Laina Turner - Presley Thurman 01 - Stilettos & Scoundrels

by Laina Turner

  “It’s been too long since the last time you were here. I know you are busy with your life in the city, but we’re not that far away,” he chided gently.

  “I know, I know. Mother never fails to remind me each time we talk.” It was precisely why I had to force myself to call home each week. I loved my mother, but I hated being lectured and feeling guilty. I was good enough at making myself feel guilty.

  “She only acts that way because she misses you, King,” my dad replied, using the long- time family nickname, which, for the record, I hated and always hated, which was precisely the reason my dad still used it. My mother had always been an avid Elvis Presley fan. Since I wasn’t a boy, she could not name me Elvis—something I was thankful for every day. Instead, she named me Presley. Then, when my brother was born, her fixation on Elvis still going strong, but recognizing that she could not have two children named Presley and Elvis, she named him Jesse, after Elvis’ twin brother who died at birth. Unfortunately, my dad started calling me “King” for the King of Rock ’n’ Roll when I was a baby. At the time, it was cute, and at one point, I actually liked it. However as I got older, it got to be annoying. Of course, he thought it was hilarious. It never stopped driving me crazy, especially as a teenager, which just meant he used the nickname even more.

  “Can we stop with the nicknames yet?” I asked, only half in jest;. There was a part of me that secretly enjoyed hearing it from him. “I am an adult and it’s not cute anymore. ‘King’ sounds like the name of a German Sheppard, not your daughter.” I knew I was wasting my breath with this request, and my dad didn’t even get a chance to reply because as we walked up onto the porch, my mother started in.

  “It’s about time you got here. You said you’d be here around three and it’s going on six. We were worried sick,” she said snappishly, wringing the dishtowel in her hand. While I didn’t relish listening to her, I thought it was comforting in an odd way. It made me feel like I was finally home. My mother had probably cooked all day and I was going to hear about how I had screwed dinner up. I sighed. So maybe I wouldn’t be able to last through the weekend after all. I’d lived with my mother for all those years growing up, so it shouldn’t be so difficult. Patience, I told myself. Deep breath in…relax. I tried remembering the calming things I learned in yoga the few times I tried it. My attempt at yoga was short lived because it had to be about the most boring form of exercise I had ever tried. When the yoga instructor said to be at peace with yourself, I had been thinking about work, food, or wine—all the things I would rather be doing, which was not exactly the most relaxing. Don’t let her get to you, I said to myself. This was just the same crap we went through every time.

  “And what are you wearing?” My mother gasped like she had just seen that I was naked.

  I looked down at myself, almost afraid by my mother’s expression that I was naked and didn’t realize it. What could possibly be wrong with this? I had on my favorite, albeit only, genuine Juicy sweat suit. It was a perfect fit, the kind where the pants fit snugly in all the right places and the jacket just barely reached the top of the pants, so when I moved you got the briefest glimpse of tummy. I had been going to my Pilates classes religiously for the past six weeks to be able to wear this. When I put it on this morning though, I wondered if I should wait a few more weeks, but threw caution to the wind and wore it anyway. Who was going to see me on the drive to Alkon other than a bunch of truck drivers and the gas station employees where I stopped? Plus, vibrant green was one of my best colors. It brought out enough of my other great features that a little extra tummy (ok, ok…and ass too), wasn’t very noticeable. Or so I thought. As usual, my mother was making me fall back into the old pattern of self-doubt.

  “Mother, I am a big girl now. I didn’t realize that I need to check in,” I retorted, annoyed that it took all of two minutes for my mother to make me feel sixteen again. “Besides, I said afternoon. Technically wouldn’t that give me until five o’clock?” I didn’t say anything about my mother’s comment regarding my clothes, even though I really wanted to. This was a fashion statement, and it wasn’t my problem if my mother didn’t understand that. I felt I must be reaching a new level of maturity and was getting better at handling things, since I was able to let my mother’s snide comments go like that.

