by Cindy Sample
How could I forget? My mother, the queen of Centurion Realty, had been in her element. I felt like her ugly duckling daughter. She forgot to tell me it was a formal affair so I wore one of my old suits. Thank goodness I didn't have to face that well coiffed group again.
"Sorry. I have a date Saturday night. Dinner at the River Inn."
"Oh, no, not another of those Love Club people,” she groaned. “I thought you were finished with that foolishness."
"I've only been on one date. Just because it ended disastrously, doesn't mean I shouldn't try again. His name is Doctor Jeremy Slater."
A doctor. A successful professional as a potential son-in-law.
"Why would a physician resort to joining a club like that? Certainly he can find dates without assistance."
I sighed. There was no pleasing my mother.
"What are you going to wear? The River Inn is quite elegant. I think men are supposed to wear coats and ties,” she said.
Coats and ties. That was pretty unusual for a California restaurant. Now I'd have to find time to buy a new dress. Too bad my mother and I weren't built the same. How my five foot seven, slender mother produced a short, curvy daughter was beyond me. Guess I had my dearly departed fireplug of a father to blame. I would love to go shopping in her walk-in closet, which was almost the size of my bedroom. Plus all of her designer suits and dresses were organized by color. Talk about anal with a capital A.
"I haven't decided what I'm wearing. I'll fill you in at church next weekend."
"I'm sure Pastor Brown will be delighted to see you again."
Did I detect a hint of sarcasm? I opened my mouth to respond that we'd only missed two services this month but she cut me off. “Try not to ruin your next date."
That was a low blow, but the dial tone came on before I could respond with a pithy reply. I hung up the phone, set my alarm clock and crawled into bed.
The clatter of squirrels rearranging the steel tiles on my roof woke me early the next morning. I love living in the country but I wished some of my furry neighbors would find a hobby that wasn't so noisy or so expensive to repair. Even so, the joy of living in the foothills is worth it. Starry, smog free skies, snow-capped mountain vistas, herds of deer grazing peacefully on my front lawn. Eating all the petunias in my window boxes.
Okay, it's not pastoral perfection all the time. But I'm only ten minutes from the office. If I lived in Sacramento, a forty-mile commute on clogged highways, I'd have to get up an hour earlier. Or get rid of my children.
Monday morning I arrived early at the bank. I exchanged growls with the wooden bear and with Vivian who seemed even more surly than usual. After storing my purse, I sauntered down to the break-room. The coffee looked and smelled like scorched caffeine, but at least it was caffeine. Mary Lou entertained several of our co-workers with her description of her date the previous Saturday night. I leaned against the counter and nodded sympathetically when she confided that he was a lousy kisser.
At least he was alive and kissing.
I grabbed my mug, scurried past the rows of gray cubicles that lined our office and reached my own miniscule six by six cube. The pile of loan applications formed a barricade around my desk. The bank was definitely benefiting from the closing of some of our competitors.
I grabbed the first file and flipped through the pages. The borrower, a hair stylist, claimed to make one hundred thousand a year. Maybe in Beverly Hills, but no way in El Dorado Hills.
Reject.
Considering the crazy loan products that some of our competitors had been offering, the borrower's next stop could be the mortgage company down the street. I was glad I worked for a conservative bank. No mumbo jumbo mortgage products here.
I was grateful that my employer stayed true to its mission statement—making sensible loans to qualified borrowers. Fully documented mortgages. Some of our competitors used to originate NINJA loans. That stood for no income, no job, and no assets. Nothing about the borrower had to be verified. Sometimes it's hard to fathom the cupidity, not to mention the stupidity of mankind.
"Hey, gorgeous.” I recognized Stan's deep baritone and looked up.
He may be gay but Stan has one of the sultriest voices of the male persuasion. “What's up? Do anything exciting this weekend?"
Stan draped himself over the tweed chair. His pressed lilac shirt and matching satin tie were perfectly coordinated as usual. “The highlight of my weekend was helping my sister pick out a dress to wear to a wedding if that gives you any idea of my hot social life."
