I decide to go out on a limb.
“Let me show you something else.” I walk out of my studio and down the balcony corridor until I reach the end of the hall. I open the door and step into a room only a bit smaller than my studio.
“Do you think this would make a nice studio?”
“Yes,” she says, looking around. “Of course.”
“Let’s make a deal, then,” I tell her, and then I start lying. “I could use some part-time help,” I say, thinking instead it would be nice to have some company. “You work for me a few hours a week in the gallery and you can use this space as your studio for as long as you like.”
Avery looks like she’s about to pass out. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not. You might stay here a couple of weeks and decide this isn’t for you, or you might stay here a couple of weeks and decide that there’s nothing else that makes you happier. Either way, you’ll know a lot more about what you want after you’ve been here for a while.” Avery looks like she’s about to cry. “Where do you keep your stuff?”
“At home. In the attic.”
“Well, go home and start packing,” I say, happy with my spur-of-the-moment decision to become a quasi employer. “When do you go to school?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from ten until noon and Tuesday and Thursday from eleven until three, so I could work in the gallery Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from one to five, maybe come in and paint some on Tuesday and Thursday, and then what about Saturday?”
“I’m just doing Monday to Friday right now, and we can discuss your hours after you get all moved in—how about that?”
“Oh, okay,” she says. “So when can I move in?”
“How about next Monday?” I answer, thinking that would give me a few days to think up a job description.
“Great,” she says, beaming. “I’ll see you Monday at one, then?”
“Sounds good!”
I follow her down the stairs to the front door, wave good-bye, and watch as she gathers her long skirt and gets into a gorgeous little convertible Audi. As she drives away, I immediately start second-guessing myself. I mean, I don’t know that girl from Adam and I just issued a standing invitation for her to hang out in my gallery as much as she likes.
“Oh well,” I say aloud to my paintings. “At least I’ll have someone to talk to.”
I glance at the clock because I’m ready to go and see that it’s thirty minutes before closing time. I ponder that for a moment, then decide to take off early because I’m in charge of taking dinner to the conference room tonight and it’s not like people are lined up outside the door waiting to get in anyway.
9
“You hired who?” Connor McCall says over a basket of hot wings that I picked up at Credo’s and delivered to the conference room along with baskets for Mason and me, a gallon of sweet tea, and a side salad for Allison.
“Avery Cambre,” I say, looking at Mason, who shrugs and picks up a celery stalk.
“Do you know who her father is?” Connor asks.
“No, I don’t,” I say, getting nervous.
“Her father is Dr. Leo Cambre, a bone doctor who came up with some kind of medical gadget and made about a hundred million dollars, but he still runs a clinic here in the Cove. Seriously, he’s like one of the richest people in the country.” Connor picks up a saucy wing. “And you hired his daughter to work for you for free? Holy shit!” He laughs, then sticks the whole chicken wing in his mouth. Connor McCall is a typical has-been high school quarterback, and even though he hasn’t completed a pass in more than seven years, he’s still as cocky as a chicken house full of roosters.
“Connor, it’s disgusting the way you eat those things,” Allison says, picking at her salad, on which she put no dressing.
“What?” he says, gnawing on the bone. “It’s chicken wings, baby-cakes. How am I supposed to eat them?”
I pick up one of my wings and try to nibble in a way that won’t offend Allison, but all I do is get hot sauce all over my lips, so I end up taking a bigger bite and hope she’s not looking.
“What do you think her father is going to say when he finds out?” Allison asks, staring at the wing in my hand.
“I don’t know,” I say, wiping my fingers on a wet nap. “She’s a junior in college, so it’s not like they don’t know.”
“You’d think they’d just buy her a place of her own with as much money as they have,” Connor says. “Maybe on an island with a nice, new yacht to take her out to it.” He sniggers and Mason laughs and Allison doesn’t look amused.
“Honestly, I think they’re hoping she’ll change her mind and then her major,” I say and wonder for a second if the Cambres might pay someone to kill me for encouraging their daughter to do what she wants with her life.
“Well, that is just the craziest thing I’ve heard all day,” Connor says, dipping a French fry into his ranch dressing. “You just hired Leo Cambre’s daughter. Unbelievable.”
“So have you guys decided where you’re going to get married?” Allison asks, and from the corner of my eye, I see Mason stiffen up.
“Wherever she wants,” he says, smiling like his lack of input is actually helpful.
“I’m going to pick three places and he’s going to choose one.” I look at Mason. “And if he doesn’t pick the right one, then he’ll have two choices, and then one.”
“See there, Ace!” Mason says. “That’s why I don’t even say anything, because I know you’re just going to pick the place you want anyway.” He looks at Connor. “Where did y’all get married?”
“Tallahassee,” he says flatly. “At her church. Her mother was kind enough to handle every aspect of the planning, and by kind, I mean overbearing. We didn’t do a thing.”
Allison slaps him on the arm. “Connor! You got to choose the groom’s cake!”
“Yeah, I picked out one shaped like a fish, so imagine my surprise at the reception when I got to the table and saw this big chocolate cake shaped like a penis with all these powdered grapes around the bottom.”
