Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  “Besides,” said Carmela, “I had no idea you were going to ransack my kitchen and start chowing down on dog cookies. I’m not exactly psychic.”

  “No, you’re a sadistic prankster,” accused Shamus.

  “Holy mackerel, Shamus,” said Carmela, starting to giggle again. Since the cookies were homemade and wholesome, she knew they were perfectly fine to eat.

  Shamus held up a finger. “That’s not funny. And damn it, I’m still hungry. You surely can’t expect a man to go to bed on an empty stomach. He gazed at her meaningfully.

  Carmela fixed him with a level gaze. “There’s chowder in the freezer, Shamus. Pop a carton in the microwave and it’ll be defrosted in six, maybe seven minutes.”

  The chowder sounded appealing, but Shamus still wasn’t convinced.

  “What about biscuits?” he asked. “You got any biscuits? Or how about a loaf of nice chewy bread?”

  “Nope.” Shamus was a carbo freak of the first magnitude. Carmela was, too, but she tried to do without.

  “Then I’ll bake some bread,” said Shamus. “Chowder’s no good if you don’t have something to dunk in it.”

  Shamus proceeded to busy himself in the kitchen, pulling out a mixing bowl and then dumping in flour, sugar, and… a bottle of beer?

  “What are you doing?” asked Carmela, deciding this had to be the weirdest recipe ever concocted. Unless Shamus was just making it up as he went along. To jerk her chain.

  “I’m making my famous game day beer bread,” he replied.

  “You’re not serious,” said Carmela. “You never made anything before. And I have certainly never heard you utter a single word about game day beer bread. Please tell me this is some sort of fantasy you read about in a men’s magazine. Soldier of Fortune or Penthouse.”

  “They don’t put recipes in those magazines,” Shamus snorted. “Besides, your nose is just out of joint because you think I can’t cook.” Shamus’s voice was heavy with reproach. “And you are so wrong.”

  “I know I’m not an ardent Julia Child disciple,” said Carmela, “or even a Martha fan. But popping open a bottle of beer? Please. That does not constitute cooking.”

  Yet, a little while later, when Shamus’s bread came out of the oven, all hot and steamy and yeasty smelling, Carmela got the surprise of her life.

  “This is good,” she said, slathering on butter and munching a piece. Yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a carbo freak, too. Hard to keep a lid on it.

  “You sound surprised.” Shamus sounded hurt.

  “Actually, I’m astonished,” said Carmela. “I had no idea you could cook, let alone bake.”

  “Well, I did reside in a frat house for three years.”

  “Sure, but you had a housemother. Mrs… what was her name… Warlock.”

  “Murdock,” amended Shamus. “Mother Murdock.”

  “Right,” said Carmela, deciding that poor Mother Murdock probably should have been canonized for putting up with all those stinky socks and stinky jocks.

  “Honey, I’ll have you know that at Tri Delt we had a housemother, two maids, and a handyman.”

  Carmela shook her head, thinking back to her own college days. It had been your basic four girls crammed into a one-bedroom apartment experience. Endlessly jockeying for the phone and the bathroom, someone always using the last tampon or bit of toilet paper but never owning up to it.

  ***

  CARMELA’S GOOD HUMOR WAS ONCE AGAIN PUT to the test when it was time to turn in.

  “Jammies?” asked Carmela, eyeing Shamus’s hastily packed overnight bag.

  “Pardon?” said Shamus, not understanding. Or pretending not to.

  “Pajamas,” said Carmela. “Did you bring them?”

  “Well… yeah. I think so.”

  “Good,” said Carmela, ducking into the bathroom. “You change while I take off my makeup and brush my teeth.”

  Somewhere between the toning and the cleansing routine Carmela heard the phone ring. She tossed her tissue into the trash can and listened, heard Shamus talking in low tones. Had he given out her number? she wondered. She straightened up and stared at her bare face in the harsh fluorescent light, thinking, If this doesn’t scare him off, nothing will. And knowing in her heart that installers of bathroom lighting surely must harbor intense feelings of hostility toward women.

