Summer Blowout

by Claire Cook

  Cannoli and I walked for a long time. I peeked into people’s houses the way I always did when I was outside at night. Most of them were watching TV. Nobody looked all that happy. Somebody had a butterscotch leather couch I really wanted.

  I wondered what would happen if I just knocked on the door and asked where they’d bought it. Maybe a guy would answer the door, a guy who’d just slept with his ex-wife even though she was dating his brother, and he wouldn’t want to talk about it with just anyone. We’d start with the couch, and the conversation would move on from there. Before we knew it, we’d realize that sleeping with our ex-spouses was just the first of many fascinating things we had in common.

  I stopped on the sidewalk outside the house, still checking out the couch, until a woman walked into the room. She looked like she was yelling something over her shoulder.

  I picked up Cannoli and started walking again. I buried my nose in what was left of her fur. It was nice and soft, and I was glad I’d taken the time to use some L’Oreal Vive Smooth Intense Anti-Frizz Mask, even though Sean Ryan had balked at the extra five minutes.

  Eventually, we turned and headed home. It wasn’t until we rounded the corner that I saw the flock of wild turkeys in the salon parking lot. Flock might have been an exaggeration, but I’ve never actually known how many it takes to make a flock. There were four of them, and they were walking right by the door to my apartment, as if they’d just come out of the salon after getting their feathers ruffled or something.

  We slowed down and gave them time to pass. Cannoli didn’t seem particularly worried about them, and the turkeys didn’t even glance our way. They just plodded along, taking their time, heading toward a little break in the brush on the edge of the parking lot.

  Wild turkeys weren’t an unusual sight around Marshbury, especially as the town got more and more built up, and they had fewer places to hide. But still, it seemed like seeing them on this particular night, at this particular juncture in my life, had to be a sign.

  Did it mean my former husband was a turkey? Or that I’d better get my life together fast, because Thanksgiving was practically right around the corner? Or maybe wild turkey was code for Wild Turkey, and it meant that I needed a drink.

  “Let’s go with three,” I said to Cannoli as soon as the last of the turkeys had disappeared into the thicket.

  Of course, sadly, I didn’t really have any Wild Turkey in my apartment. The best I could come up with were two long-forgotten bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager at the back of my refrigerator, tucked behind a molding cantaloupe I’d bought back when I was feeling healthy. I opened a bottle with one of my kitchen drawer pulls, a trick I’d learned as a Girl Scout, since Craig seemed to have absconded with the bottle opener at some point. I freshened Cannoli’s water bowl and put the towels in the dryer.

  I held up my beer bottle. “Cheers,” I said.

  Cannoli drank daintily, but I guzzled. What the hell was I thinking, sleeping with Craig? Was I trying to get back at Sophia? I didn’t really think so, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that I was much better at denial than introspection, so it was hard to tell. I thought. Then I drank some more. Then I got up and grabbed the second bottle. Then I drank and thought some more.

  If I hadn’t almost kissed Sean Ryan, I didn’t think I would have slept with Craig. This might not make sense to a well-adjusted person, but what well-adjusted person sleeps with her ex-husband when he’s sleeping with her half sister? I was pretty sure it was true though. Somehow my wires and hormones got crossed, and I got turned on and forgot to get turned off again. So maybe it was essentially like outsourcing for sex. Or maybe it just seemed less scary to sleep with Craig than to have to start all over again with a new person.

  I turned off the fan in the hallway outside my bathroom, brushed my teeth, peed for about ten minutes, and remembered why I never drank beer. Forget the antioxidants, Sean Ryan needed to come up with a beer that didn’t make you have to pee like a racehorse.

  I grabbed a towel out of the dryer and jumped in the shower. I slathered DHC Purifying Charcoal Shower Gel all over me. They advertised it as being able to absorb thousands of times its own weight in tarnishing toxins and beauty-clogging impurities. I hoped they weren’t exaggerating.

