“You can’t be serious?”
“I’m dead serious! You’ve barely acknowledged me and when you do, you’re downright rude. Didn’t your mama teach you better manners than that?”
“I don’t think you should be questioning how my mama raised me. I think you ought to focus on where your mama went wrong with you.”
“My mama didn’t go wrong with me. What kind of thing is that to say?” I’m standing with my hands on my hips, my chest heaving like I’m trying to breathe fire or something, when I notice him staring at my girls. My top is quickly becoming soaked. Drat. I’m leaking again. Boobs ought to come with on and off handles. He gives me a look somewhere between fascination and disgust before he turns and walks off.
That’s when it hits me. Of all the low down, rotten, holier than thou things. Zach Grant is judging me for having a baby out of wedlock! How dare he? Surely Mr. Hot Stuff has had a few worries in his past. There’s no way he can walk around looking like that without having his choice of women ready to jump into the sack with him.
Chapter Nine
I’m so spittin’ mad I want to punch Zach right in the eye. But more urgently, I need to find a private place where I can pump my breast milk. I figure I’ll just button up my cardigan to cover the dampness of my camisole once I’m done. Then I can carry on with the morning without having to go home to change. Darn these boobs of mine. I’m making enough milk to feed a small third-world country.
I’m not particularly adept at expressing breast milk yet. For the most part, I’ve been able to nurse when the baby is hungry. But knowing that I’ll be away from her during feeding times, I bought a hand pump I’ve been practicing on to keep the girls drained.
I check my extra-large purse to make sure it’s still there—along with the cooler bags I use to keep the milk fresh—then make my way to the unfinished ladies’ room. Luckily the stalls are in place, so I head for the biggest one.
I sit down on the commode and assume the position, fastening the suction cup thingy over my left boob before endeavoring to get the rhythm of the thing. Unfortunately, I’ve waited longer than I should and it plumb hurts when I start pumping. I let out a squeal that sounds borderline like I’m being stabbed. I eventually groan in sweet relief.
After that, the only sound that fills the air is the suck and release of the pump and my occasional murmurings of, “That’s right, fill it up, baby,” and “I’m on fire today!” I like to give myself little motivational talks as I go. Single motherhood, while rewarding, is not easy, so I cheer myself on where I can.
Once I’m done and get myself all situated, I remember my desire to give Zachary Grant a piece of my mind. But when I leave the stall, I run smack into Amelia instead. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I thought I’d stop by to see if I could lure you away for a coffee or something,” she says. The look on her face is one of pure amusement.
“Are you laughing at me?” I demand.
She nods her head. “You could say that.”
“Why?” I ask, wondering what I’ve done that’s so funny.
“There were three construction workers standing outside the door when I arrived.”
“What were they doing there?” I mean, how creepy.
“They were concerned about what was going on in here,” my cousin says.
“I was pumpin’ breast milk for Faye.”
I’m totally confused until Amelia says, “Ah, well. I guess that’s not exactly what it sounded like to them.”
My face turns beet red as the fiery flames of embarrassment explode through to my epidermis. “Of all the perverted, privacy-infringing things!” I nearly yell. “I’m gonna go give those boys a tongue-lashin’.”
Amelia shakes her head. “Let it go. You’ll just be more embarrassed trying to explain why you were saying things like, ‘We’re pumpin’ for glory, here!”
Dear sweet, ever-lovin’ Lord, I silently pray. Be with me now at the hour of my need in the bosom of nosy, small-minded townsfolk.
“I came by to see if you wanted to get a cup of tea with me,” Amelia says.
“I’d love to, but it’s my first day on the job. I’d best hang around. Plus, I need to talk to your daddy and Jesse as soon as they get back. They’ve gone and ordered the cheapest fixtures around for these bathrooms.”
She nods. “Of all of Daddy’s qualities, his frugality is not one of the better ones.” As we walk out of the ladies’ my cousin’s eyes stray to the left. “What do you think of that Zach Grant? He sure is something to look at, isn’t he?”
“No worse than any other man, I s’pose.” I don’t bother looking in his direction. I have his condescending face etched onto my brain like a canker sore.
“Why, Emmeline Frothingham, have you gone blind? That man is hotter than buttermilk biscuits straight out of the oven!”
“If you say so,” I respond noncommittally. What I’m thinking is, no man who is that rude could ever be called good-looking. Mama taught me that beauty comes from actions, not looks. If that’s the case, Zach is one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen.
“He asked about you,” Amelia says, giving me a conspiratorial look that we girls used to have while hiding behind our lockers whispering about boys.
“What are you talking about?”
I ran into him a few weeks ago and he said, “I hear Emmie’s coming home. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”
“That’s not asking about me,” I declare. “That’s called small talk, which in and of itself, I’m surprised he’s capable of.”
Amelia laughs. “Girl, are you on your period or something?”
I gasp out loud. “That question is a breach of the sisterhood!” It’s understood that women are to never accuse one another of a hormonal imbalance. It’s just not done. “I’ll have you know, I haven’t gotten my period back, yet. I’m still nursing. It’s quite possible I won’t get it until I’m done.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re still pretty tetchy.”
