Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy)

by Bethany Bloom

  Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju

  A Romantic Comedy

  By Bethany Bloom

  Text Copyright © 2013 Bethany Bloom

  bethanybloombooks@gmail.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, places, and events portrayed are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  ***

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Also by Bethany Bloom

  ***

  How was she not burning her thigh on the coffee pot?

  This was the odd thought that lodged itself in Charlotte’s mind as she walked in on her husband pressing against that naked woman in his office. There was a heating element, right there, on his desk, where he had apparently shoved her. This strange, dark woman with the dark, dark lips. And the little red light glowed from the base of the pot, and the office smelled of burnt coffee and of sweat. The intimate scent of two people, one of whom she knew well. And Charlotte’s eyes went right to that coffee pot. Not to Caleb’s eyes, which she knew would look blue and round and watery. Not to the woman’s face or her flushed skin, or her full, bare breasts but to her naked thigh and that hot, hot coffeepot.

  And then came the thought that things were going to change. He had finally forced her hand.

  Chapter One

  Charlotte braced the steering wheel against the top of her thighs to free her hands. She squeezed Easy Cheese onto another cracker and gave it to Gracie before correcting the minivan’s drift.

  Ever since her daughters were old enough to chew and swallow, Charlotte had brought Triscuit crackers and squeeze cheese on road trips, so she could craft cheerful messages or drawings with the orangy squirts: hearts or flowers or tiny golden suns. Of course, Caleb was usually driving, and it was a whole lot easier to make her cracker art from the passenger seat. Just one of the very many things that would take some adjusting. But that’s what this trip was for. All kinds of adjusting.

  Charlotte turned to hand the next cracker to Hannah in the back seat.

  “’I’m getting car sick,” Hannah said, pushing it away.

  “No, you aren’t,” her sister said. “You’re just sick of the car.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not...”

  Charlotte flipped on her blinker and slowed to get behind a semi as she merged onto the exit ramp. They circled a roundabout and found themselves on a narrow two-lane road that appeared to dead end at the most majestic mountain she had ever seen, uncannily like the opening logo of Paramount Pictures: towering and imperial, the top still blanketed with snow even in early June.

  Charlotte felt, suddenly, as though she were driving into a film. One in which she was free to adopt a new character. A character whose shirt stayed clean and pressed and tucked in all day, whose bangs never went limp and pressed against her head. A character who always spoke with grace and kindness, who had done something meaningful with her life, who didn’t fall asleep every night watching reruns of Friends, who would never feed her children Crunchberries for dinner, who would never marry a man who could...who would…

  A sense of hope and new beginnings surged through Charlotte’s chest. Apparently, Hannah was feeling it, too, for she began to belt out a song from the backseat…something about the eye of the tiger, but the words weren’t quite right. Hannah, like her sister and both her parents, was a born introvert, but she fought her quiet nature more than the rest of them, and that meant, every now and then, she was prone to outbursts of song or random opinions. These were rarely well timed and often made her mother startle.

  Hannah continued her merry song, throwing her shoulders about as she unsnapped her seat belt and knelt on the floor between the two front seats. Gracie rolled down her window and thrust both arms into the wind.

  The sky here was so blue. Charlotte’s sister, Fiona, had described it when she first moved to this place years before. “It’s the color of sapphires…something you have to see to believe.” But she hadn’t said how everything looked so crystal clear. Not cloudy or foggy or misty, but crisp, as though the pines and spruce were etched on a background of cerulean blue. Charlotte could see why the town had become the premiere resort destination in the West, a favorite of movie stars, dignitaries and celebrity athletes.

  Charlotte leaned her head toward her own window. She felt weightless, light-headed. Was it the high altitude? Or was it the deep fear and roiling sadness, combined with a terrifying scent of new possibilities—all of which she couldn’t seem to shake. Not since that woman on Caleb’s desk.

  Charlotte glanced at her scribbled directions and made a right-hand turn. A scrolling sign announced “Amari Estates.” From there, the black ribbon of asphalt wound its way up a forested hill.

  “Are you sure this is it?” Gracie leaned forward in her seat so she could see the tops of the trees and the rooflines of the sprawling homes.

  Charlotte didn’t answer.

  “Is Aunt Fiona this rich?” Hannah asked.

  Charlotte’s lower back began to cramp and she leaned forward to stretch it out, hugging the steering wheel as she twisted first one way and then another.

  “Apparently so,” Gracie answered, when her mother didn’t.

  “This is where we’re going to live all summer?” Hannah turned to her sister and pushed out her palm for a high five. Gracie turned away and placed a hand, instead, on her mother’s shoulder.

  Gracie’s hand was warm. What would she do without this kid? What would she do if her oldest daughter were the kind of child who rolled her eyes when her mother spoke? Who refused to leave her life and her thirteen-year-old friends for the summer?

  If nothing else, at least she had this. Two loving daughters, who were kind and compassionate and understanding. At least she had done this right. It may have been the only thing, but it was something. If it needed to be, she supposed, it could be everything.

  Gracie looked down at her mother’s directions. “Third house on the right. But these lots are so big, how can you tell where the houses are?”

