A Girl Like You

by Maria Geraci

  “Sheila, those are man tears,” Mama J says, gently correcting Mom.

  Mama J is right. I’m ashamed to say that I’m crying over the loss of Ben. Or rather, the loss of the dream of Ben. I really thought he was the guy for me. I’m thirty-two years old. I want to be married. I want to have kids. Preferably in that order. But more importantly, I want to find someone to spend the rest of my life with. Someone who’ll argue with me over how long to cook the pasta.

  Mom pulls up a stool and hands me a glass of red wine and a box of Kleenex.

  I swipe away my tears. “Stupid female hormones,” I lie.

  Neither of them looks as if she buys this, but they don’t push it. We finish making dinner and polish off a bottle of wine and some mediocre spaghetti and I fill them in on my idea about the article on Trip.

  “Honestly, Emma,” says Mom, “of all the interesting people in the world, why would you want to interview him?”

  “He’s a big celebrity.”

  “He drives a car around in circles.”

  “Emma’s right, Sheila, NASCAR is big,” Mama J points out.

  “Plus, he’s a Florida native and he’s donated a lot of money to charity. Right here in Catfish Cove too.” I found this out through my Google search.

  Mom immediately softens her expression. She is a sucker for anything or anyone related to this town. My great-grandfather was one of Catfish Cove’s first residents and my grandfather George was the town’s only medical doctor for over thirty years. He also served in the Korean War and is buried in the veterans’ section of the city cemetery. There’s even a street named after him—George Frazier Boulevard, which is more a dead end really, but it’s where the elementary school is located. Other than the time she spent away at college and during her residency, Mom has always lived here. Despite this being a politically conservative town, no one other than a few dumb rednecks ever give my moms a hard time anymore. They might be lesbians, but they are “our lesbians,” if you know what I mean.

  Mom goes to the linen closet and hands me fresh towels. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Do you want to come to the store tomorrow?” Mama J asks hopefully.

  Whenever I’m in town I always help Mama J out at the bookstore. It’s something I love doing and I know she loves having me there, but it’s not in my agenda this weekend.

  “I was kind of hoping to spend tomorrow doing research on Trip,” I say.

  “But you’re staying through till Sunday?” Mom asks.

  “Well, sure.”

  “Excellent! Tomorrow night the Lutheran Church Day Care is sponsoring cow-chip bingo. The whole town will be there. You’re not going to want to miss that.”

  Mama J claps her hands in glee. “We’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. Now it will be extra fun if you’re there too.”

  Cow-chip bingo. Great. I put on my biggest smile. “Sounds like fun.”

  My moms both grin in agreement.

  For two women as educated as my mothers, you’d think they were talking about the opera.

  After an evening playing Scrabble and a good night’s sleep in my old bed, I wake up at the crack of dawn with a stratagem. Trip Monroe is no different from any other subject of any other story I’ve written. There is a way to get to him. I just have to be creative. I decide to start at the root of the subject—Trip’s family. The first thing Trip did after making it big was build his mama a mansion. Unfortunately the mansion is not in Catfish Cove. It’s in a private gated community near Naples. But Trip’s uncle Frank still lives in town and this seems like an excellent place to start.

  I put on some shorts and sneakers, pull my hair up in a ponytail, and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. It’s not even eight yet, but I can tell it’s going to be a scorcher. Walt looks at me with longing in his eyes. “Sorry, big boy, I’ll take you for a walk when I get back.” I’m going on a Trip Monroe Scavenger Hunt and scavenger hunts are best done on foot and alone.

  Two miles later I’m standing in front of Monroe’s Auto Parts and Repair and I’m already sweating. I open the door and am hit with a blast of cold air conditioning and a plethora of Trip Monroe. There isn’t a space of wall that isn’t covered by a picture of Trip. There’s a poster of Trip holding up a trophy after winning the Indy 500. Another one of Trip standing next to his race car with a helmet in his hand. There are personal pictures too. Trip graduating high school. Trip playing basketball. Trip wearing mechanic’s overalls standing next to a car. The one I like best is more recent. An adult Trip is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his forehead smudged with grease, with his arm slung around his uncle Frank’s shoulder. The inscription at the bottom says simply, To Uncle Frank, Love, Trip.

