Bikini Season

by Sheila Roberts

  “One bite won’t kill you,” said Lionel, as he heaped a carbohydrate mountain on his plate. He dug the spoon into the bowl then flicked a dollop on hers.

  He went back into the bowl for more and Kizzy moved her plate out of range. “Lionel, you are not helping.”

  He let the spoon fall into the bowl and frowned. “I suppose you’re not going to eat any of that candy I brought home.”

  “I’ll have one piece,” she said, just to please him.

  He barely looked mollified. “Those are Godiva, you know.”

  It had been a nice gesture. She sighed. “I know, and I’ll have one. But don’t bring me any more after this. You understand?”

  Beaming, he reached over and opened the box.

  Three candies later, Kizzy was disgusted with both herself and Lionel. She was going to have to make some big changes.

  And there was one way to start. After he left the kitchen she grabbed the half-full box and marched to the garbage can, Gus padding after her. She stomped on the pedal at the base of the metal can and the lid popped open like a giant Muppet mouth just waiting to get fed. All she had to do was dump in the candy.

  She took her foot off the pedal, letting the lid fall back down with a disappointed clang. It was plain wasteful to throw out chocolates. She stood, looking at the garbage can. The only way she was going to stay out of these was to toss them.

  Gritting her teeth, Kizzy opened the can again. She emptied the box into the garbage and the lid clanged shut. The moment felt depressingly symbolic. Life as she knew it was ending.

  But at least she still had a life, she reminded herself, and she needed to do all she could to make sure it was a healthy one.

  The first step to that would be getting some new mean, lean recipes into her repertoire. From now on her famous potato salad and fried chicken would have to be infrequent visitors in the Maxwell house. And those mashed potatoes Lionel loved so much would have to turn into salads. She sighed. Oh, well, cooking should always be an adventure, and it was time for a new one.

  Cooking. Adventure. Oh, rats. She was probably going to have to disband her cooking club. It had started a year ago when Angela Baker, her neighbor up the street, had begged Kizzy to take her and some friends under her wing and turn them into kitchen goddesses. It hadn’t taken too much begging, since Kizzy loved to cook. And she loved food. So, it turned out, did the women who came to her house once a month. They always wound up with something fattening on the menu.

  First the chocolates and now cooking club. Life sucked.

  Three

  Each month the cooking club picked a meal theme, usually featuring cuisine from a different region or country, but tonight’s menu was comfort food, and everyone was bringing her favorite. Angela had volunteered to make the main course. Her old friend Megan was making an appetizer and Erin was bringing bread. And for dessert Kizzy had baked a chocolate cake that could zap five pounds on a girl’s hips simply for looking at it. That was going to be hard to stay out of.

  Comfort food had been a good choice for tonight, she thought, remembering her chat with the doctor, a time traveler from the Spanish Inquisition. She needed some comforting.

  “Start with a reasonable goal and take off twenty or thirty pounds,” Dr. Stevens had said. “You’ll be amazed at how much more energy you have.”

  Energy would be a good thing. It seemed like she was tired all the time. But that was because she was busy all the time.

  “I know you work hard,” Dr. Stevens had said, “and you play hard. But try to exercise a little more and eat a little less and see what happens. And when you have company …”

  “A lot of it.” She had this cooking club, her church friends, family gatherings, and lots of neighbors dropping in, and she prided herself on always serving tasty goodies to everyone who came to her house. “What am I supposed to do, offer them carrot sticks?” she’d said in disgust.

  Dr. Stevens had shrugged. “Find some new recipes and adapt the old ones. You don’t have to starve yourself or your friends. Just eat differently.”

  Translation: torture yourself.

  Tonight would be the equivalent of a last meal. After this she’d have to sit around and drool while everyone else ate.

  She had just pulled a casserole dish of macaroni and cheese out of the oven when Angela arrived, bearing a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a huge pan of lasagna and the requisite recipe copies. “This is the last lasagna I’ll ever put in my mouth,” she announced, setting the pan down on Kizzy’s stove. “After this, I’m getting serious about what I’m eating.”

