The house is gorgeous. Roomy enough to accommodate the toys, games, pint-size sporting equipment, and assorted debris seven and nine-year boys tend to scatter in their wake. Not to mention all the infant accouterments the new baby requires: collapsible playpen, bouncy seat, teething toys, fuzzy blankets, high chair, and diaper bag.
Bella Brandon Willis, Bebe for short, was born six-and-a-half months ago. (Drew likes to tease that the nickname actually stands for Bonus Baby, as her arrival was totally unplanned.) The group has spent the last twenty minutes oohing and ahhing over her—hard not to, she’s such an adorable baby—particularly relishing the fact that Bebe has not only taught herself to sit up, she now treats us to soft little coos and gummy smiles.
When the last guests arrive and it’s time to settle in and consider actually discussing this month’s book, Susan shouts up the stairs for Drew.
Nine-year-old Jacob comes trotting down instead. “Dad says ‘what?’”
Irritation flashes across Susan’s face before she leans down and places Bebe in Jacob’s arms. “Here—”
“Ewww. She stinks.”
“Do not drop your sister. Take her to daddy and tell him mom says she needs a new diaper. Then he can put her to bed.”
That accomplished, she turns to Esme and me. “Help me get the appetizers together, would you?”
We follow her into the kitchen, where Susan tops off our wine. Now that the baby has been fed and is in Drew’s care, she pours a glass for herself. Apparently there’s a breastfeeding rule about that, something she learned online. It takes a good three to four hours for alcohol to be out of a nursing mother’s system. (I don’t remember the exact ratio of wine to time. As my son is now driving himself around, it wasn’t exactly germane.) In any event, Bebe won’t want to nurse again until the wee hours of the morning, and Susan has pumped milk stashed in the fridge just in case, so it’s safe to have a glass of wine. What’s unusual about all this is that she actually looks like she needs one.
“You okay?” I ask.
In answer, Susan holds up a glossy 8 x 10 photograph she swiped from her desk as we entered the room. “You tell me,” she says. “Is that, or is that not, the perfect cherry?”
The photo she thrusts before us shows an ice cream sundae, globs of fudge dripping down the sides, swirls of whipped cream, multi-colored sprinkles, and yes, a cherry perched on top. Maybe not a perfect cherry, but a perfectly nice cherry.
“I didn’t get the job,” Susan says. “Can you believe it? They said they liked my work, but the cherry wasn’t quite what they were hoping for.” She makes bitter little air quotes around the last bit. “Can you believe it?”
Susan is a graphic artist. Or rather, she had been before the birth of her sons. At that time, she’d been successful and in-demand. When she decided to quit her day job and devote herself full-time to raising her boys (Not for long! Just until the youngest made it into kindergarten!), she’d been secure in the knowledge that her talent and experience would allow her to resume work at the same professional level. Like a lot of women, she’s been knocked back by the realization that if a career can be likened to a highway, taking the off-ramp is a hell of a lot easier than gliding back onto the on-ramp.
“What’s wrong with the cherry?” I ask.
“Exactly!” Susan grabs my question as though it had been a defense of her skill as an artist, rather than the actual question it was. “Three hours I worked on that stupid cherry. Enlarging it, shading it, tilting it just so. See how the stem makes that delicate arch to the right, see how the light makes it gleam? Not too pink, not too purple. It’s perfect.”
“I’ll tell you why you didn’t get the job,” says Esme. “It’s got nothing to do with that cherry. You submitted your portfolio online, right? You didn’t drop it off in person.”
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Esme and I exchange a look.
“Oh, come on,” Esme snorts.
Susan blushes but doesn’t refute the point Esme’s making. “I want to be hired for my work, not for…well, not for anything else.”
Susan Brandon-Willis is beautiful. Like, Hollywood beautiful. Gorgeous face, big blue eyes, thick mane of wheat-colored hair. The kind of woman who has the power to stop people in their tracks as she passes them on the street. I’ve seen it happen.
