Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  I shudder at the thought of being within ten feet of David’s overbearing mom. There’s a reason he didn’t go back to New York after we graduated divinity school. “Why don’t we let LaRonda do the honors?”

  He laughs. “Bye, Betz.”

  “Bye, David.”

  I scrape myself off the couch and head for a long soak in my claw-foot tub. With a bit of luck and a new loofah, I can scrub away at least one layer of grief.

  The rest of the week provides enough distraction to make me dwell less on Velva’s death and my screwed-up love life. I practice using the Web cam so I’ll be ready for my Sunday-afternoon stakeout. Angelique barges into my office a couple of times, and I quickly switch from the Web cam view to my Outlook. Subterfuge was never my greatest strength. I’m sure I look like a kid with a hand in the cookie jar.

  Edna Tompkins drops by to deliver her weekly harangue. She perches on the edge of the chair across from my desk, and I feel as if I’m being pecked to death by ducks.

  “You really should let The Judge look over your sermon for Sunday. He can steer you in the right direction.”

  I’m sure The Judge would be happy to steer me right over a homiletic cliff, but I keep that thought to myself.

  “That would be great, but I haven’t written it yet. I usually wait for Saturday-night inspiration.”

  Edna purses her lips. “I thought you were going to the fund-raiser Saturday night.”

  How does she know that? I narrow my eyes at her, and she has the grace to look the teensiest bit uncomfortable.

  “Angelique must have mentioned it,” she says, studying the books on the shelves over my right shoulder.

  Which, translated, means she’s been in the reception area for the last thirty minutes pumping my administrative assistant for any information she can get.

  “I guess I’ll hope for Saturday-morning inspiration. In any event, I think I can handle the sermon on my own.”

  I stand up and move around the edge of the desk. I learned this trick in my last church. If someone plops down in your office and doesn’t show any signs of leaving, you get her out the door by simply getting up and walking toward it. Inevitably, the person will stand up and follow you. Most of the time she doesn’t realize you’ve thrown her out. Sometimes, as with Edna Tompkins, I actually have to walk all the way to the outside door of the church office to get rid of my visitor. Once I had to walk a grumpy parishioner all the way to his car.

  Edna continues to offer me helpful advice and inspirational tidbits until I’ve literally seen her out the door. When she’s finally gone, I lean against the office door and feel my knees start to go. Angelique laughs. “She was tougher than usual.”

  “She had a lot of wisdom to share.”

  Angeliques eyes narrow, much as mine did with Edna Tompkins, as she assesses me. “You aren’t maintaining.”

  “Maintaining?”

  “Your makeover. You’re letting it slide.”

  Well of course I’m letting it slide. Who has time to use that plethora of hair products and a flat iron? Or age-defying foundation and three carefully blended shades of eye shadow?

  “Don’t think of it as sliding,” I say. “Think of it as a sabbatical from the ridiculous demands of perfection our culture places on women.”

  “Was that a real sentence?”

  “Does it have to be?”

  We laugh, and it feels good. Some relief from the intensity of the week.

  Angelique eyes me thoughtfully. “You need to make an effort for the fund-raiser.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really feel like it.”

  “I have a dress you can borrow.”

  Why do those words scare me? I look at Angelique, at her big hair and her leather jacket. She puts it all out there, no holds barred. I could never do that. I don’t have the courage.

  “I’m sure I have basic black somewhere in my closet.”

  Angelique taps her talons on her desk. “No way. No black. You need a fiery red.”

  Or a neon sign that says desperate. That would probably be more flattering to my hips.

  Well, despite my protests, Angelique shows up at my house late Saturday afternoon with a dress concealed in a long garment bag. LaRonda’s already been here for a while, and I’m now plucked, exfoliated, irradiated, and illuminated. If my face were any shinier, I’d be a reflector shield in the next Star Wars movie.

  “You’re not shiny. You’re glowing,” LaRonda assures me, but I don’t believe her.

