by Amie Stuart
Rowdy followed the sound of her voice and running water, and found her washing dishes. He popped the lid off the plastic bowl he’d forgotten to give her the night before and added it to the sink of soapy water.
Early afternoon sunlight poured through the huge window behind her, and she had the back door propped open. She’d apparently been at it hard and heavy a while. A bag of fresh green beans and large bowl sat on the kitchen table, and dirty dishes and cookware covered every inch of the butcher block countertop. Despite a late night at the bar, she’d probably gotten up early and cooked breakfast, too.
He gently squeezed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “Aren’t you hot?”
“This kitchen’s hot whether the door is open or no.” She waved a hand, flicking soapsuds in the air, and then went back to stacking rinsed dishes in the dishwasher.
“Where’s Tim?” He scooted more dishes down for her and slipped a casserole pan and a handful of silverware in the water.
“Thank you. Out back with Rene. They’re trying to get her string worked before lunch.”
Tim trained cutting horses for a living, and Rene had inherited his way with animals. Tim had given her four yearlings of her own to train after they’d returned from their spring break trip to California. A trip Rowdy had made it a point to not mention even to Rene, who he’d gladly cut off an arm for.
“Want me to set the table?”
She kept her eyes on the sink and her tone casual. “Non, no. We’re having five at the big table.”
“Toni,” he growled.
“Row-dy!” She turned and waved a soapy wooden spoon at him, and he glanced down at the suds that landed on his t-shirt. “Kellie is a nice girl. Nicer than those floozies you normally pick up.”
Toni’s best girlfriend and a waitress at the dancehall, Kellie Mackenzie was almost too sweet. Definitely not the type of girl he’d have ever chosen for a Wife-For-A-Night. Girls like Kellie didn’t go for fun and uncomplicated, while guys like Rowdy did. “Kellie is very sweet,” he agreed, sidling toward the open back door while she started the dishwasher.
“So what’s the problem?” She dried her hands then sat at the kitchen table, a frown on her face. Her pale purple eyes were nearly gray. Rowdy sighed. He hated making her mad.
“You can't say boo to her without having her flinch and get all teary-eyed. I like my women with a little more spice.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at her, hoping he could tease her back into a good mood. Hoping she’d finally admit defeat.
“Well, don’t you have any friends?” She looked up at him, a handful of green beans in one hand and a paring knife in the other.
Whew! Close call. “For Kellie? As a matter of fact—”
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to stab you?”
Hands clasped behind his back, eyebrows raised, he eyed her as he crossed the last few steps to the back door. Stepping out on the back porch, he paused and threw one word over his shoulder. “Bo.”
“Foster? Little Bo Foster?”
Little Bo Foster was five-foot-eleven. Bo was gonna kill him, but as he recalled, Bo and Kellie had dated in high school, and the fiddle player wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Rowdy ignored her shouts for more information and kept moving, slipping his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and shoving them on as he crossed the yard to the arena.
From his spot at the fence, Rowdy watched Tim and Rene work one last horse, a pretty buckskin filly born to Tim’s prize mare just over two years back. The heat quickly warmed Rowdy’s skin as he stood watching the trio, little puffs of dust rising around all eight feet. When they were through putting Layla through her paces, Rene let her out to pasture and came romping over as if she were a filly herself.
A long black ponytail bobbed back and forth from the back of her ball cap like a mini-mane. She had her mother’s freckles but Tim’s bright blue eyes and dark hair. He met her on the lower rung of the fence and caught her in a bear hug, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. Even at nearly fourteen, she wasn’t done growing yet. She’d be tall, but then, so were Charlene and Tim.
“How ya been, stranger?” She fluttered her baby blues and grinned at him, her arms still locked around his neck.
“Pretty good. How’s your toes?”
Rene punched him in the chest and leapt backward off the fence, lost her balance and landed against her father, who’d come up behind her. She hated it when he gave her flack for “girly” stuff. Thanks to her aunt, Rene had developed a thing about doing her toenails. Which wasn’t really that unusual unless you were a tomboy who spent your summer in boots working with horses and cattle. She’d even gotten Toni in on the act, and now, two Mondays a month they had Toenail Night. Toenail Night had grown from the two of them to include all the Boudreaux women.
