I bet my mom will call into Aunt Betty’s show today for advice. As if Betty ever really helps anybody anyway. I remember thinking that she was wise, but that was a long time ago. Betty’s one of those cult personalities who still gets good local ratings, but only because people like to laugh at her. My mom and grandma don’t seem to get the joke or know that they’re sometimes part of it.
I pick up my bag and hold it over the rail while I climb down the spiral stairway.
My mom bursts into tears when I get to the bottom. My grandma does, too. I drop my duffel and hug each of them tight.
“Imagine her winning the prizes, though, Fanny,” Grandma says. They both nod bravely.
“If there are any more of those cookies, Merry, I wouldn’t mind a few for the drive. They are insanely good,” Fritz says before stepping out the door.
I can’t believe I only met him a few hours ago. It seems like my whole life has changed, or is about to. I head back into the kitchen, take down the cookie tin, and wrap a few cookies in a paper towel. My mom and grandma stare after me, hopeful yet worried-looking, like they might have done when I was a newborn baby and they first brought me home.
I wave to them as I climb back into the passenger seat of Fritz’s SUV.
My mom puts her hand over her heart, and my grandma wrings her apron.
Fritz turns on the radio after about half an hour of silence. He must’ve had the same idea as me, because he doesn’t seem surprised at all to hear my mom on The Betty Answers Show.
“I’m worried sick, Ms. Answers.”
“Now here’s a perfect example of knowing where you end and others begin, listeners. You may recall that Darla’s daughter Gladiola is a grown woman now. If you’ve been listening long enough, you’ve witnessed her growth. Now she’s a college graduate, isn’t she, Darla?”
My mom goes by Darla on Betty’s show, and my code name is Gladiola.
“Yes, ma’am, you know she is,” my mom says.
“Yet she still lives under your roof, if I remember correctly?”
“Yes, ma’am, you know she does!”
“And she can’t even run off for a few hours without having the whole world told about it! Listen, Darla, why don’t you let Gladiola have a little adventure?”
“Did I tell you he has an accent? He sounds like Simon Cowell.”
Fritz scoffs.
“Well, Darla, maybe this Englishman is like Fred, Mary Poppins’s friend. You all remember Fred, don’t you listeners? Fun-loving, wise, interesting, played by a young Dick Van Dyke in the film? Well, Darla, perhaps Gladiola and this Englishman have only gone on a jolly holiday. Maybe they’re dancing on rooftops.”
Aunt Betty laughs a little; it sounds fake to me. My mom doesn’t join in.
“Just like I say in my book, POPPINS! Why You Should Never, Ever Explain Anything, ‘The road to happiness is self-paved, and the only person one need pay a toll to is oneself.’ Remember that, Darla?”
Fritz shakes his head like he’s never heard anything so crazy.
“I remember it, though I’m not rightly sure what it means.”
Aunt Betty laughs again, and it sounds even faker.
To me, laughter is like sugar versus artificial sweetener. The real thing is good, pure, and delicious, and anything else just falls short and leaves a bad taste behind.
“Luckily my readers and listeners understand what I mean. Please call in later if Gladiola returns with smudges of chimney smoke on her cheeks!”
“I told you I’m worried, Patience!”
I put my hand over my mouth. I have never heard my mom call Aunt Betty her real name. I’d almost forgotten she was christened as Patience. Once, when I was younger, I found an old box of memorabilia in the attic, with a high school yearbook and academic awards in it. I didn’t know who on earth Patience was. Aunt Betty looked as different from her old self as she probably sounded, if she ever sounded anything like me and everybody else around here.
I hope my mom hasn’t gotten herself in trouble.
“Listen, Darla, I hear that you’re worried, but I am actually in favor of a jolly holiday for Gladiola! Do you agree, listeners? Let’s move on to someone else now. Hello caller, are you there?”
I feel bad that Aunt Betty just cut my mom off like that. I think it serves her right when the new caller giggles and says:
“Good answers Betty has not.”
