Daring Chloe

by Walker, Laura Jensen

  “Loved it. How could you not?”

  “Classic. Charming. Delightful.”

  “Old-fashioned but in a good way. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy.”

  “One of my favorite books from childhood.”

  “Mine too.” Annette released a dreamy sigh. “Made me want to go sleep in a hayloft with a round window in the ceiling, so I could look up at the stars every night.”

  “And living in the Swiss Alps wouldn’t be too shabby either.”

  Not shabby at all. While the others extolled the virtues of the book, I thought of what it would be like to live in a hut like Heidi’s in such pristine, beautiful, and relatively solitary surroundings. I wouldn’t mind living in a little hut high up in the gorgeous Alps either. As long as it came equipped with electricity and indoor plumbing. And plenty of Swiss cheese and chocolate.

  I could see it now. By day I could set up an outdoor easel and attempt to capture the mountain’s majesty, and by night I could curl up in front of the roaring fire and read to my heart’s content.

  How’s that for a flight of fancy? Becca must be rubbing off on me.

  “The whole thing was a little too much on the sugary side for me,” Jenna said, making a face.

  “Really? I thought it was sweet.”

  “Like I said.”

  “You’re such a hard-hearted Hannah.”

  “Why? Just because I don’t like my fiction syrupy?”

  “No, you like it all dark, shadowy, and mysterious.”

  “What can I say? I like mysteries. Something that makes me think and try and figure out who did it. More interesting. Too much sweetness and light gives me a toothache.”

  “Somebody call the dentist,” Becca said.

  “So who was your favorite character, aside from Heidi?”

  “The grandfather, definitely.”

  “The blind grandmother.”

  “Clara.”

  “Toss-up between the old doctor and the gruff grandfather.”

  “I liked Peter the naughty goatherd.” Becca broke into a “Lonely Goatherd” yodel.

  “Julie Andrews?”

  Jenna made a gagging sound.

  “Watch it.” Paige frowned at Jenna. “I love Julie. The Sound of Music and The Princess Diaries. And, of course, Mary Poppins.”

  “Keep that spoonful of sugar close.”

  “Movie rabbit trail again,” Becca said.

  Paige ducked her head. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. Once a movie geek, always a movie geek.”

  Jenna shifted in her chair, an odd expression on her face.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was uncertainty. But Jenna was never uncertain about anything. I focused on what she was saying. “Actually, since we’ve taken this little conversational detour, I have an announcement to make.”

  “Ooh! You’re getting married!” Kailyn’s face lit up.

  “No, that would require a groom. And the fact that I’m not dating anyone at the moment would make it kind of difficult.”

  “What, then?”

  “You’re not quitting book club, are you?” Becca sent her a mock menacing look.

  “No.”

  “You’d better not.”

  Jenna took a deep breath and released it slowly through her teeth. “I can’t go to Paris with you guys.”

  “What?”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “How come?”

  She squared her shoulders. “One, it’s a lot of money that I really can’t afford to spend; and two, there’s this major tria-thalon that same Saturday you leave that I’ve been wanting to do forever. I thought it was going to be the previous week, but I had the date wrong.”

  “So catch a later flight.”

  “It’s an entire weekend event. And my boss just announced that he is taking the following week off. Since he just made me assistant manager, I have to hold down the fort while he’s gone.”

  “Well, that sucks.” Becca stuck out her lower lip.

  “I’ll say,” Paige said. “It won’t be the same without you.”

  “It’s okay. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how well I’d do as a vegetarian in Paris anyway. The French are pretty big carnivores.”

  “Couldn’t you eat fish?” Kailyn asked.

  “I don’t eat anything with eyes.”

  “Salmon doesn’t have eyes.”

  Jenna stared at her. “Of course it does.”

  “Not any that I’ve ever eaten.”

  Paige and I began to giggle, Becca let loose one of her trademark snorts, and soon the whole table was laughing.

  Annette swiped at her eyes and then turned to her daughter. “Has any chicken you’ve ever eaten had eyes?”

  “No. Eww!”