  I went into the bedroom, changed the sheets, and carried them into the kitchen. I put the sheets that smelled like Craig in the washer with extra bleach. Then I went back to the living room to call Sean Ryan.

  “Hi,” his voice said. “You’ve reached me, but I’m either off hang gliding in Argentina, or I’m not answering the phone. So leave a message.”

  “Hi,” I said. “This is Bella. I’m just calling to say I’m sorry. That was weird back there in the salon, wasn’t it? That guy was my ex-husband, in case you were wondering. Anyway, call me. And nice tip, by the way. Only kidding. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. Okay. Bye.”

  I hung up the phone. I rummaged around the apartment until I found the invitation for Andrew’s wedding. Saturday at 5 P.M. at some church, followed by a reception at the Margaret Mitchell House. The invitation was gorgeous, with beautiful copper foil insets. I turned it over and saw that it was made by an Atlanta company called Jack and Gretel. Ah, to believe in fairy tales again.

  I picked up the phone and called Sean Ryan again. I waited out his message. “Hi again,” I said in a voice that sounded way too chirpy to my ears. “Just wanted to let you know that my nephew’s wedding is at five. So, how about I take half the table, all right, the left side, and then we’ll have plenty of time to get to the wedding. So, call me and let me know when your flight is and where you’re staying and how you want to meet up and all that. Okay, well, bye again.”

  Cannoli hopped up on my lap. We stared at the phone for a lot longer than we should have. Finally, I called Lizzie. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing up so late?”

  I looked at the clock on the fireplace. “It’s nine,” I said. “I’m not that old.”

  She laughed noncommittally. “Did you talk to my dad yet?”

  “A little bit,” I said. “He doesn’t sound completely against the culinary arts idea, but don’t quote me on that, whatever you do. Maybe you should just pursue it on the side for a while. I mean, can you start a cooking club or something?”

  “I already signed up to work on a cooking show for the campus TV station. I figure it’ll give me something to put on my résumé.”

  “Great,” I said. I got up and walked into the kitchen to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator. After sleep, water is our second best friend. Or maybe we have two best friends. Anyway, once you start to dehydrate, it’s all downhill from there.

  I leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a long sip. Lizzie was still talking a mile a minute. “And,” she said, “they’re going to let me cook and everything. I’ve got my Radiator Ramen Noodles recipe down to a science. If you run the hot water in the dorm bathroom long enough, you barely even need to put the noodles on the radiator. But I’m going to keep that step in because I really like the name.”

  She paused to take a quick breath, and I heard loud music playing in the background. She sounded great. “And,” she continued, “I even figured out how to make grilled cheese sandwiches with a travel iron.”

  “Genius,” I said.

  “It works perfectly. Plus, every freshman brings a travel iron to school and, like, who ever does any ironing?”

  “Hey,” I said. “I haven’t had the chance to tell you this yet, but I’m working on a beauty kit. An entrepreneur has been giving me advice about it. I even took it to a college fair.”

  “Oh, that’s so cool. Can you send me one?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll put it right in the mail.”

  “Thanks. Hey, do you think maybe you could help me make a cooking kit? You know, it might make it easier for me to get a real show when I graduate?”

  I weighed an image of Craig and his first former wife both screaming at me at once against a picture of Li
zzie and me hanging out together and working on her kit.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Listen, I have to go. We’re getting ready to go out in a few minutes.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I am, too.”

  20

  AFTER I HUNG UP WITH LIZZIE, I CHECKED MY VOICE mail to make sure I hadn’t somehow missed a message from Sean Ryan. Then I called Mario.

  “What are you doing up so late?” he asked.

  “Hey, it’s Saturday night. I was just getting ready to go out.”

  Mario laughed. “Okay, seriously. What’s up?”

  “When are you and Todd heading to Atlanta?”

  “Wednesday. We want to spend some time with Andrew, and we’ve still got a few things to check on for the rehearsal dinner. Why? And when’s your flight?”

  I sighed. “I was just making conversation. And Friday afternoon.”

  “Well, whatever you do, don’t you dare bring that dog with you.”

