by Sharon Sala
She opened the envelope. A single note card fell out with an address. Now she had a location for the lawyer to mail the divorce papers. She laid it aside and picked up a rather ornate envelope that smelled like roses.
Curious, she tore into it and then leaned back in her chair in disbelief. It was a personal invitation to attend a special tea hosted by the Rose Garden Club. She glanced at the date. That would be noon this coming Saturday.
She wasn’t going anywhere else, so she might as well go see what the biddies had to say. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a public flogging, and then she sighed. She’d lived here her entire life, as had her parents, and their parents before them. It would be sad if all this mess caused her so much distress that she had to move.
She noticed there was a number to RSVP. What the hell, she thought, and grabbed her cell phone. She quickly punched in the numbers and waited for an answer.
“Miller Travel Agency. We can make your dreams come true.”
She stifled a grin. They really needed to reword that. It could be misconstrued in a number of ways.
“Hi, Precious. This is Patty June. I’m calling to RSVP on the invitation from the Rose Garden Club.”
“Oh, hi, Patty June. So is this a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes, and tell Willa Dean thank you for asking me.”
“I sure will, and Patty June…”
“Yes?”
“I just love your new hairdo. It’s amazing.”
“Thank you, Precious. I like it, too.”
She was still smiling when she disconnected. Now she had to figure out what she was going to wear. Did she go for shock value or understated class? Since they were the Rose Garden girls, she decided to go with understated class. The average age of that bunch was probably around seventy-five years old. She didn’t want to be responsible for someone having a heart attack over lobster rolls and sweet tea.
• • •
The women of Blessings were on a mission. All it had taken were a few phone calls to start the ball rolling in Patty June’s favor. They’d let down one of their own, and why? Because their husbands had suggested she was a feminist? So what? Southern women had been feminists a long time before that tag had become a buzzword. They’d hidden the iron in their backbones with a smile and a “bless your heart,” and not a man was the wiser.
Not only that, but they also were all taking stock of their own men, and a good many of them were falling short. The winds of discontent were rising. Women weren’t giving out the details, but it was obvious which families were having their own little crises. Hair colors were changing, hems were coming up, and necklines were going lower. Houses were getting new paint jobs, and there were a few places in town with new cars in the driveway. The ration of shit the men had dished out on Patty June’s behalf was coming back to haunt them.
• • •
When Saturday rolled around and Patty June drove up to the community center, her eyes widened in disbelief. This wasn’t just a meeting of the Rose Garden Club. There were at least fifty cars here, maybe more.
She tapped the brakes and circled the parking lot until she found an empty spot, then parked and got out, smoothing down the front of her little pink dress as she headed inside.
As she started down the hall, she caught a glimpse of her reflection and almost stumbled. This look was going to take some getting used to.
It occurred to her that the last time she’d been here had been for a family dinner before a funeral. Conrad had preached the sermon. If she remembered correctly, it had been for Bobbette Paulson’s father. She wondered if Conrad had been screwing her then, or if it had all come later. Either way, the old man was dead, Conrad was gone, and last she’d heard, Bobbette was bald.
She followed the rumble of voices all the way to the dining area and then stopped in the doorway, stunned by the sight of so many women standing beneath a banner with her name on it.
“What on earth?” she muttered. Then Willa Dean saw her and she was swept up into the gala.
“What’s going on?” Patty asked.
Willa Dean grabbed her hand and pulled her into the room.
“This is in your honor. We all owe you a huge apology, and rather than do it one at a time in mutual embarrassment, we decided to make an event of it. Besides, you know how we like events.”
Patty June laughed. It was true. The women in Blessings did like their parties.
“Come with me. You’re sitting between me and Rachel, and I hope you went light on your breakfast. I promise this is going to be the best lunch you’ve ever had.”
Patty giggled. This was promising to be the best day she’d had in ages. Having the best lunch to go with it seemed only fair.
And Willa Dean was right. It was amazing, from the salad course through the entrée, all the way to the desserts, which held some of Patty June’s favorites. When she saw the key lime pie, she groaned aloud.
“I love key lime pie.”
“I made that,” Myra Franklin said, her smile a little too wide to be humble.
“I made the Coca-Cola cake,” Willa Dean added.
“I made the Mississippi mud cake,” Sue Beamon said.
Patty was overwhelmed to the point of tears, but she wouldn’t cry. This was a happy day.
“I’ll have a little bit of all three,” Patty said, and took her plate back to the table and dug in.
Coffee was being served when Willa Dean stood up and moved to the podium, tapping the microphone to make sure it was on.
“Can y’all hear me?” she asked, pointing to the back of the room. When they waved and nodded, she cleared her throat.
“All of you know why we’re here. The only one who doesn’t is Patty June. Patty, would you please come stand beside me?”
Patty resisted the urge to lick her fork as she laid it on the plate and got up and walked to the podium.
Willa Dean was still struggling with her own personal issues and was overly emotional, but such was life. She cleared her throat again and took Patty June’s hand.
