Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

  Jonson’s gaze didn’t leave Gushing Giggly Girl’s face. “Jonson Leggett and Barbie Fenster have a two o’clock with Miss Anastasia to plan our wedding.” He pecked the tip of his fiancée’s nose.

  Ick.

  Barbie cooed. Seriously…like a dove.

  She buzzed his lips.

  Thankfully, no tongues were involved.

  “Please have a seat.” I indicated the reception area where they dropped into the chairs, still holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. “I’ll inform Miss A. you’re here.”

  Returning to the desk, I grabbed the phone receiver and pressed Miss A.’s number. It took everything I possessed to not run to her office and to tell her Jonson embodied the underbelly of patrons.

  Miss A. picked up after two rings.

  “Miss A.? Mr., ah, Leggett, and Miss Fenster are here for their consultation.”

  Upon hearing her reply, I nodded. I returned the handset to the phone base. “Miss A. will join you momentarily.”

  I shouldn’t have bothered to inform them. So engrossed with each other, my comment didn’t compute.

  Their hands roved over their upper arms and shoulders. He glided his index finger across her jaw in a sensual caress. She flicked her tongue along his earlobe.

  Gag. A. Maggot. Turning my head, I covered my mouth with my hand to suppress the urge to puke.

  Within a few moments, Miss A. emerged from her office, garbed in her crisply ironed Wedding Wonderland jacket, and joined the couple in the reception area.

  Amazingly, Jonson stood and bowed over Miss A’s hand. With clasped hands to her chest, Barbie looked at her prospective groom with loving adoration.

  At Wedding Wonderland, Miss A. gave each client a white notebook containing a checklist to help them track the wedding plans and also included images of the items ordered through us—the whole enchilada for arranging the greatest day in a couple’s lifetime. For the most part, the information matched the software program. Giving the client the book caused The Day to feel more special, which made the bride feel more special.

  Miss A. waved the duo to the chairs and set a personalized tome on the table in front of Barbie, who riffled through the pages.

  Finally, Barbie backtracked and landed on the title page. Her excitement visibly showed in her waving arms and antsy demeanor as she pointed out her name and Jonson's entwined in a whimsical calligraphy. “See, dear? Our names. Don’t they look sweet?”

  “Oh, my darling one,” Jonson said. “You’re the sweetest.”

  “No, darling, you are.”

  “No,” he said. “You are.”

  Ick. Ick. Ick. I rubbed my tummy.

  As they discussed items, Miss A. flipped through the book, noting specific details.

  Barbie listened intently and nodded.

  I had a hard time believing Barbie truly absorbed everything she heard.

  Jonson’s attention focused on Miss A. and Barbie, but I wondered for how long. He could be rather fidgety, like “out of control little kid who needed medication” fidgety.

  From under my eyelashes, I discreetly observed Miss A. work with the gruesome twosome. Mostly, Barbie answered her questions. My employer made notations on the software form she opened on her tablet. After Miss A. completed the consultation, I would review the questionnaire for any possible mistakes and omissions while the client, in this case, Barbie, tried on wedding dresses.

  Miss A. pressed Barbie’s forearm. “Now, Ms. Fenster—”

  “Please, call me Barbie.” She smiled, bumping her shoulder with Jonson.

  He blinked out of his stupor and looked at his darling one.

  “Everyone does. Don’t they, my love?”

  Barbie turned her head to look at Jonson with a longing, which caused my stomach to churn and burn.

  Jonson pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Yes, but I call you my darling.”

  I cringed over the “darling” part. He used the same endearment for Tracey. In my mind, I called him “asshole.”

  “Of course, er, Barbie,” Miss A. said. “We’ve finalized the paperwork. Why don’t I escort you to the gown room to select some dresses?” She glanced up. “And Mr. Leggett—”

  He gave her his toothy grin. “Call me Jonson.”

  Too bad I hadn’t pursued a career in dentistry as my vocation. I would drill his root canal without anesthetic.

  “My pleasure,” Miss A. said. “Jonson, please wait here.”

  Jonson pouted and took a few steps after them. “I want to be with Barbie. She’ll need my advice.”

