A Girl Like You

by Maria Geraci

  “So how was your workshop?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I didn’t go to a workshop.”

  I put down my fork. “I thought Richard said you were—”

  “I was in Orlando to meet with T.K. to discuss closing the Tampa office.”

  “What?”

  “Frazier, you’re a smart girl. In this economy it makes no sense financially to keep the office open when we can do everything from Orlando.”

  “But Florida! has been based in Tampa for over forty years. It’s a tradition.” I can tell by the look on Ben’s face that he isn’t impressed by tradition. “So what does this mean? For all of us? For Richard and me and Jackie?”

  “Nothing, really,” says Ben. “Actually, it might be a good move. You can work out of your home. The only time you’d have to come to Orlando would be for the weekly staff meeting, and even then we could use Skype. Everything else can be done by Internet or phone.”

  I think Richard and Jackie are going to love this. But me? Probably not so much.

  “What about Lisa?”

  “Lisa will be offered a job in the Orlando office. I hope she takes it, but…” He shrugs, like he already knows the answer to this. Lisa has lots of family here in Tampa as well as her boyfriend, so even though Orlando is close by, I don’t see her wanting to make the move.

  “I guess you’ll be moving to Orlando too?” I ask.

  Ben hesitates. “T.K. is retiring next year.”

  Why Ben is telling me all this, I’m not sure. Then it hits me.

  “And you’re taking over? As publisher?”

  “I’m thinking of it. I have a few other…options, as well.”

  What other options? I want to find out what he means by this, but since Ben isn’t volunteering any more information, I figure it’s not my place to ask.

  Is Ben reluctant to take the job because of his cancer-fighting-doctor-ex-fiancée? Are they getting back together? Is Ben moving back to New York? I’m dizzy with all the questions that are whirling through my head. I push my plate to the side.

  “I’d appreciate it if you keep all this to yourself until I make an official announcement about the move.”

  Now that Ben has had a little time to digest what happened at the Don Cesar, he reverts to editor mode. “Don’t sweat it. You’re right. This Trip Monroe interview will all work out,” he says, mistaking my lack of appetite for worry over the article. “You can spin straw into gold. Just take whatever crap Monroe dishes out, write it up your usual way, and the readers will eat it up. We’ll sell all the advertising T.K. wants and everyone will be happy.”

  Great. Ben is expecting another miracle like the one I pulled off with the manatee article. No pressure there. I don’t think I can stand talking about this Trip Monroe thing one more second.

  “Richard says you’re bringing your ex-fiancée to Jackie’s party,” I blurt.

  Ben clears his throat. “He told you that?”

  “He said she was a research oncologist. Sounds pretty impressive.” I really do mean this, but I have an ulterior motive for bringing up the ex-fiancée. Call it curiosity (or rubbing salt in the wound) but I want to know what sort of woman Ben would marry.

  “Elise is in town doing research for a few weeks. She’s a good friend and I thought she’d get a kick out of meeting the people I work with. I also didn’t want to be the only one to show up without a date.”

  “I hear Richard has two lined up. You could always take his leftovers.”

  Ben laughs.

  I play around with my food and neither of us says anything for a second. Then, out of the blue, Ben says, “Elise and I were supposed to go to dinner tonight but I was a little wound up after my meeting with T.K., so I canceled.”

  “I guess you have a lot to think about, huh?”

  He meets my gaze and slowly nods. “Yeah. I do.”

  I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room and this is when I discover that I’m not pregnant with Nick’s baby. Later that night I call Nick to tell him the big news. He tries to hide it, but I can tell by his tone that he’s disappointed. I wish I could say the same, but I can’t. Besides discovering that the Trip Monroe interview is now on, this is the best thing that has happened to me all day.