"Hey, I need a new dress. Can you think of someplace suitable for me—as well as my budget?” I added, knowing that with Stan's excellent and expensive taste, further clarification was necessary.
Stan stroked his chin, gray eyes thoughtful behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Not that he had much of a chin to stroke. “Honestly, I think we visited every boutique in Sacramento. Jeannie is such a perfectionist it took forever to find something, and she never lets a price tag stand in her way."
"Great.” I rubbed my hands together in anticipation of a shopping expedition. “Do you have any evenings free this week?"
"Between my baseball league, knitting class and the church choir, I think I can squeeze you in.” We settled on Thursday since most of the stores would be open late.
Wednesday evening I called Coach Dan and he agreed to bring Ben home from practice on Thursday. I could ramp up my Visa to my heart's content and my bankcard's limits.
Stan and I left the office together promptly at five. He offered to drive us in his new Beemer. I wasn't about to refuse the offer and entertained myself on the drive to the city by trying out all of the twelve different seating combinations.
"This is such a terrific car. Do you think I'll ever own one like it?"
"If you don't mind being indentured to a finance company for the rest of your life, you too could own a BMW. Just think, if we find the right dress tonight you may end up marrying the doctor. Doesn't the Hippocratic oath state they have to drive a BMW or a Mercedes?"
I chuckled, but his comment made me pause. Could our shopping excursion eventually result in marriage to the respectable Dr. Slater? And was marriage my ultimate goal? The sensible thing would have been to spend the next three hours evaluating what I wanted in a man. Instead we spent the evening trying to decide what I wanted in a dress.
Stan suggested we start at the Pavilions. Since the Plaza is more than forty miles from my house, I hadn't shopped there in years. As we strolled up the brick lined sidewalks I ogled the mannequins in the window of one of the stores. A soft black chiffon number caught my attention. It looked like it would be perfect for my less than perfect figure.
A rhapsody of tinkling bells greeted us as we entered the store. A willowy saleswoman impeccably dressed in a sage green silk suit, her left hand enhanced with a diamond the size of a snow globe, greeted us. “Hello. Can I help you find anything in particular?"
"How much is that black dress in the window, the floaty one?” I asked.
"The uh, floaty one? I believe it's either twenty-two ninety-five or twenty-three ninety-five. What size are you?” Her aquamarine eyes sized me up, down and sideways.
"I'm a ten or twelve. I can't believe that dress is less than twenty-five dollars. This is better than Ross."
The saleswoman and Stan gawked at me and managed to synchronize the rolling of their eyes. She turned the price tag over and read out loud, enunciating every patronizing syllable. “This Roberto Cavalli is twenty-three hundred ninety-five dollars. Let me see if I have your size available.” She stared down her perfectly shaped nose at me. “If you still wish to try it on."
My cheeks blushed hot pink. What was Stan thinking bringing me here? I was on a Payless budget, not a Prada budget.
"Of course I want to try it on. I'm sure it will be the perfect dress for me,” I muttered.
The minute she walked into the back room to look for my size, I grabbed the sleeve of Stan's retro bowling shirt and dragged
him over to the front door. “Are you nuts? I can't afford that dress. Twenty-four hundred dollars is the equivalent of three months of house payments. Or eight hundred mochas."
"You said you needed the perfect dress,” he said with a sheepish look. “Sorry. Sometimes my champagne taste collides with my common sense. But who knows, it may be exquisite on you.” Luckily the exquisitely overpriced dress was unavailable in my size. We browsed through several other stores but couldn't find anything in my price range that made either of us rave.
"Don't get discouraged,” Stan said as I slumped in the leather seat of the Beemer. “We still have lots of boutiques to check out in mid-town and East Sac."
We found a parking space on H Street in front of a store called Serendipity. Twinkling white miniature lights lent a festive look to the fall fashions in their window. Stuffed pumpkins strewn throughout the display reminded me it was less than a week to Halloween. Ben and I hadn't even discussed his costume yet. This mother had her priorities all screwed up.
"I'm getting some good vibes here.” Stan's head swiveled as his eyes scanned the racks of clothes. “You take the racks on the left and I'll head over to the ones on the right."