  “Some guy named Quigg called,” Shamus snorted when she emerged from the bathroom clad in a modest floor-length nightie. “Said you could call him back tomorrow. Quigg.” He gave a second disdainful snort. “Sounds like somebody’s coonhound. Hey there, Quigg, old buddy, sniff around by that cypress tree and see what you come up with.”

  Carmela climbed into bed, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be productive.

  “Say, do you have a date or something with that guy Quigg?” asked Shamus. “Is that why you don’t want to, or can’t, sit at our table?”

  “Not exactly,” said Carmela.

  “Not exactly,” repeated Shamus, suddenly looking very wounded.

  Carmela stared at Shamus in wide-eyed amazement, wondering about the green-eyed monster that was suddenly crouched on Shamus’s back. She surely hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him. Maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. But certainly not out-and-out jealousy. Hmm.

  “Where are your pajamas?” Carmela asked him, but Shamus was still reveling in his full-fledged snit. He peeled down to his T-shirt and jockey briefs, then clambered into bed next to Carmela.

  Was this, Carmela wondered, what was meant by the phrase brief encounter?

  She patted the bed and Boo immediately jumped up and snuggled in between them, a modern-day Shar-Pei bundling board.

  Shamus frowned, lifted himself up on one elbow, and peered across Boo’s furry form. “You really owe me for this, you know.”

  Carmela gazed back at Shamus and shifted about uncomfortably, amazed that a forty-five-pound dog could occupy such a sizable amount of real estate. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Don’t play cute with me,” said Shamus. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Saturday night. Glory’s table. Quid pro quo, baby.”

  Carmela considered this. Shamus had come to her rescue tonight, so it was probably only right that she return the favor. On the other hand, didn’t Dr. Phil continually lecture on the danger of married people “keeping score”? You did this, so I get to do that. Except she and Shamus weren’t exactly your typical married couple. They were your typical on-the-verge-of-divorce couple.

  “Okay, Shamus. You got it,” said Carmela, trying to stifle a yawn.

  Shamus thumped his pillow, flopped over, and let loose a long sigh. “Thank goodness that’s settled,” he mumbled. As Carmela began to drift off to sleep, the last thing she was aware of were Boo’s wet snorts mingled with Shamus’s mumbled snores.

  Is this the real meaning of family? she wondered. Maybe. Hard to tell.

  Chapter 18

  THE interior of Spa Diva looked like it might have taken some of its divine inspiration from the gentlemen’s clubs of yesteryear. A leopard print love seat and chairs were clustered around a black ebony cocktail table. Chinese lamps with silk shades of saffron yellow and mandarin red cast a glow against gold leaf wallpaper. A white flokati rug seemed to undulate on the floor and two life-sized ceramic Chinese warriors from an indeterminate dynasty stood guard on either side of the reception desk. “Obviously not a glitter-free zone,” remarked Carmela as they strolled up to the front desk.

  But Ava was never adverse to a little glitz. “I like this,” she said. “Very glam-o-rama.”

  “Very Jade Ella,” whispered Carmela.

  The receptionist, a skinny, leather-clad blond, accepted their gift certificates and led them each to a treatment room.

  Ava had finally decided upon the Banana Frango facial, while Carmela had opted for the full-body mud mask. The brochure, the one with her photo adorning the cover, touted the full-body mud mask as a “hedonistic indulgence guaranteed to sleek and s
lough the skin.” She didn’t know how much sleekness one could attain in forty-five minutes, but she figured her body could probably do with a little sloughing.

  Carmela was shown to a treatment room with gleaming marble floors and walls, recessed glass panels adorned with etched nudes, and a large adjoining shower. Shucking out of her clothing, Carmela climbed onto the vinyl padded table and pulled a sheet about her modestly.

  Within moments, a determined-looking woman with gray hair pulled back in a stiff bun entered the room. She carried a pail filled to the brink with green mud.

  Uh-oh.

  “I am Greta,” the woman said by way of introduction. “Roll over, please.”

  Carmela obediently rolled onto her tummy. The word please had been filled with lots of sibilance, but not much warmth.

