Down and Out in Bugtussle
Page 1
Praise for the Novels
of Stephanie McAfee
Happily Ever Madder
“A funny story about a woman who can’t seem to keep it together and her madcap friends. Fans of Bridget Jones should like this one.”
—News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)
“McAfee’s novel is filled with delicate Southern charm as well as backbiting Southern snark, and her characters alternate between inducing laughter [and] prompting eye-rolling. Fans of [her first book] will certainly clamor for this one.”
—Booklist
“Fun and clever, and Ace is still a firecracker.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of the funniest stories that I can remember reading…. I just can’t sing the praises of McAfee’s books enough!…In fact, her style reminds me a bit of Jennifer Weiner’s…. Graciela ‘Ace’ Jones…is my current favorite literary character.”
—BookPleasures.com
“This book is written with humor but still a lot of feeling, and I have to give this sequel a big five stars!”
—Chick LitPlus+
“An excellent story that combines tons of humor, fun, and emotions. I guarantee that you will laugh, cry, squeal, and shake your head in exasperation…. Ace Jones is such a hoot and I could not help but fall in love with her and her sassiness and guts!…The perfect sassy Southern girl book that will have you rolling with laughter and your heart tugging with emotion.”
—Romancing the Book
“McAfee manages to create a character that is over-the-top but at the same time down-to-earth and someone you wish was your best friend.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Ace is one sassy lady for sure!…A great read, depicting a character almost every reader can fall for…. This reviewer hopes we’ll hear more about Ace in the future!”
—Crystal Book Reviews
“Straight-up hilarious…[McAfee] has totally captured a side of the South that frequently goes unwritten—at least as far as heroines are concerned.”
—Book Hooked Blog
Diary of a Mad Fat Girl
“Meet Graciela ‘Ace’ Jones, a wildcat Southern version of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum…[a] hilarious debut novel.”
—Library Journal
“This story may be set in the tiny town of Bugtussle, Mississippi, but Ace, our heroine, is anything but a shrinking Southern belle…. [This] is the kind of breezy summer read that’s perfect for wintertime, too.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Bawdy, sexy, Southern-fried fun. McAfee makes a powerhouse debut that readers will love.”
—Valerie Frankel, author of Four of a Kind
“Fresh and funny. Ace Jones is a hoot! This is what Sex and the City might have been if Carrie and friends were looking for love in Bugtussle, Mississippi, instead of Manhattan.”
—Wendy Wax, author of Ocean Beach
“Ace Jones is my kind of girl: Her outsize appetite for life, plus a dangerously low tolerance for losers, gets her into one impossible fix after another. In addition to involving a delightfully madcap crew of friends and acquaintances in her quest for justice, Ace is aided, abetted, and occasionally bedded by some delicious Southern gentlemen. Ace prevails with humor, heart, and a speed-dial relationship with the pizza guy.”
—Sophie Littlefield, award-winning author of A Bad Day for Scandal
“Stephanie McAfee, in creating Ace Jones, has written a character that will grab you by the shirtfront and take you with her on her ride, and oh, what a wild ride it is. Diary of a Mad Fat Girl is pure fun.”
—Rachael Herron, author of Wishes & Stitches
“Southern-fried Janet Evanovich.”
—Booklist
Also by Stephanie McAfee
Diary of a Mad Fat Girl
Happily Ever Madder
DOWN AND OUT
IN BUGTUSSLE
The Mad Fat Road to Happiness
Stephanie McAfee
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Stephanie McAfee, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
McAfee, Stephanie.
Down and out in Bugtussle: the mad fat road to happiness/Stephanie McAfee.
p. cm
ISBN: 978-1-101-61422-8
1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Grandmothers—Fiction. 4. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 5. Mississippi—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.C2635D59 2013
813’6.—dc23 2013003874
Designed by Alissa Amell
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
To Mandi,
who entertained the character of Gloria Peacock
long before she had a story.
Thank you for always being there when I’m Down and Out.
Table of Contents
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35
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37
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42
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Special Excerpt From Diary of a Mad Fat Girl
1
From a distance, it looks better than it actually is: the starched white tablecloth, a carafe of red wine, the glass goblet candleholder glowing amber against a terra-cotta wall. The ambiance is enchanting, the pesto is amazing, and sitting on the other side of that luscious chunk of rosemary bread is a fairly decent-looking fellow with neatly trimmed hair, light brown eyes, and a perfectly manicured goatee. He smiles. I smile. Dinner arrives. And then he launches into yet another idiotic spiel. “Have you ever envisioned the materialization of your most fantastical dreams?” he asks, smoothing the napkin on his lap with both hands. I have no desire to discuss my dreams—or my lack thereof—with a perfect stranger, but I welcome the odd turn of conversation, seein
g as how he spent the past twenty minutes blathering about his mother. His eyes are locked on mine as he swirls linguine onto his fork.