  “I’ll count the driveways,” Hannah offered.

  “It’s not the one with the semi, is it?” Gracie asked. “Because that’s the third driveway.”

  A silver tractor-trailer had backed in with its nose facing the road.

  “I believe it is,” Charlotte said, rolling to a stop along the street.

  “Is the whole neighborhood named after her?” Hannah asked.

  “Her husband developed this whole subdivision, so I think so,” Charlotte replied. “Not named after her, though, I imagine. But after him, Kamal Amari.”

  “But they are married, so it’s after her, too.” Hannah said. And then she stretched her arms in the air. “Mom. This is sweet. And you’re right. This is going to be good for us.” She leaned
toward the windshield to snap a photo with her phone.

  “So, is Aunt Fiona moving?” Gracie asked.

  “No, it actually looks like someone’s moving in,” Charlotte said. “I think those people are unloading things out of that truck. Not into it.”

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Positive,” Charlotte said, peering again at her notes. “Maybe she’s just having a furniture delivery.”

  “Try plants.” Hannah said. “Loads and loads of plants.”

  Charlotte inhaled and closed her eyes, then snapped a smile onto her face. She unfolded her legs from the minivan and brushed the morning’s snacks from her cropped denim pants. The seatbelt had been cutting into her waist, and she pushed out her belly now as a means of balancing things out. Gracie and Hannah unfolded their long, lean limbs from the car, stretched their arms high in the air, and kicked their feet to position their flip-flops. Then, together, they made their way toward the house.

  A flurry of men and women were unloading greens and seedlings and shrubs from the semi and dashing toward sweeping swaths of topsoil, which curled and looped among spruce, pine and aspen trees. A weathered woman with a whistle around her neck stood at the tail end of the semi, clutching a clipboard, pointing an index finger and frowning.

  That’s when Fiona dashed from the house and down the flagstone steps. She waggled her arms and wiggled her shoulders and stumbled along the uneven rocks. When she reached her sister at last, she clamped her hands around Charlotte’s upper arms and bleated, “Oh! Here at last! My poor heartbroken sister!”

  Then she pressed her bosom into Charlotte. Fiona had the hardest boobs. Goodness, how were they so hard? Like turtles; tortoises, even. Charlotte now suspected that these breasts were new and improved. An even greater enhancement than the new-and-improved set she had before. Presumably, this Kamal fellow wasn’t a leg man.

  Everything about Fiona now, in fact, was hard and astoundingly, unnaturally tight. Her ponytail. The skin around her eyes. Her mini-dress, which barely cradled her breasts, clung tight to her thighs. She wore what looked to be an amulet on a chain around her neck, but it had burrowed itself tightly inside her cleavage and, so, had been forced to turn sideways. Charlotte wondered if this felt something like a wedgie. She would never know. Her own chest allowed plenty of space for pendants. She could wear a phone book around her neck and it would lay flat.

  “Oh, Charlotte.” Fiona pulled back to look at her sister. “Poor, poor Charlotte.”

  This was going to be harder than she thought. More than anything else, Charlotte hated to be pitied or made the victim or singled out for attention. And Fiona knew this. But it was Fiona’s turn, at long last, to be the superhero. To be the sister who had it all. And, by the looks of it, she was going to squeeze every living drop out of the situation. Charlotte took a deep breath and pulled her lips back into a smile.

  Fiona blinked hard, as though to stem the tide of tears, and then she said, “And who are these beautiful young women?”

  Hannah and Gracie looked confused. Did she really not know who they were?

  “They have just gotten so big. So mature. So…gorgeous.” Fiona looked them up and down. “My! A couple of heartbreakers. Am I right?” She poked her elbow at Gracie. “How many boyfriends do you have? How many?”

  Gracie looked at the ground, poked at a ridge in the flagstone with her foot. “Um. None.”

  “Well.” Fiona turned to Hannah. “And how about you, little missy?”

  Hannah stared at Aunt Fiona’s face, then down at her enormous chest. Charlotte was sure now. It had grown sizably since they had last seen her. How long had it been? Two years? Three?

  Hannah smiled and shook her head.

  “I see you’re both quiet and shy, just like your poor mother,” Fiona wailed. “We’ll just see what we can do about that!”

  Charlotte motioned toward the truck and the scowling men and women who kept scampering along its steel ramp. “What do you have going on here?” she asked.

  “Oh.” Fiona lifted her eyebrows as though seeing them for the first time. “Sorry. All of these workers were supposed to come yesterday, but the weather stopped them. I guess. Who knows?” She let out a shrill sound, which Charlotte decided meant that the help frustrated her in untold ways. “Anyway, there are four thousand perennials on that truck. Can you believe it? I’m going to have the most beautiful garden in town this summer. That’s more than our town’s botanical gardens, I believe.”

  The pale woman with the clipboard approached. She had thick weathered skin and lips to match.

  Fiona turned. “This is Lydia, and her little army of helpers. What do you call them, doll? It’s so darling. What is it again? What do you call them?”