  “Well it did before it got to the grocery store. Lamb too. And beef.”

  Becca mooed.

  “Oh.” Kailyn flushed. “Duh.”

  It’s not that Kailyn was dumb, just clueless. And a little naive. And as her mother always said, she didn’t have a lick of common sense.

  Tess stuck a fork in the salmon to test it, pronounced it not quite done and re-covered it with tin foil before sliding it back in the broiler for a few more minutes.

  After Kailyn’s book club faux pas, Tess and I had gotten a craving for salmon but decided not to eat out since we were both trying to save all our spare pennies for Paris. Instead, we stopped at the grocery store where Tess selected two medium-sized pieces of fresh salmon from the fish guy in the back and I grabbed a salad in the bag, some microwavable rice, and ice cream.

  Once home in my condo kitchen, Tess turned the oven on to broil and placed the salmon in the center of a large piece of aluminum foil I’d set on the granite countertop.

  “Now watch closely. This is the tricky part.” She seasoned the salmon with a little lemon-pepper and a couple small dabs of butter, loosely wrapped the foil around the fish, and crimped the ends. Then she stuck the foil package in the broiler. “Voila! ”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Easy as pie. Now we just let it broil for ten or twelve minutes.” Tess washed and dried her hands. “And now, my cooking-impaired niece, you can add salmon to your gastronomic repertoire, along with hot dogs and macaroni and cheese.”

  “Don’t forget French toast. I make some mean French toast.”

  “Yes you do. C’est bon.”

  “I hope our Paris cooking lessons are this easy.” I pulled the package of rice from the freezer, poked a hole in the plastic, and stuck it in the microwave for three minutes.

  “Je ne sais pas. But I don’t think they’ll be too difficult.” She took a drink of her iced tea. “My client who recommended our French chef couldn’t stop raving about her. And this same client, who admitted that she’s never been any good in the kitchen, said she came home with three delicious, fail-proof recipes that her husband absolutely loves.” Tess’s mouth curved upward. “She also said it made him much more attentive and romantic.”

  “Well there you go. We’ll return from Paris these amazing French cooks and the guys will be beating down our doors.”

  “Or at least sniffing around them.” She raised her glass. “Here’s hoping.”

  Was I really ready for some new guy to come into my life though? I was doing pretty well on my own and with my paperback girlfriends. Who’d have thought?

  The microwave dinged, and I pulled out the steaming rice in a bag as Tess grabbed two oven gloves and removed the salmon from the broiler. I shook some salad into two bowls and dropped a few cherry tomatoes on top. Then I dumped a serving of rice onto our plates next to the salmon Tess had artfully placed on two oversized leaves of lettuce, and picked up the plates.

  “Kitchen or dining room?”

  “Dining room. We need to start practicing civilized eating habits so we’re prepared for France.” Tess grabbed the Ranch dressing and our iced tea and followed me to my little-used dining room table.

  We said grace, and I took a bite of fish.
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  “Mmm. C’est delicious. I can’t wait to try this out on Becca. Makes a nice change from our usual Budget Gourmets and Lean Cuisines.” I munched on my salad. “So . . . Paris. Tell me what you’re most looking forward to. The food, the art, the Eiffel Tower?”

  “All of it,” Tess said. “The museums, the monuments, the sidewalk cafés, the Gothic cathedrals, the Seine with its bridges and bookstalls.” Her eyes turned soft and dreamy. “Paris is like no other city in the world: fabulous food, amazing museums, the most beautiful architecture I’ve ever seen anywhere. And walking everywhere rather than driving, just the whole pace of life. There’s so much variety in Paris. And wait until you see the art.” She closed her eyes and expelled a blissful sigh. “Absolutely breathtaking. I’m counting the days until I can go to the Orsay and see my Renoir, Woman Reading. It’s one of my favorite paintings, for obvious reasons.”

  “Are you sure you’re not my mom?” I teased. “Mom’s never been into art or reading. I mean, how can anyone not read?” I fixed Tess with a knowing smile. “C’mon, admit it. You got pregnant when you were sixteen, left town with your married sister, and when you came back again six months later, bam! Mom had a new baby girl. That’s the only thing I can figure.

