I want skateboards in my front yard.
This maternal thing has only recently kicked in, I have to add. I never saw myself as a mother. Up until a year ago, I dreamed of being an investigative reporter who uncovered conspiracies and shut down things like slave trading and nuclear arms smuggling. And while I like kids—clean ones—having one permanently attached to my hip seemed like an unnecessary and frankly cumbersome accessory.
Until I met my niece, Amelia. The raisin turned most-beautiful-baby-I’ve-ever-seen. I held her the entire time during Jasmine’s couple’s shower, which, due to her practical Norwegian side, she opted to have after the baby was born so as to get the right color. And what’s with Milton and his enthusiasm for the game of “dress your husband up like he’s pregnant”? I so didn’t need to see Milton wearing two grapefruits and a pillow. Then again, when Chase walked in, glowing with sweat, in his muscle shirt, athletic shorts and tousled hair and gave Milton a one-eyebrow-up glance, I again had the opportunity to thank God for his intervention in my life and the fact that, although I brought Milton home from college, he married my sister instead of me. It’s a good thing that God sometimes doesn’t give us what we ask for. Sometimes. Because as sweet Amelia cooed and gurgled in my arms, completely capturing my heart, I knew.
I want one.
But first, I want a place to put one. Hence the appointment with Carla from Gull Lake Realty.
Won’t Chase be surprised?
I even did the legwork and found the perfect house.
Charming 3 BR, 1 Ba Cape-Cod-style house on half acre corner lot. Dining room, den, large E-In-K, view of Gull Lake. Large garage outbuilding. Call Carla at Gull Lake Realty. 555-2438
I drove by it twice. It’s yellow, with a red door—I love that!—two dormer windows, and petunias on the porch. It has a fence, and a dog—a golden retriever—met me at the gate. I wonder if he comes with the house? Most of all, it’s next door to the mayor and his wife—handy, especially if I need to subtly hint that we need to make more bike paths in the city, or post a full-time lifeguard at the beach—and across the street from a church. Not mine, but still, atmosphere counts. A church looming over our front yard will remind the kids that Someone might be watching so no, they shouldn’t take out their brother for flattening their sand castle.
I meet Carla, who is still perky and cute, even six years after high school graduation. I remember her as a cheerleader, one who got pregnant her senior year and dropped out of school to marry Bo Williams.
Not sure where Bo is now, but her daughter is in first grade and attended our vacation Bible school last summer.
I’m wanting this to work out for Carla because I entertain lingering missionary aspirations, and she looks like ready prey.
She smiles, and around her eyes I see fatigue, even though she looks prim and tidy in a linen suit.
“Hey, Carla,” I say, and we make small talk while she unlocks the door.
The owners aren’t home, which allows me to critique their decorating choices without recrimination.
The walls are peach, the furniture a light blue velour and is that a couple of stuffed mallards above the kitchen door? In the kitchen, the owner has stenciled some sort of poppy—and for personal reasons, I have an aversion to poppies.
The upstairs is better—lavender walls, green shag carpet, but I’m guessing that under all that fur is hardwood floors. And, like the ad said, a view of Gull Lake in the master bedroom.
The floors squeak, and there is an air of age in the house, but for a starter home, I’m loving it. I see Chase Junior in the tiny bedroom with the alcove, playing with his Hot Wheels. And little Jenny we’ll put in the other bedroom—the pink one. And Chase can build her a dollhouse in the garage-workshop. We’ll modify the kitchen of course—get a decent six-burner stainless steel range, and grill top, and I’ll be there when Chase gets home, working on an article from my kitchen computer while I wait for the dough to rise. He’ll come in, put down his briefcase—have to get him one of those—and nuzzle me behind my ear. “Jose, what would I do without you?”
“I don’t know, Chase—”
“When do you think you’ll have your loan approved?” Carla asks, her eyes bright.
Rats. Just when things were going to turn fun. “I just have to get Chase’s okay.”
