Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  The three of them linked hands and bowed their heads.

  “Dear Lord,” began Petra, “be with us today and bestow upon us Your gifts of peace, serenity, and wisdom.”

  “And dear Lord,” added Toni, “please, especially, give me patience. And if I could GET IT RIGHT NOW, it sure would help!”

  “Amen,” said Petra, shaking her head, as Toni dashed out the door.

  Suzanne was busy then, as customers began piling into the Cackleberry Club. She took orders, hustled them back to Petra, delivered breakfasts, and poured refills on coffee and tea.

  When things finally settled down, Suzanne brewed herself a quick cup of Earl Grey tea and hovered in the kitchen near Petra, who was pouring batter into various-sized cake pans, getting ready for a marathon bake.

  “How much money did you raise yesterday?” Suzanne asked her. “From the Knit-In?”

  “Almost two thousand dollars,” said Petra, pouring batter into three five-inch-round pans.

  “Whatcha going to use the money for?”

  “We all voted to donate it to the Baby Lamb Club,” said Petra.

  “Lovely,” whispered Suzanne. The Baby Lamb Club was a small band of dedicated women who knitted tiny hats, booties, and blankets for premature babies as well as critically ill infants. These tiny knitted treasures were distributed in the neonatal and PICU units at nearby hospitals.

  Once in a while, the Baby Lamb Club was even asked by one of the nurses to knit a small burial gown, since the last thing on the minds of bereaved parents was finding suitable clothing for their infant.

  “The club will use it to buy the very best yarns,” said Petra. “Alpaca, angora, cashmere, lamb’s wool...”

  “You and your Baby Lamb Club friends are so kind and unselfish,” said Suzanne. A tear oozed from the corner of her eye as she put an arm around her friend and gave a quick squeeze.

  Petra smiled back, looking both sad and hopeful. “I can’t stand the thought of a sick or dying infant not having one item that’s been crafted with love.”

  “Ye gadz!” exclaimed Toni, as she banged through the swinging door into the kitchen. “The tent’s up and billowing and the tables and chairs are being unloaded.”

  “How’s it all look?” asked Suzanne.

  “Like the Ringling Bromers Barnum and Bailey Circus just lurched into town,” said Toni with a laugh.

  “That’s because it is a circus here,” added Petra. “All we need is a dancing bear.” She barked a sharp laugh. “Maybe we could get Doogie to step in.”

  “I prefer to take the high road and think of our situation as organized chaos,” said Toni. “But, please, will you two stop worrying? After lunch I’m going to check in with all our volunteers and cake-decorating people to make sure they’re locked and loaded for tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I should stay and help?” said Suzanne, hopefully.

  “Not on your life!” shouted Toni. “No way you’re chickening out of modeling today. And you better believe we’re going to demand a full report on your runway activities!”

  “Toni’s right,” said Petra. “The opening of Alchemy is a milestone for Kindred. It’s a big deal.”

  “Our Take the Cake Show is a big deal, too,” said Suzanne.

  “I know,” said Petra, “but the boutique is different.

  Kind of a watershed moment for our little town to be suddenly thrust into the mainstream of fashion.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Suzanne, wondering if liquid leggings and Ed Hardy T-shirts really were that big a deal.

  Suzanne was still worrying about Anson Dillworth as well as her modeling gig when she printed the luncheon offerings on the board. Lentil soup, coconut shrimp, lemon dill egg salad, chicken croquettes, and chocolate flapjacks.

  Two farmers in plaid shirts, sitting at the marble counter, watched carefully.

  “Is that croquet?” asked the first one. “Like with mallets and balls?”

  “Couldn’t be,” the second sniggered.

  “Croquettes,” said Suzanne. “Like with chopped chicken and onions made into little patties and fried to a toasty brown.”

  Suzanne moved about the Cackleberry Club, taking orders, keeping a watchful eye on the clock. She wanted to get to the Super 8 before one o’clock, checkout time.

  “I talked to Margie Gregory with the VA,” Petra told Suzanne, when she ducked back into the kitchen. “She says there’s a halfway house for veterans in Jessup. Place called Honor House. It’s transitional, not permanent, but if you can get your guy over there, they’ll do what they can to help.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” breathed Suzanne. “I’ll drive Dil there today.” She glanced around. “Now, if you think you can make do without me ...”

  “Go right ahead,” murmured Toni, who was standing at the grill, humming and gently turning chicken croquettes. “Man, I’ve got a bad case of stuck song syndrome. You know . . . when you get a song whirling around in your brain and it just keeps playing over and over?”

  “I hate when that happens,” said Petra. “Once I had the Gilligan‘s Island theme song in my head for two days. I thought I’d have to get electroshock therapy just to get rid of it.”

  “Delete the old hard drive,” said Suzanne with a laugh.

  “Remember how simple TV was back in the sixties?” Petra asked. “Every show had an opening song that basically told the gist of the story.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re right,” said Suzanne. “Like . . . ‘Here’s a story of a lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls.’ And ‘Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale ...’“

  “Don’t!” shrieked Petra, covering both ears.

