by Vicki Batman
The second important element was our ritual drink, mimosas. A mimosa, a mixture of well-chilled, bubbly champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice poured equally into wine glasses, guaranteed plenty of silliness and lots of relevant discussion. Our group required two bottles of champagne. The ritual dictated we gather into a circle and clink our glasses in salute, cheerfully raising the toast, “Woohoo!”
The third important element was a truly decadent dessert, usually chocolate. For this particular meeting, I had the honor of providing the epicurean delight. I brought the gourmet—God, I’m mortified to admit—one pounder package of peanut M&Ms, the ones A. Wellborn had gifted me.
I’d flaked out.
After such a terrible day yesterday, I had completely forgotten about dessert. Compounded with the time I’d spent with my bruised ankle propped on a pillow with the cold pea pack, I didn’t have time to prepare anything anyway. My goof didn’t matter as any chocolate would be received with great rejoicing from this group.
The meeting began with the mimosas, and never ones to let a perfect opportunity pass, we imbibed a healthy share. After filling our glasses for round two, we settled at the table and moved to the food orgy. We used this opportunity to intimately examine each other’s pimples, scars, and war wounds, also known as our intimate love lives. After thirty minutes, we hadn’t said a word about the book.
“Hattie is seein’ someone.” Jenny dropped a nuclear bomb.
All heads twisted in my direction. My world screeched to a stop. Way beyond dumbfounded best described how I felt. “I. AM. NOT.”
“He’s a cop and she knew him in high school,” she said.
Heads swiveled to her and then back to me. With a little practice, the Funsisters could compete as Olympic synchronized swimmers.
“I caught them in a heavy-duty makin’ out session with the door bell ringing ’cause he’d pressed Hattie against it.”
Heat flooded my face. These embarrassing situations never would end. Twilight Zone seemed to be a better description of my feelings. I sighed.
“Who is it?” the Funsisters chorused.
Kella snapped her fingers. “Is it the guy who wrote you a citation? The one in the paper?” Snap. “Who was the guy?” Snap, snap. “I know. Allan Wellborn. The one from high school?”
The Funsisters looked pleased with her memory.
“Since you haven’t mentioned him lately, except for today’s paper, I thought the romance was off.”
More synchronized head swiveling to Kellar and back to me. Yep, their practice had paid off: eight point seven out of a possible ten.
Needless to say, all hell broke free. “I’m—I’m...”
Ignoring my protestations, Jenny and Kellar filled in the Funsisters on my exciting love life.
Love life. How funny. An interesting phenomenon occurred amongst Funsisters. We lived vicariously through each other’s. Theirs seemed to be in the toilet, and today, this lucky victim took a turn under the microscope.
Jenny appeared more than happy to share the gruesome details, horrible embarrassments, and awkward moments. After all, she lay in the trenches as an avid observer, complete with camouflage clothing, binoculars, and helmet. Her flamboyant storytelling had been enhanced with colorful language and hand gestures.
Should I be jealous? Nah.
Her hands clasped to her small bosom with a melodramatic flair, reminiscent of the heroines from World War II films. She also passed along a detailed, yet spot-on, description of A. Wellborn. “He’s tall, has broad shoulders, brown almost black hair, and intense dark eyes. He exudes sensuality and strong male authority.”
“Aah,” said the Funsisters as they nodded.
Wow, Jenny’s intel came from one little glance on a dark night. She had to have borrowed night vision goggles from the Navy.
Loud, roaring laughter accompanied her vivid rendition of the doorbell ringing episode.
“What?” I raised my palms in question and cast a glance around the circle. “Hasn’t that happened to you?”
They shook their heads. Obviously, klutzy episodes were confined only to me. The crown of my head leveled with the table top. Today, I required additional mimosas.
Jenny was unstoppable. She told a lively rendition of the surprise gift bag, Get Well balloon, and the subsequent sore ankle stories from this morning.
To quote Daffy Duck, “Shoot me now, or shoot me later.” Someone, please have pity and just shoot me.