  “The mud draws out impurities,” explained Greta tersely, slapping a handful of cold, wet goo on Carmela’s backside. It smelled earthy and slightly minty. Carmela shivered as she wondered about Greta’s accent. Was the inscrutable Greta Swiss? German?

  “This is special mud?” asked Carmela, trying to make the best of what suddenly seemed like a slightly embarrassing situation. Maybe that Brazilian wax would have been preferable.

  “Mineral mud,” Greta told her as she patted the goo all across Carmela’s back, then turned her attention to Carmela’s legs. “Imported from France.”

  “Ah,” said Carmela. “ France.” It felt like a stupid retort, but she couldn’t think of anything better to say as Greta grunted and groaned and tossed handfuls of mud onto her.

  “Turn,” Greta finally ordered.

  Carmela struggled onto her right side, then managed an ungainly flop. Already the mud had begun to harden and form a crusty shell. The treatment table she was reclining on seemed to be heated and she felt like she was slowly becoming a human puff pastry.

  More mud was slathered and slapped atop her chest and breasts and when the procedure was complete down to the tips of her toes, Carmela found herself on her back, fully entombed in mineral mud. Greta positioned Carmela’s arms close to her sides, then covered her with what looked like a vinyl-coated electric blanket.

  Heat, Greta told her, would activate the mud’s skin-softening properties. She was also instructed to think pure thoughts and not to move a muscle for the next thirty minutes.

  The vinyl electric blanket was set at a sleep-inducing eighty degrees and plugged into a master panel that, she was told, electronically controlled the entire procedure. As Greta slipped out the door, the room lights dimmed automatically and Carmela found herself alone in the treatment room.

  It wasn’t long before Carmela was beginning to drift off. The padded treatment table was surprisingly comfortable, the mud had induced a kind of lethargy, and, from somewhere, probably the master control panel, gentle music played over hidden speakers. Quiet, restful, New Age-sounding music. Lots of strings, a gentle pan flute. The kind of music that could transport your brain waves from their normal alpha state into the more relaxed beta state.

  As she listened to the gentle notes, Carmela felt each one keenly, could almost see the notes floating in the warm air above her. Carmela giggled to herself, aware she was free-associating, not worrying where it was going to take her.

  As she sank deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation, Carmela heard a low click. She turned her head and sighed, assuming the tape had ended and a new one was going to begin. And let herself tumble, tumble, tumble, like Alice in Wonderland falling down that most intriguing rabbit hole, into a dreamlike state.

  But something was crouched on Carmela’s chest. Pressing down. Something heavy and hot.

  Carmela’s eyelids fluttered. She knew she should try to open them, but it seemed like too much trouble.

  Trouble.

  She was intensely hot. Sweltering.

  This time her eyelids really did open.

  Nothing was on top of her, but sweat oozed from every pore, coursed down her face in rivulets. She wondered if this was part of the treatment.

  No, it couldn’t be. She was too hot. Feverish.

  Way too hot.

  She tried to move an arm, but it stuck fast.

  Okay, then try to move your legs, she told herself. Stand up and the vinyl electric blanket thing that’s making you so hot will slide right off.

  She couldn’t budge an inch. Now she felt like she was encased in molten lava. Every nerve twanged, every inch of skin seemed to burn.

  This isn’t happening!

  Now what? she wondered. Now you scream your head off, her brain replied.

  “Help! Anybody!” Carmela shrieked at the top of her lungs. She paused a moment, listened for footsteps. “Get me outa here!”

  She gazed longingly at the door, praying for it to open.

  “Everything good?” Greta, suddenly chirpy, snicked open the door and peeked her gray head in.

  “Get me outa here!” Carmela yelled. “It’s too hot, I’m burning up!”

  Greta ripped the vinyl electric blanket away, then pulled at Carmela’s mud-encrusted arms. There was a slight crack as the mud gave way, then, finally, Carmela was free.

  “You set the heat way too high!” Carmela screamed, struggling to sit up. She was angry and didn’t care who heard her. “I was heading for a meltdown. The darn mud and electric blanket were as hot as Chernobyl!”