  “Look at you,” Toni said to Suzanne. “Not nervous about modeling anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m nervous,” said Suzanne. “You don’t see it, but I’m schvitzing like crazy.”

  “Hey,” said Toni. “You know who else is modeling?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “Who?”

  “Barbara Welch from the feed store.” Toni flashed a slightly wicked grin.

  “Seriously?” Suzanne recalled Barbara as being rather short and beamy.

  “See?” said Toni, “you don’t have a thing to worry about. You’ll look like Heidi Klum next to her!”

  “No,” said Suzanne, “I’m just afraid I’ll look like Heidi Clodhopper!”

  Twenty minutes later Suzanne pulled her car into a parking spot outside room twelve at the Super 8 Motel. She knocked on the door, got no answer, knocked again. After ten minutes of banging, she went to the office and asked the young girl at the front desk if she knew what was up with the guest in room twelve.

  “Oh, he checked out,” said the girl. She sat on a high stool, her knees tucked up, chewing gum and watching a grainy black-and-white TV.

  “Checked out,” repeated Suzanne.

  The girl nodded. “Guy walked in, laid the key on the counter, and walked out again.”

  “Just like that,” said Suzanne. She could see the key for room twelve hanging on the board in back of the girl.

  The girl snapped her gum viciously and nodded. “Yup.”

  “When did this happen?”

  The girl switched her gaze from the TV to a large black-and-white clock that was protected by a silver grate. “Maybe ... oh ... forty-five minutes ago.”

  “You know where he went?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay ... thanks,” said Suzanne.

  She walked out of the office, stood in the gravel parking lot, and looked around speculatively. Out on the road, a thin stream of cars crawled by, but she could see no one walking away from the Super 8.

  Rats.

  Chapter twenty five

  Carmen Copeland’s fashion show was Suzanne’s worst nightmare realized in the flesh. First there was the scene in the changing room. At least two dozen waifs, in various stages of undress, wiggled and giggled and squirmed their youthful bodies into cute little outfits, the operative word being little. S
uzanne decided that Carmen hadn’t heard the news—heralded on CNN and FOX, and even trumpeted by Oprah—that the average U.S. woman now wore a size fourteen.

  No, she decided, stealing glances at all the skinny, midget, waif girls, Carmen didn’t have a semblance of a clue.

  Who were all these little women? Suzanne wondered. What planet did they come from? Did they disembark from a space ship or the death star Anorexia?

  “Suzanne!” squealed Missy, “you’re finally here!” Dressed in a long, black, skinny dress, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, Missy was barely recognizable to Suzanne. Her peaches-and-cream complexion had been replaced with streaks of wine-colored blusher, sooty eye shadow circled her eyes, and a gash of dark lipstick delineated her mouth. Her lush figure seemed to be reined in by a torturous body shaper.

  “You hired real models?” sputtered Suzanne. The subtext being, What am I, the silly little hometown ringer?

  Missy administered air kisses to Suzanne, a la Carmen Copeland, and said, “Carmen hired them. From the Fashion Merchandising program over at Darlington College. Don’t they look fabulous?”

  “Uh . . . no,” said Suzanne. “They look like models. So ... where’s Barbara Welch from the feed store?”

  “Carmen dismissed her,” said Missy. She shook her head and her long, dangly earrings lashed about her cheeks and neck.

  “Then why do you need me?” asked Suzanne, hoping she might also be dismissed, as ignominious as that word sounded.

  “Because you’re my friend,” said Missy, grasping Suzanne’s hand. “And you’re here to help us keep it real.”

  Carmen Copeland’s tight, hard face suddenly loomed in front of them like a mask that had been flung across the store. “This one hasn’t been to hair and makeup yet!” she rasped, pointing a finger at Suzanne.

  “I just got here,” explained Suzanne. “I was working.”

  Carmen dug her manicured talons into Suzanne’s shoulder and propelled her toward the back of the store. Shoving her down into a plastic-covered chair, Carmen shrieked, “Gregg!” at the top of her lungs.

  Gregg Montag, one of the owners of Root 66, suddenly appeared. He was gay, tall, blond, a trifle ethereal.

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” snarled Carmen. Then, as if Suzanne were a waxworks figure, incapable of seeing or hearing, Carmen rattled on about her deficits. “Eyebrows,” said Carmen, studying Suzanne’s face and looking unhappy. “For God’s sake, try to give her some kind of arch.” Carmen’s eyes narrowed. “Smoky eyeliner and eye shadow as well, then highlighter for a semblance of cheekbone. As far as her lips are concerned... well, it’s a good thing she’s still got an upper lip at her age.”

  “Thanks a million, Carmen,” said Suzanne, getting up. “And lotsa luck with your fashion show, because I have to...”

  Gregg grabbed Suzanne’s shoulder as Carmen flew off to accost her next victim.

  “. . . leave,” finished Suzanne, as Gregg’s grip intensified.

  “Relax,” soothed Gregg. “Carmen’s been like that all day. Acting like the Wicked Witch of the West to everyone who comes near her.”