I had forgotten how tiring shopping could be since I rarely indulged in what used to be my favorite pre-divorce hobby. I was ready to call it a night when Stan cried out, “Hoochy Mama."
Hoochy Mama?
Hoochy Mama was a sapphire blue dress with sheer sleeves, ending in beaded cuffs at the wrist. The empire style dress with its low rounded neckline would flatter my curves. I snagged the dress from Stan's clutches, walked into the dressing room and closed the louvered door. I held my breath when the zipper came to an abrupt halt, but a little jiggle and it made it to the top. I slipped on my heels and peeked in the mirror.
A young saleswoman tapped on the door. “We have a three-way mirror out front. I'm sure your boyfriend wants to see how you look."
I snickered as I opened the door. “Stan's not my boyfriend. He's just the best personal shopper a girl could have. We'll let him make the final decision."
I model walked through the store ending my performance in front of Stan's chair. The look on his face was pure delight. “Babe. You've been hiding yourself under those Betsy Banker clothes. You look good enough to make a gay man go straight."
"Ok.a.a.y...I'll take that as a compliment. Guess I'm buying the dress."
I changed back into my slacks and sweater, hung the dress back on its hanger, and walked back into the store straight into—her. Nadine Wells. The golden goddess who for some strange reason clung to the arm of—another man? Not my ex?
"Um, Nadine, um...hello.” I turned to Stan. My expression must have screamed help. My buddy jumped in to rescue me.
"Hello. I'm Stan. Laurel and I were just leaving. In fact we were just getting into my new Beemer, the silver six-sixty parked over there..."
I recovered in time to save Stan from receiving the “gay dork” award of the week. “Where's Hank?"
Nadine tittered as she tottered on four-inch gold stilettos. Every time I encountered the woman I expected her to topple over, her super-sized manmade breasts at odds with her size double zero body. At least I had a decent sized frame to haul my excess soft tissue around.
"Honey, I kicked him out a few weeks ago. This is Dr. Hugo Black. Plastic surgeon extraordinaire, aren't you sweetie?” Her breasts tilted up in homage to the man who must have been responsible for their design and construction.
A plastic surgeon far surpassed Hank financially. Hank could barely keep up with my child support payments since the bottom fell out of the construction industry. Had Nadine grown tired of supporting him?
The plastic couple sauntered to the back of the store as I paid for my dress. Stan and I were both quiet as we drove up Highway 50 toward Placerville. Nadine's revelation had stunned me. Were Hank's recent overtures due to a realization that our children had suffered when he'd moved out of the house? Or were there financial considerations involved?
Stan dropped me off at the bank parking lot. I thanked him for his help, climbed in my car and headed home to a house ablaze with lights. I couldn't wait for the day when my kids received their very first utility bill.
I parked in the garage and removed my dress from the back seat. Despite the high wattage emanating from every room, neither of the children was downstairs. I walked into the kitchen, the dress in its navy plastic Serendipity bag, draped over my arm.
A note lay on the table. Jenna had scrawled the words a mother never wants to read.
[Back to Table of Contents]
NINE
I read the note a second time. DON'T FORGET—SNACK FOR SCHOOL.
The two most dreaded words in a mother's vocabulary. Snack Mom.
Ben's teacher had decided that every Friday one student should bring a treat for the entire class. It would give the kids something to look forward to at the end of the week. An excellent concept assuming the mother of the designated student remembered her snack mom detail.
I'd totally spaced out and forgotten it was Ben's week. A quick check on the kids then I'd head out to the supermarket. I climbed the stairs and entered Ben's room. He was sound asleep with a contented smile on his face. Probably dreaming of a soccer goal. I tucked his covers in then crossed the hall to Jenna's room. I knocked on her door and she gave me permission to enter.
She glanced at my garment bag. “Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Uh huh. I bought this amazing dress. I was going to try it on for you but then I saw Ben's note. I have to drive to the store and buy a snack for his class."
