by Vicki Batman
“She didn't know. Her words spewed out without thought.” Tracey bobbed her head. “I know Sommerville is a small town, yet I haven’t seen him since before our divorce, and I don’t want to again.”
Miss A. placed her hand on her chest. As it dropped away, she moved closer and bent her head. “Tell me quickly what took place.”
“I’m so sorry. My fault,” Tracey said. “Not Hattie’s.”
Miss A. swallowed, tweaking her jacket into place. “You’re Hattie’s sister, the one who is marrying soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tracey Cooks. I’m so sorry about the…fuss.”
Miss A.’s gaze took in the room, as did mine. All the other customers’ merriment continued as if nothing had transpired—thank God.
“Everything looks good, girls. Just tell me what happened.”
“I—”
“Let me, Trace.” I faced Miss A. “From the get-go, Jonson walked in the store in an unpleasant mood, compounded by his drinking. He practically dragged Barbie inside. He demanded a discount on their previous purchases—”
Miss A. shook her head. “No way. I gave them a generous discount based on using their images in our materials and on social media when Barbie registered.”
“Jonson didn't care. He assumed he could bully me into something different—you know—just because. That’s the way he operates. Then Tracey waltzed in. Jonson recognized her, and choice words were exchanged. Barbie asked about Tracey, and I shared the truth. The end.” I gave my shoulder a bare lift.
Miss A.’s normally poufy pouty lips thinned. “I see.”
“I’m sorry, Miss A.” I paused. “Probably, their marriage was doomed from the beginning.”
She bobbed her head. “I’m beginning to think so, too.”
With a from-the-heart sigh, I uttered the words I didn’t want to say but had to—the very ones which might set me job hunting again. “I didn’t act professionally. If you want to let me go—”
She set her hand on top of mine.
“No, dearie. You are staying. I will never understand how people do not embrace the sanctity of marriage. It is forever and ever, not for the moment.”
“Jonson doesn’t comprehend the concept. Not with a small part”—with a mischievous grin, I crooked my little finger—“like his.”
Behind her hand, Tracey snickered for a moment, then grew somber. “And how would you know his man part size, sister dear?”
“Why, sister dear, you told me.”
“So I did.”
The corners of Miss A’s lips pulled in a silly smile. “I’ll gladly refund his money. Anything to disassociate me and the store from him. He is not the kind of customer we want representing Wedding Wonderland.”
“I’ve been thinking all his dough comes from her rich daddy,” I said.
“I wouldn't be surprised.” Miss A.’s exhale puffed her chest. “Now, let’s get back to work. Circulate with the champagne, Hattie. Tracey”—she twined her arm with my sister’s—“let’s look at wedding gowns. I believe Hattie set aside a special one just for you. I can’t wait to see you try it on.”
With an energized set to her mouth, she sailed forth, towing my sissie to the gown section.
Miss A. had shown another characteristic I admired. A force to be reckoned with. Unflappable.
Chapter Nine
Dead dog tired, I questioned whether my BFF was Jenny or not because I found myself dragged to the rehearsal studio for another tango session after Wedding Wonderland closed for the day. The grand-opening event seemed never-ending, and my feet hurt more than possible, making dancing lessons unappealing. A good meal would have relieved my fatigue—if I had found time to eat something other than the petit fours we passed out at Wedding Wonderland.
Regretfully, I eyed the front entry as I walked the concrete path to the studio. Only two more lessons to go. Praise the Lord.
I stepped inside tentatively, noting the nearly dim lighting. I settled my gaze on Ms. Yolanda, garbed in another from her crazy caftan collection. I bet she crammed her closet with one in every color.
Stuart and Tracey stood by the chairs lining one wall, having a heated discussion. Expressive arms flew everywhere. Fingers stabbed near the eyes. Very unlike my sister to be animated, and I’d never seen Stuart flail his arms. Mainly, he personified quirky tics and bad clothing choices.
Something had turned South in paradise. After a few minutes, Stuart’s expression changed from his usual puppy dog self to one of drawn eyebrows and a downturned mouth.