“That’s a decent Yoda impression,” Fritz says.
“Somebody does a better Scooby Doo,” I tell him as I switch off the radio.
We’ve been listening to Fritz’s boyfriend’s “glamour indie-punk” band, Cryptodynamite, for the past two hours, and my head is pounding something awful.
“Can you please tell me more about the island?” I ask in between songs.
Fritz turns off his iPod and looks over like he forgot I was even here. Maybe he did; he’s been singing along with his boyfriend and not paying me any mind at all.
“Let’s see. For starters, it’s cold this time of year. The wind rarely stops. Sand gets into everything, whether you walk down to the beach or not. There is no more disagreeable feeling in the entire world than sand in your bed, unless it’s sand in your teeth. Both occur regularly, no matter how diligently you fight against them.” He sighs.
“Isn’t the ocean pretty, though?” I ask.
He sniffs. “In bad weather, a filmy haze builds up on every window. All color drains away except the dull blues of the sea and the sky and the gray-gold of the beach. In good weather, the sun is so bright it threatens to blind you. There are no gardens to speak of on the island, no beautiful buildings of any significance whatsoever, and the monotony of the entire existence there is enough to drive an otherwise sane person absolutely imbecilic.”
“Are there any restaurants I could work in?” I ask.
“There are greasy pizza places and greasy deep-fried seafood establishments. In terms of real food? I don’t believe there is a single good restaurant on the entire island.”
“Come on,” I say.
“You come on,” he echoes me, but stretches the words out a country mile.
He does that every once in a while, repeats a word or phrase I just said, but in a very mocking way, like a bratty brother might. I still haven’t had the chance to ask if he actually is somebody’s brother or any of the other questions I’ve got waiting.
“Unless you like fried foods and conversing with locals, you must drive into Wilmington for anything even approximating civilization, and that’s forty minutes away.”
“I should’ve brought my truck down,” I say. “I wish I had thought of it sooner. I guess too much was going on to think of day-to-day details, like what I’ll do for work, and how I’ll get to and fro.”
“You’ll have this vehicle at your disposal for getting to and fro,” he says.
I look at the spotless leather seats and think of my pickup’s worn fabric ones. “It’s more than I’ll need, but I suppose it’ll come in handy for getting to work.”
“Your work will be your tasks, Merry. You’ll have cash at your disposal to get started. Remind me when we stop, and I’ll give you some.”
“But I like to work. I’ve always had jobs, ever since I can remember, from babysitting when I was only a kid myself, to working in any restaurant that would have me. I’ll get a job and do my tasks, too.”
“Before you decide, you should see how busy the tasks will keep you,” Fritz says.
“What are they?” I ask.
He suddenly gives all his attention to the road ahead. “I’ll give them to you one at a time, like the document states. I already gave you the first one: you’re getting made over.”
“That first one is optional,” I point out. “It said so in my dad’s letter.”
“You’ll still do it, though, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I want the works. But what about the second task? What’s that?”
He sighs. I notice he does it a lot. “Please don’t be ti
resome, Merry. Trust me to follow your father’s wishes.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be tiresome,” I say, clipping through the word like he did. He frowns, and I can tell that I’m getting on his last nerve.
“Let me focus on driving us to our hotel. Tomorrow we’ll get you some new clothes and a new look, then we’ll drive the rest of the way.”
“You mean we’re not getting there tonight?”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” he says.
When I woke up this morning, none of this was even on my radar. My dad was just a wisp of a dream that had been real once, but over time had faded into almost nothing. The ocean seemed so far away, it may as well have been the moon. But now…
Tomorrow doesn’t seem nearly soon enough.
I feel out of place in this fancy hotel, too homegrown to blend in. Fritz, on the other hand, marches across the lobby like he owns it. Everybody looks up and falls all over themselves trying to serve him, like he really is in charge just because he acts like it.