  “Hello, yes, my name is Linda, and I am the head gardener and these…” she gestured grandly at the men and women behind her, “are my Sweet Peas. But, really, they are more like my minions.” Linda threw her head back and out came a booming, grating laugh. It suddenly became obvious to Charlotte why this woman worked outside, with plants.

  “I see,” Charlotte said in a quiet voice. She gave Linda what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  “So where would you like the lupine? Did you decide?” Linda thumped at her clipboard.

  “Just do it like the drawing, sweetheart.” Fiona replied. She wrinkled her nose at Charlotte as if to say, We have to tell them everything, don’t we?

  “The drawing leaves a little to be decided on site.”

  At this point, Fiona began to simply stare at her.

  Linda stared back for a beat, and then she became very interested in the sheaf of papers on her clipboard. “I can just use my best judgment, if that’s what you would like,” she mumbled.

  “If you had come when you said you would, I would have all kinds of time to go over things with you, but now I need to visit with my sister. She is here for a visit. As you can see.”

  Linda turned to Charlotte. “How delightful,” she said. “How long are you staying?”

  “Oh. All summer.”

  Fiona frowned and Linda clutched her clipboard to her chest. She made a noise from deep in her throat and then said, “I believe I can eke out your preferences based on our previous conversations. If you don’t mind, simply keep an eye out and let me know if you see anything that doesn’t fit with your vision.”

  “Perfect, I will. Thank you, Lydia.”

  “Linda,” she corrected.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Fiona said, lifting her shoulders once again and smiling toward her sister. “So how excited are you for this summer?” She slid her arm into the crook of Charlotte’s to make a link. “I have big plans for you. For all of you.” She turned to the girls and made grabbing motions toward them with her free hand.

  A screechy voice called from the front porch. “Who let out the gerbils? Because they’re out. And they’re trampling the wooly thyme.”

  Linda blew her whistle. “We don’t call them gerbils, please,” she said, flying to Fiona’s side. “May I help you retrieve your dogs, Ms. Amari?”

  “Nonsense.” Fiona bent to pick up the larger of two Lhasa Apsos that were darting at their feet with scrabbling, panicky motions. “This is Princess Tulip,” she said, thrusting the dog into Hannah’s arms. “And this is Duchess Poi Poi.” She handed this dog to Gracie, who held it around the middle in an effort to avoid the matter that was swinging from the hair on the animal’s backside.

  “Do hold on to them while all of these people are trampling about,” Fiona pleaded. Then she poked a dainty toe into the soil on the side of her porch. “Irises here. Right, Lydia?” she called.

  “Right,” Linda replied. “Bordered with clematis.”

  “Very good. Very good.”

  “It’s going to look better than a magazine, Ms. Amari.”

  “Well good, good. See that it does. My husband has very exacting standards.”

  “Oh, we know, Ms. Amari. Not to worry.”

  Fiona
led them to the entry of her home, a ranging log affair with soaring buttresses and glossy beams. As the front door opened, they were greeted with a whoosh of perfumed air—pine and the faint scent of floor polish—as well as a small boy, wearing nothing but a red cape. He launched himself through the air from a piece of nearby furniture. “You’re here!” he shouted, landing with his arms around Gracie’s neck, where he now dangled like a pendant. Gracie turned to look at her mother and, with just her eyes, communicated: This boy has no pants on, and he nearly squished his own dog.

  In response, Charlotte smiled and bugged her eyes out a bit, thereby communicating: I see that. Handle yourself with grace. We’ll laugh about it later. Then Gracie spoke to the pantless boy. “Hi, Maxwell. You’re sure getting big.” She made an effort to shake him back toward the floor.

  Maxwell hopped down and said, “I see you’re holding Rufus.”

  “Her name isn’t Rufus, Maxwell,” Fiona interrupted. “You know that perfectly well. Her name is Princess Tulip.”

  “But she likes to be called Rufus.”

  Gracie smiled at her cousin. “Okay. This one is Rufus. Got it. And what does this one like to be called?” She pointed to the dog in Hannah’s arms.

  “Turd.”

  And then the boy whisked himself off again. As he flew down the hallway, his cape rippled and Charlotte caught sight of his two bare little cheeks, hard as biscuits.

  “Language!” Fiona called to him, but then she laughed, turned to them, and wrinkled her nose. “Yes, Rufus and Turd. Whatever. We choose our battles around here. And he’s just showing off for you. But beware. Maddox is around here somewhere. He is also likely to leap out at you, and it’s likely he won’t be wearing any clothes either.”

  Charlotte placed her handbag on an enormous antique bench. Everything in the house was oversized, comically so. The walls here in the entry soared three stories up, where massive timbers met drywall finished with a Venetian glaze of terra cotta. The credenza on the side of the hallway towered with a five-foot vase bursting with red and orange silk flowers. In the corner of the foyer stood a life-size statue of a woman, nude, bent slightly and holding a water jug. Fiona saw Charlotte eyeing it. “Kamal picked that out in Greece. He kept saying, ‘I found a beautiful woman. She has a great set of jugs. And I’m bringing her home.’ Of course, I knew he didn’t mean a real woman. I mean, he would never cheat…” Fiona stopped short. She bit at her lip and looked down at the pink rhinestones on her shoes.