She Who Shops

by Joanne Skerrett

  “I’m doing well. Hey, do you want to go outside and talk for a bit?”

  Weslee hesitated, looking at William, who was so engrossed in his conversation that he did not even notice she was trying to get his attention.

  She nodded and followed Lana out the double doors of the great room to a huge patio that looked out onto the harbor way down below.

  “I won’t be coming back to BU in the fall,” Lana stated.

  “Oh?” Weslee wasn’t surprised; Lana’s grades were probably the worst in their entire cohort.

  “I’m going to Barcelona for a year. Jeffrey and I are kinda serious, and ScanBank is sending him to their Spanish headquarters for a bit. Besides, I’ve always preferred being overseas than being in the States.”

  “Wow,” Weslee said. “That’s really exciting. I wish you the best of luck.” A part of her felt relieved that she would never have to put up with Lana’s antics on campus anymore, but another part of her still missed the fun times that they had shared.

  “Listen, I know I’ve done and said some things to you that were . . . But anyway, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

  Weslee sighed. She was beginning to feel weary of all the apologies that were coming her way.

  Lana continued. “I wish things had been different. I really liked you. I mean, I still like you. But I have a really hard time keeping girlfriends, you know?”

  Weslee nodded and smiled gamely. If this was going to be Lana’s version of mending things between them, she would accept it and move on. But she didn’t want to rehash the past, so she tried to change the subject. “I really like your dress,” she said, looking at the pink silken form-fitting sheath with the uneven hemline that Lana was wearing.

  “Really? It’s vintage. I paid twenty bucks for it at a store in SoHo.”

  “No way!” Weslee said.

  “You better believe it,” Lana said. “I have their address somewhere. I can e-mail it to you. I think they have a Web site, too!”

  “Oh, could you?” Weslee asked, forgetting the past for a second. In that brief exchange they were like their old selves again, crazy for clothes and willing to talk about it for days and days on end. Weslee found herself smiling guiltily as it occurred to her that those days were behind her and that she and Lana had both changed so much since those wild times over a year ago.

  “So, you and Will have a thing going now, I see.” Lana’s voice was teasing.

  Weslee rolled her eyes, smiling, and then shrugged.

  “He’s good for you, I can tell,” she said. “I still can’t believe Duncan let you get away from him.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about that, Lana.” A small part of her wanted to know whether he was there somewhere among the hundreds of guests, but deep down she knew that it was better that she didn’t know. It would only ruin the good time she was having. She wondered if Lana truly meant what she said, that Duncan shouldn’t have let her get away. Or was she just trying to be nice? She didn’t know the answer to that. I guess I’ll never totally figure her out, Weslee thought.

  “I know,” Lana continued. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. But you seem so happy . . . I’m going to have to miss his wedding, but it’s better this way. I cannot stand Susan. A lot of people are saying it won’t last.”

  Was this another of Lana’s half-truths? “I heard you’re one of the bridesmaids,” Weslee said. This fact, probably more than any rude comment or snub by Lana, had hurt like hell. The fact that Lana would be in Susan’s wedding, knowing what had happened between Duncan and Weslee, had felt like the ultimate betrayal.

  “I was, but I quit. She had too many demands. Plus, you should see the dress, Wes. It is awful. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She had some college friend of hers design it.” Lana made a face. “So tacky!”

  Weslee laughed. Typical Lana. She’d quit the wedding party, but not on principle. In the end it was all about Lana. But Weslee felt a tiny bit of doubt. Maybe Lana had considered her feelings but was too proud to admit it. Another thing I may never know for sure, Weslee thought.

  They stood out on the patio, talking casually like nothing bad had happened. Lana was full of plans, Weslee realized: to become fluent in Spanish, finish her MBA, and settle down in Barcelona for a few years. “Bumming around” was what she called it. And it all sounded so exciting and glamorous to Weslee. But she wasn’t envious, nor did she want to trade places with Lana. She smiled as she caught William approaching from the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, I need to get going, too,” Lana said as Weslee signaled to William to wait.

  “Lana, will you call me to let me know how you’re doing?” Weslee asked.

  Lana dropped her head slightly, pretending to look in her purse. “Sure, Wes.”

  Weslee couldn’t help herself. She impulsively opened her arms and hugged Lana tightly.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Lana said, her voice muffled in Weslee’s embrace.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” Weslee said and held her at arm’s length.