  No one else ever made me this mad this quickly. Was it a mother’s gift to be critical? My mother and I were a lot alike. We both had the same dark red hair and hazel eyes. Sue Thurman was taller at five feet nine inches, to my five feet six inches, and I had all the boobs, thanks to Grandma Margaret. I inherited her grandmother “Ds,” but they had somehow skipped my mother. It was something else my mother always complained about—she was sensitive about her small tatas. Personally, I didn’t see what the big deal was. They got in the way more than anything did. But maybe when you are blessed with boobs, it is hard to understand what it is like to not have any. My friend back in Chicago, Samantha, always complained about her small ones too.

  My mother was beautiful and looked younger than her fifty-nine years, as had my grandmother, and her great-grandmother. I hoped I was lucky enough to inherit those genes. Unfortunately, our personalities were also alike, which is why, I often lamented, we never got along. I felt that I was the much easier one to get along with, but I was not sure my mother would always agree.

  “Aren’t you just happy I’m here, Mother?” I asked, giving her a peck on the cheek, trying to mask my annoyance and trying to keep the peace, or at least prolong it awhile. “You look great.” She was dressed in what I always called the “Junior League uniform”—very conservative tan slacks with a mauve sweater set. Complete with the pearl buttons and a strand of pearls around her neck, she was the Junior League stereotype. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a chignon, and she was wearing minimal make up, just a swish of pale pink lipstick and mascara. She looked like she could host any kind of charity event at a moment’s notice and, on occasion, had. She had a knack for being able to throw things together at the last minute that turned out fabulous. I, on the other hand, often felt scattered and half pulled together, and that was on a good day. Always looking pulled together was something about my mother I envied.

  “Don’t be sassy with me, young lady. You could have had the common courtesy to call and tell us. Isn’t that what your cell phone is for? You could have been lying dead in a ditch. How would we know? Guess they don’t care about manners in the city,” my mother said. “I hope you are hungry at least, though the food is probably ruined after sitting for so long.” With that, she stomped back in the house. I looked back at my dad for help, and he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He never seemed to let her criticisms bother him. He just rolled with the punches. His eyes twinkled with amusement. He found our sparring funny most of the time.

  “Glad you still find this so amusing, Dad” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “What can I say? It’s what I live for,” he joked back. “It wouldn’t seem the same if you two didn’t bicker all the time.”

  Even though I had been here all of five seconds and had already been yelled at, I was excited about dinner, as my mom was a great cook. She just didn’t understand that three big meals a day, fried, breaded, and always including dessert, were not good for my waistline. I never failed to gain two pounds per day every time I visited. I couldn’t understand why my parents weren’t five hundred pounds. I already had enough trouble fitting into my size eights, mainly because I had no willpower and only did Pilates because I had to, not because I liked it. I also felt compelled to give myself a reward after any form of exercise, and that typically included some form of chocolate. Some might say that was counterproductive, but I felt it was motivational. This was going to be a tough weekend in many ways that I hadn’t anticipated. I groaned.

  Sitting down to a delicious pot roast, still moist of course and not ruined as my mother had threatened, my mother asked, “So, how long are you planning on staying?”

  “I’m not sure. The interv
iew with Senator Daniels is scheduled for tomorrow, and then I was planning to stay through until maybe Monday or Tuesday. I’ll need to get back to write up the piece by the deadline.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I wanted an out if my mother really started driving me crazy. Then I could leave and not feel as guilty about it. I was feeling really good about my ingenuity.

  “Is Rick going to be joining you?” my mother asked.

  “No mother, I told you last week we were still broken up.” Here we go, I thought. Now I was going to have to listen to my mom go on and on about how horrible it was to be single.

  “You’re not getting any younger you know. If you had listened to me, this would never have happened. But no, you never listen to me.”

  “Mother, he cheated on me. How do you figure me not listening to you could have impacted it?”

  “I agree he’s a jerk, Presley. But, I told you when you moved in with him that you were rushing things. I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I guess I was right,” she replied, with a smug sense of satisfaction.