  “I’m always serious about what I eat,” Kizzy said. “I guess that’s my problem. Oh, cute shoes,” she added, pointing to Angela’s peep-toe leopard-print pump.

  Angela stuck out her foot. “They were on clearance at Stepping Out. But never mind me. What did the doctor say today?”

  “Well, there’s good news and bad news.”

  The blood drained from Angela’s face. “Oh, no.”

  Kizzy shook her head quickly. “It’s not that bad. The good news is it isn’t cancer. The bad news is I have to lose weight.”

  “Me, too.” Angela looked lustfully at her lasagna. “I hate dieting. I have no willpower.”

  Kizzy patted her ample hips. “Girl, I am the president of that club.”

  The doorbell rang and she went to let in the next guest.

  There stood Erin Merritt, holding out French bread perfumed with garlic.

  Kizzy eyed the carb temptation as Erin laid her offering next to the goodies collecting on Kizzy’s granite-topped kitchen counter. She’d never be able to stay out of those.

  Angela hovered over Kizzy’s cake. “That looks incredible,” she said, her voice practically dripping with drool.

  “I can cut you girls a piece right now,” Kizzy offered. “Life’s uncertain, eat dessert first.”

  Erin shook her head sadly. “There’s one thing certain in my life, and that’s fat. I can’t have any dessert tonight. In fact,” she added, looking at the spread, “I can’t have anything here.”

  “What?” Kizzy looked at her, shocked. “You’ve got to eat something.”

  “I know it’s not comfort food, but could we make a salad of some kind?” Erin asked. “Have you got any lettuce?”

  “Of course,” Kizzy said, and started pulling lettuce, tomatoes, and onions out of the refrigerator. “If you can pass up Angela’s lasagna, please give me a tiny helping of your willpower.”

  “I don’t feel much like eating anyway,” Erin said.

  Kizzy dumped an armload of salad makings on the counter. “Is something wrong?”

  Erin’s lower lip began to wobble. “My wedding gown doesn’t fit.”

  “Don’t worry,” Angela said, patting her shoulder. “Like I told you, you still have time to lose.”

  “Not if I keep eating the way I’ve been eating. I’m going crazy. I went through a whole bag of chips in one night.”

  That was nothing. Kizzy could have done it in one hour. She studied Erin. She was a pretty girl, with blond hair, stylishly highlighted, and striking brown eyes. Right now she looked worried. Maybe she was carrying a little extra weight, but Kizzy was sure she’d have no problem losing it. Now, having sixty-five pounds to shed—that was something to worry about.

  “Are you stressed at work?” Kizzy asked diplomatically.

  Angela wasn’t quite so diplomatic. “It’s more than work, isn’t it? It’s Adam.”

  Erin bit her lip.

  Such a small gesture, but it said a mouthful. Kizzy felt righteous anger on her young friend’s behalf bubbling up inside her. This Adam Hawthorne was a pain. Kizzy had met him when she and Lionel hosted an open house over the holidays and Erin and Adam had stopped by. He was an eyeful, Kizzy would give him that, and he had been friendly enough.

  But Kizzy had met men like him before, men with a controlling streak half a mile long. He and Erin had been at the party less than an hour before he politely i
nformed her that they needed to be getting on to the next party, and just like that Erin had agreed to leave. Kizzy was proud of her for not so quickly agreeing to all his cheap wedding ideas. Other than encouraging Erin to stand firm and fight for the things she wanted most, Kizzy had pretty much kept her mouth shut. It was one thing for a woman to complain to her friends about her man’s bad behavior, but for a friend to diss that same man, that was a recipe for ruining a friendship.

  The last member of their group, Megan Wales, arrived bearing a platter of little sausages rolled inside biscuits. “I brought pigs in a blanket,” she said, and Kizzy tried not to think about the potential for symbolism lurking on that platter.

  Megan was in her early thirties, an up-and-coming lawyer at a big Seattle firm, and was one smart cookie. She was also overweight, right up there in the high numbers with Kizzy. Looking at all of them, Kizzy couldn’t help but notice that they had more in common than an interest in recipes.

