Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  “Well…yeah.”

  “But life doesn’t work that way! It’s all or nothing.”

  “That’s not true. I’m learning to take risks with my career, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a regular in the ER”

  He was shaking his head. “The way I look at it, I could get run over by a bus tomorrow while crossing the street—which is a lot more likely than dying while skydiving, by the way—but I’m going to live every day to the fullest while I’m here. No fear, no regrets, that’s my motto. And I can’t change that for anyone.”

  “Really.”

  “That’s right.” His tone dared me to challenge him.

  As gently as possible, I said, “I think maybe you do have some fears and regrets.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re draped across your bed.”

  He put down his fork. “I’m not having this discussion.”

  “Why not? I’m only trying to—”

  “Let it go! It’s just a piece of cloth! It doesn’t mean anything!”

  “Then why—”

  “There is no secret, underlying symbolism!”

  Right. That would explain all the rabid denials.

  “I like my life the way it is and I’m not going to stop pushing the limits.” And there it was: his proverbial line in the sand.

  So I drew mine, too. “You do what you need to do, but you should know that I don’t want to spend every Saturday and Sunday waiting for the coroner to call.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  We both set our jaws and stared at each other.

  “Well, this is shaping up to be a pleasant evening,” he said.

  I made a conscious effort to relax the muscles knotted in my shoulders. “I don’t want to fight, but I needed to get that out.”

  “Well, it’s out. Let’s move on.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes suddenly glinting. “You haven’t even heard my pickup line of the night yet. It’s great.”

  “I’m going to need a few drinks before I’m ready for that.” I grabbed the wine list and scanned the list of reds. “I think I’ll try a glass of the Pinot Noir.”

  He glanced at my plate. “With penne arrabiata? Try the Cabernet.”

  “The Cabernet does sound tempting, but I’ll go with the Pinot.”

  “The arrabiata sauce here is really spicy. The Pinot won’t be able to keep up with the flavor.”

  Why did this discussion feel all too familiar? My head snapped up and I stared him straight in the eye as I said, “Don’t tell me what to order.”

  He scanned the wine list as if nothing were amiss. “I’m just saying, the Cabernet’s a better choice considering—”

  “Listen! I am not having the Cabernet!”

  The couple seated at the table next to us stopped talking.

  “But you won’t even be able to taste the Pinot,” Connor explained, all calm, cool, and supremely confident.

  Just like Kevin.

  At this point I might have overreacted a little bit. I admit that. But all my residual frothy-mouthed frustration churned up and I just snapped.

  “I don’t care! If I want to swill white Zinfandel out of a box, I will! Do you hear me? You do not get to make all the decisions!”

  He stared at me like I’d just grown horns. “Whoa. Calm down. It’s just wine.”

  “It is not just wine! I’m not going to sit here and let you walk all over me!”

  “You know what?” He shoved his chair back, opened his wallet, and stacked several twenties on the table. “I think we’re done. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s.” I snatched up my purse and the cashmere cardigan I’d draped on the chair behind me, then stormed out to the valet station.

  The ride home was quiet and tense. No words, no touching, and certainly no kiss before he dropped me off at Aimee’s apartment building.

  But that glass of Pinot was sounding better by the minute.

  “I’m off for a delightful weekend of pointed questions about why I broke up with Kevin and when I’m moving back home,” I said as Aimee pulled up to the curb at LAX. “Let the games begin.”

  “Oh, relax.” She put the car into park and popped open the trunk. “Your sister’ll take most of the heat, right? She’s the one with all the big news. All you have to do is stay under the radar for forty-eight hours, then I’ll pick you up at baggage claim and we’ll go get a big frosty pitcher of sangria.”

  But by the time I met up with my traveling companions at the Southwest Airlines check-in line, I realized I had lost some of my talent for staying under the radar. Over these past few weeks, I had started to become the newest nervy, self-possessed member of the Davis family who couldn’t quite keep her mouth shut.

  Like we really needed another one.

  “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.” Claire, radiant with that slightly swollen pregnancy glow, had apparently given up on her size-four “fat clothes” and moved on to her husband’s wardrobe. She was decked out in what appeared to be one of his short-sleeved golf shirts over black stretch pants and flat leather sandals. “Thanks to you, we’re going to be in the last group to board, and no way will we get three seats together.”

  “Becca!” Andrew returned from checking in Claire’s formidable pile of matched luggage and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you. How’s the new job going?”

  “Think hell meets The Gap.”

  “You know, I’m really going to need some maternity clothes,” Claire interjected. “Rumor has it I’m only going to get fatter over the next six months.”

  “You’re not fat,” Andrew soothed. “Your body is just expanding a little to accommodate Frick and Frack.”

  “His little nickname for the twins,” my sister explained. “Until we find out the sex. So what do you think, Becks? Can you whip up something black, chic, and open-waisted?”

  ’Cause our last collaboration had gone so well. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Come on! Look at what I’m dealing with here!” She tugged at the golf shirt. “From Blumarine to putting green in under two months. I’m in desperate need of a fashion intervention. I’ll even help you sew.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “You will?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Cut a few pieces of cloth, run up a few seams on the old Singer, how hard could it be?”

