by Peggy Webb
Oh my gosh, how presumptuous of me. And yet, the warm smile Gloria turns in my direction tells me it might be so. We might sit on the bed with a big bowl of popcorn between us while I bare my soul. Will my handsome husband leave me for a more exciting woman? Will my daughter keep her head on her shoulders, or will she throw away her virginity without thought to the future?
Husbands and teenagers should come with instructions.
CHAPTER 4
When life imitates art, should you run away or stay and celebrate?
—Gloria
My lord, has Mooreville cornered the market on sexy men?
Dark-eyed and dangerous-looking in an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat, Matt Tucker makes my former leading man on Love in the Fast Lane look like milquetoast.
I focus on his hands. They are beautiful, with long, tapered fingers. The sight affects me in some deep-seated, visceral way. I can imagine them making erotic circles on my flesh.
“Miss Hart.” Tuck acknowledges me with nothing more than a quick nod of his head, and all of sudden, I don’t care what he thinks and what his hands look like. His greeting is dismissive. As if I’m not even worth a smile.
Nothing gets my dander up more than being summarily dismissed. If I weren’t on this crutch I’d show him dismissive. I’d be so imperious he’d thank his lucky stars he escaped with his head.
“Mr. Tucker.” I give him an equally curt nod. Let that arrogant Mississippi cowboy think I’m not impressed. Let him think any darned thing he wants.
“I think we’re finished here, Jenny. And my leg’s beginning to hurt a little.”
“Oh, then we’ll head home.” Jenny turns back to Tuck. “Good to see you.”
“You, too, Jenny. I’ll call later about the benefit.”
Finally he smiles, and I see why he’s so grudging with them. Good lord, if he smiled at me the way he’s smiling at Jenny I’d probably grovel and beg him to handle me the way he’s handling that thoroughbred.
I sweep toward Jenny’s pickup with a modicum of grace and style. In spite of my crutch. In spite of the sting of another rejection. Though why I’m comparing Matt Tucker to my ex-husbands is beyond my comprehension.
As I slump into the seat, I realize the sting is not to my pride but to my spirit. No matter how much I enjoy my career, I still yearn for the lovely soul connection that sprinkles stardust on everything else. To glimpse that possibility and have those hopes dashed tears a little hole in the spirit.
“The very idea,” Jenny says.
“Indeed.”
“I should have thought about your leg.”
“I’m not talking about my leg. I’m talking about that hunk of arrogant male attitude masquerading as a real person. Blue jeans and T-shirts that tight ought to be declared against the law.”
“I know. Jackson’s a pissant.”
“Wrong Tucker.”
“Matt?”
“Yeah, Matt. Who does he think he is? King of the Universe?”
“Why, he’s just as humble as apple pie.”
“Not from where I was standing.”
“Oh…my…gosh.”
“What?”
“You fell for him.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. A man without enough manners to get off his horse?” This is pride talking.
“Those thoroughbreds are high-strung. Matt never turns over the reins to anybody except one of the stable boys.”
“He probably never turns over the reins of anything. His wife must be a doormat.”
I’m fishing here. I can’t remember what I read about his marital status. And after all, a married man could leave his wedding ring at home, especially a man like Matt Tucker dealing with high-strung thoroughbreds all day.
“His wife left him.”
“I can see why.” Jenny twists around and gives me this look, and my face flushes. “Okay, you caught me red-handed.”
The choice is mine. Protect myself with flippancy or open myself to pain with the truth. I opt for the truth, to solidify a blossoming friendship.
“So, what did you really think?”
“I can’t believe any woman would leave him. I’ve never met a man that sexy outside a studio. Or that appealing. My lord, in Hollywood he’d be box-office gold.”
“When you first saw each other, the temperature went so high I thought my hair was going to catch on fire.”
Jenny drives along in silence, probably trying to figure out if I’m acting. I never knew my profession could be such a handicap. Of course, I should have. It probably contributed heavily to the breakup of my marriages, and it has certainly kept me from forming close ties with other women.
