Before he had the chance to touch her again, she surrendered and woke up. His blue eyes were fixed on her face.
“Happy now?” she muttered.
Triumphant, he let out a high-pitched meow and stood up, stretching his back and tail. He jumped from the bed and immediately pranced toward his food dish in the kitchen.
He wasn’t officially Cate’s cat, and his name wasn’t exactly Grease, either. He belonged to the losers that lived on the first floor. For several months Cate had noticed him hanging out in the parking garage, his white coat saturated in heavy grease and oil as thick and dark as tar. After petting him, her hand always smelled like freshly laid asphalt. She’d always worried that a car would hit him, or that he would die of starvation, or be abducted and tortured to death by devil worshipers. Two winters ago she had started leaving him leftovers.
Then he began following her home. Now he pretty much lived there. There’d never been any inquiries or “missing cat” signs featuring his handsome face. No one seemed to notice his absence.
At first Cate understood why he might have been abandoned. He had been borderline terrorist in his younger days, hiding beneath her bed, then attacking her leg when she walked unassumingly past the dust ruffle.
“What happened to your legs, Miss Padgett?” her kindergartners would ask, pointing to the red welts and scratches that covered her calves.
For three months she’d taken to wearing two layers of sweatpants around the house, just to protect herself.
The worst Grease event occurred one night when Paul slept over. They were both sound asleep when, for no reason, Grease jumped on the bed and bit Paul’s right nostril, two fangs puncturing each side of the hole. To this day Paul’s scream still resonated in her ears.
Eventually, Grease had mellowed out, and now he was a persistently affectionate cat.
As she entered the kitchen, he aggressively rubbed the side of his face against her calf. His food sounded like a hailstorm as she dumped it into his dish.
After she put the food away, she looked for her cordless phone. She had phoned Paul yesterday before the wedding, and he hadn’t returned her call yet. This had happened three times on his last trip. Each time he had provided mundane excuses for his behavior. Busy. Tired. Dead battery on cell phone. But it was weird. In the past he’d always been prompt and considerate when returning calls.
At first Cate hadn’t thought much of his flakiness. She had believed his excuses and forgotten about his disappearances. But she was starting to feel anxious when he didn’t call. She found herself creating frightening scenarios that often involved Paul in a party hat, dancing sandwiched between two Brazilian Victoria’s Secret models that actually had boobs. She knew that he met people on his trips. Part of his job as a salesman was to schmooze with his clients. He took them to lunch, happy hour, dinner. He always returned from his trips full of stories about all the interesting people he had met. She just hoped he wasn’t taking busty blondes out for dinner. Fortunately, her worries were interrupted when someone knocked on her door.
Jill. She must’ve heard the hailstorm, too. When Cate opened the door, her downstairs neighbor stood in the doorway, holding a box of Krispy Kremes. “Breakfast is served!” she announced, her blue hair standing on end. Patches of leftover eye makeup were smeared beneath her eyes. She wore a terrycloth bathrobe and slippers.
“My God.” Jill laughed as she touched Cate’s hair. “Look at your hair. It’s bigger than you.”
Cate turned to the mirror next to the front door. “Weddings,” she said. “They always hair-spray the hell out your hair for these things.” She’d been so drained when she returned from USD the night before that she hadn’t bothered to wash the twenty gallons of aerosol hair spray that had cemented her hairdo at the wedding. Now she wore a giant blonde hard hat. Her bouffant was bigger than her head and made her skinny neck look like a toothpick. She stepped aside from the doorway. “C’mon in.”
Jill went straight to the kitchen cupboard, pulled out two plates, and placed a donut on each. Cate filled two glasses with milk before heading to the couch.
“Are you having a party?” Jill asked.
“No. Why?”
Jill reached for Ethan’s card. It had fallen from Cate’s purse when she tossed it on the coffee table the night before. “I just saw this catering card.”