But I know he’ll agree. Even Chase knows we can’t survive in the apartment longer than eight hours together. The fact is, it’s starting to affect his mood.
He’s suddenly turned sullen, mopey and aside from the occasional smile, he looks as though he’d rather have his fingernails gnawed off by gutter rats than be married to me. No, I’m not overreacting. The seven-night miniseries on the vast loneliness of the Serengeti that Chase glued himself to should be enough to know something’s not right.
But Chase will be happy in a home. Our home. The one I make for us.
I’m driving back to work, seeing the smile on his face…and the ensuing celebration…when my heart stops dead in the middle of my throat.
Really. I know that’s a cliché, but there it is, a big ball of shock. I’m having trouble breathing. I might have to give myself the Heimlich maneuver.
Or maybe I could get out of the car and stumble over to Chase and the blonde he’s walking down the street with.
It’s a good thing he doesn’t have his arm around her, because I’m telling you right now, he’d lose that appendage for sure.
I’m at the stoplight, and they don’t see me. Chase is smiling—smiling—something he hasn’t done with his new bride for two weeks—okay, like I said, it happens occasionally…okay, often. For goodness’ sake, we’re still newlyweds. I wonder if I could plead insanity if I ran them over?
Not only that, but it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. Doesn’t he have school?
I can hardly believe he’s walking with a man-stealer in broad daylight. Hello, this is a small town. Does he think that no one will see him as he walks into the Java Cup with her?
My Java Cup, located in the same building as my newspaper. They’d better not be ordering any white chocolate lattes.
I slowly drive by. Chase is in there, at a table, sipping a coffee.
I hope it’s laced with arsenic.
He has to know that in about thirteen-point-two seconds any number of my loyal lifelong friends will spot him and he’ll be dog meat by supper.
Wanna bet he comes home with a lamebrain excuse? Some sort of cover-up?
But I’m onto him.
I stop the car, but instead of going inside, I sit there. Watch them as Chase listens with that cute, smug smile of his, then stands up and shakes her hand.
I feel sick. In fact, I might just be ill right here on the sidewalk outside the Java Cup. Which will do wonders for their business, I’ll bet.
I watch him leave. He opens the door for her, of course, then walks her to her car. If he gets in with her, I’ll follow and run them off the road like the Dukes of Hazzard. Chase would do well to remember that I did jail time, and I’m not afraid to go back. Okay, it was only for an hour, and it was for skinny-dipping in Gull Lake. And Chase bailed me out. And sheesh, if you didn’t know all that, it would have made that statement more powerful.
Besides, I really am thinking the insanity plea might hold. After all, most of the people in this town think I’m just a bit off—especially after moving to Russia for a year. It wouldn’t take much. Just a few key witnesses. H, for one, who knows the identity of the person who stole the mascot of the Bakersfield Bulldogs and let him loose after a bacon-greased cat at our senior homecoming game.
Chase doesn’t get in with the blonde, preserving his existence just a few moments longer, but waves as she drives away.
Waves.
When is the last time he waved to me?
Okay! This morning. But still. A man should only wave to one woman in his life.
He walks back inside Java Cup and I’m left to contemplate my next action.
1. Follow the se
ductress and find out where she lives. Then again, if I am caught, this could work against me in the way of premeditated murder charges.
2. Confront the two-timing weasel while the impression is still fresh. However, not all the words I want to say have fully formed and this may leave me at a disadvantage.
3. Go home, draw a bubble bath and plot my revenge.
I have two soul friends in Gull Lake. The first, of course, is Jasmine, my little sister. Jas and I shared a bedroom until the day she left on her honeymoon, and frankly, once your sister has seen you in a thong, there’s nothing much left to hide.
My other best friend is H. Just H, nothing more, although at one time she might have been named after a flower. But she doesn’t like to talk about that, and she’s not a flower type with her multiple piercings, her multicolored hair and her belief that punk rock music is language of the soul. Because of our lifelong friendship, H knows all my secrets, but since I know hers, too, I’m pretty safe. However, we don’t share a belief in a Creator who has our lives in His hands—she’s of the opinion that a person needs to follow their energy. If I did that, I might end up in bed each morning, snacking on Oreo cookies. Nevertheless, H is an artist, so she spends a lot of time exploring the nuances of life, and applying her findings, often with eerie accuracy, to life.