Other actresses view me as competition, and women leading less hectic, less glamorous lives can’t imagine they’d ever have anything in common with me.
What they don’t see is an ordinary woman longing for the kind of wonderful friendship where either party could pick up the phone in the middle of the night to say, “I’m hurting,” and the other would rush over with hugs and Hershey bars.
When we arrive at Jenny’s house, she says, “Would you mind if I invited Tuck to dinner?”
“Tonight?”
“Not tonight. But sometime soon. When you’re feeling better.”
“Are you matchmaking?”
She laughs. “I guess you could call it that. But I just think there’s something between you and Tuck so powerful it would be a sin to ignore it.”
I believe in fate. When you consider the thousand-plus miles I traveled before I wrecked my car, shouldn’t there be a reason other than a large black-and-white cow—or dog—in the road? Isn’t it possible I was supposed to land in this exact spot in Mississippi to find the two people who could rescue me? A good friend to lift me up when my wings are too bedraggled to fly and a good man to be my haven at the end of a hard day in the Hollywood trenches?
Jenny parks the truck in the shade of a magnolia tree and we sit there a minute, letting the morning’s events sink in.
Finally she says, “I have to bake pies.”
“I’m going to rest a while. My ankle really is throbbing.”
“I’ll make some sweet tea for you to take to your room.”
Sweet tea. I haven’t heard that expression since my childhood. I’m flooded with memories of golden days filled with dreams of fame, fortune and love.
Two out of three’s not bad.
We go into the house and Jenny pours the tea into a tall glass of ice. Heading into the bedroom to stretch out on the rose-sprigged comforter while the ceiling fan stirs the air, I wonder what sort of dreams I can conjure now.
Laundry ought to come with warning signs: beware of chapped hands and broken hearts.
—Jenny
WHILE Gloria rests I stick the pies in the oven and get Rick’s jeans out of the dirty clothes hamper to do laundry. The house is quiet with Rick at the restaurant and Angie at the library with Sally—I hope. If she’s not there, I don’t even want to think about where she might be or what she might be doing.
When I was her age I had only one thing on my mind—how to get Rick Miller to notice me.
Funny, but after twenty-something years, that’s still the main thing on my mind.
With the rich smells of pecan and lemon meringue pies wafting from the kitchen, I dig through Rick’s pockets. He’s notorious for leaving behind little things: loose change, lug nuts, small screws, wadded-up tissue.
Now I pull out two nails, a penny and some scraps of paper. I toss the nails into the garbage and put the penny in the loose-change jar I keep by the washing machine, then unfold the notes to see if they’re anything important. The first one says milk, sugar, coffee—the list I gave him last Tuesday when he was going into town.
The second one is on pink paper. Sylvia, 310-788-0009.
I catch a whiff of something and lift the note to my nose. Chanel No. 5. I used to wear that fragrance eighteen years ago BC—before children, before cellulite, before crazy-making days
like this one.
What kind of woman gives a man her phone number on pink scented paper? The kind who is up to no good with my husband. That’s what.
Moving on automatic, I dump Rick’s pants into the machine and reach for the detergent while an old song plays in my head. “I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta my Hair.”
Of course, it’s not my hair that’s dirty. It’s my husband. And here I stand washing his two-timing pants.
Jerking the cheating britches out of the machine, I throw them on the floor and stomp on them.
Rollo and Banjo come running, hackles up, ready to attack the dangerous intruder. The only problem is, Sylvia’s not here. She’s probably in my husband’s office capturing him with her scented talons.
When the dogs see me stomping Rick’s pants, they come to a screeching halt and tilt their heads sideways as if to say, “We knew she was headed around the bend. We just didn’t know it would happen this fast.”
All I want is out of this house.
Grabbing my gardening gloves, hat and a pair of sharp clippers, I head to the rose garden with the dogs at my heels and start lopping off dead heads. Spent blooms that must be removed in order to make way for the new ones.