  “Can I help you?” asks the guy behind the counter. He’s in his early twenties and clean-cut with a toothy grin, the epitome of small-town southern friendliness.

  “Is Frank Monroe here? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “My name is Emma Frazier. He probably doesn’t remember me, but I went to high school with Trip.” I point to a picture, which suddenly strikes me as dumb. As if this kid needs a visual aid to remember who the mighty Trip Monroe is.

  His expression turns unfriendly. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “But I’m a personal friend of Trip’s and I was wondering—”

  “If you’re a personal friend, then you don’t need my help finding Frank. Do ya?” He gives me a quick up and down and clearly finds me lacking.

  The kid has a point. No problem. I’ll just look Uncle Frank up in the directory. I spot a phone book in the waiting room but there is no listing for Frank Monroe. I guess I’ll have to ask my moms, which is probably what I should have done in the first place. Frank Monroe is close to their age and has lived here all his life. They must know his address. I whip out my cell phone and am about to dial home when the door to the shop opens and in walks one of Catfish Cove’s finest. Nick Alfonso, sheriff’s deputy.

  It appears Nick is currently off duty because he’s wearing shorts and a Bonnaroo T-shirt. I went to high school with Nick Alfonso. He was the most popular boy in our class. Captain of the football team, homecoming king, and overall stud. Like every other girl at Catfish Cove High, I had a huge crush on him. Nick never looked at me twice in high school. Not because he was stuck-up; there were just better options. Nick dated Shannon Dukes, the prettiest girl in our class, captain of the cheerleading squad, and a former Miss Dixie Deb (I was actually a Dixie Deb too, but that’s another story). Nick and Shannon got married two years after graduation and were divorced six years later. Nick and I talked for over an hour at our ten-year reunion. Ever since then, whenever I’m home and run into him, it’s like we’re long-lost friends.

  “Emma Frazier,” Nick says in a slow deep drawl, “you sure are lookin’ good.”

  chapter six

  Even though I suspect he says this to every woman under the age of ninety, I still feel myself blush.

  “Hey, Nick.” I give him a quick hug.

  “What are you doing in town?”

  “I’m here to visit my moms.”

  Nick smiles. He’s been a big fan of Mom’s ever since she saved his life.

  This is what happened.

  While Nick was still married to Shannon, he went to see Mom for a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. He was nauseated and running a fever. Mom immediately diagnosed him with appendicitis. She tried calling Shannon so she could take him to Tallahassee asap (the nearest city with a hospital), but Shannon’s phone kept going to voice mail. So instead of wasting time trying to call more relatives, Mom put Nick in the backseat of her Volvo and drove him all the way to Tallahassee herself. By the time they opened Nick up, his appendix had burst. He spent three days in the ICU. Nick found out later that the reason Shannon wasn’t picking up her phone was because she was having a midday quickie with Nick’s now ex–best friend, Ed, a revelation that no doubt led to Nick and Shannon’s subsequent divorce.


  It occurs to me that Nick could help me. He’s lived here all his life and he’s a cop. He has to know where Frank Monroe lives.

  “Hey, do you have a few minutes?” I ask him.

  “For you? I have a whole morning. Let’s grab a cup of coffee.” He tosses a set of keys to the kid behind the counter. “Can I get an oil change, Toby?” Although it’s a question, Nick is not asking.

  “Sure thing, Nick.” Toby, who has become all friendly smiles again, tells Nick his truck will be ready in thirty minutes.

  Nick and I go next door to Ruth’s coffee shop, where the waitress seats us, but not before she spends a considerable amount of time batting her lashes at him. It appears that not much has changed since high school. Nick Alfonso is still King of Catfish Cove. The waitress brings us coffee and asks if we’d like to see a menu, and coffee quickly turns into breakfast. Nick orders pancakes and I order the chocolate chip waffles.

  “I need a favor,” I say.