  “Wow!” Angelique pops her gum and turns to hang the mystery bag on my bedroom door. “Did you wax her eyebrows, too?” she asks LaRonda.

  “After I pinned her to the floor. The legs were easier.”

  “Hmm.” Angelique assesses me as if she’s judging a heifer at the state fair. “Nice arch on the brows.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hello! I’m here! I have ears.”

  “Of course you do, hon.” LaRonda might as well pat me on the head. Then she turns her attention back to Angelique. “I couldn’t decide on the hair. Up or down?”

  The next thing I know, I’m shoved in front of a mirror while four hands pile my hair in thirty different directions. Finally, my personal beauty team decides on a loose chignon with lots of wispy curls hanging down.

  If I thought Antoine and that masseuse were a nightmare, I’m far more frightened by LaRonda and Angelique. They don’t even pretend to coddle me.

  “Ouch!” I cry when they comb out my hair after washing it with three different shampoos.

  “Don’t fuss,” LaRonda admonishes. What happened to all that Christian mercy stuff she’s always spouting?

  They won’t let me look in the mirror. I know my hair required copious numbers of hairpins and my makeup is more than I’d ever apply myself, but at least they didn’t slap on as much as those “Holy to Hottie” folks.

  “Time for the dress.”

  Angelique slowly unveils her offering to the romance gods. But it’s not a dress. It’s a red scarf.

  “Where’s the dress?”

  “You’re looking at it, honey.”

  “Get out.” There’s no way. Time to dig out the basic black from the back of my closet.

  “No, really.” Angelique slips it from the hanger.

  “What do you wear under it?”

  She gives me a blank look. “Why would you want to wear anything under it?”

  I’m sure there must be something in the lady minister’s secret handbook about going commando to a charity function.

  “Angie, I’ve worn underwear every day of my life since I was three, and I don’t plan to change that now.”

  She harrumphs, rolls her eyes, and finally acquiesces.

  “Okay, but only the minimum.”

  “I was thinking full body armor, but I’ll scale back.”

  That compromise reached, they unzip the tiny little zipper at the back and order me to step into that siren’s wrapper.

  “It really is a scarf,” I protest, even as I acknowledge that scarves don’t usually have zippers.

  The dress is soft crepe that drapes from tiny straps at the shoulders. The neckline drops to a provocative-but-not-slutty V, and there’s no back to speak of. The hem brushes my ankles.

  “Better get the double-sided tape. I feel like J.Lo at the Grammys.”

  “No way,” Angelique protests. “It’ll stay in place.”

  I compare her bust to mine. “Yes, well, for you maybe, but some of us can’t claim your assets.”

  LaRonda assesses the dress with a practiced eye. “No tape needed, Betz. It’ll stay put.”

  And so will I. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.

  “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea—”

  But before I can finish my protest, they whirl me around and open the closet door. I see myself in the full-length mirror, and my breath catches in my throat.

  “Oh!”

  Very eloquent. But it sums up their work quite nicely. I look a
mazing. More amazing than I did at the salon makeover, because this time I look more like me, not like some Hollywood version of myself. It’s how I dreamed of looking for the senior prom. Hair upswept, with a few tendrils hanging down. Eyes bright, but a little mysterious, too. A dress that emphasizes every curve. Softer, less hip than my makeover look, but still glam.

  “I can’t believe it.” No wonder the Cinderella fairy tale is so seductive. They’ve brought out my inner princess.

  “David won’t know what hit him,” LaRonda laughs.

  Angeliques ears prick up like a bloodhound that’s caught the scent of a fox. “David? I thought he was just a friend?”

  “He is. He is.” I resist the urge to elbow LaRonda in the stomach. “We’re just pals.”

  “That’s what movie stars always say right before they have a love child,” Angelique says sagely.

  What is it with people thinking I’m going to have a love child? First Edna and now Angelique.