My sister Jasmine is the one I turn to when I want to pick out a nice dress for dinner with Chase, or complain about our mother’s propensity to solve our problems with lasagna and pot roast. She’s the nice one.
H is the one who I would turn to when murder is on my mind.
She, of anyone, would know how to hire an assassin.
I’m on the telephone with her when Chase walks in. I hear him dump his keys on the kitchen table and my blood heats, even though I’m up to my chin in hot soapy bubbles.
“I gotta go, H,” I say into my cell phone.
“Remember, solar plexus, instep, nose and groin. I got that from Miss Congeniality and have actually used it with some success.”
I don’t comment. Because, although I once threatened Chase that if I got angry enough I might be able to take him, frankly, now that I’m calm…er…I want the revenge to be slower.
More painful.
Please, Lord, let him be innocent.
I’d hate to think that our marriage only lasted three weeks.
“Josey, are you here?”
No, it’s just me, Gullible Girl, turning into a prune in the tub. I don’t answer.
“G.I.?” He knocks on the door. I turn off the water and draw the curtain.
Not fair, calling me by my favorite Chase nickname.
“I know you’re in there. What’s the matter?”
I hear guilt in his voice, and it slides under the door and contaminates my bath. I actually have a stomach spasm. “Nothing,” I say, sweetly lying.
I wince because I hear Chase knock again, and then, to my horror, come in. I thought I locked that door!
Then again, this is Chase, and he knows how to unlock stuff. Like my heart.
I picture him sitting on the toilet, cover down, wearing his dress pants, his dress shirt—slightly untucked, his hair rumpled, those blue eyes staring at the bath curtain—
Stop it!
“Go away, I’m soaking here.”
He pauses, and through the tiniest of cracks, I glimpse him sigh, then run his hands through his hair. Yeah, buddy, you’d better be feeling guilt.
“I have something to tell you.”
Here it comes. The Big Cover-up. I freeze—which isn’t hard to do because the bathwater has cooled and some of the bubbles have deflated. Right now I’d do anything for a towel. And some chocolate. And maybe a 9mm Glock—oh, okay, I wouldn’t know how to use it anyway.
“I’ve been keeping something from you. And it’s time I told you.”
Oh wow, that really hurt. Like a shot right to the center of my chest. I actually can’t breathe for a long moment. I’m trying to suck in air when he continues.
“Today I met with a representative from WorldMar, a nonprofit agency out of Minneapolis. They help start up small businesses in Eastern European countries.”
And? This has what to do with your lying, cheating heart? Except, the smallest seed of hope takes root.
“How would you like to go back to Russia?”
“Russia?” Oh, that sounded like a squeak, but frankly, well, I’m stunned. Russia? Maybe I have foam in my ears.
“Yeah. I mean, you loved it last time.”
Loved? That’s an interesting synonym for endured. Tolerated. Suffered in. “I did?” I can’t help it. I peek around the curtain. Chase is sitting there, blue eyes searching mine. I’m thinking, suddenly, there’s room for two in this tub.
See, I’m so easily sidetracked. Russia. Blonde. Cheating!
“Why?”
Chase suddenly doesn’t meet my gaze. “Well, I, ah…I got a job in Russia.”
I need to take this sentence apart, slowly. He. Got a job. In…Russia. I’m so very confused, because, you know…he has a job.
Which then prompts me to ask, surprisingly evenly: “Forgive my confusion, but I thought you already had a job?”
He winces, as if my words sting. But I’m not the one who is rearranging our life like an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.
“I got fired two months ago.”
Fired?
Oh. Hence the weirdness in our relationship. Note to self: next time he goes silent and mopes around the house for two months I’ll know it’s because he’s been lying to me.