  “Mom and I are so different. You and mom are so different. It’s hard to believe you’re even sisters.”

  “You mean like you and Julia?”

  “Exactement.”

  “Honestly?” Tess said. “I don’t know too many sisters who are all that alike, unless they’re twins. And even then . . . Maybe it’s that whole sibling rivalry thing, each of us vying for our parents’ attention — I don’t know. And yes, Karen and I are as different as — wait for it — night and day, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her and wouldn’t be there for her in a heartbeat if she ever needed me. And I know the same is true of her. You and Julia too.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I am.” Tess added dressing to her salad. “How is Julia? How are all the wedding plans coming along?”

  “Perfect, of course. Could you imagine anything less?”

  My sister had wedding planner books, binders, and checklists out the wazoo. One binder alone was filled with flower choices; another, menu options and still another, wedding cake possibilities. And as the maid of honor, wedding etiquette dictated that I help her with all this stuff.

  Only I just didn’t have the heart for it. It wasn’t exactly my thing, either. So Julia and I were both relieved when her best friend, Katie, her senior bridesmaid, offered to step into the unofficial maid of honor capacity and help Mom and Julia with most of the wedding details.

  Worked for me.

  “Last I heard, Justin’s friend Andrew is going to sing Stephen Curtis Chapman’s “I Will Be Here” while they take communion, Julia has booked a harpist to play classical music both at the wedding and reception, they are riding in a horse-drawn carriage to the reception, and they plan to release white doves into the air when the ceremony is over.”

  “Sounds like quite the production.”

  “I’ll say. Mom, Julia, and Katie are spending every waking moment going over all the myriad details. And it’s still nearly five months away!” I set my fork down. “They’ve got lists for everything: the food, the music, the decorations, the order of the ceremony. They’re driving everyone absolutely crazy. Everything has to be just so.” I made a face. “If I ever get married — big if — I think I’ll just elope to Tahoe.”

  “You and me both. I’d rather spend my money on a killer honeymoon.” Tess started to apologize for saying the once-hated H-word, but I cut her off.

  “I’m so over that now. Ancient history.”

  If only some of the sweet, Grandma-knows-best old ladies at church would leave it at that.

  The first Sunday I returned to church after Chris had dumped me, several well-meaning friends of my Grandma Chloe’s, whom Mom had inherited by proxy upon Grandma’s death, descended upon me like a lavender cloud, dispensing sympathy and words of wisdom.

  “Now don’t you worry, sweetheart.” Alice Cullifer patted my arm. “God’s working on Chris. He just got cold feet. He’ll be back.”

  Ethel Roushia, her blue-haired crony, nodded in agreement. “The Lord just needs to do a work in him. He’s putting him through the fire so he can be refined. And he’ll come back to you a better man. Meanwhile, you just hold on tight to Jesus.”

  “Men never know what’s good for them,” Lucy Hetland said. “That’s why we women have to show them. Gently and quietly, of course, as it says in 1 Peter.”

  Others took a different approach.

  “God stopped that wedding just in time.”

  “The Lord has something better for you.”

  “God has the perfect man that he created just for you. And he’ll reveal him to you in his own perfect time. You mark my words.”

  “God’s ways are not our ways.”

  “God’s the best matchmaker.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Over the next few weeks, the lavender ladies inundated me with flowery cards in the mail filled with Scripture, usually Proverbs 3:5.

  To be fair, everyone was just trying to help the best way they could — but what exactly do you say to someone who’s just been left at the altar?

  And as the weeks passed with no new word on the Chris front, David Crooke, a former member of the singles group, now married, who fancied himself a spiritual giant, approached me after service with his Proverbs 31 wife in tow.

  “Chloe, have you ever considered that maybe God’s called you to be single? Like Paul?”

  No, Dave. Have you ever considered that maybe God’s called you to be bald and unemployed and sitting on a corner with a little cup and a sign that says Will work for food?

  15

  Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families.