  Miss A. tick-tocked a finger and pointed to the chair where he had sat. “Would you want bad luck because you caught sight of the bride in her dress before the wedding?”

  Jonson’s eyes widened. His gaze shifted for one moment to his right, then returned to Barbie.

  Miss A. laughed at his expression. “An old saying. I’m teasing you. However, I wouldn’t want to buck tradition, would you?”

  Maybe he’d seen wife No. 1 and No. 2 in their gowns beforehand, which would explain why those marriages curdled like expired milk. But seeing the girls in their finery wasn’t the primary reason why. His “little johnson” didn't like being contained. His way or no way. More yuck.

  I had seen his tantrums in action. He hated when someone over-rode his wishes and loved making people squirm. For once, he checked his anger, probably to please Barbie.

  With a small laugh, Jonson half-assed joined Miss A.’s joke as he slunk back to his chair. He picked up the bridal magazine sitting on the small glass table between the chairs.

  I didn’t bother to inform the loser of the difficulties of reading upside down.

  I trailed my gaze to Barbie, who chatted and pranced her way with Miss A. to the gown room as if following the golden trail to the fabled emerald city.

  After a few blinks, Jonson comprehended he wasn't reading.

  He rotated the magazine to the correct position. But he must have had little attention for the article because he dropped the magazine back on the table and flipped through the invitation sample book.

  I downloaded the consultation program. I tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard, reviewing the data Ms. A. entered. Discreetly, I looked from the corner of my eye to see him glance my way. My tapping must have diverted his concentration toward me.

  His expression vanished, and his color faded to flour-paste white.

  I stole a longer look, secretly reveling at his shocked face. I laid my hand across my heart. “Why, Jonson Leggett the Third,” I drawled, using my best girly-girl gush. “Oh my, oh my, it is you.”

  He-he-he, here’s where my mean streak flowed forth. “I haven’t seen you in ages, like at least three or maybe four years. Your loss. What on earth are you doin’ here?”

  He crossed his arms and nodded once. “Hattie.”

  Surprisingly, Jonson said my name and didn’t choke. No excitement, no interest in his greeting, mostly indifference—a reaction I knew well. Jonson hated me, but I hated him more.

  “What a looonng time,” I said. “Surely, you’ve found greener pastures.” Like under a rock. In a grave. In the frigid regions of the North Pole—no. Too close to Santa Claus. Wouldn’t want the jolly fellow contaminated.

  “You’re looking so-soooo…you. I presume you’re getting married again?”

  Chapter Seven

  “None of your business.” He buried his face in the invitation book.

  Sourpuss. Jonson didn’t want to talk to me. Like he could dissuade moi. I personified the persistence of a dog digging for a buried bone when needling him. “Oh, but the wedding business is my business.”

  One eye appeared over the top of the book.

  “As you can see”—I emphasized my point with a sweeping arm motion, taking in the whole store. Standing, I twirled about to model the newly embroidered jacket—“I’m an employee of Wedding Wonderland. Tee-hee-hee.”

  I stepped closer, circling the back of his chair to the far side.


  His head jerked from left to right.

  “How exciting for you, planning—what? Your third or fourth trip down the aisle?” I pressed a finger to my jaw. “No, no, no. I had it right the first time—your third visit to the altar—that I know of. My, my, my. This will be your third marriage, not your second, not your fourth. Your third. I bet Ms. Fenster believes she’s a lucky gal. Wouldn’t she love to hear war stories about your prior nuptials?”

  I scrubbed my palms in a deliciously wicked way and, for a fun effect, swiveled toward Miss A. and his fiancée.

  “Stay. Away. From Barbie. Bitch.”

  I spun about. Bitch—me? I squinched my eyes and glared. Jonson hadn’t seen anything—yet. Like most women, I could channel my inner bitchiness if I wanted, and, oh, how I wanted to. I rubbed his skin raw, but I always had. We never-never, ever-ever liked each other. From our first meeting, something intuitively inside me recognized how he embodied a snake oil salesman. Totally untrustworthy.

  He knew I knew.

  I knew he knew I knew.