  “You know what, Claire?” I said coolly. “If it’s so easy to cut a few pieces of cloth and run up a few seams, you shouldn’t need my help. You can do it yourself.”

  “Oh my God. I’m offering to help you. Don’t get all pissy about it.”

  “You’re offering to help me do the favor you just demanded!”

  “You know, that line at the security checkpoint isn’t getting any shorter.” Andrew jumped into the fray. (He’d grown up an only child and still cherished the sweet but misguided notion that it was possible to resolve sibling disputes with common sense and tantalizing distractions. Just wait until Frick and Frack arrived. Poor guy wouldn’t know what hit him.) “We better grab our bags and get going.” He positioned himself between Claire and me under the pretense of collecting her purse, wheeled suitcase, and white plastic grocery bag.

  I didn’t comment on the grocery sack, but Andrew caught me staring and smiled.

  “Full of Pringles and caramel apples,” he explained. “In case the twins get hungry on the flight.”

  I glanced at Claire. “Caramel apples? Isn’t that a little state fair for you?”

  “Hey, I don’t want them, the babies do.” She rearranged the voluminous polo shirt. “They also enjoy canned fruit and Cheetos. Apparently, I’m going to have hillbilly children. They’ll probably be born with little mullets.”

  As predicted, we were among the last stragglers to board the plane, so I squeezed into a middle seat by the exit row while Claire and Andrew headed to the back. The last thing I heard before buckling my seat was Claire an
nouncing, “So we’re going to make a fresh start in Phoenix, honey, right? Well, that means a fresh start in our marriage, too, and I don’t want us to have any secrets.”

  Oh no. I twisted around in my seat and started gesturing wildly, pantomiming cutting my throat, anything I could do to save my sister from the ticking marital time bomb she was about to detonate.

  She waved me off and turned back to Andrew. “I have something to tell you. Something bad. Something that I did that I’m not proud of, but I want us to be honest with each other.”

  Andrew said something I couldn’t quite catch about loving Claire unconditionally while the flight attendant begged passengers to reshuffle so that the poor pregnant lady could sit with her husband (and, more importantly, the caramel apples).

  And then…nothing. Their voices blended into the hubbub of preflight chatter and loudspeaker announcements. Which I took as a good sign. Maybe she’d decided not to tell him, after all. Or maybe she did tell him and he’d decided it was no big deal. Maybe I’d overestimated the impact such news would have on an already bruised male ego. If I’d learned anything from the past few months, it was that I didn’t know jack about men.

  Then Andrew spoke up. Though he was a good ten rows back, I could hear every syllable, as could my seatmates and probably the staff of the LAX control tower:

  “You went to a lawyer? Behind my back? And did what?!?”

  I couldn’t decipher Claire’s murmured response, but whatever she said didn’t go a long way toward assuaging her husband. “You know, it’s emasculating enough to lose my job, my house, and my entire family’s respect without you trying to sell our unborn children to the highest bidder!”

  This, of course, set Claire off. “How could you even suggest that? This isn’t about money!” she screamed.

  “Everything’s about money with you!” he yelled back.

  I winced as a flimsy airplane lavatory door slammed with hinge-cracking force.

  “Sir, we’re finished with preflight preparations.”

  I, along with every other passenger on flight 1339, craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the harried flight attendant pounding on the restroom door. “I’m going to have to ask you to take your seat.”

  Andrew stormed up the aisle and flung himself into an empty middle seat amid a group of startled Boy Scouts.

  As we all securely stowed our baggage in the overhead compartment and ensured our seat backs were locked in the upright position, my sister jabbed her overhead call button and announced, “I want off this plane! Do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere!”

  But it was too late. We were already taxiing down the runway, gathering speed with every passing second. For better or for worse, we were on our way.

  22

  So? How was your trip, kids?” My dad turned down his beloved talk radio program and made a valiant attempt at conversation on the drive home from Sky Harbor Airport.

  “I hope you’re hungry; I have warm cherry cobbler waiting at home.” My mother, relentlessly cheerful, refused to ask about or even acknowledge the tension crackling in the backseat of the Chevy Malibu. “And homemade vanilla ice cream. I’ve made up Claire’s old room for you two, Andrew. It’s nothing fancy, but—”

  “It’ll be fine, thanks,” Andrew said, staring out the side window.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about him. He loves slumming it,” my sister spat. “In fact, if you have any mutant roaches—”

  “Maybe I’ll just make this easier on everyone and stay in a hotel,” Andrew said.

  Caught in the crossfire, I leaned back into the seat and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

  “You know we can’t afford a hotel. Darling.”

  “We can if you auction off the children.”

  My parents exchanged a look in the front seat. A heavy, loaded silence enveloped the car. When we braked for a stoplight, I could hear a banjo-heavy country-western tune playing in the car next to us.

  “So! Becca!” Dad tried again. “How’s life in the fashion world?”

  “It’s interesting.” I swallowed hard and pretended that this was just a normal family outing. With a normal family. I really had to stretch my imagination.