While most women would use that to their advantage, Susan is determined not to. Yes, she modeled as a teen and again later in college, but she claims she’s far more comfortable behind a camera than in front of one. Hence her work as a graphic artist. She says beauty isn’t her ‘thing’. She just happens to be blessed with it in abundance, poor dear.
In what was an act of tactical dating genius, her husband Drew somehow picked up on that and took her hiking, camping, and tailgating, claiming not to notice her looks at all until well into their sixth month of dating, when he observed with a note of wonderment, “Hey, you really are sort of pretty, aren’t you?” as though the realization had just struck him.
Even more amazing: Susan bought it.
Susan’s relentless perfection drives a lot of women away. It’s just too much. Because not only is she drop-dead beautiful, a nice person, and a talented graphic artist, she’s also an excellent cook (both Esme and I snatch a grilled bacon-wrapped shrimp from the platter she’s arranging), who produces stunning children and somehow manages to keep the house neat. Other women naturally hesitate to expose their husbands to her, as though she were a virus that might infect their marriages with unreasonable expectations. Fortunately, Esme and I are confident enough to overlook her flaws and befriend her anyway.
“Why do you want the job?” Esme asks. “You’re still doing the print ads for the dealership and working on the school website, right?”
“Right. But obviously I’m not charging the school.”
“Hold on.” Esme frowns. “Did you just say you’re not charging the school? Why not?”
“Well, because it’s a school. It doesn’t seem right.”
“If you’re working for them, you get paid. Period.”
Esme’s eyes shift toward the great room, making sure she can’t be overheard, then she props her elbows on Susan’s sleek black marble countertop and leans forward.
“They came into Queen of Tarts yesterday. In the middle of my Thanksgiving pie rush, if you can believe it. I’m up to my elbows in pumpkin and they want to talk about a bake sale to raise funds for the middle school dance. Said wouldn’t I like to donate some of my wonderful cookies and cupcakes to make it a success.”
The they in question being a particular clique of mothers who take yoga classes in the studio above Esme’s bakery. They’re part of our community, part of our book club, and for the most part we all get along. (Until one of them plasters photos all over Facebook of her children allegedly refusing a trip to Chuck E. Cheese’s in favor of spending a rainy afternoon at home studying for the upcoming geography bee. What fun! Now we know all the capitals in Latin America!) That sort of maternal one-upmanship drives Esme bananas.
“So I said,” Esme continues, “that Lorna and Liandra would be happy to bake cookies themselves and bring them to school.”
Susan cracks a smile. “How’d that work?”
“You think that would be all I needed to say, right? But they wouldn’t let it go. They wanted my baked goods, as that’d bring in more money. So I said if I’m giving away my goods, who’s going to come in and buy?”
“You said that?”
“You bet I did. So they said it would be good advertising for me. That it was all for such a good cause.”
“Oh, my lord,” I groan.
Esme shifts her wine glass aside and leans closer. A satisfied smile curves her lips.
“So I said, ‘Well, I didn’t think about it like that! If it’s such good advertising, and for such a good cause, maybe we should all do it. Chelsea’s husband, the orthodontist, could give away a pair of braces. Tori could offer to cut out her commissi
on on the next house she lists. And Marjorie’s husband could give away a year’s worth of tax advice.’”
Susan and I release a shout of laughter. Remembering our audience in the next room, we quickly catch ourselves and smother it.
Esme straightens and nods. A righteous look on her face. “They said they were delighted Lorna and Liandra would contribute cookies.” Sighing happily, she looks at Susan. “The point is, you have to stand up for yourself.”
“I know, I know. But I figure it keeps my resume fresh and my skills up to date.”
“Now you’re just making excuses,” Esme returns.
I say, “Don’t tell me you don’t get paid for the work you do for Drew.”
Susan waves that away. “Yes, I get paid. The money’s fine. But it’s Drew’s dealership. Drew’s the boss. Ultimately he gets the final say on all my work. I want some independence. Some separation between what he’s doing and what I’m doing.”