I’m a superb gardener, a Master Gardener, in fact. I took the course and became active in their organization. It’s another one of the many ways I fill my spare time.
Thanks to the restaurant, the volunteer fire department and love-starved women penning passionate notes on love-colored paper, I have more spare time than a wife with a good-looking husband ought to have.
What I ought to have is lots of stolen moments with Rick behind the closed doors of his office in broad daylight, passionate kisses in the gazebo under a full moon, and some old-fashioned making-out underneath the rose arbor in the secluded corner of the yard.
Apparently I’m a spent bloom, as shriveled-up and colorless as the dried-out roses hitting the ground.
When I finish dead-heading I start snipping fresh blooms. Nothing lifts the spirit like roses all over the house. I’ll put the creamy Peace roses in the dining room, the yellow Sun Sprite in the living room and the rose-colored Gertrude Jekyll in the bedroom. The Gertrude Jekyll smells like French perfume. Maybe the fragrance will be enough to take Rick’s mind off Sylvia.
This very minute she’s probably tripping around in her four-inch sling-backs picking out a cute little cottage they’ll turn into a love nest after the divorce is final.
Well, I have news for that vixen. I’m not fixing to lie down and play dead. I’m going to use every weapon in my arsenal to hold onto my man.
Gathering my roses I head back to the house. The minute I open the back door, I’m hit by the sound of the fire alarm and a face full of smoke.
Dropping the roses on the utility-room floor, I barrel into the kitchen with the dogs barking at my heels.
“Jenny. Thank goodness.” Gloria’s standing in the smoke waving a dish towel.
It’s not enough that I’ve nearly burned the house down; I’ve nearly asphyxiated the goddess of daytime TV.
“I’ve turned the oven off,” she says, “but the pies are still in there. This darned crutch!”
I jerk the charred remains out of the oven then fling open windows while Gloria swats at the smoke.
“Jenny!”
Just what I need. Rick. Home to get the pies.
Suddenly he’s standing in the kitchen door and I don’t know whether to hug him or kill him.
“Good God.”
He picks Gloria up and carries her off, leaving me in the kitchen to die of smoke inhalation. Of course, I’m glad he got Gloria out of harm’s way, but wouldn’t you think he’d want to save his wife from death by charred pie?
Here I stand. Second choice. Actually third when you consider that husband-snatcher, Sylvia.
Even the dogs have deserted me. They’re trailing along behind Rick, barking.
“Don’t just stand there, Jenny,” he yells over his shoulder. “Get out. I’ll take care of the smoke.”
I throw the dish towel on the floor and trail along behind them to the front porch. He sets Gloria on the chaise so she can prop up her leg, then passes me on his way back to the kitchen.
“What happened?” he says.
“Don’t ask.”
I pull up a rocking chair and sit down beside Gloria.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“I don’t do this every day. Flambé the pies, behead all my roses. Stomp Rick’s pants.”
“You stomped his pants?”
I might as well quit pretending. I need help. Of course I can call Laurel, but she’s at work and I need a confidante now.
“Actually, Gloria, the thing I’d like to send up in flames is Rick.”
Forget that my husband’s in the kitchen. Let him deal with mess for a change. I’ll be that crazed emperor who fiddled while Rome burned.
“Jenny, I know you’re upset, but maybe this is not the time to talk.”
Gloria nods toward the kitchen as if I’m completely unaware that a two-timing man is on the premises. Of course, I could be a bit quick on the judgment trigger. After all, the only proof I have is a pink note. Maybe she’s just trying to lure him away from me. Maybe he’s done nothing.
So far.
My Machiavellian wheels are turning. I know I don’t appear to be the kind of woman who has a thought in her head besides how to get dust bunnies from under the sofa, but I have a library card. I know my way around a good bookstore.
During the years I think of as kitchen/family focused, I’ve kept my mind agile with books on everything from Zen Buddhism to Native American history. Pity I didn’t do the same thing with my body, but we won’t go there.