“He’s a friend of mine from high school. I ran into him last night.” Cate picked up the card and returned to the kitchen. She placed the card on the refrigerator under a magnet that was shaped like an apple and read # 1 Teacher!—a gift from one of her students. “You’ll never believe what happened,” she said as she returned to the living room.
She spilled the whole story about Claude and Ethan over donuts and milk, still feeling colossal relief that Claude had been okay.
“I think you should call Ethan,” Jill said.
“I will. He lives in Pacific Beach now.”
“He sounds cool. Did you ever date him?”
“No. Not really.”
“Not really? You hooked up with him. Didn’t you?”
“We just kissed. Senior year of high school. I’ve pretty much erased the incident from my memory. It was one of those drunken, fun things to do at the time. Really, it was nothing.”
She remembered Beth’s graduation party. They had all gotten smashed off a case of Keystone that Ethan’s older brother had generously bought for them. Later they went swimming in Beth’s parents’ pool, wearing their underwear. In the Jacuzzi Ethan had planted sloppy kisses on her mouth and neck while their friends did back flips off the diving board. The pink tip of his erection had poked through the hole of his boxer shorts. His had been the first penis she’d ever seen. To her recollection, it had been rather large next to his skinny legs.
“What happened after you kissed him?” Jill wanted to know.
“Nothing. We went on like nothing had ever happened. Probably because I made it clear that I only wanted to be friends. He’s really sweet, but I’ve just never liked him that way.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . he’s Ethan.” She shook her head. “It would just be too weird.”
“Is he cute?”
Cate thought for a moment. “He’s not tall, dark, and handsome or drop-dead gorgeous. He’s cute the same way a puppy is cute. He’s really sweet-looking.”
“Hmmmm. I see. So he’s not the type of guy you could imagine kicking someone’s ass for you?”
“Uh . . . well. I hadn’t exactly thought of it that way. But I guess now that you mention it, no. He isn’t that type.”
“I still think you should definitely call him,” Jill said. “I want to meet this guy.”
“Well, I probably will. But just to hang out. Besides, I have Paul.”
“Oh yeah. Paul. When does he get back?”
“Next week I think.”
“You should see what he is doing this weekend.”
“Paul?”
“No. Ethan.”
“I can’t. I have to go to Vegas for my cousin Val’s bachelorette party.”
“I forgot about that. You’re like the professional bridesmaid.”
“I know. After this summer I’ll know so much about being a bridesmaid you could put me up for rent. Bridesmaid for hire, anyone?” She sighed. “Always the bridesmaid. Never the bride.” With the exception of Jill, it seemed as if all her friends were joining the permanent world of couplehood. She was suddenly stricken with a frightening thought. What if Jill suddenly met someone and got married? And what if Paul dumped her? She’d be totally alone. Where was she going to find anyone? She certainly wasn’t going to meet a guy teaching kindergarten, and she wouldn’t even have a single buddy to go out with. She’d just have Grease. God help her.
“I’m really starting to wonder where things are going with Paul,” Cate said, hiding her panic. “I mean, I’m not asking for a ring. But don’t you think it would nice to at least know who you were going to
spend the rest of your life with? To never have to wonder?”
“No.” Jill said it as if she had been offered ketchup at a drive-through window. “Waking up to the same face every morning, the same stinky feet—no thanks. It just doesn’t appeal to me. What a boring life. You’d both get fat. Sex would go down the shitter, and you’d find yourself trapped and fantasizing about running away with the hot, young carpet cleaner who came by a few times a year. I think I’d just end up cheating on whoever I married.”
Well, she didn’t have to worry about Jill getting married anytime soon. “Don’t you want kids though?”
“Fuck no. I hate kids.” Jill truly was another species. “No offense. I know you love kids, but you have to remember all the little stepsiblings I had when I was growing up. My high school career was spent baby-sitting. It was probably the best birth control I’ve ever had.”