  “Name it.” Nick’s brown eyes smile back at me. Despite the air-conditioning I suddenly feel warm all over.

  I tell Nick about my idea to interview Trip and how I’m having trouble getting in touch with him. “You wouldn’t know how to get ahold of Trip, would you?”

  “Nah. We were never close in high school,” Nick says, which I already knew but it never hurts to ask.

  “I tried to get some information from the kid back at the auto shop but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “Toby is pretty protective of Trip. Frank too. You’d be amazed at the number of groupies who come sniffing around here trying to get to Trip through Frank. Being the sexiest man alive must be a bitch.”

  “I don’t want to have Trip’s baby.”

  Nick leans back in his seat and grins. “Whose baby do you want to have?”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Nick Alfonso was into me. “Nobody’s at the moment, thank you.”

  Nick laughs.

  The waitress brings us our food and I begin to eat my chocolate chip waffles. In moderation, of course. “So…back to that favor. Do you think you can get me Frank Monroe’s address?”

  “That’s the favor?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I can do better than that. I’ll take you by Frank’s place after we finish breakfast.”

  “That would be awesome. Thanks!”

  I am so happy that I ran into Nick Alfonso this morning. Not only has he solved my Frank Monroe problem, but he’s also good company. We catch up on each other’s life and Nick tells me he’s just bought a house by Otis Lake, which, coincidentally, is near Frank Monroe’s place. Nick hasn’t remarried since his disastrous marriage to Shannon. I tell him about my job and the people I work with, omitting any mention of my boss.

  “So, Emma, are you seeing anyone?” Nick asks.

  This question takes me completely off guard. If Nick hadn’t used my name, I would have turned around to see who he was talking to. “Nope. I’m free as a bird.”

  There is no longer any doubt that Nick Alfonso is flirting with me.

  Me. Emma Frazier!

  It’s my wildest high school fantasy come true.

  Something must be wrong with the universe.

  I gaze around the diner expecting to see galactic chaos, but everything appears in order. There are a few high school kids eating at the counter and an older couple seated in the booth behind us. The waitress comes by to refill our coffee and lingers over Nick’s cup. He thanks her and she breaks out into a smile, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. She’s probably only in her late twenties, but I can tell she’s led a much harder life than I have.

  It occurs to me that while I might be a five in Tampa, here in Catfish Cove, I’m a definite seven. Maybe even an eight. There are two options for most girls in Catfish Cove after high school graduation. You either go to college, in which case you rarely ever come back, or you get married and start having babies. I’m currently available, have never been married (which means I have little to no baggage), have all my teeth (straight and white, thank you), and some pretty fine childbearing hips. Jeez. I might even be a nine.

  We finish our breakfast and walk back to the auto shop, where Nick’s truck is waiting for him. He puts on the local country-western station and we swing by Otis Lake. Nick points out the house he bought. It’s a two-story brick with a private dock. The windows are outdated and the yard is overrun with weeds but I can see the potential in it. It’s a house for a family, not a bachelor. I guess Nick is getting all his ducks in a row.

  We drive around to the other side of the lake and he parks in front of a sleek one-story wood house.

  “This is Frank’s place,” Nick says.

  We walk up the driveway and I start to get nervous. What if Frank Monroe considers this an invasion of his privacy? By now I have figured out that his phone and address are unlisted in order to ward off nosy reporters. Technically, yes, I’m a journalist, but Trip wished me good luck in the outside world in my yearbook and what better way to ensure my good luck than by giving me an exclusive interview?

  Nick knocks on the door and an attractive woman who appears to be in her late fifties answers. “Nick Alfonso, I sure hope you’re not here to arrest me,” she flirts outrageously.

  “Only if you deserve it, Julie.”

  She laughs, then sobers instantly at the sight of me. “You’re Sheila and Jenny’s girl, aren’t you?” I nod and she smiles. “I’ve seen pictures of you at the store. You sure have grown up pretty.”