  Scowling, Jonson re-crossed his long, khaki-clad legs, adjusting the “freshly starched by the cleaner’s creases” at his knees. From the side table, he picked up the water bottle Miss A. gave him and, ever-so-casually, drank.

  “I have no problem telling the owner about you and insist she fire your ass,” Jonson said. “If she doesn’t, I’m happy to take my business elsewhere.”

  Of course, he delighted in playing dirty, but his hold-Hattie-hostage scare tactics didn't worry me. I wished for a cattle prod so I could zap the monster multiple times in his most vulnerable spot. To hear him squeal like a suckling pig would bring me great joy.

  I probably sounded perverted.

  But doing so wouldn’t be fair to Miss A. and the success of Wedding Wonderland. I could contain my antagonism. Softly, I said, “Does Barbie know about your…extracurricular activities?”

  “Like I already said, you”—Jonson pointed—“stay away from Barbie.”

  “No problem,” I said with joy but didn’t mean.

  I caught Miss A. squinting our way. Worry molded her mouth, just a downward turn to the corners.

  She led newly gowned Barbie onto the viewing platform.

  “Hattie,” she asked. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Delighted to, Miss A.” I walked away, then remembered the hog in the room and paused. Over my shoulder, I said with a sweetness I didn’t mean, “So unlovely to talk with you, Jonson.”

  While chugging more water, he cut me a hard scowl.

  Squirm, you worm. With my most beatific smile, I threw back my shoulders and sallied on, conveying how little control Jonson’s “get you fired” comment swayed me.

  As I drew closer to the other women, I clapped my hands and mustered cheerfulness in my voice. “Oh, Barbie.” A huge sigh. “You look…amazing.”

  Miss A. and I oohed and aahed over Barbie. In the end, she picked a traditionally styled, long-sleeved, solid lace, stark white, full-skirted ball gown with a deep U in the back. Tiny, tiny pearl buttons had been fastened at the waistline. Swarovski crystals and more pearls were sewn onto the lace bodice, and when she turned and struck her Miss Somerville Automotive Parts pose, sparkles glinted and flashed, doubly emphasized in the mirrors.

  Miss A. located on a display shelf a glittery tiara—after all, Barbie had been crowned a beauty queen multiple times—and a veil not trimmed along the edge with the matching lace, but with a row of the same crystals.

  After noting any fitting issues, Miss A. escorted Barbie to the changing room to help her undress. She stowed the gown in her office for her alterations friend. She brought the tag to the check-out counter, where she entered a whopping amount in the computer.

  From over Miss A’s shoulder, I watched her complete the transaction.

  Jonson stepped forward and inserted a debit card in the reader.

  My mouth twisted to one side as I wondered will his card bounce? When married to my sister, he acted like he never had any dough. He frequently lost at poker, but Tracey said he never won much when he did win. Right before she announced her divorce intention, he cleaned out their joint bank account. One could surmise he did the same for No. 1 wife.

  I’m betting Barbie’s dad, the one loaded with beaucoup de Benjamins, funds him.

  The idea crossed my mind—should I inform Barbie what Jonson would do to her and her family?

  But I didn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  Not the right place or time.

  Every day, I read the “Aunt Sally” advice column in the Sommerville Express. She counseled countless readers to button their lips. I should heed her guidance. Besides, who would want to be Ms. Spoilsport, ruining Barbie’s happy day?

  Hopefully, she would see Jonson’s true colors before the monstrous event and boot him to the curb.

  Miss A. returned Jonson’s card and placed the receipt in a white leather folder embossed with the store’s name. She handed it along with a pen to him for his signature. “Here you go. If you will sign on this line…”

  He scrawled his name, adding a flourish to the III. Clearly, a financial institution offered him credit.

  “Thank you so much, Miss A., for all your help. I look forward to our planning sessions.” Barbie tilted her head and smiled.

  Once Barbie’s additional purchases were bagged, she gathered the sacks and, in the fashion of a rock star’s entourage, swept Jonson out the door. She chattered the entire way to the high-priced, German sport utility vehicle he drove.

  Miss A. and I stood in the doorway and called “bye-bye” like flight attendants watching passengers deplane. Only I didn’t mean what I thought in a nice way. More like in a “good riddance” manner.

