by Debby Mayne
“I’ll call and let you know what happens,” Mandy says. “I’m real sorry I botched things up so bad.”
I flick my hand. “You’re fine. I’m just happy to have you here so I can be free to do what I have to do.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Mandy says as she shifts from one foot to the other. “I’ve been thinking about this whole expansion thing. Is there any chance we’ll need a bigger office?”
“I haven’t really thought about it. Why?”
She shrugs. “Just wonderin’. My mama’s cousin has some property near downtown, and I said . . . I mean, he asked if you might be interested.”
“Probably not anytime soon. Maybe in a few years, if I get the gig on the TV Network Shopping Channel.”
Mandy rubs her arms and giggles. “I get goose bumps just thinkin’ about that happenin’.”
“They have my latest proposal.”
“I can’t believe they turned down your Smooth as Silk product line,” she says. “Before I started using it, my hair was coarse and dry.”
“You sound like a TV commercial. Maybe I should have sent you to sell them on the idea.” I grin at her. “So far, you’ve been the biggest cheerleader for that line. The product selection committee said it wasn’t unique enough.”
“Well, let’s just hope they see the value of your hair volumizing system.” She pats the top of her head. “It’s simply the best thing since sliced butter.”
“Sliced bread,” I say. “I pray they’ll like it as much as you do.”
“If they don’t, I got a good mind to go up to their offices and give them the what-for.”
“With you on my side, Mandy, I don’t see how I can miss. We’ll just keep tryin’ until we hit on the perfect product that makes them sit up and take notice.”
“Once we do, hoo-boy, watch out. Here comes the queen of beauty products, ready to set the world on fire.”
I can’t help grinning at Mandy’s belief in my company. What she lacks in people skills she more than makes up for in enthusiasm.
When I hear the sound of the faucet running in the restroom, I walk toward the door. “I’m outta here. Let me know if you need anything.”
Before Mandy has a chance to say a word, I leave the office so she and Clarissa can have some quality time to hash through a few things. I get into my car and say a silent prayer for both of them to find their way through the sticky thicket of balancing business, personal life, and their feelings.
Once I’m home, I ponder which number to call—Laura’s or Celeste’s. The concept of having co-coordinators makes sense, but it puts all the graduates of our class in the position of having to choose one of them, and knowing those two, they’re keeping track.
I go back and forth. On the one hand, Laura had the entire responsibility on her shoulders last time, so it makes sense to go to her. But on the other hand, Celeste has taken on more challenges, and she needs to prove herself capable. The thing is, I don’t want to hurt either of their feelings, so I decide to call both of them.
Since Laura’s name and number are first, she’s the one I start with. Pete answers the phone.
“I’d like to speak to Laura please. This is Priscilla Slater.”
“I know who you are. I’m standin’ right here lookin’ at the caller ID.”
“Hey, Pete. I’m just RSVPing to let y’all know I’ll be at the reunion.”
“Laura ain’t here.”
“Would you mind letting her know?”
“What do you think I am? Her secretary?”
“Um . . . no, that’s not what I think.” I ponder what to do next and realize this is an excellent excuse to call Celeste.
“Why don’t you call back in about an hour?” he says. “She should be home by then.” I hear one of the kids hollering in the background. “I’m babysittin’ the young’uns, so I gotta go.” He hangs up without so much as a good-bye.
I’m stunned by the fact that Pete said he was babysitting their children. It’s not like they’re just Laura’s. I’ll call Celeste now.
She answers before the first ring stops. “Hey, Priscilla, are you coming to Piney Point early like you did last time?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to let you know I’ll be there.”
“Good. I want to book an appointment for the day of the reunion before you get all filled up.”
“Why don’t you call Sheila and let her know?” I say.
“I tried that, but she said she needs to talk to you first.”
“Okay, I’ll call her after we get off the phone.”
“You do that, and while you’re at it, tell her I want the nine-o’clock appointment.”