I didn’t read The Art of War for nothing. I know that if I’m to beat this insatiable wench, I’ve got to fight like a man.
Of course, that includes the art of the surprise attack.
“Okay, you’re right, Gloria. But the minute Rick gets out of my kitchen, we’ve got plans to make.”
I can’t live on dreams of the past forever. If I want to have a future, I’d better get off my complacent butt and grab it.
CHAPTER 5
Can a woman twice dumped and lost at sea give goddess lessons?
—Gloria
Waiting on the porch with Jenny feels like sitting in the middle row at the theater waiting for the pivotal moment in the film. Your fists are balled and you’re holding your breath knowing that in the next few minutes you’ll expel it in a big wave of understanding. So, that’s the big secret. So, he’s the one who stole the million dollars. So, she’s the mistress.
“Jenny.” Rick strides onto the front porch.
She jumps as if she’s been electrocuted. As her husband walks toward her I see such a mixture of love and pain and longing on her face, I want to weep.
Nothing in this world is easy. Before I met Jenny and Rick, I used to walk into my empty house and think, if only I had someone to greet me at the door, I’d be happy. If only I had someone to put his arms around me and say, “There, there. Rest now, Gloria. You’ve had a hard day. Let me kiss you and make it all better.”
I never dreamed that if I had someone I might walk through the door and feel anything except cherished. I never imagined I might want to tie my lover to a stake and set him on fire.
And yet, in spite of all that, Jenny loves Rick. It’s as clear to me as if she had it stamped across her forehead.
“There’s no major damage in the kitchen,” Rick says. “I think I got most of the soot off the walls.”
“Good.”
Rick sags and Jenny stiffens while they stare at each other like gladiators facing a fight to the death.
“Jenny, I brought lunch from the restaurant.”
“I thought you just came for the pies.”
“Let me get the food.” He hurries toward his Jeep and comes back with two take-out boxes which he places i
n Jenny’s lap. “It’s meat loaf. We had meat loaf and baked chicken on the lunch buffet today.”
“You’re not staying?”
“I have lots to take care of.”
After he drives off, Jenny says, “I’ll just bet.”
Then she tells me about the pink note, the late nights at the restaurant, the unused marriage bed, even the fights over Angie. Hearing her is like watching the American dream unravel.
Still, in spite of seeing the downside of marriage firsthand, I can’t give up on the notion that I’ve been cheated, that there’s a richness and depth to life I’ve never experienced except vicariously, as Jillian Rockwell on a daytime soap.
“Gloria, I don’t know what to do anymore.”
That’s my cue to say something wise, to fix everything in her life with one pithy statement.
But I never could think on an empty stomach. Stress makes me hungry. I used to keep Hershey Kisses everywhere on the set so when the camera wasn’t on me I could grab a bite of comfort and assurance. Of course, my hair doesn’t look like a buzzard’s butt. Of course, I can act like I enjoy kissing Brandon Wallace, that horse’s ass who said I had the talent of a turnip. Of course, my contract will be renewed.
Even chocolate couldn’t ensure that.
The meat loaf smells delicious and I eye the boxes with longing.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Jenny hands a box to me and I attack the food with a plastic fork, as if I haven’t seen sustenance in eight days.
If my ankle doesn’t hurry up and get well so I can get on a treadmill, I’m going to be the size of a truck.
“Jenny, I don’t know the first thing about love and marriage. But if I were you, I’d ask him about the note.”
“Good grief. He’d act as though I’d accused him of robbing banks and stealing small dogs.”
“I don’t mean ask if he has another woman. Just hand him the note you found and say, I don’t believe I know Sylvia.”
“I’d scratch his eyes out. No, I’m going to sneak down to the restaurant and spy on him.”
“What are you going to do if you catch him cheating? And what if he’s innocent and he catches you spying? Either way he’s on the defensive. It’s a script ready-made for a nasty showdown.”