I want more than anything to sit down and have a nice long chat with Fritz, without him blaring Cryptodynamite every chance he gets, without him looking at the road instead of me. I’d love to hear about Fritz’s family and friends, and all about the beach house, and get some hints about what my tasks will be. Most of all, I want to learn everything I can about my dad.
Fritz acts like he can’t get away from me fast enough, though. He hands me my room key. “Right then. See you in the morning.”
“Don’t you want to have dinner together?” I ask.
“Not particularly.”
I suppose it shows that I’m disappointed.
“Please don’t pout; it’s indulgent and unattractive. I simply need to spend some time on the telephone tonight. My significant other is feeling rather insignificant lately. I’m afraid this assignment of mine was, shall we say, inconvenient for my love life.”
“It’s too bad he couldn’t have come along,” I say.
“Victor has his own scheduling constraints.”
“His rock band?” I ask.
“Yes,” Fritz answers in an annoyed tone, like I said something to offend him again, when again, I sure didn’t mean to. “For your information, Victor is a talented musician and so are his Bandmaidens. They’ll likely never achieve fame or make their fortunes, but they’re doing what they love every day. At least he didn’t throw away a business degree to cook in a restaurant, like you, or dedicate his law career to the whims of a selfish old man, like me. Not only is it impossible for Victor to be here, he doesn’t forgive the fact that I am.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Fritz rubs his eyes like his head is about to explode.
“It’s not your fault. Bill dinner on your room; the restaurant here is lovely,” he says, glancing up and motioning toward my clothes. “You should order room service.”
I meant to change before we started our drive, but I forgot. I feel my face turn red.
“Tomorrow we’ll get you some things that will be appropriate in any setting. One day you may look back on your Dollywood era and laugh. I know I will.”
“I like Dollywood,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean you have to wear the T-shirt. You don’t see me wearing a Cryptodynamite T-shirt, and I’ve been in love with their lead singer for five years.”
“Do you go to their concerts wearing that kind of thing?” I suppose I’m sick of him criticizing me and want to show him how it feels. I thought he’d have a better sense of humor about it.
“Meet me here in the lobby at eight tomorrow morning, and we’ll continue on this delightful journey.”
Fritz and I are back on the road. He looks so tired, I wonder if he slept at all.
“Tell me about your family,” I say. I know that people usually like to talk about their loved ones, and I’m curious as all get-out.
“I have none,” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Oh no, that’s right, I do have a right jolly, happy family. I simply pretend that I don’t, for fun, you see. I make believe that my father died before I formed any memory of him. And that my mother died last year. And that I never had any cousins, aunts, uncles, or siblings. It’s a laugh a minute.”
“Remember, I have a very small family, too,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
After a while, I try again. “How is Victor?” I ask.
More silence. From Fritz’s frown, it’s clear that their talk didn’t go well last night. He waves my question away like a pesky fly.
“I feel bad, because you’re here on account of me, and it’s causing you trouble,” I say.
Fritz sighs heavily. “I had trouble before I met you, Merry, and I’ll have trouble when I’m back in London. Not everything is about you.”
“Victor probably just misses you like crazy,” I say, ignoring his bratty comment along with his bad attitude.
“Are you seriously going to give me relationship advice? Victor isn’t a Neanderthal like Phil.”
Well, so much for friendly conversation! I wish Fritz would have left Phil out of it. When I checked my messages last night, my whole mailbox was full of his voice. He started by saying he was sorry for being a jerk yesterday morning. Then he branched out and was sorry for being a jerk back in high school and all the time in between that he’d been jerky. After that, he got extremely weird and said he wants to marry me.
You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. We’d never even joked about marriage before!
Fritz hasn’t said a word to me for hours, not since his mean comment about Phil. I hate riding along in silence, but I’m too anxious to be on Fritz’s good side to complain. Especially when he parks outside a cluster of boutiques.
