by Laura Levine
She thought this over and must have decided I was telling the truth.
“Yes, Deedee was on the phone with me,” she conceded. “Satisfied now?”
“Almost. Just one more question. What does ‘KD’ mean?”
“Karmic Detox. I was giving Deedee instructions on how to purge Dean’s negative karma from her body. Is there anything else you’d like to know? Details from my sex life, perhaps?”
“You have a sex life?” were the words I barely stopped myself from blurting out.
“No, thanks. I’m fine. You’ve been very helpful, and I’m very grateful.”
“You can show me your gratitude with a check for a hundred dollars, please.”
I took out my checkbook and wrote the check. Just as I was handing it to her, Prozac came wandering into the room, dragging her paws, still in full tilt Stepford Kitty mode.
“She doesn’t look very peppy to me,” I said.
“No worries,” Emmy said. “I’ve cured her. She may not show it right away, but one of these days she’ll be her old self. I guarantee it.”
Yeah, right, I thought, watching my hundred bucks eddy down the drain.
Slinging her tote over her shoulder, Emmy bid me farewell and headed off to wave her hands over her next patsy (I mean, client).
No doubt about it. This Reiki thing had been a total waste of money.
But on the plus side, at least I was able to check Deedee’s alibi. She had been on the phone with Emmy, as claimed. Of course, for all I knew, their conversation lasted five minutes, leaving her plenty of time to dart over to the studio kitchen for a quick spritz of Raid.
And what about “KD”? Did it really mean Karmic Detox, as Emmy claimed? Or had Emmy been covering for her client?
Was it possible the initials “KD” really meant Kill Dean?
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Big Day
Today’s the big day, Lambchop! The Tampa Vistas Scrabble Championship. I just finished a power breakfast of Cheerios and gherkins, and now I’m off to trounce The Battle-Axe once and for all!
Love ’n’ snuggles from
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Would you believe that crazy father of yours just ate pickles for breakfast!!?!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Poor Daddy!
I know Daddy’s been driving me nuts getting ready for the Scrabble tournament, but now that it’s over, my heart’s breaking for him.
He showed up so full of confidence, with his Lucky Thinking Cap and his jar of gherkins. And much to my surprise, he sailed right through the early elimination rounds, devastating his opponents with words like whizbang, jezebel, and jukebox.
Then it was just him and Lydia. I thought for sure it would be a bloodbath, but Daddy stood his ground (with flapjack, maximize, and exorcise).
True, Daddy was chomping down on his gherkins while it was Lydia’s turn, hoping to throw her off her game with his munching, but brilliant player that she is, Lydia refused to be distracted.
Daddy and Lydia were going at it neck and neck, and believe it or not, toward the end of the game, Daddy was fifteen points ahead of Lydia. It looked like he was actually going to win. But then, when all Daddy had left were some useless o’s and u’s, Lydia used all her tiles on a triple-word score that swept her to victory with 180 points.
And the word she used? Gherkins!
Poor Daddy! What tragic irony. The pickles he’d been counting on to put him over the edge were the agent of his defeat!
Somehow he managed to shake Lydia’s hand and not pout too much. Honestly, honey, I felt so darn sorry for him, I hardly even minded those hideous plaid Bermuda shorts he insisted on wearing to the tournament.
I’m going to cook him a lovely pot roast for dinner tonight. With scalloped potatoes and a martini for dessert.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Miserable News
Miserable news, Lambchop. The battle-axe “won” the tournament.
I wrote “won” in quotes because I wouldn’t put it past her to have cheated her way to victory. If you ask me, she probably had a list of high-scoring words written on the insides of her orthopedic socks.
Yes, La Pinkus seems all prim and proper on the outside, but I’m sure she’s the one who snuck into the house and hid my Lucky Thinking Cap. The stress of which, incidentally, cost me valuable days of training.
She’s not to be trusted, that’s for sure.
Oh, well. At least I’ve got my stylish new Bermuda shorts to console me.
Love ’n’ hugs from your
Victorious in spirit
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
P.S. I thought for sure Daddy would refuse to go to the Scrabble awards luncheon, but I just asked him, and he’s agreed to go. Talk about your gracious losers!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
P.S. I just promised your mom I’d go to the stupid awards luncheon. The only reason I’m going, of course, is to meet Alex Trebek. Once he and I get a chance to chew the fat, I’m sure I’ll be a shoo-in for Jeopardy!
Chapter 21
The next day Prozac was still so deep in her funk, she didn’t even bother to wake me. Once again, I slept in, jolted to consciousness at 10:30 by the phone ringing at my bedside.
I picked it up to hear Kandi’s excited voice.
“Guess what, hon? I’ve got the most fantastic news!”
“What is it?” I asked, shoving Prozac’s tail from my nose.
“I’ll tell you all about it at lunch. Meet me at the Westside Tavern at noon. Oops. Gotta run. The cockroach is having a hissy fit.”