  “Let’s not have that conversation. Rick was a jerk. He’s history. Can we please just move on? Let’s not talk about me losing my job either or anything else negative, let’s just enjoy each other’s company.”

  “I ran into Brian Ames the other day. He’s such a nice boy.” My mother changed topics with minimal effort. She seemed to accept my request to move on, but I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t bring it up again later.

  I kept eating my pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans, all, of course, smothered with gravy. I thought that maybe if I ignored my mother, she would lose interest. Besides, dinner was so good that it commanded my full concentration. When I sat down at the table, all resolve to adhere to my diet went out the window. I already decided to start my diet when the weekend was over. There was no way I was turning down any of this food. It was worth starving myself later. My God, I wished I could cook like this. Though maybe not, because I would never fit into my skinny jeans or my fat jeans if I did.

  “I told him you would be here this weekend,” she said to me, giving me a disapproving glance as I reached for seconds of the gravy. Obviously, my mother wasn’t distracted enough by what I was saying to not notice how much I was eating.

  “You did what?” I said through a mouthful of food. “Why would you do that? You never even liked Brian.” I wasn’t sure she ever really liked Brian. He was the star football player, which in high school meant that he was the coolest boy ever. Brian Ames had been my high school boyfriend. The typical high school thing: hot and heavy one minute and breaking up over something stupid the next. Typical high school love played out in high schools everywhere. Brian and I were together off and on until after graduation. Then I realized his big plan for the future was to stay in Alkon and be a mechanic. Not that there was anything wrong with being a mechanic, but he also thought we should get married and settle down in Alkon while I, on the other hand, didn’t think so. When he clearly expressed how he expected me to be little Susie homemaker, I decided I had enough of the relationship.

  Housekeeper of the year wasn’t on my agenda. Since the age of fourteen, I wanted out of this town as soon as possible. I wanted to go to the big city, be independent, and have a career. I had big plans; I was destined to be somebody important. Brian wanted Betty Crocker; I wanted to be Katherine Graham. Things weren’t pretty at the end, but what break up was good when you were eighteen? At that age, it’s about drama. Drama that I hadn’t thought about for years, until now. It was funny to think about now.

  “Well, you were too young and way too serious,” my mother replied. “But he’s grown up nice, and he has his own garage now, making a good living. I hear he’s the best mechanic in town. Isn’t that right, Clark?”

  My dad just looked at her and smiled, clearly amused by the situation but not willing to be drawn in. I could clearly see where this was going. My mother was afraid I would end up an old maid. All the town girls my age and younger were married with babies, and she was mortified that I didn’t even have a boyfriend. To my mother that was the unthinkable. I could see that my mother felt I needed help in this area, so much so that she was pimping me out to an ex-boyfriend who she never even liked in the first place. Were all mothers like this or just my mother? My single girlfriends in the city didn’t seem to have their mothers on their backs this much.

  “Anyway, I…” Sue started to say.

  The doorbell rang and I immediately knew what my mother was starting to say. I looked at her, eyes narrowed and steam coming out of my ears. I was going to kill her. I couldn’t believe this; my mother invited him over. Of all the nerve.

  “…invited him over for dessert.” Sue avoided my gaze and jumped up from the table to answer the door. She was almost at a sprint in two steps, which, at her age, was impressive. Who knew she could move that fast? “I thought you two might like to catch up.”

  “How could you?” I whispered angrily. I looked at my dad. “How could you let her do this?” I jumped out of my seat, furious. My dad threw up his hands and smiled. “I had no idea, King.” Sure, he was telling the truth, I still gave him a dirty look simply for being amused at the situation. This was in no way funny.

  Following on my mother’s heels to the door, I couldn’t believe my mother would do this to me. Actually, I could believe it. My mother just didn’t understand that I was fine being alone. Many women stayed single forever and were extremely happy. I was just about to unleash a verbal tirade of biblical proportions, when my mother hurriedly opened the door. She knew it would shut me up, at least temporarily. One of the things we had in common was our ability to put up a good front. Thurmans never let you see them sweat. It was one of the things I was grateful to my mother for—it was amazing how handy this skill had been in my life.

