I see the job’s got you talking to yourself, huh Maisy?”
Maisy glanced up at Norman Stanley, owner of the agency, who’d propped his ample behind on the edge of her desk.
“It’s not the job, Norman. It’s just my life.” Flicking her hand in a dismissive fashion, Maisy tossed off a nonchalant laugh. “No big deal. John’s wake just opened some old wounds that I thought had healed eons ago.”
“It’s a damn shame he couldn’t have seen you looking the way you do now.” Norman placed his hand over hers as he spoke. “You’ve evolved into a positively ravishing creature since that day you came in here and signed up for my travel course. Look at you.”
He appraised her with an approving nod. “Maisy, darling, you’re utterly delicious. Spectacular. Breathtaking. Enchanting.” Through broad gestures, Norman tossed each word into the air with drama and gusto. “An absolute vision of loveliness.”
Scrunching her features into a twisted smile, Maisy patted her boss’s chubby fingers and smiled. “Oh Norman, I love you. Now if only I could find a man who felt the same way about me, had all of your wonderful qualities and, oh yeah,” she chuckled, “wasn’t gay, I’d be all set.” Winking, she squeezed his hand.
“It’s gonna happen for you, Maisy. Just last night I had another one of my psychic flashes about you,” he confided, leaning toward her.
Resting her elbow on the desk, Maisy cupped her chin with her hand and groaned. “Norman, Norman, Norman. You and your psychic flashes. What am I going to do with you?”
“No, really, Maisy, I swear to God.” Norman crossed his heart. “Come on, you know how perceptive my premonitions are, especia
lly when they involve my very best friends.” Closing his eyes, fingers poised at his temples, he said, “There’s a hot, sexy man coming in to your life.” He paused a moment, peeking at her through one eye. “Yes, he’s straight.” Winking, he closed his eyes again. “I see splendid things happening for you…romance…love…travel…”
“Mmm-hmm. Please, spare me, Norman. How many times have you supposedly had the identical vision of a great romantic breakthrough coming my way since I started working here? Ten, twelve, eighty times?”
Maisy peeked under her desk. “Nope, no gorgeous hunks under here.” Craning her neck, she scanned the office. “And the office is definitely hunkless, except for you, of course, Norman dear.” She patted his knee. “Hmm…” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “Where could that mystical, sexy dream-man be hiding?”
“Such a comedienne.” Norman folded his arms across his chest. “What you fail to understand, smarty pants, is that the repetitive value of this premonition only substantiates it all the more. Each time I get one of my flashes about you, it’s stronger. And last night was the most powerful of all. I had dreams about it all night.”
“I told you to lay off those pepperoni pizzas, Norman.”
“You know,” he wagged a finger at her, “ESP is a very real phenomenon. Ever since I was a little boy living in that squalid apartment on Clark Street, right upstairs from Sally John’s Lounge—”
Dropping her head into her hands, Maisy uttered a pained groan. “Yeah, yeah, I know it by heart, Norman. I’ve heard this story a gazillion times, remember? Every time old Norm senior went to the tavern to slosh down a few brews he brought his kid into the bar so the too-artsy little boy could rub shoulders with some manly men.” Maisy hung invisible quotation marks in the air. “And learn how to become more of a real man.”
“Mmmm, I still remember some of those big brawny shoulders too.” Norman jiggled his eyebrows.
Smirking, Maisy ignored Norman’s interruption and continued. “And then all the drunken beer-bellied old geezers would humor the cute little kid by having him read their palms. The end.”
“Ugh, that sounded so vile.” Norman tsked. “How can you take my dramatic, colorful, soulful little slice of life and make it sound so lackluster and mundane?”
“Okay, how’s this?” Maisy offered. “Each evening the manly, macho patrons of Sally John’s Lounge zealously awaited the arrival of Norm senior’s cherubic little blond-banged clairvoyant boy Normie. Tethered in ropes of cigarette smoke, the brawny men sat mesmerized as the towheaded wonder-boy gazed at their rough-hewn palms, revealing tantalizing tidbits of their future.” Maisy grinned. “Better?”
“Now that’s more like it.” Norman nodded as Maisy collapsed in laughter. Feigning hurt feelings, he pouted. “Sure, go ahead and laugh…you’ll see. Sally John’s regulars were scoffers too until my predictions started coming true. Then they came back, begging for more. Of course, I made them pay.” He hopped down from Maisy’s desk.
“So you were an entrepreneur at the tender age of ten, huh?”
“Actually, I was a kept man.”
“At ten?” She raised her eyebrows with interest.
“Uh-huh. They kept me in bar snacks like pizza, pepperoni sticks, beef jerky, cheese-curls and best of all, they let me suck,” he paused there, clearly doing his best to increase the drama, “the foamy heads off their beer glasses,” Norman finally finished, chuckling at the memory. “It was my first decadent foray into gluttony.”
“Tell you what,” Maisy suggested. “If your prediction comes true and I find myself swept into the powerful, waiting arms of an irresistible straight,” she wagged a finger for emphasis, “manly man, I promise to ply you with bar snacks and let you suck…the foam from my beer.”
Norman flashed a boyish smile. “Deal,” he said, heading back to his office.
Maisy truly loved Norman. The gregarious, good-hearted man had befriended her at the lowest point in her life. It was Norman who’d repeatedly injected her with confidence and positive motivation. As her body whittled down in size he’d employed his snappy, classy sense of style to teach Maisy how to dress to her best advantage. To showcase the emerging womanly attributes so long hidden beneath mounds of fat.