She was the only girl Cate knew of who had no desire for a husband or children. Something about Jill’s attitude toward settling down seemed powerful. She was free from desire. Free from wondering. Free from worrying about her biological clock. She was independent, happy with being alone. Sometimes Cate wished she could feel as free.
They each ate another donut before Jill declared that she was going to puke if she touched any more food. They wrapped up the remaining donuts and decided to go for a walk by the beach.
Before leaving, Cate put on a baseball cap and lathered her arms, legs, and face with sunscreen. She tanned the same way a Swede would. If she didn’t wear sunscreen, she’d fry. For a native Californian, this was a challenge.
Jill wore her usual cropped jeans and bikini top, and if Cate could’ve borrowed some of her boobs, she would’ve considered wearing the same thing. It seemed like everything Jill ate went to her chest. She was curvy, voluptuous. Walking down the boardwalk with Jill typically entailed forty-five minutes of listening to catcalls, which Jill always seemed oblivious to.
They walked to the end of Loring Street, then headed down the trail that led to the boardwalk. It was a warm day, but the ocean breeze kept the air comfortable. Seagulls cawed above, occasionally swooping down to steal a fallen potato chip or the crumbs of a deli sandwich. From the boardwalk she could see people cooking their bodies in the sun, children building sand castles, and surfers perched on their boards, the sun glistening over their wet heads as they waited for the next wave.
A child’s stubborn scream drowned out the seagulls as she resisted her mother’s attempt to lather her face with sunblock.
Sometimes Cate missed the carefree days of being a little girl at the beach. The days when she didn’t care about wrinkles and thought that applying sunscreen was actually a method of torture inflicted by her mother. The days when it didn’t matter if she looked bad in a bathing suit, and the sand caked inside every crevice of her body didn’t seem totally loathsome.
The sound of skateboard wheels racing over the concrete came up close behind her, and she moved closer to the wall so the skater could pass.
“I say we stop at La Haina’s for a pitcher,” Jill said.
“All right.”
Hard rock blasted from the open patio at La Haina’s. It was crowded, and they ended up standing against the wooden railing on the deck, sharing a pitcher of Bud Light. They spent the afternoon gazing at the boardwalk, people-watching, and debating which color Jill should color her hair next. She was finishing up beauty school and often experimented with all kinds of different shades and bleaches. She’d been dying to get her hands on Cate, but Cate wouldn’t let her.
They were interrupted when two guys visiting from Italy closed in on them. One of them was wearing a Speedo and penny loafers. He may as well have run up and down the beach with a banner across his chest reading, “European!” Poor guy. His swimsuit branded him a tourist. Cate kind of felt sorry for him and managed to participate in a few minutes of conversation, even though she couldn’t understand three-fourths of what he said. The other one had a more reasonable fashion sense and sported trunks. Jill, apparently feeling the effects of the pitcher they shared, took their hotel phone number before they headed back home.
“You have two new messages,” the Sprint lady said when Cate checked.
The first message was from her mother. “Cate. I’m calling from Palm Springs. Just wanted to know how Sarah’s wedding went. Don’t forget it’s Sunday. You should go to Mass.”
Delete.
Next message: “Hola, Cate. Esta Paul.” He had a unique habit of mixing Spanish in with his English. He came from a Scottish and Welsh background with no traces of Latin blood whatsoever. “Just wanted to see how your night went. Sorry I didn’t call you back the other day. I’ve been swamped. I have good news though, so call me on my cell. I recharged it. Adios.”
She dialed his cell phone.
After the third ring, his voice mail picked up. She’d heard the greeting so many times lately that she practically knew the message by heart. “Hi. You have reached Paul Strobel with Software Solutions. Please leave me a detailed message, and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you, and have a great day.”
“Hey. It’s Cate. I just got your message. I have some good stories for you, so call me when you get in. Miss you. Talk to you soon.”
She checked her E-mail. No word from Paul, but she had one E-mail from Leslie Lyons.
DATE: July 8
SUBJECT: Fitting at The Bridal Chateau
Hello Bridesmaids!