  “I don’t really want to do this,” said Suzanne, protesting, as Gregg eased her back down in the chair and pinned a short, black plastic cape around her shoulders.

  “I’ll just do a light touch-up,” promised Gregg. “Sort of strengthen some of your best features.”

  “According to Carmen, I don’t have any,” said Suzanne. “My arches have collapsed and I’ve got the lips of a turtle ...”

  “Honey, you’re gorgeous,” Gregg assured her. “A real woman. Beautiful and with true character in your face. Not like all of these . . .” He waved an arm, theatrically. “... teenage waifs.”

  So Suzanne calmed down and put her trust in Gregg, telling herself that if she didn’t like what she saw, she could still stomp out. After ten minutes of brushing and blushing and lining and spackling, Gregg held up a hand mirror so Suzanne could judge for herself.

  “What do you think?” Gregg asked.

  Suzanne studied herself in the mirror. Her brows were arched and slightly filled in. Her eyes were suddenly lush pools of exotica. And her nose ... well, Gregg had worked some form of magic with three different shades of foundation that made her nose appear far straighter and narrower than the one she’d actually inherited from her forebears. Apologies to Aunt Lucille, of course.

  Suzanne was literally taken aback. “I think I... I like it,” she told him.

  “Excellent,” said Gregg, whipping off her plastic cape. “Now let’s get you over to Brett’s chair so he can work on your hair.”

  That proved far less traumatic.

  Ten judiciously placed hot rollers, then a quick blow out, were followed by some fussing, teasing, and hair spraying. Suzanne’s hair fell to her shoulders in a lush, smooth bob that was more elegant than she could have ever imagined.

  “This, I love,” she told Brett. “You’ve worked wonders.”

  “The look may be a trifle more socialite than fashion model,” confided Brett with a wink, “but it becomes you.”

  Suzanne tossed her head back and studied herself in the mirror as she struggled into her clothes. What unsettled her most was that suddenly looking different made her feel different. Was that a good thing? she asked herself. Yeah, maybe ... for a while. For a “let’s pretend” moment. But her own natural skin and looser-fitting clothes were still awfully comfortable.

  “Fabulous!” declared Missy, when Suzanne presented herself, fully dressed. “You’re an absolute vision!”

  But Carmen was not quite so approving.

  “Oops,” said Carmen, pointing a finger at Suzanne’s backside. “She’s got VPL.”

  “Huh?” said Suzanne, whirling around, not sure what she was going to find. Had somebody planted a Kick Me sign on her backside?

  “Visible panty line,” said Carmen, grimacing. “Suzanne, you’ll have to wear a thong under your jeans.”

  Missy grabbed a small box and pulled out the teeniest of undergarments. “This should work.” She handed it to Suzanne.

  “Pull ‘em down,” commanded Carmen.

  Suzanne was slightly aghast. “No way I’m giving up my underpants,” she told them. Her hand crept down to the waistline where her Hanes three-for-nine-dollar undies lurked underneath.

  “The jeans will look terrible,” Carmen moaned. “The entire effect will be ruined!”

  “You’re asking me to wear what amounts to a piece of dental floss!” sputtered Suzanne.

  “A thong isn’t as uncomfortable as you might think,” said Carmen.

  “No,” said Suzanne, “I imagine it’s worse.”

  “Suit yourself,” sniffed Carmen.

  “Carmen,” said Suzanne, “what’s this I hear about you opening a fine dining restaurant?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Carmen, slightly startled.

  “Don’t play coy,” said Suzanne. “Gene Gandle brought it up the other day and rumors are running rampant.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” huffed Carmen, “but whatever it is, I’m sure it doesn’t involve me!” She tottered off on super high Manolo Blahnik heels, her tight black satin dress rustling loudly.

  “What a crank,” Suzanne muttered to Missy.

  Missy nodded her head in agreement.

  “If Carmen’s always this caustic and nasty,” said Suzanne, “how can you stand working for her?”

  Missy gave her a hangdog look. “It isn’t easy.”

  “People!” Carmen hissed in a loud stage whisper. “Places! The show is about to start!”

  “Oops,” said Suzanne, starting to develop serious butterflies. “Where do I go?”

  “You’re tenth in line,” said Missy. “Right after the girl in the purple cashmere hoodie.”

  “Excellent,” said Suzanne, positioning herself next to the purple hoodie girl and telling herself this was all in fun. A jest. Nothing to worry about. A quick strut around the sh
owroom floor and then it would be over. Her fifteen seconds of fame.

  But when the music rose in volume, when “Under My Thumb” by the Rolling Stones blasted from the loudspeakers, Suzanne’s knees began to shake. The pulsing, pounding rhythm seemed to synch with her rapidly beating heart. The change has come ... thump, thump ... she’s under my thumb ... thump, thump.

  But there was something else going on out there, too. Applause. And cheers that greeted the models who were already out there walking the runway.

  Gotta try to have fun. Not look like I’m doing the chicken dance out there.