“I can’t believe it.” Drew lopes into the kitchen, presumably drawn by the mouth-watering smells. “Did I just hear my wife say Drew’s the boss? I hope one of you ladies recorded that for me.”
I like Drew. He’s a nice guy and a hard worker, and he adores Susan and their children. Susan allows him to sample both the shrimp and the spinach-artichoke dip as they discuss Bebe’s tuck-in ritual, but she gently swats his hand away when he reaches for seconds. “For the guests,” she admonishes with a soft laugh.
She plants a kiss on his lips and hands him both trays, asking him to take them out to the great room. Drew happily acquiesces. Watching them, there don’t appear to be any stress-fractures in their marriage, leading me to conclude this sudden career push is more about her than them. I’m relieved.
Susan confirms my hunch a second later when she says, “I sent my portfolio to Beyond Beauty last week. They’re growing at a phenomenal rate and are looking to add graphic designers for their online catalogs. I think I’d be a perfect fit.”
“That’s wonderful!” I say. “Good luck.” Then I puzzle for a minute. “What do they sell? Makeup?”
“No. Women’s clothing. Sort of casual work, dressy play vibe to their style. Subtle and sophisticated. Their designers are fabulous. Women everywhere are going nuts for it. I’ve got a few things in my closet already.”
“Huh. Never heard of them.”
“I have,” Esme says, but something about her tone isn’t right. She takes a swig of her wine, then looks at Susan. “And you’re right, you would be a perfect fit. Send them your photo. They’ll hire you for sure.”
Suddenly the temperature in the room feels like it dropped twenty degrees. I don’t know what just happened, but Susan looks embarrassed and Esme looks annoyed. I review the exchange for a subtext I might have missed and belatedly realize it must be a money thing. Money’s tight for the Nelson family right now, and Beyond Beauty is probably outside her budget.
Susan busies herself opening a couple more bottles of wine. “Well. I guess I should bring these in. Everyone’s probably wondering what happened to us.”
Actually, I hear women laughing in the other room at something Drew said, so I know they’re not missing us at all. Which means I still have time to say what I wanted to say.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “I want to talk to both of you about Jym Granger’s weight loss challenge.”
“Slym Jym?” Esme scoffs. “You’re not taking that fool seriously, are you?”
“Of course not. At least, I didn’t at first. But now…”
“Now what?” She leans back in her counter stool, studying me through narrowed eyes. “No. You’ve got to be kidding. Rachel, please. You’re mayor now. You’ve got to have more sense than that.”
“That’s exactly my point, Esme. I am mayor now. I’ve got to think about what’s best for everyone. What the people of this town want and not just what I want.”
“And you think the people of Eaton want to be laughed at—again?”
“No one’s laughing. And if anyone is, who cares? Over two hundred people willingly signed up to take part in the challenge. No one forced them to sign up, no one coerced them, they wanted to do it. No—they’re excited to do it. They want to help the school district win that money. What am I supposed to do, tell them they can’t?”
Susan tilts her head, considering what I’ve said. Esme raps her nails against the stem of her glass, avoiding my eyes.
“I run a bakery,” she finally says. “A bakery. That means gingerbread men. Fancy sugar cookies. Peppermint brownies. Spiced cupcakes with eggnog frosting. What do you think it’ll do to my business—during Christmas season—if the entire town goes on a diet?”
“First of all, it’s not the entire town. Two hundred people out of ten thousand should hardly put a dent in your sales.”
“You don’t know that.”
I release an exasperated sigh. “Esme, you’ve been riding me for months to do something that’ll bring more shoppers downtown. To breathe life back into the historic core. I figure this is finally my chance. Forget about the diet. Forget about Jym Granger. This is bigger than that. Look at what’s happening to Eaton.”
“You want me to go on a diet?” Esme persists.
Esme’s roughly my size. Maybe a sixteen, maybe an eighteen. I don’t know and I don’t care. That isn’t the point.