My sister repeatedly pressed a tissue to the corners of her eyes, her mouth scrunched in a frown.
Were they discussing what happened at the shop with slime butt? And does Stuart know about Tracey's past marriage?
Tracey’s gaze traveled past her fiancé and settled on me. I lifted one shoulder and raised my palms.
She shook her head.
Fine. Tracey didn’t need my help, and I lacked anything to offer except to corroborate her story of the “close encounter of the lizard ex” kind.
I didn’t want to be pulled into their hullabaloo. No way because today, I’d had enough. If their chat grew lively again, I would station myself on the opposite side of the room and prepare for a Great Escape. I pressed my back into the wall, and when I determined no one paid any attention, I inched my way to the farthest corner.
I stopped when I spied Mr. Migh-tee Fine Allan leaning against the wall opposite me. He studied Stuart and Tracey like paradise between them faded with the setting sun, and, if true, wondering if he would be off the hook as best man.
Allan dragged his index finger along the curve of his jaw.
I couldn't focus on anything except his luscious mouth, which made mine water with memories of his soul-deep kisses.
With nothing else to do or no one to talk with, I limply tossed my hands, crossed the room, and inserted myself in a space next to his right side. Instantly, a snap and crackle ignited just by my body being in the proximity of him. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes to control my feelings, so hoping they weren’t transparent. Now was not the time for anything “us.”
Allan said, without looking my way, “Something’s different.”
“Oh?”
“Stuart and Tracey aren’t happy.”
“Wow. You must have special powers to determine that.”
He cut me his squinty eye look. “I do. Special cop powers.”
Even the stupid lopsided tilt to his eyes was hot.
“What happened?” he asked.
I shook my head and shrugged. “I know nothing.”
“Wrong answer. You share everything with Tracey.”
Not everything everything. “Perhaps, not a Cadillac kind of day at Wedding Wonderland.”
“Not surprised. Trouble follows you at your so-called jobs.”
“Stop being judgmental. I didn’t do anything”—I took in his “not believing you” look—“well, okay, not much.”
Allan shifted and sighed. “I can’t wait to hear.”
I crossed my arms, bumping my backside against the mirrored wall. “Today, we experienced a teeny tiny kerfuffle between Jonson Leggett number three and Tracey.”
“Kerfuffle? My, Grandma, what big words you know.”
“Thank you. I’m sure my eighth-grade English teacher appreciates you noticing.”
“Smart aleck.”
“Just a teensy-weensy disagreement.”
“With Jonson? The blowhard? Hardly.” Allan snorted. “He graduated with my class in high school. Didn’t have many friends. An ass-wipe back then.”
He slanted his head and locked on me the “tell me everything” look. “Rumor says he’s getting married.”
Allan’s expression made me uneasy. I squirmed. “Yup. To poor, little rich girl Barbie Fenster of the lumberyard family. But maybe not after today.”
“The suspense is killing me.”
“Leave it alone, Allan. The drama—awful. Just awful.” I shook my head. “Loo
k at Stuart. When is he ever so animated? Aren’t accountants supposed to be rather…contained?”
“A huge misconception amplified by television portraying accountants as nerds. Back to the original subject—what if I’m called on to be a supportive best man?”
“You know how all couples have their moments?”
Allan dipped his chin. “Enlighten me. What moments?”
“This is one of them.”
He squinched a look. “And you’re an expert on couples—how?”
Allan always ruffled my proverbial feathers. “I’ve been part of a couple before.”
“So tell me, exactly how long ago did you date college boy?”
I flexed my fingers to ball my fist to sock his bicep. He was saved when Ms. Yolanda stepped to the center of the room, and the plastic coin trim on her caftan, which she most likely bought vast yards of, clicked.
She clapped. Undoubtedly, Ms. Yolanda stored more tango torture tricks in her sleeves.
The students formed a circle around her—a little too eagerly, in my opinion.
Allan dropped a groan before he pushed off to join the group.
I surrendered and stood by his side.