  I have Chuck e-mail me a copy of the contract with the flimsy excuse that I ruined the first one. I print it out, sign it, and mail it to the address Chuck provided. He’s “thrilled” that I’m going to interview Trip. I feel like calling the Yellow Rose of Texas and saying “told you so!” However, I have a feeling this interview is going to be about as bland as reading one of Trip’s PR packets. At least I’ll get a chance to tell him about Kimberly and the Yeager Agency. Maybe he’ll feel guilty about the incident at the Don Cesar and make it up to me by hiring Kimberly. I know this is a long stretch in the wishful thinking department but I’d really like to see something good come out of this.

  Plus, I haven’t been able to get Kimberly’s confession out of my mind. Despite that Kimberly is so private, I really thought I knew her pretty well. The fact that I had no idea her marriage to Jake Lemoyne was a complete fiasco rattles me, and I wonder what else she is squirreling away in that gorgeous head of hers. The thought that Kimberly—beautiful, smart, funny Kimberly—has had no luck in the men department seems completely unfair to me. What is the point of being drop-dead gorgeous if your life isn’t perfect?

  chapter twenty-one

  Friday rolls around and I drive up to Catfish Cove for “Parents’ Weekend.” Tonight, Nick and I are having dinner with my moms, and tomorrow, it’s the Alfonsos’ turn. I think it’s a little premature, but Nick insists it’s time we get to know each other’s family better. Although technically I have known the Alfonsos all my life, I have never had a real conversation with either of Nick’s parents, let alone spent an entire evening in their company.

  “Don’t worry,” Nick says, “my mom is going to love you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How could she not? Just watch out for her X-ray eyes.”

  “Her what?”

  “My mom is part Gypsy. One look in your eyes and she can read your soul.”

  I laugh, but I do not happen to find this funny in the least.

  I’d like to keep my soul all to myself, thank you.

  Mama J makes spinach lasagna, and it’s not half bad. Mom makes a pineapple upside-down cake and the pineapples end up everywhere but where they are supposed to be. I think Mom took the “upside” down part literally. After dinner, the four of us sit outside on the deck, sipping wine and inhaling the sweet smell of hibiscus flowers.

  We talk about Nick’s job, and before I know it, I announce that Dunhill Publications is shutting down our office in Tampa.

  Everyone talks at once.

  “If you can work from home, then you can work from anywhere. Right?” Nick says.

  “I guess so.”

  “You could move right back here to Catfish Cove,” says Mama J.

  Nick and Mom nod encouragingly and even Walt gets into the act by barking and thumping his tail.

  I never thought of that. Why didn’t I think of it before I opened my big fat mouth? Do I want to move back to Catfish Cove? As much as I love my moms and love visiting home, I’m pretty certain I’m happy with things the way they stand. I’ve thought a lot about that dream I had. You know, the one where I gave birth to Nick’s baby and we were redecorating his house? Once I found out I wasn’t pregnant, I began having another dream. In the new dream I’m typing away on my laptop, drinking a cup of coffee and laughing at something Nick is saying to me. At least I think it’s Nick. I can’t see his face but I definitely know that I’m in the living room in my town house. I also know that I’m happy. I think this is a sign that for now at least, I’m meant to stay right where I am.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve lived in the “big city” for so long that I’ve gotten used to all its amenities. Sure, the traffic sucks, but I love living in Tampa. The weather
is brutally hot and muggy in the summer, but we have the nicest winters in the world. I love the old-world feel of Ybor City, the great restaurants and concerts, the clear blue water of the Gulf, which is just a bridge and a thirty-minute drive away. I love wearing my pirate hat to the Bucs games and tailgating with Kimberly and Torie and Jason and watching the Gasparilla Day Parade while wearing my party beads and drinking cold beer.

  I love my town house, which I bought two years ago (completely on my own, even though my moms offered to help with the down payment). I love my tiny yard that I’ve been meaning to landscape myself whenever I get the time. I even love the potted fern on my porch that I always forget to water. Honestly? The only reason I’d have to move back home would be if Nick and I ended up together…and he could just as easily move to Tampa. Couldn’t he?