I assumed that the cockroach to whom she referred was the lead insect on Kandi’s show, Beanie & the Cockroach. Leaving Kandi to her cockroach wrangling, I hung up and turned to Prozac, who was staring listlessly at a pair of panty hose I’d left out on the bed for her.
To think there was a time I found these playthings amusing.
“Good morning, honey,” I said, stroking her behind her ears. “How’d you like some nice human tuna for breakfast?”
Human tuna—two words that normally sent her into a feeding frenzy. But today? Nada. Zippo. Zilch.
Hustling to the kitchen, I scooped some Bumble Bee into her bowl, praying she’d show some interest. But, alas, she did her Blanche DuBois bit, nibbling at it with faint disdain.
I cringed to think of the hundred bucks I’d spent on Emmy, the Reiki healer. Waving her hands over Prozac had done absolutely nothing except give Emmy’s arm flab a workout. Not for a minute did I believe her guarantee that Prozac would soon be back to her old self.
After reading about Daddy’s tragic loss in the Scrabble tournament (beaten by his beloved gherkins!), I settled down with some coffee and a generously buttered cinnamon raisin bagel and whiled away the next fifteen minutes with the crossword puzzle.
I’d just filled in the last clue and was heading to the bedroom to get dressed (okay, I was heading to the kitchen for another cinnamon raisin bagel) when Lance showed up, sailing into my living room with Mamie in tow, a shopping bag dangling from his arm.
“Today’s the big day, Jaine!” he cried, all duded up in a designer suit, his blond curls moussed to perfection. “We’re off to our audition!”
At this, Mamie gave an excited little yap.
“Doesn’t she look adorable?” Lance gushed, the proud stage papa.
And, indeed, Mamie had been groomed to within an inch of her life, her white fur spotless and adorned with a polka dot bow.
“Look!” Lance said, pointing to his tie. “Our polka dots match.”
Sure enough, his mauve and white polka dot tie was the same fabric as Mamie’s ha
ir bow.
Prozac, who’d finished her breakfast and was now stretched out on my chintz armchair, belching tuna fumes, yawned in disgust.
What a ham. And I don’t mean the dog.
“I’m so proud of my little star,” Lance gushed. “She’s got her newspaper shtick down pat. And wait till you see the special new trick I’ve taught her. It’s going to impress the heck out of the casting people!
“Voilà!” he said, taking a small purse out of his shopping bag. “An imitation Hermès handbag. The original cost twelve grand!”
My God, twelve thousand dollars for a purse? Something to hold used tissues and linty Life Savers? Had the world gone mad?
“I’ve taught Mamie how to pick it up and carry it.”
He put the purse down on my coffee table and called out to Mamie. “Look, Mamie! There’s your Hermès purse!”
Mamie, who had been busy sniffing Prozac’s tail, looked up, interested.
“Go get it, girl!”
Lance pointed to the bag, and sure enough, Mamie left the exotic scent of Prozac’s rear quarters and trotted over to the coffee table, where she snatched the purse in her mouth.
Then she strutted around the room, dangling her faux Hermès, loving every minute of her fashion glory.
“Isn’t that just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” Lance said, beaming. “Talk about your designer doggies!”
From her perch on the armchair, Prozac gazed at Mamie with world-weary eyes.
Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo. One day you’re a star, and the next, you’re back on the sofa, sniffing for old pizza crusts.
But Mamie was still prancing around, oblivious, prepping for the runway in Milan.
“I’m bringing my head shot, just in case,” Lance said, flashing the eight-by-ten glossy of himself sporting a stethoscope. “And I’ve had more pics taken, too,” he added, whipping a sheaf of photos from the shopping bag. “Here’s my preppy look. My truck driver look. And my cowboy look. What do you think?”
“Lance, I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever seen a cowboy with a monogrammed pocket hankie.”
“I know. Super touch, isn’t it?”
I could only nod weakly.
“And look at the business cards I’ve made up.”
He fished out a business card from his shopping bag, bordered in tiny paw prints, which read:
MAMIE, THE WONDER DOG!
THE MERYL STREEP OF THE CANINE WORLD
LANCE VENABLE, MANAGER
1-800-I BARK 4U
I stared at it, gobsmacked. Not at the Meryl Streep comparison, although heaven knows that was cheeky enough. I simply could not get over the 800 phone line.
“You had a special phone number set up?”
“Of course.”
“What if she doesn’t get the part?”
“She will. No doubt about it. My Mamie is headed for doggie stardom. Nothing but the best for us from now on. Limos, fine wine, gourmet kibble. Top of the line all the time! Oh, by the way. Can you loan me six bucks for valet parking?”
Mamie might or might not come back as a star, but one thing I knew for sure: Lance would always come back as the most irritating man in the world.
Chapter 22
“A present for you, sweetheart.”
I was sitting across from Kandi at the Westside Tavern, a clubby joint in the Westside Pavilion shopping mall, settled in a cushy booth under dim mood lighting.
“To thank you for all your help the other night,” Kandi said, holding out a lump of misshapen red wool.
“How lovely,” I lied. “My cell phone cover!”