My, my, my, Celeste sure has gotten bossy. But I let it slide and get off the phone. Then I call the Piney Point salon to let her know I’m coming early and to pencil in Celeste’s name at nine.
“She’s been buggin’ the daylights out of us. I’m glad you finally talked to her. I wasn’t so sure you’d want the hassles like you had last time.”
“Sorry. I hope I don’t disrupt things too much while I’m there.”
“It does get a little crazy around here when folks find out you’re in town, but I’m always happy to have you here. We miss you somethin’ crazy, Priscilla.”
“Oh, one more thing before we hang up. I’m thinking about going short with my hair and getting rid of the highlights, so put me down for a cut and color.”
Sheila laughs. “You’re too young to be goin’ through a midlife crisis, so what’s up with messing with your gorgeous hair?”
I run my fingers through the hair I’ve kept highlighted and a little longer than shoulder length. “I think it’s time for change.”
“We’ll take a look at it when you get here. I’ve always thought you’d be a cute redhead.”
7
Laura
Pete comes walkin’ into the house and dumps a stack of mail onto the counter. He picks up one envelope and waves it in the air. “Looks like we got some sort of invitation from Uncle Snub.” He laughs. “Like he thinks we’d ever go to anything of his after what he did to us.”
Shortly after Pete and I got married, his rich uncle forgot to mail us an invitation to Cousin Buffy’s wedding, hence Pete dubbing him Uncle Snub. His name is actually Peter, Pete’s namesake, but my husband doesn’t want to admit that, since Uncle Snub actually fits him better.
I nod toward the envelope. “Open it.”
“What’s the point? We’re not goin’ anyway, regardless of what it is.” Without another word, he drops the envelope into the garbage can.
I rush over to rescue it from the coffee grinds and empty wrappers. As I lift it, I can’t help feeling the fine linen paper and noticing the hand-lettered calligraphy. “It looks important. Maybe he’s extending the olive branch.”
“I don’t see no olives on that thang.” Pete shakes his head. “Miss Pudge, I’m afraid you’re just settin’ yourself up for disappointment. I know you wanna get in good with the rich folk, but you married me, so that’s not likely to happen.”
“This rich folk just happens to be your daddy’s only brother,” I remind him.
“Maybe so, but he don’t never come around much, except to flaunt his money.”
I’ve carefully lifted the flap of the envelope so as not to tear the fine paper, and now I’m pulling out the contents. It’s obviously an invitation, and my heart pounds with excitement. “There’s gonna be another Moss wedding,” I say. “Chandler’s gettin’ married on July Fourth.”
“My uncle must be runnin’ out of friends, or we’d find out after the fact. Throw that back in the trash and stop actin’ like you wanna go.”
But I do want to go. I love weddings, especially when I know they’ll be elegant, and there’s no doubt in my mind Uncle Snub—Peter—will make sure his son will have the finest wedding money can buy, even if the girl’s folks can’t afford it.
“Who’s the unlucky girl?”
“Someone named Ainsley Chadwell.” I look up at Pete. “I’ve never heard of her.”
“Me neither. I’m sure the girl comes from high fallutin’ money.”
That’s all the more reason I want to witness Chandler Moss tying the knot. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of princess weddings, with a dashing groom whisking his beautiful bride off in a gilded carriage. Sometimes I’m the bride, but most of the time it’s some perfectly beautiful creature who doesn’t have frizzy hair or a single freckle on her heart-shaped face. And she certainly doesn’t have bulging, cellulite-dimpled thighs.
“Better get rid of that goofy look before the kids come downstairs,” Pete says, “or they’ll think their mama done got the Old-Timers disease.”
I swat at Pete with the envelope. “Stop makin’ fun of the way I look. I hate when you do that.”