Neither he nor Tim could resist a chuckle as she stalked away.
“You just have to rile her, don’t you?”
Rowdy grinned. “If I didn’t, she’d think there was something wrong.”
“Come to mooch dinner again?” Tim asked, wiping his sweaty brow.
“Your woman invited me,” he said, pointedly.
“Yeah, about that. Kellie—” Tim began.
He waved it off. “I already put Toni on Bo’s trail. Hopefully, she’ll be so grateful, she’ll still feed me.”
“Hopefully, he’ll forgive you. She’s just bound and determined to find someone for that gal.”
Rowdy cleared his throat, unable to keep the sheepish grin off his face. “Speaking of...someone’s, I have a list of four restaurants I’m supposed to choose from.”
“You get to choose.” Tim arched his eyebrows and grinned.
“She told me to surprise her,” Rowdy confessed.
Tim shook his head in apparent sympathy. “They do love settin’ us up for a fall.”
Rowdy chuckled and nodded. There was so much truth to his brother’s words. He rattled off the restaurants and waited on Tim’s verdict. Most of Rowdy’s “dates” had been with local girls, included a six pack of beer, and ended with breakfast at Miss Mae’s Diner—if they were lucky.
“First date?”
Rowdy nodded.
“If you’re looking to impress, I’d go for The Bayou or Boudros.”
“Are they both close to Louie’s?”
“Louie’s, huh. You got a hankerin’ to dance to the blues?” Tim gave him a conspiratorial wink over the top of his sunglasses. “Who is she?”
“This chick...this chick I met. She’s not from around here,” he added, struggling to meet Tim’s eyes. Normally, Rowdy kept his women to himself, though he wasn’t shy about discussing them if he had a problem.
Up to now, he hadn’t wanted to share Skye with anyone. Until now, she hadn’t felt quite real. Now he wanted someone to talk about her with, and Tim wouldn’t give him too much grief about the way they’d met or the fact he obviously wanted to impress her.
“She must be more than just ‘a chick’ if you’re willing to drop a few dimes on her,” Tim said softly, his face inscrutable.
“It’s her thirtieth birthday.”
“Ohhh, I see. An older chick.”
“Four years.” He shrugged, dreading what was coming.
“Hold that thought.” Tim walked down and exited the arena via the gate. Rowdy met him halfway and they continued toward the house.
“How’d you meet her?”
“Internet.” He tried to keep his bomb as small as possible, knowing it would get a reaction, and he was right.
Tim pulled up short halfway up the porch steps and roared with laughter, leaning heavily on the rail. “What, did you pull a Zack and place a personal ad?”
Zack and Jessa had met via a personal ad he’d placed on the Internet, and they'd had to put up with a lot of good-natured teasing because of it.
“I, um, no. We met on a music list. For fans,” he awkwardly explained.
Tim snorted. “If it doesn’t have horse in it, I can't find it on that da
mned Internet, nor do I want to. So you’ve lost me.”
“We’ve been talkin’ a while and I offered to take her out for her birthday.”
“When’s the last time you took a woman out for more than breakfast?”
From his position on the bottom step, Rowdy looked up at his brother. “Never,” he said softly.
Before Tim could reply, the back door flew open and Toni stepped out, waving another wooden spoon in her hand. “You two going to stand there all afternoon yapping like old women, or what? So rude.”
Tim grunted and leapt up the steps, closing the distance between them. “Where’s my dinner, woman?”
“It’s lunch not dinner.”
“You just like to argue.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. From behind Toni, Rene cleared her throat.
“That is really gross, y’all.” Rene stood in the doorway, lips pursed and arms crossed.
“Gettin’ a little sick to your stomach, are ya?” Rowdy teased.
“Bleack!” She wrinkled her nose for emphasis.