  Megan took in Angela’s disapproving frown and Erin’s sad face. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s stressed,” Angela explained. “Her wedding gown doesn’t fit. Did Adam give you grief about that?” she demanded in a tone of voice that threatened to break his legs if he had.

  “He did, but we’ve got it settled. He was only worried about where we’re going to get the money for another if I can’t lose the weight to get into this one.”

  “He should be ashamed,” Angela said. “You’re the one paying for the wedding gown.”

  “Aren’t you footing the bill for everything?” put in Megan.

  “I’m the bride. I’m supposed to. Anyway, his parents are getting the cake. And he’s taking care of the honeymoon.”

  “He’s supposed to,” Angela said. “And I don’t think he should be saying anything about things he’s not paying for,” she added firmly.

  “He’s afraid we’re going to end up with a big pile of debt after we’re married, and I can’t blame him for not wanting to start off on the wrong foot.”

  “If you ask me, you already are starting off on the wrong foot,” said Angela.

  Kizzy pulled her vintage Vernonware plates from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “You’re really not spending that much on the wedding, believe me,” she told Erin.

  “I know,” Erin said. “He doesn’t get how much weddings cost.”

  He didn’t get a lot of things, if you asked Kizzy. The wedding gown wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t fitting.

  “I think mine would fit you. You’re welcome to wear it if you want,” Angela offered. “God knows I’ll never get into it again. And it would look really great on you. What size are you?”

  “Ask me in another five months,” Erin said miserably.

  “Okay, here’s the wedding special,” Kizzy announced, setting a huge teak bowl full of salad next to the lasagna. “Let’s eat. We’ve got white wine, sparkling cider, Coke, and, of course, chocolate milk to drink.”

  “I’ll just have water,” said Erin. “And salad.”

  “Salad won’t keep you full for long,” pointed out Megan.

  Erin nodded. “Okay, I guess I’ll get a little piece of lasagna.”

  The others followed her lead, taking tiny helpings of the lasagna or mac and cheese, large helpings of salad, and leaving the appetizer and bread untouched.

  “This was not a success,” Kizzy observed, looking around her dining room table at their itty-bitty servings. “I suppose no one’s going to want chocolate cake,” she lamented.

  “I’ll pass,” said Erin.

  “Me, too,” said Angela.

  “Me, three,” said Megan. “In fact, this is my last meal with you guys.”

  What was this about? Kizzy wondered. Megan was normally happy to be at the cooking club, smiling and trying everything, often going back for seconds. And she usually had some interesting tale to tell about life at her law firm. Tonight she was sober as a judge who had just been asked to try her own child for grand theft auto.

  “How come?” asked Angela.

  Megan kept her gaze on her plate. “I’m quitting cooking club. I’m sure you’ll be able to get someone to take my place.”

  “But why?” protested Angela. “It’s only once a month. You’ve got to have time in your schedule for once a month.”

  Megan shook her head. “It’s not working for me. Sorry.”

  “You never told me,” Angela accused. “Since when?”

  Megan didn’t look her in the eye. “You guys are all great, but I just need to … do some different things in my life right now.”

  “Are you moving or something?” asked Angela. “That’s sure the only way I’d quit.”

  Megan just shook her head.

  And that made Angela’s eyes narrow. She pointed a French-manicured acrylic nail at Megan. “It’s the pencils, isn’t it?”

  “The what?” asked Kizzy.

  “That’s what she calls them,” Angela explained. “They’re total snobs who think they’re better than Megan just because they’re thin.” She turned her attention back to her friend. “What happened?”

  Megan shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Kizzy sighed. “Well, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you girls that I need to bail, too.”

  “What?” Angela gawked at her like she’d just uttered blasphemy. “But you’re our leader.”

  “Our mom,” added Erin. “Without you there wouldn’t be a cooking club.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry to ditch you, but I can’t keep eating like this. I have to lose weight. Doctor’s orders.”

  “‘Doctor’s orders,’” Erin repeated, her eyes getting big. “Oh, no. What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing that can’t be helped by losing a mountain of weight,” Kizzy said. “And let me tell you how well that’s going over with Lionel.”