“I’m sorry—have I what?” I say, looking down as I cut into my lasagna. I would attempt to change the subject, but I’ve gathered that whatever Mr. I Love Mommy wants to talk about, by golly, he’s gonna talk about.
“Have you ever thought about how magnificent your life would be if your wildest dreams somehow came true?” He’s peering at me like a Peeping Tom, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of my bare-naked soul.
“Of course,” I say. “Hasn’t everyone?” I take a bite of lasagna while he continues to work those noodles and stare at me.
“So you have dreams?” he asks. I don’t answer, and he continues. “Then you’ve imagined a marvelous existence with that man or that job and that house?” He’s still moving the fork. Around and around. “Tell me your dreams, Graciela.” His eyes are ripe with anticipation as they bore into mine.
“Again,” I say, careful to hold his gaze, “please call me Ace.”
“Tell me your dreams, Ace,” he says without missing a beat. His fork is still twirling those damned noodles and his eyes are still locked on mine. I don’t say anything, so he continues. “The verbalization of dreams makes our souls flourish with hope.” He raises the perfectly wound ball of linguine to his lips, then stops. I think about reaching across the table and helping him get that fork into his mouth. “Share yours with me,” he says quickly, and then finally takes a bite.
“You want to hear about my dreams?” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. His eyes dance as he nods, and the way he’s chewing his pasta is pissing me off. I think for a second about what to say and how to say it. And then, with great flourish, I begin.
“Once upon a time, I had a dream,” I say, opening my eyes extra wide, “and what a spectacular dream it was. I imagined a splendid life with a handsome gent, a fanciful career, and a not-so-humble abode overlooking blue-green ocean water.” I pause, and his pretty brown eyes are glimmering with expectation. He’s swirling linguine again. “Then one day, the unthinkable happened!” And with all the dramatic intonation I can muster up, I say, “My dream came true.”
“No!” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s shocked or disappointed. He keeps twirling noodles.
“Yes!” I whisper, and then return to my usual tone. “And that crap didn’t turn out anything like I thought it would, so I packed up and moved back to reality.” My date looks startled and a wee bit troubled. The linguine falls from his fork. He says nothing, so I continue. “I left the snow-white beaches of Pelican Cove, Florida, which was the actual physical location of this failed attempt to live my dream, on New Year’s Day, and it was not the first, but rather the third, time I moved out of the ocean-view home belonging to Mason McKenzie, the love-of-what-turned-out-to-be-only-half-of-my-life.” He crams a forkful of tangled noodles into his mouth and I keep going because I’m on a roll. “The first time, I stayed for six weeks, and when I left, it was my fault. The second time, I stayed for six months, and when I left, I had a better understanding of the legal term ‘irreconcilable differences.’ As a matter of fact, I had a better understanding of about a hundred thousand legal terms because when Mason wasn’t at work, he was talking about work and, to be perfectly honest, it was exhausting.”
“So your dream man was a lawyer?” Mr. Conversation Hog snaps before cramming another massive wad of pasta into his mouth.
“Is,” I tell him, picking up a piece of bread and sopping it in olive oil. “He is a lawyer. And would you like to know something else?” He makes an awful face and I realize that I don’t even remember his name. “Mason McKenzie is a good guy,” I tell whoever-he-is-over-there, “which is why I went back that third and final time to spend the holidays with him. I wanted to be sure we couldn’t work things out, but sadly, those irreconcilable differences proved to be unresolvable, so we parted ways one last time and now I have no dream.”
“You must have been chasing the wrong dream,” he begins, and then, in an obvious attempt to recover his domination of the dialogue, says, “One time I thought—”
“Oh, no,” I say quickly, effectively blocking his shot at turning the conversational spotlight back his way. “My whole life, Mason was all I ever wanted. And I had him! I had him and I had my very own art gallery—which was a lovely building with a stunning view of the bay—and we lived in a khaki-and-cream-colored three-story stucco house one block from the Gulf of Mexico.” I look across the table and see my date is cramming noodles into his mouth again. “I had it all,” I say. He’s looking at me now like he’s in actual physical pain. “And little by little, bit by bit, my dream life let me down.” I look down at my lasagna. “But there is some good news.”
“What’s that?” He’s hustling more pasta onto his fork.