  Miss A. returned to the desk.

  Slowly, I followed her. Revenge ideas churned in my head. Nothing would be better than to conjure up a sabotaging scheme. Jonson belonged to the slimiest lizard category like the “disturbing, flesh-eating Komodo Dragon with flicking tongue and sharp talons” kind. The creepiness of the mental image infiltrated my brain, causing my shoulders to auto-shimmy.

  Miss A. rounded the desk to pick up Jonson’s half-drunk water bottle and tossed it in the trash can. All the while, she prattled on about how “incredibly thrilled” their upcoming nuptials were.

  I wanted to scream.

  “You know,” she said. “Barbie’s parents are outstanding in the Sommerville community. Her mother is on the Sommerville Library Board—”

  With my mother.

  “Her father chairs one for the Sommerville Performance Hall—”

  With my father and Mrs. Wellborn.

  “Mr. Fenster owns the local lumberyard, although the business grew to be more than that. What a grand coup to get his help.”

  I hated to say Jonson’s standing was never built on a good foundation.

  “Hopefully, when their big day hits the newspapers,” Miss A. said, “Wedding Wonderland is mentioned. The store will get lots of word-of-mouth referrals. Barbie and Jonson’s influence will go a long way in discoverability.”

  Scrolling the mouse, she reviewed the appointment, information, and selections.

  Then, a niggle of puzzlement crowded her eyes, as if she remembered something.

  “Hattie, as a long-time resident of Sommerville, you know a lot of people—”

  “I do.”

  “How well do you know Jonson Leggett?”

  Tainting her opinion didn’t sound like a good idea. Before answering, I hem-hawed while stacking paperwork in neat piles, avoiding eye contact. I didn’t know how to tell her and implement being tactful at the same time. I adjusted the stapler. Then tweaked the pen jar.

  “Dearie, I think you do know him. How?” Miss A. took off her bifocals. “Dare I ask, did you date him?”

  For the third time, I controlled the urge to upchuck. “No way. He’s a loser.” Oops, I probably shouldn’t have used my pet name for him in front of my new employer. I had a way of statin
g the unexpected brutally honest truth at inappropriate moments.

  Miss A.’s eyes rounded to the size of cereal bowls. Her mouth dropped slightly open. “I apologize if I upset you. You aren’t friends?”

  Fix her mistaken belief quick, Hattie, or risk termination. “I’m sorry for being rude, Miss A.” I touched a finger to my lips before continuing. “No, you didn’t upset me. I do know him, but we aren’t friends. We won’t ever be.”

  “How are you acquainted—if you don’t mind my asking a personal question?”

  I always found being honest the best way to go. However, sometimes, reality needed to be manipulated in a delicate and subtle fashion. I placed my hands on top of the monitor. “He’s a slime ball. A creep.”

  My social graces regarding Jonson Leggett the Third evaporated. Non. Ex. Is. Tent.

  Her eyes widened as she cupped her throat. “Creep. Loser. Slime ball—why would you call him these names?”

  “Miss A.”—I set my fists to my hips and looked over the store, wondering where to launch my story—“what I have to say is…unsettling.”

  She nodded. “Take your time.”

  I inhaled deeply. “Long before you moved here, Jonson Leggett the Third was married to my sister, Tracey, for one year. A horrid scandal followed. She divorced him. Front page gossip in big, bold headlines in the Sommerville Express for the entire universe to read. My mother nearly fainted.”

  “Married? For only one year?”

  At my nod, Miss A. tugged on her bifocals, letting them dangle from the chain on her chest.

  “Oh my, not very long. You say the marriage took place before I came to Sommerville?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clasping her hands in front of her sternum, she looked from her left to the right before pinning her bright blue eyes on me.

  “I’m guessing a story is in there somewhere. Can you say what happened?”

  Biting my lip, I crossed my arms. Tracey wouldn’t mind me telling her side if doing so helped someone. I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. “Jonson talked my sister into eloping to Vegas. While they were on their honeymoon, he, er, engaged in a one-night stand. He came home and had another…and another—”