"Nah, you're good. We made brownies and they're stacked in the Tupperware carrier. I wrote the note so he wouldn't forget to take them in the morning. We figured you had enough on your mind and could use a little help. We didn't want you to screw up this date, too."
In my opinion, I wasn't the one who screwed up my last date, but I was thrilled by Jenna's helpful attitude. I plunked down on her apricot embroidered bedspread. “Guess who I ran into tonight?"
She gave me the look that only a sixteen-year old daughter can give. Okay, maybe she is too old for guessing games. “Nadine. According to her, she and your dad split up."
Jenna's eyes lit up and her smile was the widest I'd seen since our divorce. “Now you and Dad can get together again.” She catapulted from her chair and twirled around the room. Her mattress whooshed as she landed in a happy sprawl on the bed.
My heart plummeted. Why hadn't I realized what her reaction would be? With Nadine out of the picture, Jenna assumed Hank and I would reconcile. My garment bag dropped to the floor as I embraced my daughter. She might be four inches taller, but I was still her mother.
"Honey, your dad and I aren't getting back together. It just means he's no longer living with Nadine.” I frowned when I realized her father had neglected to inform me he was residing elsewhere. “Did you know he had moved?"
She gave me a sheepish look reminiscent of the man in question. “He told me he and Nadine were having problems so he moved in with his friend Bill. I thought...I thought maybe we could all be a family again...” Her voice trailed off as she slumped against me.
All the anger I felt when Hank left two years ago erupted in full force. How dare he let Jenna get her hopes up for a reconciliation? It was a good thing he wasn't standing in front of me because I definitely had murder on my mind.
I kissed the top of her tangled auburn hair. “We'll discuss it tomorrow.” The shopping expedition had worn me out and I didn't have the emotional stamina to think about my ex-husband's deceit right now. It could wait until the next day.
Unfortunately Hank didn't give me the opportunity. He left a voicemail Friday morning informing me he would pick up the kids from school. I would have to wait until he brought them home on Sunday before I could berate him. Although our divorce decree granted joint custody, it ended up more like an eighty/twenty split. I hoped their lack of quality time with their father wo
uldn't make them any more dysfunctional than most children. Considering the amount of time they spent with me, that was probably a given.
Despite Jeremy's courteous demeanor during our previous meeting, I was somewhat apprehensive about having him come to our house. Not to mention he probably wasn't used to tripping over the GI Joes and Matchbox cars that normally decorate our family room.
After a restless night, I woke up early, determined my house would be so clean I could invite the first lady to dinner. I swept, vacuumed, scrubbed and polished. Once the house was immaculate it was my turn to be scrubbed and polished. I skipped lunch and by six o'clock, I was ready. Thanks to Liz, my face was aglow with sunny sheen foundation, an organic product that guaranteed I'd look ten years younger. Too bad it couldn't guarantee I'd look ten pounds lighter.
With extra time on my hands, I paced through the house. I was half looking forward to the date and half dreading it. My pacing eventually brought me into the kitchen. A little wine wouldn't hurt and it might relax me. I uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay just as the doorbell rang. I took a sip of liquid fortification about the size of a Big Gulp, set the glass on the counter and walked to the front door to greet my suitor.
Jeremy stepped into the entry, tall and slim in a gray suit, blue shirt, and darker blue tie. He smiled as his eyes appraised me. “Laurel, you look terrific. Are you ready to go?"
"Yes. I didn't know what time the reservations were. Would you like some wine before we leave? There's a bottle of Chardonnay open."
"Sure. Sounds good.” He followed me into the kitchen and perched on one of the oak barstools.
I poured a glass for Jeremy and topped off my own. Our glasses clinked as he toasted, “to a beautiful woman and a beautiful evening."
Aww. What a lovely sentiment. Both his words and the wine made me feel all warm and toasty inside. Jeremy was definitely a step, or an entire staircase up from my last date. I beamed at him. He smiled back then took a sip of wine and grimaced. Evidently the doctor wasn't a connoisseur of the McKay house brand, the infamous Two Buck Chuck. He set the glass on the counter then swiveled around, surveying my kitschy yellow kitchen.