“Are you still planning to help me?” I ask. I’d rather kill a kitchen mouse than put together an outfit in front of Fritz.
“I’ve seen where your fashion inclinations have led you. So yes, I am indeed going to help.”
I laugh a little. It was an insult, I know, but this time he didn’t say it mean. Plus, I know I’m a fashion disaster, and I can admit the truth just fine.
Fritz waves away the very thin, very elegant lady who rushes forward to help us in the first store. “I have everything under control,” he says. She nods and goes back to her paperwork.
Fritz is a whirlwind shopper. He goes around the boutique, picks up items, and hangs them on the rack beside a hot pink wing chair outside the dressing room. When he’s finished gathering everything he wants, he stands in front of the rack and groups items together for me to try on.
“Green tea?” he asks the clerk, who trips over her feet to get it for him. He sits in the pink velvet chair and motions for me to go change.
“Don’t look at the price tags!” he warns after I catch my breath loudly in the zebra-striped dressing room.
“OK,” I say, but Jesus Jenny! I didn’t know a pair of jeans could cost so much.
It takes three stores and way more misses than hits before we get everything Fritz says I’ll need. He has me leave on the last outfit I try. The clerk cuts the tags off me.
“Throw away the clothes she wore in,” Fritz tells her. “Or donate them, if anybody’s that desperate.”
When he’s not looking, I sneak my Dollywood shirt into one of my shopping bags.
I go over to a big floor mirror while Fritz pays the bill. I like my dark-wash jeans, stylish leather ballet flats, flouncy cotton blouse, lightweight cardigan sweater, and the bright silk scarf around my neck.
“I would never have chosen anything like this for myself,” I tell Fritz when he comes up behind me.
“You didn’t even look like a girl before. You wore T-shirts and jeans that were cut for a man three times your size.” He turns me to the side. “You actually have a cute little body, Merry. Let’s just pray that Helena can work a miracle on that hair.”
What girl hasn’t imagined starring in a real-life Cinderella story?
/> Fritz discussed me with Helena when we got to the salon after a quick lunch stop. Their ideas sounded pretty radical, but I was game. I pretended to be unsure so that I could have a little leverage with Fritz. In exchange for me getting the haircut he wanted, he had to buy an outfit he could wear walking the beach—even though he said he’s never gonna wear it.
Now a brand-new person looks back at me from the salon mirror. My former long, wavy hair has been shorn, and I’ve got a pixie cut dyed darker than even the darkest shades in my old hair, which held every color I ever had—from baby blond, to college apartment well-water brassy, to I’m-getting-older mousy yuck—because it had been with me for so long.
My new color is snazzy; everyone in the salon is raving about it. It’s brownish reddish blond. It was picked to bring out my blue eyes, which have also been helped along by new makeup. I swear if I didn’t know it was me in the mirror, well, I wouldn’t know.
My head feels so light!
Fritz walks through the door and comes up behind me in the mirror. He pretends he doesn’t know who I am.
“Pardon me, stylish lady,” he says. “I’m looking for a frumpy mountain girl with twenty pounds of dull, straw-like hair, who has apparently never heard of tweezers. Have you seen her?”
We share a smile in the mirror.
“Y’all are such a flatterer,” I say.
I drank two glasses of wine during the three hours it took to get my hair cut and colored and my makeup and nails done. That’s probably why I turn and throw my arms around Fritz.
“Thank you!” I shout.
He squirms away.
“See my nails?” They’re dark blue. I hold my hands out for Fritz.
“Hmm,” he says, and what with his frown lines and tired eyes and all, I swear he looks like he could be 100 years old for a minute. He shakes his head like he plum gives up. “Well, Victor would like them.”
“I’d love to meet him,” I say. I never met a glam rock-and-roll guy before. It’s hard for me to picture someone like that with fussy Fritz.
“Maybe you will. He lives across the street from your father’s house in London.”
“Is it still his house?” I ask. “With him passed on and all?”
Help Yourself Page 6