I tell them about my conversation with Therese—glossing over how fabulous my sister looks, that can wait until later—to focus on her remark about this whole Chubbiest Town thing being a lucky break. She’s right. For the first time ever, tourists are coming to Eaton. Granted, they’re just gawking right now, but they’ve got money to spend and they’re looking for places to spend it. I want to make sure they find them.
We’ve got to look at this as an opportunity for the town, not a problem. To that end, I’ll be talking to Nelson tomorrow about approaching the owners of the empty storefronts on Main Street. See if they’ll be willing to entertain shorter leases to fill those vacant shops during the holiday season while the reporters are in town. And if business is good, maybe those tenants will stick around.
Maybe we’ll even attract more employers like Canine Cuisine. This could be a huge economic boon for us. Bottom line, I want Eaton bright and bustling and busy. Lots of holiday charm everywhere. Maybe it took that idiotic website to set this whole thing off, but now that the cameras have swung our way, let’s show the world who we really are.
Esme says, “You could do all that, anyway.”
“How? I shut down the challenge, the reporters go away. The story’s over. There’s nothing to cover. We have to capitalize on this before it’s too late.”
“Rachel’s right,” Susan puts in, excitement lighting up her face. “I interned for a PR firm in college. They would have killed for an opportunity like this. It could revitalize the whole town.”
“I guess, put that way, it does sound pretty good,” Esme says. I can almost see the wheels turning as she considers the money Nelson will make leasing those spaces. The money Queen of Tarts will make if Eaton’s historic downtown core once again becomes a thriving shopping destination. She gives a sheepish grin and meets my gaze.
“I’ll tell Nelson to expect your call.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Honestly, I’d be shocked if your sales don’t skyrocket. Everyone knows how much better a cookie tastes when it’s forbidden.”
EIGHT
I grip the van’s inner door handle. “Could you please slow down a little bit?”
Matthew glances at the speedometer. “What are you talking about? I’m going two miles under the speed limit.”
Seven-thirty in the morning, Black Friday. Thanksgiving Day is officially behind us. Families have gathered, football games have been won and lost, the turkey’s been carved, pies have been eaten, and all the leftovers are stashed in the fridge. My son and I are hurtling toward the official site of Jym Granger’s community weigh-in. Well, maybe hurtling is too strong a word, but between the butterflies in my stomac
h, the caffeine coursing through my veins, and a sixteen-year-old behind the wheel, the drive does feel somewhat perilous.
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be seen in this thing?” Matthew complains as we brake for a red light.
“You have my sympathy. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you started taking the bus.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I was thinking. Now that I’ve got my license and a job, how about trading in The Rocket for something with a little dignity?”
The Rocket is Matthew’s pet name for my minivan, a reference not to its speed or sleekness, but for the 240,000 miles on the odometer, roughly the distance from the earth to the moon.
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask. Not that I have any intention of acquiring a new car any time soon. But since I need something to keep my mind off the debacle looming ahead of me, I play along.
“Oh, nothing special. Maybe a black Jeep Wrangler 4x4 with alloy wheels, custom fenders, leather interior, and a hardtop.”
“I see. Very sensible. Great image for the mayor, too. One question, though. You think Hook and Mr. Smee will fit in the backseat? I still need to get them to the vet and the groomer, you know.”
He hesitates, thinking that over. “Well, maybe you should keep the van for you, and I’ll drive the jeep.”
“Hey, great idea! Let me take on a new car payment. Because I definitely won’t need any money to help you pay for college with all the scholarships that are going to pour in, Mr. C-On-His-Last-Chemistry-Test.”
“Tell you what. I’ll put it on my Christmas list. Black hardtop Jeep Wrangler 4x4.”
“Does Lego make a Jeep Wrangler? ‘Cause that’s about all I can afford. But who knows? Starting today you’ll be working up close and personal with Santa. Maybe that’ll give you an edge.”
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 6