Pete opens his mouth to comment, but I give him the look that’s supposed to shut him up. It doesn’t always work, but this time it does. After he got alcohol poisoning at the last class reunion, we went through counseling to figure out what our deeper problems were. The psychologist said we needed to learn unspoken communication that every husband and wife are supposed to have, but we obviously didn’t get the instruction book when we got married.
“If you really wanna go that bad, go right ahead,” Pete says as he strolls toward the door. “But don’t expect me to put myself through that kinda misery.”
“You make it sound like torture.”
He stops and turns to face me. “If it quacks like a duck . . . ”
After he leaves me alone to figure out what to cook for supper, I can’t help thinking about all the things I’ve missed out on just because he’s not comfortable in certain situations—namely all those that involve his family or my family or weddings or funerals or any other occasion that requires wearing a suit. Both his mama and daddy have siblings who have pulled out of their humble beginnings and made something of themselves. According to Pete, nothing divides a family more than money or lack of it, and I think he’s probably right. Pete’s mama and daddy are sweet and loving, but they can’t seem to get past thinking anyone who drives a Cadillac or one of “them fancy furren” cars is a card-carryin’, snobby millionaire. They even look at my mama as someone who’s made something of herself, just because after she left Daddy, she married a man who owns a used car lot.
The phone rings and I absentmindedly answer it only to discover that Pete’s on the upstairs extension. I hear him laughing and talking to Jimmy, his partner in all things centered on booze. I cup my hand over the mouthpiece and listen.
“Good move takin’ the preparty to the house,” Jimmy says. “That way you won’t have to worry about drivin’ home.” He laughs. “A man can guzzle a lot of beer in three hours. How’d you get Laura to agree to that?”
“I told her she could hire someone to clean the house. That woman’ll do anything to get out of work.”
They both crack up. My ears get hot, my eyes moisten, and my lips quiver with the urge to let ’em have a piece of my mind about tricking me, but I decide to keep my yap shut to find out what else they’ve got up their sleeves.
I stay real quiet as I listen to memories of drinking and potty jokes—nothing that interests me—until I spot the tops of kids heads passing the kitchen window. I hang up the phone as fast and quiet as I can.
“Mama, I’m starvin’,” Bubba says as the screen door slaps shut. “Got anything good?”
I point to a basket filled with all the cheapest snack foods—all carbs—on the kitchen island. “Help yourself, but only one each. I want y’all to eat your supper.”
“What’re we havin’?” he asks as he inspects the contents of the basket and selects the one with the highest sugar content. As he rips it open with his teeth, little Jack indiscriminately grabs something from the basket.
“Meat and vegetables,” I reply.
“With cheese?” Jack asks.
“Of course, doo-doo head. Mama always feeds us cheese ’cause we don’t drink milk.”
As much as I hate to admit it, Bubba’s right. I put cheese on almost everything because it’s the only way I can get calcium in them. In fact, I use so much cheese I have a whole shelf dedicated to jars of Cheez Whiz in the pantry. Every six weeks or so, the Piggly Wiggly has it on sale, buy-one-get-one-free, and that’s when I stock up.
I send the kids out of the kitchen after they finish their snack. The girls are up in their rooms, pretending they don’t have a family. Boys and girls sure are different. I discovered that when I caught Renee playing with Bubba’s matchbox cars. Instead of going vroom-vroom and crashing them into furniture like Bubba would have done, she had them all lined up according to size and color. “Ain’t they purty, Mama?” she asked.
Memories of their younger days dance in my head, and I can almost imagine being back in the “good ol’ days.” But other thoughts snap me back to reality. I was always up to my elbows in young’uns and rarely able to go anywhere without them ’cause the only way I could hire a sitter was to cut into my grocery money, and as it was, my food budget was bare-bones. Pete still can’t understand why I’m not able to feed a family of six on less than a hundred dollars a week. If we just had girls, maybe, and that’s only if I kept up with coupon clipping, but boys are bottomless pits. They can be shoveling food in their mouths and still complain about starving to death.