  While I know this is just small-town small talk, I can’t help but smile back. I wish I could remember this very nice lady named Julie who finds me pretty and who obviously patronizes Mama J’s bookstore, but unfortunately I don’t. I make a mental note to ask my moms about her.

  “We’re looking for Frank,” Nick says.

  “Frank is gone for a couple of weeks fishing down in Naples. I’m watching his place while he’s gone.”

  “Is there a number where we can reach him?”

  Julie glances my way. “What’s this about?”

  “Emma needs to get ahold of him for some research for an article on Trip.”

  I am almost expecting another shutout, when Julie says, “Oh!” She frowns for just a second, then nods. “Sure, hold on.” She also invites us to come inside the house.

  We wait in the foyer while Julie writes down the number. “I have to warn you, Frank isn’t keen on giving out information to reporters about Trip.” She pauses. “But…seeing as how you’re a local girl, maybe that will make a difference.”

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping Julie is right.

  “You two going to cow-chip bingo tonight?” she asks.

  Nick meets my gaze. “I’m planning on it.”

  “Apparently my moms have bought half the squares. So yeah, I’ll be there too.”

  We say our good-byes and get back in Nick’s truck. Since I’ve gotten the information I need, there’s no use traipsing all over town anymore. If Frank Monroe can’t get me in with Trip, then no one can.

  Nick drops me off in front of my house, but before I can open my door, he’s already done it. “See you tonight, then?”

  “Sure.”

  Cow-chip bingo suddenly takes on a new appeal.

  I wait till Nick drives off and I dial Frank Monroe’s number, which goes directly to an automated voice mail. I hang up, think about the message I want to leave, and try again.

  “Hi, there, Mr. Monroe, this is Emma Frazier. You probably don’t remember me but I grew up in Catfish Cove. I’m Sheila Frazier and Jenny Brewster’s daughter. I was wondering if you could please call me back. I have something I need to ask you, and well…it’s kind of important. Urgent, almost.”

  I leave my number and hang up. Seeing as how Frank Monroe is so protective of his nephew’s privacy, I’d already decided I wasn’t going to mention anything about Trip or the magazine on a voice mail. I’ll work up to that later.

  chapter seven

  Half th
e town is in Grovers Field tonight for the Fifth Annual Lutheran Church Day Care Cow-Chip Bingo fund-raiser. Mama J bought a hundred dollars’ worth of tickets. There’s no telling how many Mom bought but I bet it’s twice that much. We have a cooler full of sodas and a bucket of fried chicken from the deli at the Piggly Wiggly, as well as two cans of insect repellent. A live band is playing at one end of the field and an inflatable moonwalk is set up at the other end. There’s a face-painting station and a clown walking around making balloon animals plus the obligatory bake-sale booth, a soft-boiled peanut stand, and an entire row of food vendors, selling nothing that hasn’t been fried or dipped in powdered sugar (or both). Saturday night in Catfish Cove does not get any better than this.

  We find a place along the crowded sidelines and set up camp. At least two dozen people wave to us and several more come up to ooh and aah at me.

  “Sheila, that girl of yours is even prettier than the last time I saw her!”

  “Jenny, tell Emma she has to visit me before she heads back to Tampa. I’ll make her that rice pudding she used to love so much. She still eats, doesn’t she? She’s gotten so skinny!”

  These things are all said as if I’m not present. Only in Catfish Cove is size twelve (sometimes fourteen) considered emaciated.

  I spot Nick out of the corner of my eye heading our way. As usual, he looks great. He’s wearing shorts, a Florida State T-shirt, and a grin that (as my grandpa George used to say) could melt the ice off an igloo. I’m glad I took a little extra time getting ready tonight. My hair is braided so that it falls over my left shoulder and I’m wearing the diamond earrings my moms gave me for my college graduation. I have on khaki shorts that hit just a few inches above my knees and a snug bright blue T-shirt. I’m also wearing red lipstick, which I now consider my signature lip color.

  Nick makes nice with my moms and asks if he can join us. Of course we all say yes. He sets up his folding chair next to mine and hands me a cold beer from his cooler. A hush settles over the noisy crowd as the cows are led onto the field.