“We are begging your forgiveness, Patty June. You are our sister, and when you needed us most, we let you down. We admit it, and we’re sorry and ashamed. Just so you know, your bravery prompted a lot of us to face our own personal issues. There are quite a few here who have had their own little revelations in the past few days, evidenced by new cars in the driveways and some new jewelry on our fingers.”
A nervous round of laughter moved through the room as the women all looked at each other and then quickly looked away.
Patty June was shocked. She’d been so wrapped up in her drama that she’d been unaware of the subtle changes going on in her little town.
“However, we’re not here to talk about us. We’re here to honor you. You did something very brave. You faced your devils and dehorned the both of them in as fine a fashion as I’ve ever seen. And we wanted you to have this little gift as a memento of your finest hour. I’m sure you’ll find a place for it in somewhere in your house.”
She handed the gaily wrapped box to Patty June and then stepped back, giving Patty June the podium to unwrap it.
Patty was already so overwhelmed by the personal backup and the fine dining that she could hardly speak. Her fingers were shaking as she pulled off the gold ribbon, then the shiny white paper, then finally the lid.
The women watched as she dug through the tissue paper and then saw the shock on her face as she froze. The room went silent, the women waiting to see her reaction.
Patty June grinned. It was Vesta Conklin’s clippers, spray-painted gold. She took them out and hit the Power button. When the sound system caught the buzz, the room erupted in laughter. And just like that, the last of Patty June’s humiliation was gone.
She stepped up to the microphone, still clutching the clippers against her breast.
“Thank you so much! You girls are the best, and if any of you ever need to borrow them, you know where I live.”
The room was filled with applause and laughter as Patty June went back to her table, but now the women were on their feet and heading to her table, wanting to talk to her personally.
Myra Franklin caught Willa Dean’s eye. She knew her good friend had a problem at home, but didn’t know what. What she did know was that Willa Dean was about to burst into tears. She wiggled her fingers, indicating she should slip out the back door now that it was over.
Willa Dean sighed and mouthed a quick thank-you as she began to gather up her things. She felt lighter, like a weight had come off her shoulders. A wrong had been righted with a public apology and good food. Unfortunately it was going to take a lot more than an apology from Harold to fix what was wrong under her roof.
He knew she was pissed, because she’d moved everything that was hers into the spare bedroom, but he wasn’t sure why. And she knew the reason he hadn’t confronted her was because he had secrets of his own to hide. Right now they were sharing a house and polite company, and she’d smiled just about all she could smile today without bursting into tears. Once she gathered up her things, she slipped out the back door.
Chapter 4
Howard Franklin typed in the bit of info into his computer and hit Send, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly. He was hungry and there wasn’t a leftover in the house. It was almost time for Willa Dean to come home from her luncheon. Maybe she would bring leftovers, which she sometimes did.
He didn’t know what was going on with her, but he guessed it had something to do with Patty June Clymer. Every man in town knew the women were up in arms on behalf of the preacher’s wife, and the men were all treading easy, hoping the mass indignation soon passed.
He liked his life. He liked selling insurance, and he liked being married to Willa Dean. He had a few fantasies on the side that he indulged in now and then, but they were harmless. Certainly nothing like what Conrad Clymer had done. Still, he lived with a measure of both fear and guilt that Willa Dean might find out.
He got up to get himself a snack and, as he did, heard the front door slam. Willa Dean must be home. He walked out into the hall to meet her, but she sailed right past him, carrying her things into the kitchen. He followed, talking as he went.
“So how did the luncheon go? Did everyone make up and play nice?”
Willa Dean set her dirty dishes in the sink and then turned on him like a scalded cat.
“You’re a fine one to talk about makeup and play acting.”
The moment she said it, she wished she could take it back, but it was too late. She saw the shock on his face, and then fear.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. His voice was shaking. Poor Harold. But then her instinct for survival kicked in. Poor Willa Dean, too.
“Do you really want to have this conversation?” she asked.
Harold felt sick. She knew! He didn’t know how it had happened, but she knew, which suddenly explained the move into the spare bedroom.
“Are you going to divorce me, too?” he whispered.
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have moved my things. You can rest assured your secret is safe. I don’t want anyone knowing this any more than you do.”
“I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just something I like to do now and then.”
“Yes, well, I bought a vibrator. If you hear it buzzing in my bedroom, you will know I, too, am enjoying a thing I like to do now and then. You will also leave my makeup and underwear the hell alone. It costs a fortune. If you want to play dress up, buy your own. Do you hear me, Harold Wayne?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry, Willa Dean. It’s nothing against you. I love you.”
She sighed. “I suppose that you do. Unfortunately, I may never get over the sight of your fat butt in my panties.”
“Oh lord,” he muttered, and sat down with a thump. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”
She wanted to stay angry, but she was beginning to feel sorry for him.