We’re just a month away now. As you all know, I’ve already ordered the pieces you’ll be wearing. I just need you all to go to The Bridal Chateau July 19th promptly at noon. For most of you this will be your lunch brake so it’s probably best that we’re all on time. Anyway, I just wanted you to mark your calendars now, but I’ll give you more details as soon as we’re closer. I am so thrilled to have each one of your share this special time with me.
Love,
Leslie
Brake was right. She wanted to put on the brakes. She hadn’t even hung up her dress from Sarah’s wedding, which was still strewn across her wicker chair in her bedroom, along with all the other things she didn’t know what to do with. Grease was curled up on top of the pile of things she hadn’t sorted through in over a month.
By the end of the summer, she’d have a gallery of bridesmaid’s gowns. Hell, she could even teach classes on how to be a bridesmaid. Bridesmaid 101. She thought of some of her class titles. Reasoning with Drunk Wedding Crashers. Making the Last-Minute Bouquet. Or, Speeches for Idiots: No Singing Allowed.
She disconnected from the Internet, and her phone rang.
“Hola!”
“Hey,” Cate said. “We finally get to talk.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. I’ve just been swamped with work.”
They talked about his job and Nashville. Then Cate proceeded to tell him about locking Claude in the bathroom. Claude had been one of his friends in college, so he found the story to be quite interesting.
“That’s too bad,” he said as she concluded the story. “Well, I hope you’re not busy Thursday, because I’m coming back early.”
“Good.” She was pleased to hear that he was returning early. She was leaving for Vegas and wouldn’t see him until the following week if he had returned as planned on Friday. “What time does your flight get in?”
“Hold on. Let me check.” She could hear papers shuffling around in the background. “Five-forty-one. Delta.”
“All right. I’ll pick you up then.”
“Sounds good. It’s right in time for dinner, so think about where you’d like to go.”
4 • Mi Casa Es Su Casa
Paul’s flight was late. She was tempted to park her ’82 Volvo station wagon and go track him down somewhere between his gate and baggage claim. But by the time she found a spot and hiked back over to the airport, he’d probably be waiting for her on the curb. She was forced to drive around in circles, wasting gas and listening to the ticking noise
the Volvo made every time she went around a corner.
She’d just found a spot at the curb, right in front of baggage claim, when her cell phone rang.
“Hola! I’m grabbing my luggage and I’ll be out in two minutes max.”
“Okay. I’m parked right outside behind a giant orange bus. You can’t miss me.”
Nervousness stretched a tight vice over her stomach, and her palms felt sweaty. She was always seized with anxious excitement every time he returned from a trip. It had been two weeks since they had seen each other.
When she looked up, an airport security man was heading for the wagon. She pretended not to notice him, or the gigantic stick he was vigorously brandishing. Instead, she applied her lipstick in the rearview mirror.
“You must circle around, ma’am. No parking at the curb.” He waved his stick at her.
She pretended not to hear. His stick sounded loud when he tapped it on the window. “You need to circle around,” he said. “No parking at the curb.”
She put on her most sincere smile and rolled down the window. “My friend will be out in just one minute. I literally just talked to him on my cell phone. He’s on his way out right now.”
He shook his head, and his neck looked like a thick slab of ham above his buttoned shirt. She suspected he was wearing a bulletproof vest and could understand why he might need one. “You need to move, ma’am.”
“But he’s on his way out. He’ll be here in one minute.”
“It takes me one minute to write you a ticket.” He began to reach for his ticket pad in his back pocket.
“All right! I’ll move!” She looked around as she began to pull away from the curb. Most of the traffic had dissipated and, aside from a giant orange bus, there weren’t many other cars.
Anger replaced her anxiety. She fumed as she began to make her twenty millionth circle around terminal two. She’d been driving for no more than five seconds when her cell phone rang again.
“Where are you? I thought you said you were next to the orange bus.”
Always the Bridesmaid Page 4