  Mario took a sip of something. I pictured him stretched out on the couch with Todd, both of them sipping a nice red wine, talking about how a week from today their son would be married. Their shoes kicked off, a fire probably crackling in the fireplace even in August. It was like a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting. I wondered if I’d ever have a shot at a normal life again.

  I sighed again.

  Mario sighed, too.

  “Okay, you first,” I said.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Julie. How much fun she’d have with a reception at the Margaret Mitchell House, and how we’d both be doing our Scarlett imitations every time we talked to each other. What her dress would look like. The way I’d do her hair. How much she’d like Amy. How happy she’d be to see Andrew this happy. How much it sucks that she didn’t get to see this.”

  Julie was Andrew’s birth mother. She and Mario had been best friends since high school, and until the day she died, our father held out hope that she’d manage to turn Mario straight. She spent a night with a guy when she was in graduate school and ended up pregnant. He never called her again, and she decided to have the baby alone. Mario was her labor coach. She put his name on the birth certificate. Mario met Todd, Julie got cancer when Andrew was four, and Mario and Todd agreed to raise Andrew if she didn’t make it. She didn’t make it.

  My eyes teared up. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Mario said softly.

  “Are they going to mention her in the ceremony?”

  “I wanted them to, but Andrew said no. He wants Todd and me to get full credit as parents. He hates it when people want to know who his real parents are. So we decided Todd and I will just mention her when we give the toast.”

  “He’s such a good kid. And I think it’s great that you’re both his best men.”

  “Yeah, he really is. Julie would be so proud of him.”

  I let out a cross between a sigh and a sob.

  “Bella? What’s going on?”

  “I slept with Craig.”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “A week before Andrew gets married? What were you thinking?”

  “Gee,” I said. “Talk about the whole world revolving around you. I didn’t exactly take out my calendar and check for conflicts.”

  “Does Sophia know? She’s going to be a mess.”

  “Sophia?” I said. “Sophia? Why is everything always about Sophia? Listen, just don’t tell anyone except Todd, okay? I’m pretty sure it’ll just blow over. And besides, I’m bringing a date. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” he said. “As long as it’s not Craig.”

  BY MORNING I WAS COMPLETELY over men again. I mean, who needed them. I was going to get control of my own life, set some goals, and start moving forward from there. I got up early and did some crunches.

  I put on my latest lipstick, a great OPI red called My Chihuahua Bites. A lot of people don’t realize that OPI makes lipstick to match their more famous nail polish. Yucatan If U Want, also from the OPI Mexican collection, was a good one, too. Usually I didn’t let myself read the label before I saw the color. I mean, how could you walk away from a lipstick called Who Comes Up with These Names? Even if you don’t look good in caramel. Fortunately, My Chihuahua Bites was a keeper.

  I took Cannoli for a walk. I picked up the phone and called the airlines. I’d thought about sneaking Cannoli on in my shoulder bag, but I wasn’t sure what would happen if we got caught. Luckily, the flight hadn’t reached their two-animal per-plane quota, so I made a reservation for her. It was ridiculously expensive, in my opinion, especially since I had to count her as one of my two carry-ons, which didn’t seem fair.

  Then I dialed the hotel. “Hotel Indigo, the intelligent and intriguing choice,” a friendly male voice said.

  “Are you intelligent enough to be pet friendly?” I asked politely.

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “Did my father tell you to say that?”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “Never mind.” I gave him my reservation number and Cannoli’s name.

  “See y’all soon,” he said. “And it will be our pleasure to host Cannoli at no additional charge.”

  I figured this balanced being gouged by the airlines. “Thanks so much, y’all,” I said. It was nice to know there were still businesspeople with a conscience out there.

  After I hung up, I ate a bowl of cereal, because breakfast is the most important meal for beauty, drank a cup of coffee, because I needed it, and took out my kits. I turned one over and over in my hands. I knew there was a basic flaw in my kit design, and I finally put my finger on it. The thing was, a kit needed to function without the kit maker having to be there. And mine only worked if I was around to match and mix the foundation, and fill out the product recommendations and makeup instructions. Therefore, my kit could only sell if I were physically there to sell it. And consequently, it would never sell in big numbers.