Rowdy snorted with laughter then faked a frown. “I didn’t know people actually said ‘bleack’. Guess if you’re sick, I get your peach cheesecake for dessert.”
“There’s no stealing dessert at my table, Rowdy Yates,” Toni announced from over Tim’s shoulder.
“Fine, then feed me before I starve to death. I’m a growing boy, Mama.”
“Hmmpf.”
CELLULITE = NO THONGS
I SIGHED INTO MY coffee and replayed my previous night’s coughing fit as if it had been the winning touchdown in the last three seconds of the Super Bowl. Slow-Mo.
As punishment, I woke up early and subjected myself to another round of Pilates From Hell. Though I doubted they’d do much good after yesterday’s cookie binge. My last cookie binge, I might add. Never ever again would a Milano pass my lips or darken my cupboard!
After the previous night’s phone call, which had left me shaken, I’d thrown them all away and carried the trash to the curb, so I couldn’t change my mind. Thanks to my coughing fit, I’d lain in bed all night nursing a sore scratchy throat, staring at the ceiling and wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Dear Lord, I had a date with Robbie!
I’d talked to him on the phone, for heaven’s sake!
Burrowing in the mattress, I sighed again, unable to keep a smile off my face. He sounded even yummier than his emails, but thanks to my self-imposed exile, I had no friends to talk me down from the chandelier. Except Chrystine, and I knew what she’d say: Get some for me, while you’re at it!
No sleep hadn’t helped matters. Shortly before three I’d woken up hot and sweaty, all tangled in my sheets and gasping for air. After a quick shower, I’d checked my mail, wondering if he were home yet. He wasn’t, but did I go back to bed? No!
Half asleep and more than a little sexually frustrated, I sat and typed him this long e-mail about my blues club dream. I’d expected to find a reply laughing at me, or worse, canceling our date when I checked in next. I should have known better. Instead I got this:
Nice to see you listen to me :-). You bring the black dress, I’ll bring the hands. Now go back to bed and dream of me some more.
If only he knew I’d dreamed of him all night. I was still so flustered over the events of the last twelve hours and hung over from lack of sleep, I hadn’t bothered to answer his e-mails. Instead, I’d headed downstairs and cooked myself breakfast.
Even eating on the back porch, surrounded by my miniature garden hadn’t helped calm me down.
On exercise-weak legs, I carried my cup and plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs back inside, rinsed the plate and refilled my coffee cup.
I dragged myself upstairs to the office, wincing with every step. My stomach ached from those stupid Pilates, but more importantly, I had nothing to wear for my date. Nothing!
Everything from my country club, size ten days were long past zipping or buttoning or snapping. Let alone pulling up. Which left me with a huge dilemma.
Where do fat chicks buy sexy clothes?
More importantly, did they even make anything that didn’t look like something my great-grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in—a problem I’d encountered more than once while shopping for work clothes. Considering my great-grandmother probably wore crinolines and pantaloons, that wasn’t saying much.
I spent the morning hunting all over the internet for something local, since I wasn’t stupid enough to buy anything without trying it on first. The only place I found was closed on Sundays, and the clock was ticking. I could see Alice’s rabbit from Wonderland tapping his foot and twitching his ears.
Horror of horrors, I also saw a trip to the mall in my future.
After a trip to the grocery store, I slipped into the beauty supply place next door, and ten minutes later I emerged with five different shades of polish, files and everything else I’d need to spruce up my nails.
I couldn’t type with long nails and had never seen the sense in having fake short ones. That ranked right up there with decaf coffee and non-alcoholic beer.
But somewhere between The Great Cookie Caper and the grocery store, I’d come to some sort of unconscious decision. Three years of no nail polishing and the most minimal of makeup were officially behind me. I couldn’t help myself. Deep down inside my girly-girl had woken up and now cried for freedom. I couldn’t lose fifty pounds in less than two weeks, but if I was going to meet Robbie, I wanted to look my best. That much I could do.
And that much I wanted to do. I went home, emptied my car, and then high-tailed it to the mall.