But let’s, just for a moment, go back to the fired part. “Fired? How?”
He winces again.
Stop that. Do you think I’m going to Kung Pao you or something?
“Actually, it was more like pink-slipped.”
So not fired. Laid off. That’s not so bad. But still…lying! “Why did you keep this from me?” I reach out and put my hand on his leg, leaving a nice wet mark. But he looks up and smiles at me.
“I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want to wreck our wedding.”
Translation: he wanted to be my perfect groom. At least, that’s how I’m choosing to translate it. And, it doesn’t help that I’m a sucker for his smile. Bang, suddenly he morphs from lying cheater to remorseful running back. I take his hand.
He leans down and kisses it in a very princely way. “I love you, Jose.”
Me, too, Chase. I smile, hoping for a kiss when I see something in his eyes…something that looks like relief. And just like that, I realize that he thinks I’ve said yes.
Wait—back up to the Russia part!
Russia, that place two thousand miles over the ocean, and so far that when I talk to Jasmine on the telephone we can hear our own words echo back, like the twilight zone. Russia, with the garbled language that makes me feel like I’m spitting, rusty elevators the size of phone booths, size two all-leather fashions and dog-fur coats. Russia, empire of fish, and fatback, and red caviar, and beets, the place laws were made to be broken.
The place where I went beyond myself and found the Josey whom God was still creating, and a relationship with the Almighty that gave me strength and hope.
Russia, the place to where my true love chased me…caught me, gave me a little gold ring and reminded me that I can never truly leave home.
Russia, the land that gets under a person’s skin, like liposuction, and changes her forever.
“Josey?”
His voice is muffled, because I’m under the rose-scented water, trying to drown myself.
Chapter Four
KGB Tricks
“He wants you to do what?”
Thank you, H. That is exactly the reaction I hoped for when I tiptoed out of our quiet flat two nights later, tomb-cold despite the sweltering August evening and drove down to the Hungry Wolf to solicit my best friend’s advice.
I nod solemnly, eyes big, matching her disbelief. “I know, can you believe it?”
“So the blonde was a recrui
ter?”
I shrug. “If that’s what you want to call her.” Homewrecker would still have been my label. “I can’t believe he’d even consider this after I’d found him our dream home. Doesn’t he care about Chase Junior and Jenny?”
Her eyebrow ring tweaks up. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
It takes me longer than a second to catch on and I feel the instant rush of heat to my face. “No, no, I’m not—”
“What house?” she asks, dropping her cigarette to the parking lot and pounding it out with her chunky-heeled black boots. We’re standing in the back entrance alcove of the Wolf, the side that faces the lake. Overhead, the moon is hazy, as if mimicking my thoughts, and it turns the lake dark and murky. The beat inside the Wolf is loud and country-western. I lean against Chase’s truck and fold my arms.
“The Cape Cod across from the community church. The one with the red door.”
“Oh.” She makes a face.
“What?”
She hitches a shoulder, stares out into the surf. “I’ve just never seen you as the barefoot and pregnant type, cooking up dinner for the hubby. That house is a Jasmine house. Not a G.I. Josey house.” She turns to me and shakes her head. “I always saw you in some big city, chasing down a story. Or overseas. Didn’t you want to be a foreign correspondent or something?”
Lara Croft, to be exact. I’ve always appreciated H for her ability to sort through the rubble and find the nugget of truth. Like when she told me that if I didn’t go to Russia, I might regret it forever. And, probably, she’s right. But, well that was then and this is now.
“I’m married now. It’s time to settle down.”
She looks at me as if I’ve turned green. Or maybe dyed my hair purple, like hers—I sorta miss the orange. “Who are you, June Cleaver?” She reaches out and before I can stop her, whacks me with her palm on the top of the forehead.
“Ouch!” I step back before she can bean me again. “What was that for?”
“I’m just trying to shake your brain loose from whatever insanity has taken it hostage.” She shakes her head again.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 2