  Whew, it was nice to finally isolate a problem I could do something about. But what? What did the guidance counselor’s kit have that allowed it to function while the guidance counselor stayed at school and counseled? It taught kids to write their own essays, instead of writing them for them. Although, come to think of it, that slacker guidance counselor should at least offer to check the essays to make sure they were good. Those poor kids could be sending anything off to those colleges.

  “Bingo,” I said to Cannoli, who was curled up on the floor, napping in a stream of sunlight. Even though she was sleeping, her tail gave a little wag at the sound of my voice.

  While Cannoli slept, I got busy. What if inside each kit there was a postage-paid envelope, plus a questionnaire, as well as instructions to enclose a close-up photo without makeup? Then I could mix the foundation and fill out the diagrams, and also include specific tips for product application and suggestions for products. Maybe I could reach out to some companies for product samples. Maybe I could even charge them for product placement.

  Wait. Wait. Who needed snail mail? I could design a Web site, so we could do the whole thing online. Then I could submit listings to some search engines, get the word of mouth going through our salon customers, and even try to get on some of the Boston televisions shows for some extra publicity. I was a lot more charming than half the guests I’d made up for them.

  I was so excited I almost pulled a Tom Cruise and started jumping up and down on the furniture. I completely got the whole entrepreneur thing now. The thrill of figuring out a new project was amazing. Maybe even better than sex. At least if you were talking about sex with your ex-husband.

  I pushed that thought out of my mind fast. I found some paper and got busy.

  BELLA’S BAG OF BEAUTY BASICS

  The Questionnaire

  1. Please upload a close-up color photo of you at your worst—no makeup, harsh outdoor lighting. No worries—only Bella and her hardworking team of talented beauty profe
ssionals will see it.

  2. Fill out the following:

  NAME __________________________________________

  AGE _____________________________________________

  ANCESTRY__________________________________________

  SINGLE OR COUPLED _______________________________

  3 words to describe your personality _____________________________

  3 words to describe your wildest dreams ____________________________

  Biggest makeup problem __________________________________

  Best feature __________________________________

  3. Find a magnifying mirror and look into the whites of your eyes. Are the lines radiating out from the center yellow? (If so, you have yellow undertones and you are WARM and will use the WARM color chart.)

  Are these lines gray? (If so, you have pink undertones and you are COOL and will use the COOL color chart.)

  4. Click on the appropriate color chart link below (either WARM or COOL). A new page will open. Print the chart and cut into individual color squares.

  In the mirror (preferably the exterior mirror of your car, for best natural light), hold each of the eight colors up to your chin line one at a time. Pick the one that is the closest match and select it onscreen. Beneath your selection, make additional comments that might be helpful, for example—slightly lighter than this or close, but no cigar, or even my printer sucks, so I’m just guessing here. Also feel free to include the brand and shade of the foundation you’re currently using in the space provided for comments.

  5. Eye Color Chart. Check the color that matches your eyes most closely. Again, use the space provided to add your comments.

  6. Hair Color Chart. Select the color that matches your hair most closely. (Not your natural color, should you happen to remember it, but your CURRENT hair color. If you know the product name and shade, please include it in the comment area.)

  7. Vibe. Choose the celebrity whose style reminds you most of your own. Diane Keaton, Britney Spears, Melissa Etheridge, Olympia Dukakis, Joy Behar, Madonna, Nancy Pelosi, Gloria Steinem, Lindsay Lohan, Oprah Winfrey, Sheryl Crow, Beyoncé Knowles, Courtney Love, Heather Mills, Jennifer Lopez, Jennifer Aniston, Whitney Houston, Angelina Jolie, Diane Sawyer, Robin Roberts, Ann Curry, Meredith Vieira, Kirstie Alley, Hillary Clinton, Shakira.