  “No, ma’am, you must have changed the setting.” Greta pointed triumphantly to the master control panel. “Almost a hundred degrees.” She glowered suspiciously at Carmela. “Too high,” she pronounced, as though Carmela were clearly at fault.

  Carmela hoisted herself off the treatment table, flung one arm out as much as one could fling a mud-encrusted arm, and pointed toward the door. “Get out!” she thundered.

  Knowing a convenient exit when she saw one, Greta scuttled for the door and disappeared.

  Angry, hot, feeling like an Egyptian mummy who’d just been released from her sarcophagus after a long slumber, Carmela dragged herself stiff-legged across the room to the shower. She turned the water on full throttle and positioned her mud-encased body under the spray. Then, the cooling water pelting her about the head, shoulders, and back, Carmela waited as the dried mud finally reconstituted itself and changed back to slithery goo. Then the goo finally slid off.

  As she stared at the faintly musty green mineral mud swirling about her bare feet toward the drain, Carmela wondered just what the hell had happened. Had there really been a malfunction just now? Or had it been mischief?

  Chapter 19

  “WHEN were you going to tell me?” Shamus’s voice, filled with hurt, dripping with anger, blasted at Carmela from the telephone.

  Carmela grimaced as she stared at the four fat orange pumpkins that squatted on her kitchen counter. And her heart sank.

  Does he know about the show? Is that what this call is about?

  “Tell you what?” she asked.

  “About the show.” Shamus’s voice cut like a knife.

  He knows.

  “Oh, that,” said Carmela, fighting to keep her voice even. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “Really,” said Shamus.

  Carmela knew she had to carefully explain what had happened, make Shamus understand that she hadn’t gone out and lobbied for this show herself. Hadn’t tried to cut out his knees from under him.

  “I was fooling around, taking photos a couple weeks ago,” she explained as patiently as she could, “at the same time Jade Ella Hayward had this photo shoot going on. So I took a few black-and-white shots of her models. She saw them at my shop and, for some bizarre reason, decided to use one on the front cover of her brochure.”

  “You’re a bad liar, Carmela. You always have been.”

  “And you’re a bad listener, Shamus, because I’m telling you the truth!”

  “You just happened to score a commercial project and you just happened to worm your way into having your own show. At Click! Gallery yet.” Shamus sighed. “You knew all about this last
night and didn’t have the decency to tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, Shamus. I don’t even want the show. I’m not going to have a show.”

  Shamus’s voice was like ice. “You know what was nothing, Carmela? Last night was nothing.”

  His cold callousness sliced at her heart. “Don’t say that, Shamus. Don’t do this, please,” Carmela begged him.

  “And another thing,” Shamus spat. “You presence is no longer required at our table tonight.”

  “What about Glory’s big award?” cried Carmela. First she’d been strong-armed into participating, now she was being cut out. Very confusing.

  “Forget about it,” snapped Shamus. “There’s no room for traitors and turncoats. Not in the Meechum family anyway.”

  Carmela flinched as Shamus slammed the phone down. And thought about their miserable timing. Always that rotten timing.

  Why the hell was that, anyway? Crossed wires? Bad luck? Planetary unrest?

  She picked up her carving knife and stared at one of the pumpkins she’d just finished carving. It bore the image of a sorrowful angel clutching a cross.

  Was this a metaphor for her life with Shamus? Sadness, sorrow, star-crossed lovers?

  Carmela sighed. She supposed the night before hadn’t meant anything to him. She, on the other hand, had woken up this morning feeling lighthearted, ebullient, and a trifle dreamy. She and Shamus had shared a bed, kind words, and a few laughs. Even though they’d hadn’t physically made love, she had sensed that their emotional bond was still there, still intact. Yes, she had felt it wash over her in a warm, comforting wave. A hell of a lot of love still existed between the two of them. And she was sure Shamus had felt it, too.

  Now… Now Shamus’s fragile ego had sustained a life-threatening blow. And when Shamus’s ego was knocked off-kilter, his psyche seemed to follow. Which meant they were probably back to square one. Completely estranged, on the brink of divorce.

  Furious and frustrated, Carmela drove her carving knife into the front of one of the pumpkins, piercing its soft flesh.