Renee’s actually a good eater, but it shows. She still has a roll of baby fat around her midsection, and Bonnie Sue takes every opportunity to remind her. That little Bonnie Sue is a handful ever since making the cheerleading squad at the Piney Point Middle School. Renee is more like her mama was at that age: a little bit heavy and socially awkward, even though she tries real hard to fit in. The big difference between us is she hasn’t figured out how to worm her way in by offering something other people want.
Yeah, I admit it. I wanted folks to like me, so I catered to the popular kids and made them think they needed me. That’s how I managed to snag Pete. He was part of the cool crowd, although that faded a bit when people got sick and tired of some of his drunken shenanigans. None of the other girls would date him because he had a knack for embarrassing them in front of their friends. But since all my so-called friends were in a crowd I didn’t quite fit into, I didn’t much care. Pete could embarrass me all day long, and I kept coming back for more.
I used to wonder if Pete really loved me, but I learned in counseling that he just has a different way of showing his love. But it still hurts my feelings when he pokes fun at me and gets the kids in on it. How am I supposed to get their respect when they’re laughing about my fanny jiggling or my inability to get anything done right the first time?
But then when someone outside the family says something not so nice about me, Pete is willing to fight for my honor. In fact, he misunderstood something Jimmy said once, and he just about decked him, until Priscilla’s friend Tim stepped between Pete’s fist and Jimmy’s face. Later on, Pete felt real bad about what he’d done, but would he man up and apologize? No sirree. He says men understand stuff like that, and apologizing only makes things awkward. I’m not so sure Tim agrees with him, but I’ve noticed Jimmy has more respect for Pete after that incident.
For the third day in a row, I dump some canned vegetables into a casserole dish, add meat, and cover it in cheese. I’ve gotten in a slump, so I make a note to go over to Mama’s and thumb through her cooking magazines for some new, quick-and-easy recipes. Mama is known as the queen of quick-and-easy, and she brags about it every chance she gets. Her husband, Randy “Save-a-Lot” Elmore, turns the phrase around and makes it sound obscene. When other folks call her that, all they really mean is Mama knows how to cut corners to get jobs done fast.
I slide the casserole into the oven and putter about the kitchen some more as my mind races through the list of all the things I have to do for the reunion. Even though I added Celeste’s name to the invitation, I still feel respons
ible for everything getting done.
“You do too much for everyone,” Pete complains constantly.
“That’s because people don’t seem to know how to do for themselves,” I argue.
He always shakes his head and snorts. “How you expect ’em to learn if you don’t give ’em half a chance?”
Bless Pete’s heart, he simply doesn’t understand, and I doubt he ever will. There are different types of people in this world, and I just happen to be from the group that straightens up other people’s messes. I’ve learned that the easiest way to do that is to prevent stuff from happening in the first place. Only problem is, now that we have three young’uns who have entered the dreaded hormonal years, stuff happens so fast I feel like I’m juggling knives and lit torches. And I’ve been cut or burned a few times over the past ten years.
I call everyone down to the kitchen right before I take the casserole out of the oven. “Mm,” Pete says as he walks up to his spot at the head of the table. “Smells delicious.”
“It’s the same thing we always have.” I can’t help it if I sound grumpy, but I’m getting tired of eating the same old cheese- covered food. I want something different. Something with a little spice and not so much goo. Something cooked by someone else who brings it to me and places it on a white tablecloth. With candles and a centerpiece. A table with a view. And a bill that Pete picks up afterward and pays without making a rude comment.
To my surprise, Pete tells everyone to bow their heads. Normally, I’m the one issuing that order. He clears his throat.
“Dear Lord, heavenly Father, Jesus, I want to thank you for this food my wife has cooked up for the family. Make sure she knows how much we all appreciate her, and let her find a way to get this reunion done without losin’ her mind like she did last time.”
I lift one eyelid and take a peek at my husband, who is staring and grinning right back at me. When I shake my head and close my eye, he continues.