When in motion, this kind of machinery appeared unstoppable. As a recipient of similar discussions in the past, those times hadn’t warranted as much consideration as this one. Or maybe we weren’t drunk enough to find them interesting. Usually, the other Funsisters’ love lives were far more entertaining than mine.
I wished they were today.
God, please help me.
Truth be told, I had a good reason to be reluctant to discuss A. Wellborn. Deep inside, a small, private piece of me wanted to keep him to myself. Not share anything with anyone, even my best girlfriends. I coveted the idea of a relationship with him. I just didn’t want anyone else to know right now.
As a guideline, I had three dates with a guy before the friendship terminated. Some of the partings were their idea, and some were from desperation on my part. If I’d shared A. Wellborn with anyone, well... Anything I desired—wished—hoped for would be jinxed.
Certain aspects of being with him—the thoughtful, nice, kind, and kissing parts—made me feel flushed and squirmy, but the right kind of squirmy. The stupid parts like “get over it,” cops waving, doorbell ringing, et cetera weren’t ideal, but eventually, forgettable. Anyway, a relationship with him was doubtful since I’d tossed him out the other night. On the other hand, the surprise gift bag could be a positive turning point.
Oh hell.
Chugging more mimosa, I raised my gaze to study the ceiling, tuning back into the conversation when the volume died.
“I like the candy touch,” said Trixie with sweetness and sincerity lacing her words.
She, also, seemed to have a soft spot for chocolate.
“It’s a good sign when a guy funds the chocolate bank. Men like him are hard to find. He’s special to think of you in that way, Hattie.” Her hand coursed the side of her body with a dramatic flair. “Besides, think of the things a body can do with chocolate.” Here was how the nickname Cesspool came into play.
“Oooohhh,” the Funsisters said.
“I want some action,” Maggie said.
“You always want some,” Kellar said.
“But I never get it.”
“Everyone says Hershey’s the best,” Maggie said. “I like the fudge topping from the ice cream store.”
“I’ve never done chocolate,” Trixie said.
The Funsisters gave her an eyeful.
“What?” She tipped her hands upwards. “I like whipped cream. You know the kind in the can?”
Biting my lips, I sat up and paid attention. One of my favorite orgasmic foods was whipped cream.
“Whipped cream,” the Funsisters chorused. Tongues dampened lips in delight while they imagined finding the delicious, white stuff in delectable places.
I listened in amazement to the chatter about dairy products. This seemed to be one of those times when I’d acquired way too much information about my friends.
“It comes in chocolate flavor, too.” Trixie was full of useful whipped cream tidbits.
“I’m all wet,” Maggie said.
I so didn’t need to know this.
When I heard Tracey say my name, I jumped.
She asked, “Did you really throw Allan Wellborn out and tell him to go away?”
This sounded like a trick question. I nodded, but not a full-fledged one. More the head-tilted-aside-with-a-wary-look-in-my-eye one.
Vigorously, my sister shook her head at my stupidity. “You shouldn’t have done that. Mom will be disappointed when Mrs. Wellborn shares this news. She has always wanted big plans for you tw
o. They have been cooking and scheming all these years.”
Interesting. This is the first I’d heard of her intentions. I cocked my head in the other direction. “Like what?”
Her stare implicated I’d arrived from another planet. “Please, Hattie. We all know you aren’t a doofus. She wants you two to get married.”
All moms wanted their daughters to be happily married. It seemed mine thought Allan Wellborn was my desirable, happily-ever-after match. “Arranged marriages are out of vogue.”
Trixie pointed a finger, the nail painted a rosy pink to match her toes, in my direction. “It has been six months since you’ve seriously dated anyone. You are in Nundom.”
With the facts slapped in my face, I felt icky like I’d contracted pond scum or some scary scarring disease. I didn’t want to be in Nundom; I was just having an ordinary, run-of-the-mill dry spell.
“You know how close your mom and Mrs. Wellborn are. Those old PTA connections never die,” Trixie said.