“It’s not a cell phone cover. It’s a tea cozy.”
“Right.”
“That hole over there is where the spout goes.”
There were several gaping holes in the lumpy mass, but I nodded as if I knew which hole she was talking about.
Our actress/waitress, a willowy blonde with shampoo-commercial hair, came over then to take our order.
“What’ll it be, ladies?” she asked, flashing us a blinding smile, just in case one of us was a casting director.
Kandi ordered the chicken Cobb salad, and I got what I always get at the Westside Tavern: cheeseburger with homemade potato chips.
“So,” I said once our actress/waitress had skipped off, “what’s your exciting news?”
I just hoped it was that she’d decided to give up knitting.
“I went to my money management class last night and met the most fabulous man!” she grinned. “A Russian violinist. His name is Alexi and he has the biggest, brownest eyes to come down the pike since Bambi.”
Her own eyes were shining with the kind of fervor mine get when I see Ben & Jerry’s on sale.
“And to think I almost didn’t go! My car was in the shop, and I was planning to stay home, but at the last minute I took an Uber and was so glad I did. I took one look at Alexi, and I knew it was meant to be. Sure enough, the feeling was mutual. He asked me out to dinner tonight. Wait till I show you the adorable sweater I bought to wear on our date.”
With that, she reached down under the table and pulled out a Nordstrom shopping bag.
“Whoa. I thought you’d given up shopping.”
“I did. Back when I was shopping out of frustration over my crummy love life. But now that I’ve found Alexi, I’m shopping out of happiness. So it doesn’t count.”
Talk about world-class rationalization.
“How did you get your credit cards back so fast?”
“Actually,” she said, blushing just a tad, “I never did cut them up. I put them in my safe deposit box. Needless to say, I was at the bank first thing this morning, and they got quite a workout. Look!” She held up a powder puff of a white cashmere sweater. “Isn’t it gorge? And wait’ll you see the lace bra and panties I bought. Not for tonight, of course. I want to save those for the honeymoon.”
I gave it three weeks, tops.
Oh, well. At least she’d be happy for three weeks. And with any luck, she’d be too busy dating Alexi to do any more knitting.
“So tell me all about Bambi Eyes,” I said, knowing I was about to unleash the floodgates. “Why was he taking the money management class?”
“Alexi wasn’t at the class. He was my Uber driver. He works as a driver to pay the bills in between symphony gigs.”
I should’ve known. Instead of a class full of men eager to learn about stable financial practices, Kandi had fallen for a violin-playing Uber driver.
“Honestly, Jaine,” she gushed. “I think I’ve finally met Mr. Right.”
I could practically see the bubble of hope dancing above her head, just waiting to be burst.
“But, Kandi,” I said, unable to restrain myself any longer. “That’s what you say about every guy you meet.”
“Can I help it if I’m a positive person?” she said, a tad miffed at me for raining on her parade. “Look, I know sometimes I may fool myself, but this time it’s different. I could tell by the way Alexi offered me a complimentary mint when I got in his car that there was something special about him.”
Remember that, class.
Complimentary Mints = True Love.
But I didn’t have the energy to launch into a lecture on unrealistic expectations, so I just sat back and listened as she babbled on, murmuring my approval at appropriate intervals.
Eventually our lunch showed up, and I dug into my cheeseburger with gusto.
Kandi was so busy yakking about Alexi, she barely touched her chicken Cobb salad.
But that’s okay. It made a tasty dip for my homemade potato chips.
* * *
Frankly, I was appalled at Kandi’s lack of willpower. The woman simply could not resist the lure of a shopping bag. Thank heavens we Austens are made of sterner stuff. Here, I was about to head off to Hawaii, but you didn’t catch me running around shopping obsessively for flirty sundresses, cute capris, and strappy sandals. True, I’d been thinking about splurging on some sa
ndals, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what an unnecessary expense it would be—especially when my budget was so tight, it was practically in a tourniquet.
Yes, I, Jaine Austen, am a woman who walks on the sensible side of life, who trods on the path of industry, frugality, and—
Good heavens! What was I doing here at Nordstrom’s semiannual shoe sale? With a strappy sandal in my hand?
Clearly some shopaholic demon had invaded my body and marched me over without my even realizing it.
I looked around at the racks and racks of shoes. All on sale!
No doubt about it. I’d died and gone to shoe heaven.
And before I knew what I was doing, I’d kicked off my Nikes and begun trying on sandals to take with me on vacation.
I tried on flat sandals, wedgie sandals, gladiator sandals, cork-soled sandals; sandals with flowers, sandals with butterflies, and fancy flip-flops.
Isn’t shoe shopping the most marvelous fun? Where else can you try on something without having to look in the mirror at unsightly love handles or ghastly patches of cellulite? No hip bulges or tummy bumps. Just twinkly little toes popping out from some straps, your ankle looking practically as skinny as Gwyneth Paltrow’s.
No wonder poor Kandi couldn’t stay away from her credit cards. Why would anyone want to deprive herself of the pleasure of shoe shopping at Nordstrom?