She lifted her hands. “Class, let’s practice what we’ve learned so far. Find your partner.”
No one dared to move.
“Come on,” Ms. Yolanda said, with summoning hands. “Or I’ll add fifteen more minutes to the set.”
Instantly, the group scattered like a bug bomb tossed on an intrusion of roaches.
Rotating to face Allan, I set my hand in his. His attention locked on me. A tingling increased to a burning flame through my palm and up to my neck. I sensed my head going hot, and undoubtedly, my face turned the color in the fire-engine red category. I managed to place my other hand on his shoulder.
“Closer.” He curled his fingers around mine.
My heart beat hard. My breath caught.
“I won’t bite.”
I shuffled my feet. “All talk. No action.”
“Well, maybe just a nibble.”
However, the twinkle in his eye and the one playing with his smile betrayed his “almost” pledge. Maybe one tiny love bite would be okay. I snorted. “So you say.”
I half shut my eyes and shifted into the intimacy range—becoming all too aware of his bigger body, remembering the last time we were naked, remembering how extraordinary he felt on top of mine. Good. Really, really good—
Snap out of it, Hattie.
After the rest of the students assembled, Ms. Yolanda clapped. “Anda one, anda two…”
Allan guided us in one direction, paused, posed. I skimmed my right leg in a half circle while Allan sharply swept my left arm in an arc over our heads. My gaze connected with his. Challenge, lust, and all man were discernible. In an odd way, something inside me switched to…excitably scared. The back of his hand slipped along the side of my arm to just above my wrist.
With each stroke, goose bumps pimpled my skin.
Ms. Yolanda aimed her remote at the music system. Notes faded away. “Class. A moment, please.”
Quickly, I released my hold with Allan. But I couldn’t tear away my gaze. So intently, I stared at him, and he stared at me, I sensed something like our souls merging.
“We’re leaving.” He grabbed my hand, my handbag, my coat, and dragged me to the door.
I felt my friends’ stares bore into my spine as they watched him rush me to his truck. When I glanced back, all of their mouths shaped an “O” like a perfect donut—except for Jenny’s.
Her mouth quirked upward as her fingers fluttered bon voyage.
Outside the studio, I found myself stumbling and bumbling across the parking lot to the 4-Runner.
Allan pounced a button on his key fob and jerked wide the passenger door. He shoved me inside with my handbag and coat dumped at my feet.
I didn’t like the rough stuff he exhibited, and when he opened his door and slid inside, I said, “Now, wait a minute, Buster—”
He pointed his finger at my face. “Shut up.”
“Shut up?” He raised his voice and told me to shut up? I couldn’t believe he spoke to ME like that.
The engine cranked on, and he shifted the SUV into gear. He concentrated on exiting the parking lot and turning onto Boston Avenue.
I crossed my arms. My mother never allowed us to use the phrase “shut up.” She said those words were akin to cursing. I bet a shiny quarter Mrs. Wellborn didn’t permit the use of those two little words at their home either.
“You cannot tell me to shut up. Not now. Not ever. Pull over, Allan. Now. I’d rather walk than ride with you.”
“Even in the cold?”
“Even in the cold.” I would thaw…someday.
“No.” He slid a sideways look my way. “Relax. Nothing bad will happen. Sorry about the rough stuff.”
So you say. I arranged my coat over my legs. “When the Mothers Always Know Network gets wind of our encounter—which they will because they always do—and convenes tomorrow at Super Saver grocery store over vegetables—maybe cauliflower’ll be out of stock—you’ll be in deep doo-doo for saying shut up. Trust me; I’ll make sure you are.”
Allan glanced my way for a nanosecond then refocused on the road. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You manhandled me and said a naughty word.”
“Manhandled? Funny.” He chuckled. “And yes, I might have naughty ideas.”
Despite his snatch-and-grab routine, nothing would happen. Mr. On-His-Way-to-Sainthood wouldn’t violate me. But I didn’t like the approach he used right now.