  Later I go to Nick’s to spend the night. I told my moms I’d be staying there from now on and they both seemed to accept this as a given. As a matter of fact, they both looked downright happy about it. I promised Nick I’d help him paint the inside of his house. Tomorrow morning we’re starting with his living room, which is currently littered with boxes from his old place that he hasn’t bothered to unpack. I begin to haul boxes off to the spare bedroom, which Nick thinks is a waste of time.

  “Why don’t we just shove all the boxes to the middle of the room?” he says.

  “Because we’re going to be painting the ceiling and they’ll be in the way. If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do this right.”

  Obviously this has not occurred to Nick because he glances up at the ceiling with a frown. He seems so distraught at the idea of how much work moving the boxes will entail that I start to laugh. He laughs too, but our good mood is cut short when I discover a box that belongs to Shannon.

  “I guess she forgot this when she moved out of the old place.” Nick picks up the box and I follow him as he takes it through the kitchen and tosses it out the back door.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’ll drop this off at the Dumpster tomorrow.”

  “You can’t do that. It belongs to Shannon.”

  “Watch me.”

  “But what if it contains something valuable?”

  “She hasn’t missed it these past five years, so I doubt it’s anything she wants.”

  “Nick, you can’t know that.”

  “Fine,” he says, “you take it to her.”

  “All right, I will.”

  Nick stomps off to the bedroom. “You coming?” he asks over his shoulder.

  If this is not some sort of red flag, then I don’t know what is. I decide not to make a big deal of it. I’m tired and obviously so is Nick. We brush our teeth and collapse in the bed, and for the first time since we’ve been together, we do not have sex.

  Sometime in the middle of the night Nick nudges me awake. “I’ll drop the box off at Shannon’s first thing in the morning.”

  I nod in acknowledgment and roll over.

  “Hey,” he whispers in my ear. “Sorry I was such an asshole earlier.”

  “It’s all right.” I want to say something more but I don’t. This has become a disturbing pattern in our relationship. I want to talk about Shannon and their marriage, but Nick seems to think there is nothing to talk about, so I don’t ever mention it.

  “Can I make it up to you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Nick proceeds to make it up to me in the very best way possible. Afterward, he falls asleep almost instantly but I’m wired (I already told you, good sex has this effect on me). I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I open the back door and bring Shannon’s box inside and place it on top of the kitchen table. I tell myself the reason I’m doing this is because I don’t want the box to get wet in case it should rain tonight, and this being Florida and the middle of summer, there is every possibility it will do just that.

  But in reality, I’m curious. Shannon is such an enigma. Yes, I grew up with her, but we were never friends. I just don’t see what Nick saw in her. Maybe a pretty face and a great body is enough for most guys, but I’d like to think Nick is better than that.

  I know I shouldn’t do it, but it’s impossible not to. I get a kitchen knife and tear through the masking tape to open the box. It’s full of high school memorabilia. Shannon’s yearbook sits on top, and I’m going to burn in hell, but I still open it and begin to read. Most of the inscriptions are like the ones from my own yearbook—lots of “We’ll be best friends forever” stuff or “Remember that day we went to the lake…”

  I honestly can’t remember if I signed Shannon’s yearbook, but if I did, I would get a big kick out of seeing what I wrote. I scan through all the pages and don’t find any evidence of me, but I do find what Nick wrote. I wouldn’t read it, except it’s so short that I can’t help it.

  Shannon,

  I’ll always love you.

  Nick

  I know I shouldn’t give any credence to this. Nick was seventeen years old at the time and I’m sure he believed with all his heart and soul that he and Shannon would be together forever. Heck, he married her just a few years after he wrote this, and although I didn’t attend the service, I’m sure they both promised to love each other forever. Still, it shakes me up. It’s my own fault, though. I should never have snooped through Shannon’s yearbook.

  I go to place the yearbook back in the box when a pink velvet photo album catches my eye. I have the same exact photo album. Or at least I did, before I tossed it in the trash. It’s the album the Dixie Debutante committee gives to all its teen debs as a remembrance of the night they were presented.