  David Copperfield

  I was back in my worst nightmare. The fitting room of the bridal shop. The absolute last place on earth I wanted to be. But the store had called Julia and told her they needed her to come in so they could check the new hemline and also finalize the bridesmaid dress choices. Katie was voting for the strapless cotton-candy pink, while I was hoping for something a little less Pepto-Bismolish.

  Mom was supposed to go with her favorite daughter, but she was in bed with the flu. So, with Katie out of town for the weekend, it was up to me.

  When I arrived at the bridal store, I put on my best happy maid of honor face as I entered the little shop of horrors with my morning latte. The clerk ushered me to the back where the faint sounds of Pachelbel’s Canon wafted over all the tulle and lace. I knocked on the dressing room door. “Jules? It’s your maid of honor.”

  Pushing open the ivory door, I entered chaos.

  The middle-aged seamstress was trying to zip up Julia’s dress — trying being the operative word, since there was a stubborn one-inch gap between the two sides of the zipper that refused to close. And in that gap between her shoulder blades gaped an extra inch of creamy skin on Julia’s slender body.

  Who knew? The perfect, beautiful Julia had back fat.

  I straightened my back and sucked in my stomach.

  “Now don’t you worry.” The fitter was soothing my sister, whose head was bent to the side as she held her cascade of caramel hair away from the recalcitrant zipper. “Lots of brides gain weight before the wedding — it’s all the stress. A few less carbs and some extra trips to the gym and you’ll fit into your dress perfectly again.”

  Julia raised her head. Her wet eyes met my startled ones in the mirror. “No, I won’t!” Tears rained down her face in a torrent. “I’ll never be able to fit into this dress again.”

  She sniffed and whipped around to face me. “What is that smell?” Julia glanced at the triple-shot latte in my hand, and clapped her hand over her mouth, gagging. “I’m going to be — ”

  “Watch the dress!” The seamstress grabbed a wastebasket and shoved it in front of
her just in time. Julia upended the contents of her stomach, her chest heaving.

  Her suddenly voluptuous chest.

  When did that happen? Did my sister get a boob job?

  “Okay now, dear?”

  Julia nodded miserably to the saleswoman, who gingerly pulled the trash can away, holding her breath.

  I thought of saying “Cleanup on aisle seven” to add a little levity to the situation, but decided against it. Instead, I grabbed a tissue from my purse and handed it to my sister, careful to maintain my distance. “Sorry you’re sick. You must have caught Mom’s flu.”

  The sickly sweet smell filled the small, stuffy room, and I yanked another tissue from my purse and pressed it to my nose.

  “I don’t have the flu!”

  I stared at her. She had just ralphed because of a latte. “Julia?”

  She refused to meet my eyes. “I’m . . . pregnant.”

  “What? Julia the Perfect?” My turn to clap my hand over my mouth.

  Oh no. Did I say those words out loud? Nice. Not exactly what Jesus would do. My face suffused with heat and shame. The seamstress shot me a dirty look and slipped out with the trash can, grabbing my latte offender on the way, and murmuring something about giving us some privacy.

  “I knew you’d be thrilled,” Julia said through fresh sobs. “You’ve been waiting for me to blow it for ages. Well, I’ve blown it big time. So what are you waiting for? Why don’t you call Aunt Tess and tell her so you two can gloat about it in your intellectually superior way?”

  She drained her water bottle in a long gulp and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Or better yet, put an announcement in the bulletin at chur — ” A fresh onslaught of tears streamed down her face, and she collapsed on the dressing room chair, her newly voluptuous chest spilling out of her too-tight dress.

  Where was my mother when I needed her?

  I shifted uncomfortably. Mom would have known what to do, what to say — how to soothe and comfort her firstborn daughter.

  Or would she have been as stunned and dumbstruck as I was?

  A part of me instinctively longed to rush to Julia’s side, but another part held back. We hadn’t been close since grade school when we still said our Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep prayers together. And as we grew up, our differences pushed us further and further apart. I sneaked a furtive glance at my beautiful sister, who didn’t look so beautiful right now with her mascara-streaked face, puffy eyes, and shaking shoulders.