“I’m not interested in dating right now, Amelia. I have a job to do and a baby girl to raise. Men aren’t even on my radar.”
“I’m not saying you should marry him,” she declares. “Just enjoy the view. I was in the same class with that boy for thirteen years and let me tell you, I never thought he’d turn out looking like that!”
I roll my eyes. “How ’bout you?” I ask. “Mama says there’s a lawyer in St. Louis pining away for you and you won’t give him the time of day.”
“Aiden Quinn is not pining for me. Sure, we’ve dated, but he’s more interested in having an ornament on his arm than he is in having a relationship. Last time we went out, we had dinner with one of the partners of his firm, and do you know what that man had the nerve to say to me?” she demands.
“I do not. Why don’t you tell me?”
“He said, ‘You look very pretty on my arm.’ Can you believe that?”
“Amelia, that’s called a compliment. Why in the world would you be insulted by it?”
“Because he didn’t say I looked pretty on my own. He said I looked pretty hanging off him, like he was a Christmas tree and it was my job to make him look better.”
“That’s what you got out of that?” I ask. Then just to get even, I say, “Maybe you were on your period.”
She smacks me on the arm and laughs. “Touché. Anyhoo, tell Daddy ‘hi’ for me and remind him that he’s meeting me for lunch at the Broken Yolk.”
“Sure will.” When she walks away, I turn around to find Zach, but he’s deep in conversation with one of the workers. As much as he needs his hide tanned, and as much as I’d like to do the tanning, I force myself to be professional. I’m going to comport myself in such a way that I don’t give anyone anything to gossip about. No sense in painting a target on myself—bigger than the one that’s already there.
Chapter Ten
“The gals at the market were cooing all over Faye like she’s the prettiest baby they ever saw.”
“Isn’t it darling?” Mama asks.
“Why’s the monogram so big?”
“It’s all the rage now. I went ahead and bought a machine so I can add her initials to all her clothes.”
“Why?”
“Cause it’s cute,” she says.
“But no one else will ever be able to wear those clothes if you do that.”
“So what? They’re her clothes.”
“Mama, I’m not going to keep all her things, and if I can’t pass them down, then I’m being wasteful. There’s enough need in this world that I’d like to do my part and donate some of Faye’s stuff to someone who could make more use of it.”
Mama shrugs her shoulders. “I’m still doin’ it.”
“Could you at least make the monograms smaller and maybe put them in a less obvious place?”
She changes the subject entirely, which means she’s going to do whatever she wants. “What are you going to wear to the tea at the club tomorrow?”
“I can’t go,” I tell her. “I have to work.”
“No, ma’am, you’re going. Auntie Lee already squared it with Jed. She explained how important it is to make your reentry into Creek Water’s social scene as seamlessly as possible and he agrees.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care what I wear, then. I suppose I should dig out a baggy sweater or something, so I don’t cause a stir with my pornographic-sized breasts.”
Mama says, “I bought you the cutest dress this afternoon.” She pulls it out of a cabbage rose-covered shopping bag. I actually take a step back when I see what’s inside, it’s that awful.
“No way! I’d look like some poor mail-order bride out of the Old West if I wore that.” It’s mid-calf length with a small navy calico pattern, but that’s not the worst part. It’s got a gigantic white lace collar that nearly hits the waist and a matching trim on the hemline.
“It’s perfect,” Mama says.
“Everyone will think this baby is the product of immaculate conception.”
“That’s the whole point, honey. We want to make Faye’s start in this world look as asexual as possible. If you wear this, Cootie won’t dwell on the reality of the situation.”
“Mama, there was nothing dirty about Faye’s conception. It was just good, old-fashioned sex.” It was nothing of the kind. It was hot and sweaty and totally animalistic. There was an overstuffed leather couch, and I may have been bent over it … I stop to fan myself. Lordy, that was a fun night.
Mama says, “I bet old Harold had to pry Cootie’s legs apart with a crowbar to get a baby in her, so anything less is going to be interpreted as raunchy.”
“Fine, I’ll wear it, but I’m letting you know right here and now, I am not going to spend my days in Creek Water kowtowing to that woman like the rest of you do. I’ve got more important things to do with my time.”
Mama says, “We don’t kowtow. It’s more like a game of chess. We anticipate Cootie’s every move so she doesn’t get close enough to knock us off the board.”
I shake my head. “I think you’re all nuts, Mama.”
“I only want the best for you and Faye, honey. You need to trust me. You don’t want to make a powerful enemy your first week home.”
“Why in the world would she even care enough about me to bother?” I demand.
Then Mama tells me something shocking, “’Cause Cootie had her eye on your daddy. She was determined to become a Frothingham, and she’s never forgiven me for Reed falling in love with me instead of her.”
“But daddy is gone, and her husband is still alive, so she must have forgiven you by now.”
“Not hardly. I think she’d be just as happy if Harold wasn’t around. She treats that man like dirt. Of course, to be honest, he’s a bit of a lech. He’s got a wandering eye.”