  “There will be no love children in my immediate future.” I pick up my evening bag from the dresser and start stuffing in the essentials. Lipstick. Tiny comb. Cell phone. Emergency M&M’s. I force the snap to close because I’m not leaving any of the necessities behind.

  “Where are you going for dinner?” Angelique asks. “Not 12th and Porter?”

  “No. The Merchants.”

  Angelique nods appreciatively. “Sweet.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  LaRonda pats my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, Betsy. Tonight’s the night.”

  “The night?”

  “The night you come clean with David.”

  “Come clean with him about what?” Angelique asks, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  “Um, that I took the interim senior-minister job,” I fib—and shoot LaRonda a knowing look.

  “Oh.” Angelique is clearly disappointed.

  Thankfully, LaRonda changes the subject. “Well, princess, I think you’re ready for the ball. Make sure you put all this fairy godmother stuff to good use.” She looks at me meaningfully. I know what she’s saying. I have to confess to David tonight. No more stalling. Roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may, to mix my gambling metaphors.

  I give her a hug, but a careful one. Don’t want to crush the dress or the do. “Thanks, Ronnie.” I turn to Angelique and hug her as well. “You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

  She gives me a quick squeeze and steps back. “Somebody’s got to keep the church going. You people are a lot of work.”

  “Aren’t we, though?” I smile back with tears misting my eyes. “Good thing we have you.”

  This time when David shows up at my front door, I’m not expecting another man, and he doesn’t have another woman with him. Things are definitely looking up.

  Also, this time he says the right things instead of acting shocked and appalled when he sees me.

  “Wow.” He looks me up and down, something I don’t think he’s ever done before. At least I’ve never seen him do it.

  “Is that a good wow or a dear-Lord-why-did-I-agree-to-this wow?”

  “The first thing. You look great.” He’s enthusiastic but also a touch bewildered. I think that’s a good thing.

  “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Which is the understatement of the year. Again, I will remind you to picture a young Sean Connery in black tie. “I see the tux still fits.”

  He runs his finger around his collar. “Unfortunately. Otherwise I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  We stand there staring at each other, neither of us making a move toward the door.

  Finally, David says, “I should have brought flowers.”

  I look in his eyes, and I realize we’re both thinking the same thing. The evening has suddenly acquired date status. He could change that in a sentence if he wanted. He could make some remark about Cali. Or I could put the kibosh on the date vibes. I could ask about her.

  Neither one of us does, though. Instead, David offers me his arm. “Shall we?” “Sure.”

  I place my hand on his sleeve, and we step out into a night that suddenly sparkles with potential.

  My last few dates have taken on a certain surreal quality. There was the parishioners grandson, the ex-con. Another guy just wanted to sell me life insurance. And the third seemed more interested in my shoes than he should have been. (Can you say “fetish”?) So dinner with David is a little slice of heaven.

  We’re settled into a cozy table at the Merchants downtown. It’s housed in an old bank building and retains that charm of yesteryear. The exposed brick walls, snowy tablecloths, and divine food set a romantic mood. I abandon any pretense of tracking Weight Watchers points.

  On our way upstairs to the main dining room, I actually see a couple of male heads turn to watch me walk by. A girl could get addicted to that. Angeliques red dress slides against me as I move, reminding me that I’m not a preacher tonight.

  The waiter takes our drink order, reels off the specials, and leaves us to peruse the menu. I find myself strangely silent, which is not usually the case when I’m around David. We never run short of conversation, but tonight he’s no chatterbox himself. At the next table a couple kisses and coos, in stark contrast to our uneasy silence. The man has caught the woman’s fingers in his, and from the suspicious movement of the tablecloth, I suspect she’s stroking his leg with her foot. Or else he has a mosquito bite he needs some help scratching.

  “Do you want an appetizer?” David asks.

  I frown and concentrate on the menu as if I’m deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Mmm. Maybe.”