Tracey nodded. “She’ll see Mrs. Wellborn at the grocery store, and over bananas, they’ll talk and talk. The whole story of how you yelled and slammed the door on him will eventually come out.”
No, please God, no. I crossed my chest, even though I wasn’t Catholic, and clasped my hands in prayer. “You can’t tell Mom. Please, promise me you won’t say anything.” Desperation hung in my words.
“Why not?” Tracey asked with an exaggerated eye blink.
I didn’t find her innocent act the least bit funny. She knew why not. But I had to make sure she was convinced my way. “You know why. I’ll get a phone call from Mom, followed by her little talk on How to Treat Men which is based on her memories from the good ol’ days. I don’t need this lecture because I’ve had this long...” my arms stretched wide, “loonnng one numerous times. It’s embedded deep in my memory.” A finger pressed to my temple indicated where.
I pointed at Tracey. “And I can repeat it verbatim, even in my sleep. If you require a reminder...”
Tracey’s mouth snapped shut.
I knew she could repeat Mother’s lecture word-for-word as well. We’d always wished Mom had taken up a cause such as World Peace or Save the Sea Monkeys on which to sermonize. It wasn’t meant to be.
We grew quiet while contemplating this fact. The other girls nodded as their moms had their own versions of a little talk and were prone to trot out theirs on occasion.
Jenny broke the silence. “Allan Wellborn will call again. He’s a masochist.”
Chapter Ten
Know-It-All Jenny might be right. A. Wellborn may be a masochist.
Was his being a masochist a good thing or a bad one? If he was, I did weird things, and he liked it—which sounded really creepy. Or maybe we were sorta dating which made him one.
Me thinketh my roomie was being sarcastic.
Routinely, I checked my cell phone after returning from book club and reported the masochist had left a voice mail.
“Told you so. The guy has stayin’ power.” She toed off her shoe. “What did he want?”
“He said ‘sorry, he missed me’ and ‘to phone back,’ leaving his number. He wants to know about book club.” I plopped in the club chair and crossed my arms secretly thinking I was sorta thrilled he’d phoned.
“You know you’ll phone him.”
Did she always have to be right? Say I was stupid. Say I was weak. I succumbed easily and returned his call.
“Hi, Hattie.”
Either he was psychic or he had recognized my number.
“Can you come over? I have something to show you. I went ahead and ordered a Canadian bacon and bacon pizza, filled with your favorite ingredient, cholesterol.”
Pizza bribery had to stop. However, my appetite had died at book club with all the attention focused my way after Jenny’s eye-popping opener. So, I considered his offer for a moment, and once again, rules about guys and food won. And my tummy rumbled loudly at the mere idea of my favorite pizza. I told him yes.
“Okay.” Like a GPS, A. Wellborn gave me perfectly turn-by-turn directions to his place.
After I hung up, I flew to my closet to choose an appropriate outfit. I rifled through the hangers and selected a summer dress or cool pants outfit, only to toss the rejects to the bed. After much deliberation, black capris embroidered with white flowers and a white twinset, the long-sleeved sweater looped around my shoulders in a classic style, got my vote. I slipped tiny heeled red sandals on my feet, a bracelet crafted from mahjong tiles on my arm, and put the essentials in a red leather clutch. As a last touch, I spritzed the back of my neck with Joy.
I looked at the mirror, and the idea of being overdressed bothered me. I took off the bracelet. With a damp washcloth, I scrubbed off the perfume.
I drove to his apartment and tried to distract myself by tuning to Hypnosis Hour on the classical radio station. A long time ago, I found classical music soothed my mood. Worries flitted and floated away on a puff of a breeze as the peaceful tones crept into me. After the book club fiasco, I needed a major distraction. However, the music currently playing featured an organ, sounding like something sinister from a thirties horror flick. I turned off the radio and popped my back up CD, Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” in the player. I sounded just like the birds singing the chirpy parts. “Do, do, dada, dada, do do.”
I was a “tweetie.”