“Mason and I are still friends and I’m sure we always will be, but whoever came up with that line about the third time being a charm is full of shit.” Several minutes pass during which the awkward silence swells. I take that opportunity to stare him down like he’s been doing to me since we met at the door of this way-too-romantic-for-a-blind-date restaurant. He just sits there, chewing like a squirrel, looking back at me. Finally, I break the silence. “Yep,” I say, and decide to entertain myself for a minute more. “The don’t-mistake-me-for-a-model-citizen is back, and I’m sure the wanna-be-highbrows-with-overplucked-eyebrows couldn’t be more pleased. You know what I mean?” He shakes his head and stares at me. His fork is still. “Neither do I,” I say with a smile. I love the look on his face now. Go tell this story to your damned mama, I think as I continue. “But, hey! A few bad apples won’t ruin the whole basket as long as they keep their rotten asses at a distance, right?” I smile at my date. I bet his mother has overplucked eyebrows.
“Uh, okay.” He pushes his plate to the side and looks around for our waiter. “Check, please!” When the bill arrives, I consider giving him a twenty but decide against it. I think I earned my meal by sitting quietly through that series of painfully dull stories about his idyllic childhood and flawless mother. On the way out, he holds the door for me and says, “I’ll call you,” like men do when they think that’s what you want to hear.
“Please don’t,” I say. “But thank you for dinner.”
“Right,” he says, and starts speed walking in the opposite direction.
*
“How’d the date go?” my pal Chloe asks when I call her on the way home.
“It was downright therapeutic,” I tell her.
“So, not good?”
“Chloe!” I say. “This guy will never meet a woman he loves more than his mother.”
“His mother is very nice.”
“I think his mother might be the reason he’s still single at thirty-seven!”
She sighs. “Well, I tried.”
“And I appreciate that, Chloe. I really do. It was very thoughtful of you to fix me up on a blind date with this slightly good-looking yet somewhat dysfunctional guy.” I pull onto the highway. “Just please believe me when I tell you that I’m not interested in dating right now.”
“I can’t help it!” Chloe cries. “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”
“I moved home in January,” I tell her. “It’s the middle of March. Don’t declare me a spinster just yet. What I need more than anything is some time to myself so I can think and sort things out inside my feeble brain.”
“Okay,” she says with a sigh.
“No more blind dates or I’ll start adopting cats.”
“See?” she whines. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Chloe Stacks! You know good and damned well that I would never get a cat!” I say, laughing. “Need I remind you that Buster Loo, superchiweenie, is and always will be the undisputed king of my castle? And I promise that the two of us are doing just fine.”
“Ten or twelve cats wouldn’t go over well with Buster Loo,” Chloe s
ays in her I’m-trying-so-hard-to-joke-but-I’m-really-serious voice.
“Right,” I say, feigning earnestness. “And that’s what I would do, too. I wouldn’t start with one cat or even two. If I decide to become a cat lady, you can bet I’ll be the cattiest cat lady around.” I pause. “I’ll go adopt fifteen or twenty. At least.”
Finally, a giggle. “Okay, so I’ll see you on Monday morning, then?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Let’s hope not.”
2
Monday morning, I pound on the alarm clock with my fist until it falls behind the nightstand. The racket upsets Buster Loo, who pokes his snout out from under the covers at the foot of the bed and growls. “Sorry to disturb you, Buster Loo,” I say as he nestles back into his warm spot. I roll out of bed and tell myself that everything is going to be just fine. I can do this.
After a steamy shower, a hot cup of coffee, and a rather ineffective self–pep talk, I decide it’s time to get dressed. I walk into the guest room and pick up the pants I ironed last night. When I put them on, I discover that they won’t zip. Great, I think. Should’ve tried those on first. I head back to my closet and dig through my “teacher clothes” for the hundredth time. After several minutes of pure, unadulterated frustration, I locate a pair of black pants that I think will work. It’s the “big” pair reserved only for “fat” days. I take a deep breath and slip them on. It takes some huffing and puffing, but I finally get the bastards zipped. Who knew that two and a half months of wearing nothing but sweatpants would put such a strain on the ol’ buttonholes?
I walk back to the guest room and iron the fat pants. Thank goodness the shirt I picked out is a pullover made of loose, flowing fabric. I kick my shoes around to where I can slip them on because God knows I don’t need to bend over and pop that button off my pants. Along with my nerves, it’s in enough of a strain already.
“Wish me luck, Buster Loo!” I say to my chiweenie who is still buried under the covers. A muffled “ruff” is his reply.