“Connor, that was a sculpted fish cake! Mother paid a fortune to have that done.”
“Well, it looked like a penis.” He looks at Mason. “No kidding, man, it looked like a giant chocolate dick with triangular balls. I had to have my picture taken with it. I’ll bring it and show you sometime.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mason says, laughing. I’m scared to laugh because Allison, yet again, does not look amused.
“How long had y’all been married when you started working for Mason?” I ask, not wanting to change the subject but realizing it was necessary.
“Two weeks, so I’m glad he hired me, because Allison’s mother was about to fix me up real good with a job in Tallahassee.” He looks at his wife, who is glaring at him. “Which was really nice of her,” he says lightly, and Allison rolls her eyes again.
“You’re starting to piss me off.”
“Your mother pisses me off.”
“Okay,” Mason says, getting up. “Hate to cut things short, but I better get back to work.”
“Me, too,” Connor says, tossing his basket of chicken bones in the trash. “Very much enjoyed it, Ace!” He gives Allison a devilish grin, then walks out of the conference room.
“Yes, thank you so much for bringing dinner,” Allison says sweetly, getting up. “And thanks for calling to see what I wanted. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, Allison,” I say, thinking that no one in their right mind would bring hot wings to a girl like Allison Dexter McCall.
“And I’m sorry you had to witness my barbarous husband sucking chicken meat off a bone,” she says and shivers at the thought. “He’s so disgusting.”
“Aw, that’s why you love him, Allison,” Mason says.
“Maybe,” she says with a smile. “Maybe not!” She looks back at me. “Good night, Ace.”
“Night,” I say, and she disappears into the hallway.
Mason
helps me clear off our side of the table, and then I follow him down to his office.
“I forgot to tell you about the unusual visitor who stopped by the house yesterday,” I say, easing into one of the two fancy chairs opposite his desk. “She said her name was Margo something. Buster Loo hated her. He got really upset.”
“You must be referring to Margo Kill-Switch,” he says and starts laughing.
“Oh, is that how you pronounce it?”
“Nah, that’s just what everyone calls her behind her back.” He looks at me. “What the hell did she want? Is our grass trimmed too tall or too short?”
“She said she was out reminding everyone about the quarterly homeowners’ association meeting—”
“Shit! That’s tonight, isn’t it? Those damn signs are everywhere.” He glances down at his watch. “I don’t guess you’d want to go for me, would you? You’d have to be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’d hate to, but I will if it’d help you out.”
“It would really help me out. I don’t give a shit about her, but I don’t want to come off as disrespectful toward my neighbors, you know?”
“Okay,” I say, thinking about how much fun that won’t be, but happy to be doing something for Mason besides delivering food to his office.
“There’ll be some normal people there,” he says. “I promise that all of our neighbors aren’t like her. Thank God.”
“Yeah, I’ve met some nice folks since I’ve been here,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ve got you covered.”
“Baby, I appreciate it so much.” He looks down at his watch, so I get up, and then he walks me down the hallway to the back door. “You’re the best,” he says, giving me a quick hug and a kiss. I get in my car, not believing that I have to go sit through a damn HOA meeting.
“Shoulda kept my damn mouth shut about Margo,” I mumble as I pull out of the parking lot.
10
I pull up in the driveway and Buster Loo is waiting at the front door, no doubt wondering why he’s been having so much doggie alone time lately. I go inside and pick him up, pet him for a minute, then apologize for having to leave again so soon. He looks crushed as I walk out the door, and I get even more irritated that I have to go to this stupid meeting. When I get outside, I see several neighbors going the same way, and the whole scene, taken in from a distance, reminds me of a herd of zombies walking as if they’ve already lost their souls.
When I get to the clubhouse, I survey the crowd and pick a seat next to Don and Becky Collins, who live across the street from us.
“First meeting?” Mr. Collins asks.
“Yes,” I say, then explain that Mason won’t be here because he has to work late.
“Well, this is nonsense, if you ask me. He’s trying to make a living and these people think we have nothing better to do than line up and listen to their stupid shit.”
“Don Collins!” Becky, says. “Watch your mouth!”
Don leans over to me and whispers, “I’ve been out of the navy for fifteen years and I’ve still got better things to do than come to these damn meetings.” He smiles and then says, “Like picking up dried dog turds. It’s about the same thing, only dog turds don’t stink quite as bad.” Becky punches him in the arm and he straightens up and apologizes to her. I laugh to myself, understanding now why Mason is so fond of Mr. Don Collins.
I hear a commotion at the front of the room and look up to see Margo bustling in, followed by a tall, thin wisp of man.
“That’s her sissified husband, Liam,” Don whispers, nodding toward the man, who flits around and somehow manages to drop half of his files in the floor.
Margo heaves a sigh, props her hand on her hip, and scowls at Liam as he pulls the papers up into a sloppy, disorganized pile.
“Poor Liam,” I whisper back to Don Collins.
Liam stacks the papers on the rectangular table, and Margo snatches up the first one, rolls her eyes, and then picks up the second.