I stared at the passing scenery. Nothing great. This time of year, nighttime crept in early, right about drive time. The leaves had fallen off the trees, leaving bare black limbs piercing the sky. The grass’s texture resembled straw. The days grew cooler and cooler. Soon, the holiday season would be upon us.
I shifted a “from under my lashes” look his way. “Nothing has happened between us.”
Even in the truck’s dark cab lit by the dashboard lights, an attractive glint glowed in his eyes.
“Aw, there’s hope.”
In his dreams. Well, maybe in mine, too, without all the rough stuff.
Allan turned into the shopping center, which housed Mama’s & Papa’s Italian Bistro. He slotted his car, killed the engine, and cracked his door. “Come on.”
My mouth watered just by staring at the restaurant storefront. His idea involved food. Better yet, Italian food. A most excellent plan, and I could almost forgive him for the near kidnapping.
Out of the blue, my tummy gurgled. I laid a palm over my abdomen, hoping he hadn’t heard the noise while I pretended nothing transpired. Feeling pleased, I opened the truck's door and stepped out, tossing the coat around my shoulders.
His hand extended behind him in my direction. “Come, Hattie. Please, have dinner with me.”
Hunger overruled anger. I folded my hand with his. We walked to our favorite Italian restaurant. He held wide the glass entry door and let me pass through first. My senses were overpowered by the most fabulous scents ever—spicy garlic, sweet tomato, yeasty bread, and sharp onions.
I loved Mama’s & Papa’s Italian Bistro, a place my parents frequented with Tracey and me since elementary school. The same Tuscan prints decorated the golden faux-finished walls. The same Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra tunes oozed from the sound system.
I breathed in deeply then looked at Allan, overwhelmed in gratitude. “Nirvana.”
He crinkled his eyes. “Forgiven?”
Not sure which time I should forgive him for—when he’d eaten dinner here with Blonde Bimbo and broke my heart or for dragging me tonight. “I’m starving. So, you’re forgiven. By the way, did I say thanks for rescuing me from tango lessons?”
“My pleasure.” He touched the tip of my nose.
“This is way more fun.”
The hostess led us to a booth.
<
br /> He waved to the table. “Would you sit next to me?”
Oh God, the intimacy—thigh to thigh, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder. I didn’t know if I could handle the closeness. “S-Sure.”
After we wiggled into place on the banquette and the menus were passed around, I verified my favorite entrée and smiled. I closed the menu. “Lasagna.”
The waitress’ pencil hovered over her pad. “Comes with a dinner salad.”
“Perfect. With house dressing on the side.”
Allan returned his menu. “Same. And two glasses of Pinot Grigio? Okay for you?”
“Yes.” I ducked my chin. How well he knows me. After she left, a lull descended between us.
He tapped the red-checked cloth. “Want to talk about Stuart and Tracey now?”
The waitress placed filled wine glasses on the table, a breadboard with a small hot loaf, and a container of whipped butter.
Allan lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
I touched my rim to his. “Cheers.” I took a few swallows, letting the full-bodied citrus taste roll over my tongue. I set my glass on top of four red-and-white squares.
He set a buttered slice on my bread plate.
“Thank you.” I chewed contemplatively. “Jonson and Barbie visited the store today. He demanded the ten percent discount Wedding Wonderland offered to new customers. He pitched a royal fit after I told him his purchase didn’t qualify because they bought her dress and stuff earlier before the Grand Opening promotion. Then Tracey came in, not noticing him at first. But when they did see each other, ordnance exploded—the kind like an atomic bomb, all stink and smoke, mushrooming skyward with toxic vitriol.
“Maybe I didn’t use my best behavior, especially when he lit into his fiancée. But then, Barbie didn’t act so nice either. She had the gall to call Tracey ugly.”
“Let me guess. You said something not-so-nice in return.” He sipped his wine.
“You bet your sweet tushy—”
“My tushy is sweet? Cool.”
I put a second slice on my plate, adding a dollop of whipped butter on the side. “No one talks to my baby sister like Barbie did.” I chewed three, maybe four, bites.