“Mama, this has to be the worst soap opera ever written. Why do you even go to that club if you have to contend with all this drama?”
“’Cause my friends are there and I like to play tennis. It all works out fine as long as I stay out of Cootie’s way.”
I have no idea how I’m going to manage tomorrow’s tea without telling that woman what I really think of her, but I suppose for Mama’s and Faye’s sakes, I’ll have to do my best. I’m just not sure that’ll be good enough.
Chapter Eleven
I look like I’m on my way to confession in Victorian times. Mama says I have to wear stockings because bare legs will be interpreted as loose. I’m seriously considering moving back to New York City so I can live a nice boring life where no one cares about the state of my legs or the father of my child. Maybe I could even lose out on another award and give Faye a sibling.
Mama takes one look at me and claps her hands together like I just pulled a rabbit out of my hat. “You look perfect.” Then she hands me a little shopping bag.
I open it up and find a matching dress for the baby—full on with her initials emblazoned across the front like a neon sign. “My goodness, mama and daughter dresses!” I want to say I love it, but I don’t. Although the style is much more suited to a baby than a grown woman.
Mama reads my mind and smacks my arm playfully. “Don’t wear any perfume, okay?”
“Why? Because only harlots and French whores wear perfume?”
She gives me a look that says I should mind my tongue. “Because Cootie wears enough for all of us and I don’t need a headache today, that’s why.”
I sigh mightily. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m going to have to feed the baby sometime while we’re there and I’m going to have to practically strip naked for her to get to her lunch.”
“You can use one of the changing stalls in the locker room.” She hands me my purse, “Now, change the baby and let’s go. I want to get there before everyone else so we can strategize the best place to sit.”
I would rather have all four of my wisdom teeth carved out of my head with a grapefruit spoon than to go to this tea. I don’t think I’ve dreaded anything so much since my first swim meet during my period. I used a tampon for the first time, and I didn’t bother to read how to insert it properly. I wound up sticking the applicator up there along with the tampon and I think I lost my virginity to it. It was horrible.
To make matters worse, Faye is cranky. At five and a half months, she's teething and isn’t at all pleased to have little bits of bone popping through her tender gums.
We get into Mama’s SUV and she says, “Now remember, Tillie Smytheton is just as big a gossip as Cootie. She’ll try to cuddle up to you and get you to trust her, but it’s just so she can get your secrets. Don’t fall for it.”
“Mama, is there anyone that’s going to be there that isn’t out to get me?” I feel as vulnerable as George Washington walking into enemy camp in his underwear.
“Honey, Auntie Lee and I will be there, and you can rest assured that our friends will be your friends, so don’t worry yourself none.”
The club is just as I remember—big and imposing, but more than a little over the top. It’s designed to look like a Southern plantation, with gigantic columns and a huge wraparound porch. The whole place is crawling with women in tennis whites and men wearing god-awful pastel plaid pants and polo shirts. All I can think of is, These are the people who are judging me? Queer Eye for the Straight Guy would have a field day here.
The valet takes Mama’s keys and says, “The other Mrs. Frothingham is already here. She says to hurry on in and don’t forget the ketchup.”
Mama’s eyes pop wide open as she pushes the button to open the back hatch. “Thank you, Christopher. I surely would have forgotten had you not mentioned it.” She gets out of the driver’
s side and fetches something out of the back that she secrets away in her purse.
I collect Faye from her car seat and grab the diaper bag. I stop a moment to inhale her sweet baby smell—if ever I did need that antidote to calm my frazzled nerves, it’s now—then I hurry to catch up with Mama. “What does, ‘don’t forget the ketchup’ mean? Is that some kind of battle cry, like ‘Remember the Alamo!’?”
“Nope. It’s just a little something Lee and I have been working on. Don’t you worry about it.”
I can’t do anything but worry, now. If Mama and Auntie Lee are plotting, there are bound to be casualties. It’s not that they couldn’t be very instrumental in winning a war, but they aren’t the ones you’d want masterminding the battle plan.
As we ascend the stairway leading to the entry, I half expect Scarlet O’Hara to sweep past in a giant hoop skirt. Instead, we run into Harold Wilcox. He’s probably sixty and appears to have a fake tan so dark his ethnicity could be challenged. He stops and takes my mama’s hand and croons, “Why, Grace, don’t you look lovely today.” He leers at her like she’s one of those cocktail wienies wrapped in biscuit dough.
Mama removes her hand, and with a tone so cold you’d think we were suddenly standing at the North Pole, says, “Thank you, Harold. I don’t suppose Cootie came with you?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s in the dining room helping Lee set up for your tea.”
Mama looks like she wants to punch something, or more accurately, someone. “Lovely, we’ll just go catch up with her then.” She pulls me along and says, “That does it, that woman is going down!”
Chapter Twelve
Compared to Mama and Auntie Lee, Cootie looks likes Sideshow Bob from that old Simpsons cartoon. The Frothingham women are lovely and slim. They look more like they’re entering their forties than fifties. If you Googled feminine pulchritude, I’m pretty sure their pictures would pop up.
The Event Page 4