“I’m Margo Kiltzwich, and I officially call this meeting to order!” she barks, and the man seated to my left, who had apparently drifted off, jerks and snorts and sits up in his chair.
After thirty minutes of listening to her talk about the proper length of grass after trimming and the maximum height allowable before, the board decides to call a vote about a quarter inch of grass. Margo announces that I won’t be voting because I’m living with my fiancé and we aren’t legally married. I smile and nod as if I really appreciate her calling me out like that in front of the whole neighborhood and then I tell her, very nicely, that not voting is fine with me.
This riles up some of the board members, who obviously aren’t as offended by the whole living-in-sin thing as Margo. They get into a bitter argument about absentee versus proxy voting and I just want to scream that I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about the length of the grass, just please let me go home and get on the couch with my dog. I stand up and attempt to politely excuse myself from the meeting, but I’m promptly told to sit back down. I do, and Mr. Don Collins sniggers, pats me on the back, and tells me it was a good try. One of the board members scowls at me and asks if he saw me at Bueno Burrito last week. I assure him that he did not. The argument splits on itself because half of the people become worried that Mason could file a complaint if he disagrees with the new standards for grass trimmings and the other half argue that Mason forfeits his right to a say by not being at the meeting.
Some stupid-looking woman named Cindy, whose function is apparently to assist Margo, stands up and gives a long and painfully boring lecture about how I’m considered a visitor and not a legal resident of the community because Mason has not submitted any paperwork to the HOA with my name on it. She turns her smirk on me, and I smile and tell her I don’t have a problem with that at all. This pleases half the board and enrages the other half.
I try to leave again and Margo asks me where I’m going and I tell her that I’m going home because I’m not a member of the community. She tells me to sit down because after the vote they’ll be moving on to the quarterly review of association rules and then start addressing complaints. I look at Don and he rolls his eyes, and the man on the other side of me is snoring again.
“Miss Jones,” Margo says, waving a finger at me, “sit back down, please.”
“Of course,” I say, taking a seat. She looks like King Leonidas after he kicked that guy into the bottomless pit, and I spend the next fifteen minutes fantasizing about beating the creases out of Margo’s starched activewear.
I sit and fume because I know Margo’s type all too well. People like her will treat cash register clerks and waitresses like they’re human garbage and spread animosity like it’s going out of style, but they don’t drink and they don’t cuss, so they run around acting like they exist on some kind of elevated moral ground. As I sit in my metal folding chair, bored out of my mind with their hateful banter, I imagine them as a herd busting down the church doors every Sunday and begging the good Lord to help them abide the lowly sinners who drink beer, use the F word, and have their grass trimmed all wrong. Idiots.
Cindy starts a PowerPoint presentation featuring community rules and regulations and then brings up a picture of someone’s mailbox that has a package sticking out, thus preventing the mailbox door from closing, and Margo explains how this is a violation of code. Next on their agenda is garbage cans, and they spend thirty minutes talking about how all receptacles including recycling containers must be inside by dark.
“Inside,” Margo stresses. “Not rolled back from the driveway and leaning on the garage door, but inside the garage and therefore out of sight.”
I wonder how long it took her to come up with that clever little wordplay and how many times she practiced it in the mirror before getting it to that perfect pitch of bitchiness.
After that, they start talking about dogs barking.
“Well, we have a new dog in the neighborhood, and I think that’s causing quite a stir.”
&nb
sp; “My dog,” I say, looking around. “Are you talking about me?”
“Well, yes,” Margo says with a sneer and a shrug. “Who else would we be talking about?” Cindy rolls her eyes and snorts.
“There’s been a complaint about my dog?” I say and remind myself to stay cool. Gramma Jones always used to say that I should never argue with an idiot because anyone just standing around looking might not be able to tell who the idiot is.
“Well, no,” Margo says. “There hasn’t been an actual complaint, but the other dogs know he’s here, so obviously his presence in the neighborhood upsets the dogs that have lived here longer.”
I want to scream, “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” But I don’t. I simply sit there with a fake smile plastered on my face and try not to laugh out loud at the sheer idiocy of this pitiful excuse for a community meeting.
“What do we plan to do about that?” Margo says, looking at her panel of assholes.
“We could require all dogs to wear shock collars,” Cindy says promptly. I’m about to tell Cindy that I’ll put a shock collar on her goofy ass, but I don’t have to say a word because she’s riled up another dog owner.
“Hey, I’m not puttin’ a shock collar on my dog, I can tell you that,” a big man drinking from a red plastic cup bellows. I make a mental note to bring my own drink to the next meeting. “If you want to put a collar on something, you can put a collar on that damned cat of yours, because it keeps getting in my Corvette and pissing everywhere, and I’m sick of it!”
“You don’t know that’s my cat, Roger,” Cindy says with a smirk.
“As a matter of fact I do, because I installed a camera in my garage and I’ve got it on video.”
Roger gets up and walks to the podium. He pops a thumb stick into the computer and cusses under his breath while he taps the keys so hard, I’m afraid he’s going to pop one off and put out one of Cindy’s heavily made-up eyes.
Happily Ever Madder : Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (9781101607107) Page 6