Best of all, it was Norman who brought sunshine and laughter back into Maisy’s life—and who let her cry on his shoulder when she needed to. This funny, warm, nurturing man had become her closest confidant and best friend.
“So Norman sees a sexy hunk coming into my life, huh?” Maisy mused, sorting through her mountain of paperwork. Steepling her fingers, she looked skyward and whispered, “From his lips to God’s ears.”
Chapter Three
A week after Maisy attended John’s wake, she and Norman lunched at Chowder Bay, the trendy new seafood house just down the road from Persimmon Travel.
“Okay, help me out here, Norman,” Maisy said as she scanned the expansive menu. “In my continuing quest to become more cosmopolitan,” she raised her eyebrows and smiled at him, “I’ve decided to start ordering a glass of wine with lunch instead of the usual Diet Coke. As my mentor, it’s your job to tell me what goes best with salmon.”
Norman regarded Maisy over the rim of his reading glasses and smiled.
“Well, at the wine tasting I took you to a couple of weeks ago, they said not to worry about the old red wine with red meat and white wine with fish or chicken rule. Since salmon’s a hearty, flavorful fish, I think you’d be safe with anything from an earthy cabernet to champagne. Personally, I prefer a good Riesling with salmon. The spicy sweetness offsets salmon’s sturdy flavor quite well. After a steady diet of Diet Coke,” Norman laughed, “I have a feeling you’d probably prefer a wine that’s not too dry.”
“Okay then, wet wine it is.” Maisy gave a resolute nod. “I can’t believe I’m nearly thirty-five years old and just now starting to learn about wine.”
“That’s no surprise. That overbearing, meathead of an ex-husband of yours,” Norman injected an insincere smile before adding, “God rest his soul—did his best to keep you sheltered from anything culturally stimulating.”
“Tell me about it.” Maisy trilled a sigh. “How about we leave the objectionable topic of my dead ex out of our pleasant lunchtime conversation, okay?”
“Done.” He offered a warm smile.
“Things were really hopping this morning,” Maisy said, glad to change the subject. “We’re booking a lot of Mexico and the Caribbean.”
Norman rubbed his hands with glee. “Love it, love it, love it. Ka-ching!” He grinned as he mimed pressing a key on a cash register. “Hey, speaking of money, did I tell you my filthy-rich cousin Wilson called me this morning?”
At the mention of one of her least favorite people, a wretched sneer crossed Maisy’s features. “Big Willy?” Norman nodded and Maisy shuddered. “Please, God, tell me he’s not coming up from Texas for another visit.”
“’Fraid so. He wants to sell off his investment properties here in the Chicago area because he’s—get this, Maisy—going to Russia on business. And he’ll probably be there a good five—that’s right, I said five—years.” Norman tapped out a little dance of joy under the table as he snapped his fingers. “Halleluiah!”
“No kidding?” Maisy’s face brightened. “Well, pardner,” she said in her best Texas twang, “that there’s the best dang news I’ve heard all day.” She and Norman broke into laughter.
Wagging his finger, he warned, “I’d watch out if I were you, Maisy. You know how Big Willy lusts after you. If you’re not careful, he may just hijack you to Russia.”
“Oh jeez, Norman. You’re going to spoil my appetite.”
“What can I say?” Norman shrugged. “You know damn well I’m not kidding. He’s hot for you. All you’d have to do is crook your little finger and you could become the fourth Mrs. Wilson Jasper. Just think of all those millions. You’d be living in the lap of luxury, Maisy. And all it would cost you is a paltry ten percent of Big Willy’s
net worth for my services as your matchmaker.” Norman grinned. “You’ve got to admit Wilson’s not too hard on the eyes either.”
“I don’t care how good looking he is. I’d sooner give up chocolate than spend a single night in the lap of that manhandling, overblown, macho, bigoted, pushy side of Texas beef,” Maisy made clear.
“Ouch.” Norman winced.
Their conversation was put on hold as a striking, twenty-ish young man approached the table. “Hi, my name is Christopher and I’ll be your server this afternoon. Have you decided yet?”
“Yes, I’ll have the fresh grilled salmon fillet with the mango teriyaki relish and steamed vegetables—no oil or butter—in place of the fried rice. Oh, and I’d like a glass of your house Riesling,” Maisy said confidently. Norman ordered the peel and eat garlic shrimp with a side order of zucchini-crab cakes with pineapple-horseradish sauce, a cup of Chowder Bay’s signature New England-style seafood chowder and a glass of Riesling.
Appreciatively eyeing the handsome young server with the wavy jet-black hair and blue eyes as he departed with their order, Norman mused, “Did you see that cute, tight little ass of his? And those teal-blue eyes? They’re about the same shade as your suit.” Turning back to Maisy, he pounded the table. “Why the hell didn’t you stop me from ordering those fattening crab cakes and chowder?”
Pinching the small roll at his middle, Norman sat back in his chair, expelling a sigh of exasperation. “Look at me. How am I ever going to get in shape to attract a luscious sweet thing like that if I keep eating this way?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he grumbled. “Hey, diet buddy, you’re supposed to keep me on the right track, remember?”
“Now Norman, you know how you hate it when I police you.” With a kind smile, Maisy reached across the table and touched his arm. “Did you really want me to say something in front of that cute, hunky waiter you were drooling over and embarrass you?”
Absently fiddling with the bottle of chipotle pepper sauce on the table, Norman groaned. “No. You’re right. I would have bit your head off afterward. I’m disgusting. I’m beyond help. I haven’t even worked out in nearly two weeks.”
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