At a high-end department store, I got a complete makeover at the makeup counter and bought everything from facial scrub to eyeliner, two shades of lip gloss and coordinating lipsticks. Including a woo-woo daring shade of red the sales clerk had offered up with a wicked grin.
I also found out that applying full regalia makeup was a lot like riding a bike. Either that or we women were just genetically programmed to know these sorts of things. Regardless, I’d take it.
After I put a huge dent in my credit card, I ran downstairs to a shop I’d spotted on my way in. Which turned out to be a complete bust. Whoever said stretchy fabrics were a fat chick’s friend didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. Thanks to the material’s cling quotient, Lycra might as well have been Saran Wrap. I stood gawking at the price tag on a particularly ugly shirt in mustard yellow and moss green, thinking it was someone’s idea of a bad joke, when the bubbly sales clerk, a walking advertisement for the store, stopped to chat. Judging from the outfit she wore, it wasn’t too hard to figure out where all her paychecks went.
“Finding everything alright?” She blinked and smiled, showing off dimples framed by a short bob in a very unnatural shade of red.
Did she wake up that perky or was she medicated? “Yes, thank you.” I still hadn’t located the sale rack. I suppose, if you were young and fat this was the place to shop, but I wasn’t eighteen. Or even twenty-one. Everything I saw was outrageous or super-plain. There was no middle ground—especially on the price tags!
Are you kidding me? No way in hell was I paying nearly forty dollars for a t-shirt because it had a few extra inches of material in it!
“We cater mostly to younger Big Beautiful Women, so let me know if you need any help.”
“Oh, I will.” I deliberately turned away from her, so she wouldn’t see me roll my eyes, and headed for a table of panties in every color under the sun, hoping she’d finally let me shop in peace. I hated being labeled, and Big Beautiful Woman ranked right down there with Fluffy and Chubby.
“Oh, and today only we’re having a sale on thongs—three for twenty-five dollars. A great bargain, huh?”
“Yeah...Super.” If I was shopping for slingshots. I found nothing appealing about the visual of me in a thong. If I were one of those women who frequented clubs catering to fat people, I might have considered investing in a few. Then again, I found nothing appealing about the feel of
me in a thong either.
I shuddered at the thought. When it became apparent that Bubbles the Perky-Clerk would continue to hover, I quickly selected three pair of high cut briefs while still wondering why they felt the need to hide the damned sale rack!
Chrystine, my Cagle Friend from Dallas, was always trying to get me to visit so we could go to the club near her, claiming it was a total riot, and a blast. Overweight women participating in wet t-shirt contests weren’t my idea of fun, and I'd scolded Chrystine for it—never mind that she’d won—it showed a lack of self respect that had nothing to do with size. And set the women's movement back on it's...chest. Chrystine said I needed to relax, that it was about having a good time, that I didn’t understand; I’d informed her I didn’t want to. Chrystine had also said I was a prude—probably—and needed to work on my self-acceptance issues—maybe.
The Internet is a dangerous thing. In my travels through cyber-space I’d run across such terms as BHM—big handsome man—and FA’s. Fat Admirers? What the hell was that? Frankly, I’d much prefer a man who wanted me for me, not because I was fat.
That’s right, fat, not fluffy. Cats are fluffy.
And feeders? People who fed their loved ones until they reached gargantuan proportions? Not my first choice for a fetish!
Whip me, beat me, make me go jogging, but don’t feed me!
I didn’t enjoy being fat. But I’d done this to myself, and it hadn’t happened overnight. More like three years. Hell, maybe this was my payback for not even needing braces.
Giving up on locating the sales rack, I paid for my panties and high-tailed it out of the store before anymore of the day got away from me.
In my search of the mall, everything I found was like the first store—either too young and tacky or too old and polyesterish. I finally left and drove around, stopping at a discount store that promised name brand clothes with off prices where I usually had good luck finding work clothes. I grabbed a basket and headed toward the two long racks containing plus size clothes, passing rows and rows of junior and misses clothes along the way.