“Not everything,” she said. “I’m still here. We’ll just have to see how it goes. Oddly enough, there is a bit of good that has come out of all this.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“I don’t have to pretend I’m done having sex when you are anymore. That vibrator lasts as long as I do, which is a hell of a lot longer than your pitiful forty-five seconds.”
He glared. “You never complained before.”
“That’s because you weigh two hundred and forty-five pounds and I couldn’t breathe.”
“Well seriously, Willa Dean. This is a hell of a time to be complaining. We’ve been married for twenty-three years and you never said a word.”
“Look at it this way, Harold. You had twenty-three years of wedded bliss before I blew your cover, so the next twenty-three are mine. We’re married. I’ll keep your secret and you can keep mine.”
His thoughts were racing. She hadn’t blown her top and she was still here. It was way better than he would have imagined.
“I guess I can live with that,” he mumbled.
“Good. I’m going to change clothes and then get back to the agency.”
“Did you bring any leftovers?”
“No.”
“I guess I could heat up a can of soup.”
“Look at it this way, Harold. You can do anything you want to now, so knock yourself out. I’m going back to work.”
He watched her stride out of the kitchen with her chin up and her shoulders back. He’d escaped public shame by less than a pubic hair and he knew it. The next time he went into Savannah he’d do a little shopping, something more in his size and style. In the meantime, he could certainly refrain from indulging himself in his little fantasies until the waters had calmed, so to speak.
• • •
The following Tuesday, Ruby came in extra early to open The Curl Up and Dye. The beginning of her workweek wasn’t usually all that busy, but she had four haircuts this morning and a root touch-up and a permanent this afternoon. It made her back ache just thinking about how long she would be on her feet.
She was taking a load of towels out of the dryer when she caught movement out on the street. Alma Button was driving a new car. She knew the story behind the requests for new hairdos and new jewelry showing up on her customers’ hands and wondered what Alma’s husband had done that warranted buying Alma a new car. Whatever it was, Ruby just hoped none of the ramifications of their problems leaked into The Curl Up and Dye. She had enough on her hands without turning her shop into a version of The Jerry Springer Show.
THE END
Order Sharon Sala’s next book
I’ll Stand By You
On sale June 2015
Read on for a sneak peek from the upcoming small-town Southern romance from Sharon Sala:
i’ll stand by you
Chapter 1
Adorable Grant rolled over in bed and shut off the alarm as a familiar cramp rolled across her belly. The monthly miseries had arrived, and by the smell coming from the baby bed where her son, Luther Joe, was sleeping, the baby food jar of prunes she’d fed him last night may have been a mistake. Between her cramps and Luther’s runs, it was not the optimum way to start a workday, but she had already learned the hard way what it was like to live on leftovers.
She made a mad dash down the hall to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later carrying a tube of ointment for Luther’s diaper rash. There was nothing glamorous about being a seventeen-year-old unwed mother, but after giving birth, she had vowed never to complain about getting her period again.
She hastened her steps as she headed back to her bedroom. Luther was awake and beginning to whine, and she didn’t want to wake Granddaddy until the very last minute.
; “Hey, little man,” she said softly as she hurried toward the crib.
Luther was big for his age and already pulling himself up and standing inside the baby bed. His little, fat hands were curled around the spindles, and he was chewing on the bed rail, probably trying to cut teeth, but it had yet to happen. As soon as he saw her, he smiled that toothless baby smile she loved while saliva dripped down onto his chin and points below. He clutched the bed rail and squealed as she approached.
Dori chuckled. “Ssh, now! You’re gonna wake Granddaddy.”
The mere mention of his favorite male sent Luther’s gaze straight toward the door.
Dori sniffed, then rolled her eyes.
“Ooowee, Luther Joe! You sure do stink. Here, lay down a minute and let Mama get you all cleaned up again.”
She unsnapped the crotch of his pajamas and began to clean him up while making faces at him, then laughing as he tried to mimic the expressions she was making. It was a game they’d been playing for almost a week now, and she was convinced that he was going to be a genius. As soon as she finished, she picked him up out of the crib, settled him on her hip, and headed for the kitchen.
It was still dark outside, but Dori’s job as a dishwasher at Granny’s Country Kitchen began at six a.m., when they started serving breakfast. She settled him into his high chair, handed him a teething biscuit, and started making coffee and warming milk to put in his cereal as she glanced out the kitchen window. The sky was still dark, but she could see darker, heavy-looking clouds. May was always a rainy month and this May was no exception. Maybe if she hurried, she’d get to work before it began.
Within minutes, she had bacon frying and beaten eggs in a bowl ready to scramble. She was putting bread in the toaster when Luther let out a big squeal. She turned to see her grandfather entering the room. He was slightly stooped from so many years as a roofer but still in fine form for seventy-six.
“Mornin’, Granddaddy.”
“Morning, honey,” Meeker Webb said and wiggled his fingers at Luther, who squealed again and whacked his teething biscuit on the tray of the high chair.