  They looked at each other awkwardly.

  “I’ll see you again.” Lana smiled, her eyes wet. “And I’ll definitely be in touch.”

  But Weslee knew better. Her gut told her that this was it, and for some reason that feeling made her want to sob like a baby.

  “Bye, Lana,” she said. “And thanks for the . . . you know . . . the, uh . . . makeover.”

  Lana managed a smile, but her lower lip trembled a bit. She raised her right hand and waved, walking away into the crowded dining room.

  Minutes later, William and Weslee stood out on the patio and watched as Jeffrey and Lana drove away from the estate.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  She’s gone for good, Weslee thought, biting the inside of her mouth. “I bet I’ll never hear from her again,” she said. She leaned into William’s body as his arms pulled her close.

  Chapter 46

  Two and three-fifths miles to go, and how Weslee ached. She could feel and hear the crowds on either side of Beacon Street, thousands deep, loud and boisterous on this cool, sunny April morning. But she didn’t see them. She looked straight ahead at the back of the head of the runner directly in front of her, a shirtless young man whose thick blond hair was curly and dripping with sweat.

  The end was pretty much in sight, but she didn’t let up. She would make her time. Two hours and fifty minutes with just about two miles to go. She had done it. She had run the Boston Marathon, and it really wasn’t that bad.

  OK, it was bad.

  “Water ahead. Water ahead.”

  “Gatorade ahead!”

  Volunteers were screaming from the sidelines. It hurt to lift her feet just a bit higher to avoid the tiny paper cups abandoned and strewn on the streets by the front-of-the-pack runners.

  But Weslee wouldn’t stop. She could feel the finish line.

  She stole a glance at her watch. Yes, she would make it in three twenty-two or so if she didn’t slow down. So she kept on running hard. Her thighs, shins, ankles, knees—they were all doing something a little bit more violent than just hurting. But her heart rate was steady, and so was her breathing. So she knew that she was OK. It was just pain. That she knew she could handle.

  The man’s hair kept getting wetter and curlier. Was he increasing his speed? He was her rabbit; she had to keep up with him. Yes, he was running faster. She heaved a huge breath and tried to stay on his back.

  Think of something else.

  But Weslee really didn’t want to lose her focus by thinking too hard, too far. This race, her time, meant too much to her. It had been almost two years in coming, this race. And what was at the finish line was her own little victory.

  She knew William was waiting for her. He had promised to personally carry her across the finish line if she couldn’t make it. Sherry was waiting, too, camera in hand. She wasn’t there yet, but already she felt proud. It had taken her so much to get to this point.

&
nbsp; She wouldn’t win or break any records. She probably wouldn’t even impress many people. But that finish was the line that officially put her in the present she had started creating two years ago and almost hadn’t.

  Three hours down, twenty-five and a half miles behind her, and boy, did she ache.

  SISTER, SISTER . . .

  By day, thirty-year-old Tari Shields is an up-and-coming journalist for a major Boston newspaper. By night, she’s a jazz singer, working the local club scene, seducing audiences with her silky voice and sultry style. In between, she’s a feisty, kick-boxing, aerobiciz-ing, workout devotee. Tari’s a total contrast to her older sister, Melinda. In fact, Melinda isn’t just her older sister, she’s a supersista—a wife, mother, active church member, and career woman. Melinda would love to see Tari follow in her sensible footsteps. But Tari has no intention of slowing down, much less settling down—until she meets Shawn Philips. Not only is he tall, dark, handsome, charming, and a gentleman, he’s just what Tari’s looking for: a bass player for her band. It doesn’t hurt that Tari can imagine them making beautiful music together in other ways as well . . .

  With Shawn on the scene, and a recent scoop making Tari front page news at work, her career and her love life are suddenly looking up. Even Melinda might approve! But just as she’s feeling at the top of her game, she’s hit with unexpected news that turns her world upside down. It’s a personal battle that will challenge Tari like never before. And it will transform all her relationships—with her sister, her friends, her faith—and even herself.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at

  Joanne Skerrett’s

  Sugar vs. Spice

  coming next month in trade paperback!

  Chapter 1

  She was one of those girls—the tiny ones whom the cute boys called midget back in high school, and who never quite got over it. Maybe that was why she drove that monstrous SUV; it probably made her feel less insignificant.