  “Have you met any celebrities yet?”

  “A couple.” I launched into the gripping tale of my Naomi Watts sighting in Runyon Canyon. Everyone feigned great interest, as it gave them an excuse to avoid interacting with one another, until my mother interrupted with:

  “Guess who I saw at the grocery store yesterday?” She turned in her seat, grinning like she was about to personally deliver the Publisher’s Clearinghouse check. “Kevin Bradley! He just got promoted at work.”

  “Oh. Great.” And before I could get back to my story, she rushed ahead with, “He’s such a nice boy. And so polite. In fact, he walked me out to the parking lot and carried all my groceries, so we got to catch up a bit.”

  I smelled treachery. “Exactly how long were you chatting up my ex-boyfriend?”

  “Just a few minutes. Don’t get so defensive. I had to ask how his mother was doing. You know…” She paused for effect. “I don’t see her since you two went your separate ways.”

  Red alert! Red alert! This is not a drill! “Did you tell him I was coming this weekend?”

  She turned back to face the windshield. “Look at all those clouds. They said we might have thunderstorms tonight.”

  “Mom!”

  She readjusted the shoulder strap of her seat belt. “Did I mention I made cherry cobbler?”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “I couldn’t help it, honey. He asked about you. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to lie, of course! Tell him I got mixed up with some track-marked trust fund babies at the Imitation of Christ show and you haven’t heard from me since.”

  “Imitation of what, young lady?” my dad broke in.

  “It’s a design team, Dad. No need to wash my mouth out with soap.”

  My father glanced at all of us in the rearview mirror, shook his head, muttered something about Los Angeles and these kids today, then clicked the radio back on to Car Talk.

  As we turned off the highway and headed toward home, my mother confessed the full extent of her betrayal.

  “Anyway, I invited him over for dinner tonight, so I hope you haven’t made other plans.”

  The title of Most Distressed Upon Crossing My Parents’ Threshold went to…it was a tie, actually, between me and Andrew. I was aghast at the prospect of spending an entire evening with my ex; Andrew was absolutely apoplectic at the prospect of spending even one more minute with his spouse. Because I’d grown up in a house with two sisters and my sole serious love interest for the last five years had been Kevin, I’d forgotten exactly how angsty an angst-ridden man could be.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  “Excuse me. I have to make a few calls,” he announced in a tight, clipped voice as we pulled into the driveway. He was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, marching toward the side yard and whipping his new, cut rate cell phone out of his pocket.

  I glanced at my sister. She avoided eye contact, keeping her beautiful face carefully neutral.

  My parents exchanged another pointed look, but refrained from comment. This left the perfect opening to start round two with my mother.

  “Mom, how could you do this to me?” I wailed as we opened the trunk and stared at Claire’s tower of Louis Vuitton. “It’s…he…you better call him right now and cancel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; I can’t do that. It’s rude! What would I say?”

  “Say I decided not to come at the last minute. Say I had to work. Say I missed my plane. Or, I know! Say I was so distraught after the breakup, I joined a nunnery and took a vow of silence. And I’m fasting. It’s just tacky to chow down in front of a starving mute.”

  “Calm down, Rebecca. There’s no need to get so worked up.” She smiled and patted my arm. “It’s just one dinner.”r />
  “If it’s ‘just one dinner,’ it should be no problem to call him and cancel!”

  “This is not up for further discussion.” She reached into the trunk and pulled out a small valise. “I’ve already invited him and there’s no reason to hurt his feelings more than they’ve already been hurt.” She paused so the obvious implications could sink in. “No one’s asking you to get re-engaged; it’s just a nice chance to visit and catch up.”

  “But I notice you didn’t invite his mother. If you really wanted to visit and catch up, you should’ve asked her.”

  She waved this away, but I thought I detected a slight blush in her cheeks. “When did you get so paranoid?”

  “These girls,” Dad muttered. “I’m telling ya…”

  He and Claire staggered into the house with all the Louis they could carry. As soon as the door closed behind them, Mom turned back to me and pinned me with a no-nonsense frown.

  “What is the matter with you? Making a fuss like this when Claire and Andrew are already having problems? She’s pregnant with twins, she’s not supposed to be subjected to stress.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Believe me, Mom. This is appetizer drama compared to what she’s used to. Spinach dip. Hot wings. You want the main course, go ask her why Andrew’s stomping around our front yard.”

  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls.” My dad chuckled as the doorbell echoed down the tiled hallways into the kitchen, where we were all helping my mom prepare dinner.

  “Maybe it’s just Girl Scouts hawking cookies,” I said, grasping at straws.

  Andrew gave me a pitying look. “It tolls for thee.”

  “Nuh-uh.” I glanced at the clock. Still fifteen minutes before Kevin was due.

  “Oh, Becca,” my mother singsonged as she rushed to the foyer and flung open the front door. “Look who’s he-eeere!”

  He was early. But of course.

  I wiped my wet hands on a dish towel, checked the jeans and white T-shirt I was wearing for visible food stains, and headed down the hall in my sassy new Rodolphe Menudier wedges.