  I already told you that the Dixie Deb Ball was the worst night of my teenage life.

  Let me tell you why.

  Being a Dixie Debutante is just about the highest honor to which any teenage girl in Catfish Cove can aspire. Dixie Debutantes are “presented” to the community at the Gulf Bay Community Club during a black-tie ball. A ticket to this grandiose event is hard to come by but even harder to obtain is an invitation to become a Dixie Deb yourself. There is only one way a girl can become a Dixie Deb: She must be a legacy. In other words, if your mother and your grandmother and your great-grandmother weren’t debs, you can hang it up.

  Lucky me. It just so happened Sheila Frazier was a Dixie Debutante. This is something I knew my whole life because my grandparents had a portrait of both my mom and my aunt Susie dressed in their white debutante ball gowns hanging in the living room. Whenever I went to their house I’d stare at Mom’s picture and dream of the day I’d become a Dixie Deb too. But honestly, I never thought my mom, with all her feminist ideals, would go for an outdated custom that basically reduced young women into presenting themselves as social cream puffs.

  I was wrong.

  When I turned seventeen and my invitation arrived in the mail, my moms were ecstatic. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought I’d hit the Publishers Clearing House jackpot. Looking back, I think their excitement was due to the fact that I wanted it so much and they wanted me to be happy. I didn’t have the greatest teenage life (let’s face it, who does?). I was “pleasingly plump,” as my grandmother used to say, always had my nose in a book, and was shy around boys. Plus, there is the fact that I’ve always been different. And by that, I mean the whole “my mothers are lesbians” different. I already told you that only the dumb rednecks ever hassled my moms, but there were always lots of tiny little snubs that I never really “got” until I was old enough to figure them out. My moms ignored them and tried to teach me to ignore them too, but when you’re seventeen and want nothing more than to be just like everyone else, that’s easier said than done.

  After I received my invitation, my moms took me to Atlanta to buy the perfect white dress. For the first time ever all the girls in school were envious of me. There were only seven debs that year, including Shannon and her best pal, Tricia.

  As a deb, you had to provide your own escort. A few of the girls had steady
boyfriends (like Shannon) but the rest chose to honor their fathers with that privilege. I didn’t have either a boyfriend or a father, so Mom lassoed a friend’s son (who was in the tenth grade) to be my escort. This was a humiliation I was willing to overlook because the highlight of the Dixie Deb Ball was the presentation waltz, in which all the Debs switched up partners, which meant I’d get to dance with Nick Alfonso.

  I already told you that I had a huge crush on Nick in high school, so I was looking forward to that presentation waltz like you wouldn’t believe. I even got Mama J to drive me to Tallahassee to take dance lessons from a lady who specialized in teaching young people “manners.” I starved myself for days so that I would look good in my white chiffon gown and slathered my face every night in Clearasil to scare the pimples away.

  Then two days before the ball, I got the news. Mrs. Atwater, the head of the Dixie Deb committee, called to speak to me about a problem with my biography (this is the pumped-up three- or four-sentence introduction they read about you as you’re being presented), so I went by her house after school to meet with her in person, as requested.

  This is what happened:

  Mrs. Atwater looked at me with her pinchy gray eyes. “Emma, I’m afraid you’ll have to redo your bio.”

  “Is there a problem?” I asked innocently (boy, was I a gullible Nellie back then).

  She showed me the index card and pointed to the top line, scrawled in my overly neat type A high school handwriting with the curlicues.

  Emma Louise Frazier is the daughter of Dr. Sheila Frazier and Jennifer Brewster.

  “Darlin’, you know you can’t list Jenny as your mother.”

  “Why not?”

  Mrs. Atwater tsked and shook her head. “Because she’s not.”

  I can still remember the way my face went hot. I’m ashamed to say it wasn’t all in anger either. A part of me was angry but I was also embarrassed. Why couldn’t anything ever be simple for me? At that moment I would have given a leg to trade places with Shannon. She had everything—looks, popularity, Nick, a regular mother, and a regular father.