  Somehow we’re going to have to break this tension. But the last thing I want to do is acknowledge what we’re both thinking. Date. My stomach flips worse than it did when I tried out for the high-school choir. I try not to remember that I didn’t make the cut when it came to the alto section. Please let me make the choir tonight.

  The waiter brings our drinks and stands there expectantly.

  “How about some spinach artichoke dip?” David asks without looking up from his menu. What, we can’t even make eye contact anymore? If I weren’t so happy to be here with him, deliciously tormented by this date vibe, I’d make fun of the two of us.

  “Sure.” That seems to be the sum total of my conversational skills this evening. Ready to go, Betz? Sure. Want an appetizer? Sure. I hope no one asks me to write a five-figure check at the fund-raiser. In my current condition, I’d probably do it.

  There’s got to be a way to restore some normalcy to the evening without naming the elephant dancing through the restaurant.

  “I’m ready for my surveillance tomorrow afternoon,” I say once we’ve placed our order. Maybe we can talk Web cams.

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  Okay, David is not doing his part here to get the conversational ball rolling.

  “I hope it’s not anyone on the staff who’s taking the money,” I say to give him another opening.

  “That would be bad,” he agrees as he fiddles with his fork.

  With a sigh I wad up my napkin and throw it on the table in front of me. “You have to help me out here, David. I can’t spend the evening talking to myself.”

  “What?” David’s a million miles away. He looks up, brow furrowed.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. We both have to preach in the morning. Why don’t we just have dinner and call it a night? They won’t miss us at the fund-raiser.”

  He frowns. “You don’t want to go?”

  Okay, a jury of my peers, twelve single women, wouldn’t convict me if I stabbed him repeatedly right now with my salad fork.

  “If I wanted to go by myself, I wouldn’t have invited you. If you didn’t want to come, you should have said so.”

  It takes a moment for the meaning of my words to sink in.

  “No, Betz. It’s not like that.”

  “David, you’ve been monosylla
bic since we ordered.”

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “About church tomorrow?”

  His cheeks color. “No, not about church.”

  “Then what?” I take a deep breath and force myself to say her name. “About Cali?”

  That’s when David looks at me. Really looks at me. One of those looks that makes you feel like you’ve been sucker-punched in the stomach.

  “I was thinking about you.”

  “Me?” I don’t mean to squeak like a mouse.

  “Yeah. You.”

  “What about me?”

  The waiter appears tableside with two plates in hand. Two Caesar salads and the offer of some cracked black pepper divert David’s critical reply to the question.

  Of course, a moment like that is impossible to recapture. Once the waiter’s gone, I’m not sure how to steer the conversation back to its previous course. David appears to have forgotten to answer. He tears into his salad like it’s a chili dog and makes appreciative noises.

  Some moments of realization break over you like waves. Others are like mists that rise from the ground and then work their way up to the heavens. This particular moment feels more like my world shifting six inches to the left, and my stomach is making an accompanying motion. Everything’s the same, but suddenly it’s all in a different place.

  Because I see that David’s afraid too. Afraid of what’s suddenly happening between us.

  A tingling washes through me, down my spine, and around to my belly. I don’t mean to be cruel, but his fear is the best thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.

  By the time the entrées arrive, we’ve found our conversational sea legs. I don’t force the issue of his fear at dinner. Instead, I enjoy the delicious sense of anticipation that’s developed in my midsection. It’s better than the crème brûlée we split for dessert. Like a child who awakens at three o’clock on Christmas morning and hears shuffling noises downstairs, I’m aware something wonderful is about to happen. I’ve been given a gift of this one night, like Cinderella going to the ball. I mean to make the most of it—even if it all disappears when the clock strikes twelve.

  The fund-raiser is at the Hermitage Hotel, so I’ve come full circle from the night when I first acknowledged my feelings for David. We descend the steps beneath the lobby’s stained-glass ceiling, and I feel like visiting royalty. People are mingling while waiters in tuxedos circle the room with trays of drinks. The dancing isn’t scheduled to begin for half an hour.