  “I hate how out of control I’ve been lately,” Erin said with a sigh. “And I hate how I’m starting to look.”

  Angela frowned at her half-eaten lasagna. “Talk about hating how you look. Brad brought home pictures from the work Christmas party. Next to his hot assistant I look like a big, frumpy pig. Angela Porco,” she added in an Italian accent. “If Brad’s got a hot puttana at work and a fat frump at home …”

  Kizzy pointed a fork at her. “Don’t you be going there. You’re the mother of his children. Anyway, not all men want a skinny woman.” She frowned. “God knows Lionel doesn’t. He’s going to be no help to me at all. I’m going to need a support group.”

  Angela stared at her, like she was trying to digest something really profound. “Wait a minute,” she said slowly. “We could be our own support group, our own Weight Watchers.”

  That got everyone’s attention. “You mean weigh each other?” Megan asked, terror in her voice.

  Kizzy couldn’t blame her. Once a woman passed a certain point, she preferred to keep the numbers on her scale top secret. “Count me out,” she said. “It’s bad enough to have to go through that at the doctor’s.”

  “No, no. No weighing,” Angela said.

  “Okay, so what did you have in mind?” asked Megan.

  “Well, I’m just thinking,” said Angela. “Everyone here has pretty much said she needs to lose weight, right?”

  The others nodded.

  “So, why not try to help each other? I mean, the only reason Kizzy was going to drop out was because she’s got to get serious, and our monthly pig-outs won’t help. And Megan, is that the same reason you were going to bail? I mean, it’s not because you don’t like us. Right?”

  “No. You’re all great,” Megan said. “In fact, this is the first time in years when I’ve been with other women who aren’t either judging me or competing against me.”

  “Well, then,” said Angela. “We all want to lose weight. Why not stick together?”

  “Hmmm,” said Erin. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Oprah’s got great diet advice on he
r Web site,” Angela continued, warming to her subject. “Maybe we could all do an Oprah booty camp.”

  “That would only help me if Oprah stayed at my house, followed me around, and slapped me every time I got into the fridge,” said Kizzy. “I need something a little more hands-on.”

  “That’s where cooking club comes in,” said Angela. “We can collect recipes that are good for us, and we can help each other eat right.”

  It was a great idea, but … Kizzy shook her head. “Once a month won’t keep me on the wagon.”

  “Me, either,” said Megan.

  “Well, what if we met once a week?” Angela suggested. “Would Lionel mind?” she asked Kizzy.

  “Not as long as he got to eat the leftovers,” said Kizzy. Although he probably wouldn’t be real excited about leftover salads. Still, Lionel could stand to take some pounds off, himself. Heck, even Gus needed to slim his doggy figure.

  “Bella,” said Angela, beaming. “Let’s do it. If we started right away maybe I could lose twenty pounds in time for my birthday.”

  “Okay, so who else wants to do this?” asked Kizzy.

  “I will,” Megan said with a decisive nod.

  “Me, too,” said Erin.

  “Then we’re all in,” said Kizzy, and the others nodded, smiling.

  “We should have a plan for how we’re going to make this work,” Megan suggested. “Maybe start with some research.”

  “Stay out of the chips,” said Erin.

  “Sign up for booty camp,” added Angela.

  “Set goals,” said Kizzy.

  “I can already tell you what mine will be,” Angela said. “I want to be in a bikini by summer. Brad’s volunteered to host the office picnic out here in August and I’m going to outhot the office hottie.”

  Kizzy made a face. “I haven’t been near a bikini in over twenty years.”

  “I’ve never worn one.” Megan said the words so softly, Kizzy wasn’t sure she’d heard her.

  “You’ve never worn one?” repeated Erin.

  Megan shrugged. “Let’s just say I never really had a bikini kind of body.”

  Megan needed to loosen up, live a little, Kizzy decided. Yes, she was packing a chunk of extra pounds, but even so, with her green eyes and stylishly cut chestnut hair, Megan was still a pretty girl. There was more to life than being a support system for a great mind.