A. Wellborn lived where unattached, and on-the-prowl people resided. Longtime Sommerville residents called this part of town Swingerville. Nearby, trendy restaurants, fashionable boutiques, and night clubs catered to the demographic. Swingerville wasn’t far from my favorite upscale shopping mall. Or my apartment.
Thanks to his outstanding directions, I located A. Wellborn’s place easily and parked the Jeep. As I moved toward his door, an unpleasant notion crossed my mind: He could slam the door on me. And no, it wasn’t funny.
I’d barely knocked when he flung the portal wide.
“Hi.” A dazzling smile crossed his face. “You look amazing.”
I grinned. I’d take amazing.
With a light touch on my wrist, he guided me inside. I found he looked his usual migh-tee fine, even when dressed in black cargo shorts. A ratty, yellow t-shirt silkscreened with the saying “Accountants Rule” stretched across his chest, revealing amazing pectoral definition.
I swallowed deeply. Golly.
Going to a guy’s apartment always provided interesting insight into the male modus operand us. With a light inspection, a girl could evaluate if he was sloppy, how he cooked (microwave versus oven), what his habits and hobbies were (sports or hunting), and cultural influences like music, books, and magazines.
A. Wellborn’s apartment appeared to be the same as other guys’ with great emphasis on the television. His had evolved into a huge, 3D flat screen. His media equipment had been stored on a store-bought shelving unit, instead of crammed onto a cinder block and plank shelf or tottering precariously on a microwave rolling cart.
I assessed the other areas and noticed a dark chocolate leather couch, end tables which matched a coffee table, ceramic lamps, remotes, et cetera. Most likely, his mom had assisted in picking the furniture as his stuff looked too coordinated. And my suspicions were confirmed when I found the needlepoint pillows she’d crafted laying about.
No visible stains or smells were anywhere. No underwear tossed about. The kitchen looked clean with wooden barstools pushed to the peninsula. His computer desk, placed in the dining area, looked well organized. Books and papers were piled in neat stacks. Gratefully, I didn’t see his gun lying around, which led me to the relieving conclusion he had no plans to shoot me tonight.
A staircase had been positioned along the far common wall of the living area. My gaze followed the stairs’ ascent which led to the bedroom loft. Which led my musings to other places. My cheeks went hot. “Nice place,” I said, throwing out this original line.
“Thanks. I like it. Would you close your eyes while I get the surprise?”
> A. Wellborn seemed very keen to show me something. I hoped it was nothing gross, and he would hang on to his underwear. While I considered the possible lack of undies, I experienced an unanticipated tinge of warmth, especially in my female spot, flare and surge throughout my body. In all likelihood, I could be persuaded to change my mind about the underwear.
I tick-tocked my finger. “Wait a minute.”
Turning at my words, A. Wellborn halted at the bottom of the stairs. “What?”
I set my finger to my nose and let it glide over my lips to rest on my chin. “Let me get this straight. You’re retrieving something from your bedroom, and you want me to close my eyes?”
“Yeah. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is it sounds fishy.”
“You make me sound like the stalker, murderer, or rapist thing again.”
What was going on here? Coming here could be a big mistake. Uncomfortable with closing my eyes, for a silly moment, I pondered leaving. My right foot went tap, tap.
Oh, come on, Hattie, said Mr. Subconscious perched devilishly on my right shoulder, you’re being stupid. A. Wellborn’s your best girlfriend’s older brother. You’ve known him for forever. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.
Like before, he shaped his fingers into the Boy Scout salute as he gave a little laugh. “I promise. Nothing fishy’s going on. Play along and close your eyes.”
Oh hell.
“Please.”
I shut my eyes. When he wasn’t looking, I could always peek. His surprises could be way too interesting.
He said, “No peeking.”
My harrumph sounded like Opal’s. Sick. I exhaled, “No peeking.”
“Promise?”
I rolled my eyes ceiling ward and did a fast cross the heart. “Promise.”
He chuckled and continued upward. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”
While I grudgingly shut my eyes and stood still, I heard the padding of brisk footsteps running the stairs to his bedroom. What did his room look like?