  “Hello, Brian,” my mother gushed, instantly changing her attitude, always the hostess. No wonder people thought she was the nicest person. When I was a kid, all my friends thought my mother was the nicest. That’s because they didn’t have to live with her, I tried to tell them, but they never believed me. “Come on in.”

  I looked up at Brian. I needed to be polite and to say hi, but I was momentarily taken aback. Brian had been cute in high school, but he had not grown into a handsome man. He was already losing his hair at thirty-three or thirty-four. To think, I could have married him. What was my mother thinking? I would admit that I was a little superficial, but it was hard to believe that he had changed so much. Brian’s looks notwithstanding, I didn’t need my mother interfering in my love life. I was perfectly able to screw it up on my own. I loved men and having them around, but there were many drawbacks to being in a relationship that sometimes overshadowed the positives. I knew most women agreed with that.

  “Hi, Brian,” I said. Not a particularly witty opening line, especially after not seeing him for years, but I was still taking this all in. On a positive note, he went from a scrawny teenager of average height to a well-muscled man just over six feet. His blue eyes were the same as in high school, but they were in a face that had transformed from boyish good looks to a not-so-kind maturity of fine lines and no hair over the years. He also looked scruffy, but not the cute scruffy, more the…well… scruffy, scruffy. When he smiled at me though, I could see he had kept the same twinkle in his blue eyes. He had always been mischievous, with the ability to seem sincere even when he wasn’t. I had fallen for it many times, but I was older and wiser and not about to be taken in by it. It was comforting to see that he still had that spark. I looked over and my mother was beaming as if she just discovered the Holy Grail. I resigned myself to having Brian over for dessert. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, I still had my mother’s chocolate cake to look forward to and that made anything tolerable.

  ******

  Dessert wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Brian was charming and super nice to my mother, although I really didn’t need my mother to have any more reason to like him. She’d only bug me even more
about why I couldn’t live happily ever after with Brian and give her the grandchildren she wanted. Afterward Brian and I decided to take a drive up town to the newly opened Coffee Café. When I last came back to town, this place had been a Dog ’n Stuff, not a hot dog stand as one might think, but rather pet store, and before that, a dry cleaners. I hoped the Coffee Café would last a little longer. I couldn’t imagine not having any options for coffee other than McDonald’s. Not that their coffee was bad, and they did just come out with lattes. While I was somewhat cheered by the thought of coffee, I was still annoyed by my mother’s insistence that I change my clothes before going out. Right in front of Brian, which was what really got on my last nerve. My mother said she didn’t want me to embarrass her by showing up in town in a sweat suit. I tried to explain this wasn’t just a sweat suit, but the finer points of Juicy Couture completely escaped my mother. It was easier to give in and put on some dark denim boot cut jeans and a screen-printed t-shirt with a peace sign on it. Sue wasn’t much happier with this choice and frowned when she saw the black high-heeled boots I had paired with it. I loved these boots; they showed off the jeans well.

  “Grande, non-fat, extra shot, no whip latte,” I said, walking up to the counter and ordering with practiced efficiency. “Oh, with just a small shot of caramel, please.” The girl behind the counter just looked at me, puzzled.

  Brian whispered, “I don’t think they have all that fancy stuff, Pres.”

  “Oh,” I said somewhat deflated. I ordered from habit, not even looking at the menu board posted behind the counter. I had a bad coffee habit, addicted to the caffeine. I rationalized drinking coffee by getting lattes; although more fattening, I told myself that the milk would help me stave off osteoporosis. I knew it was far fetched, but there had to be a grain of truth to it. I was drinking milk I otherwise wouldn’t be drinking, wasn’t I? Money spent now on lattes was money I wouldn’t have to spend later for medical care, although the prices at Starbucks were about as affordable as health care. Without a steady income right now, a twenty dollar a day coffee habit was something maybe I ought to give up.