  Tari was careening from lane to lane in city traffic, talking into the headset, oblivious to fulminating drivers swearing at her imposing truck that interrupted their line of vision and stole their lane. She was in a rush, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on a Starbucks cup—black with a Sweet’N Low. And she wasn’t too shy about leaning on the horn if the guy in front lingered on the green.

  Everything a person could suspect about Tari Shields was probably true. She was a cute, short, tightly wound girl-woman. One of those in that extended, self-indulgent adolescence that they thought was not really of their own choosing: thirty years old and up, quite single, with a good, well-coiffed head on her shoulders and a sweet career that might as well be called husband. You could say that Tari was all of the above. But what you saw was what you didn’t quite get.

  What you did see was a brown girl, with big, lively eyes over a wide nose and a bow-shaped mouth. Pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way. She would catch your eye with that tight body and those obsessively whitened teeth whenever it occurred to her to flash them. But she wasn’t smiling as her Toyota 4Runner sprinted toward the expressway that Saturday morning.

  If she was only a few minutes late for kickboxing, she’d lose her spot in the front of the class. If that happened—well, she’d never let it happen. To her, the back of the class was for gadabouts and slackers, those chatty Cathys or panting, baggy-sweatpants-wearing girls who were always self-consciously struggling to keep up with the front of the pack.

  She didn’t have time for the back row. She was too serious, too driven. Nothing she hated more than disappearing into the furniture of any room, and at 5’2”, shorter than her thirteen-year-old nephew, she had her work cut out for her when it came to standing out.

  “Denise, have you heard anything about MetroBank filing Chapter 11?” Tari sipped her coffee with one hand and steered the truck off the I-93 exit with the other. No, her contact at the rival bank answered, not a thing. “Call me if you hear anything this weekend. Okay? Please, D. My editor’s breathing down my neck.”

  Honk, honk! She resisted the urge to give the driver behind her the one-finger salute.

  When Tari took her place in the brightly lit aerobics studio at World Gym, she surveyed the room through the mirrors looking for the regulars. She only nodded at the other women with whom she sweated three times a week for ninety excruciating minutes of side kicks, squats, jabs, and uppercuts. A cluster of them chatted while they stretched, and Tari allowed herself into their inane conversation. They never talked about anything she ever wanted to listen to, but she played along, feigning interest. Most of them were Lean Cuisine moms desperately trying to hold on to their figures so they would not fit the old-wife stereotype. The others were flashy, clubby, designer-clothes-wearing chicks and plain-vanilla singletons like her in compulsive pursuit and maintenance of the hottie body.

  It was always the same with the mothers: how Junior was dealing with his cold or teething or taking his first few steps. And with the singletons: that guy never called again or he turned out to be married or where did you get those cute earrings. Most times she had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes. She couldn’t imagine having a serious conversation with any of these girls, as much as she loved sweating with them. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail high on her head, hoping that the sweat would not frizz her hair into cotton candy.

  When Donna, the instructor, entered the room, the jockeying began as everyone took their usual spots. Dagger looks flew as the newcomers broke protocol and had to be sarcastically told that they were standing on ground that had already been claimed. The new girls were always so clueless. Tari shook her head.

  The music, 178 beats per minute of remixed R&B and trance, was ear-splitting, but it sent Tari’s adrenaline spiraling. Donna, a more muscular version of Gabrielle Union, was already in the zone, screaming cues at the class of fifty or so women. Donna hardly ever counted down or made cute jokes to force her students’ minds off the intensity of the workout. Instead she yelled war chants and had the women repeat after her as legs and arms, glistening with sweat, assaulted the air. “Kick it. Kill ’em. Kill ’em.”

  When the class began to wilt she became a drill sergeant, berating them: “Come on, what’s going on here, you guys? What is this? High tea at the Ritz? Y’all better pick it up before I make you do one hundred more!”

  The room began to heat up after just a few minutes, and some of the women in the back row began to eye their water bottles, looking for some reassurance that relief was still in sight. Fifteen minutes into the class, many had stopped to just catch their breath and grab a drink of water; a couple of them had walked out in defeat.

  Tari hadn’t even warmed up yet. She moved in Donna’s orbit, muscles tensed, going kick for kick and jab for jab. She never let up, never stopped to drink. Sweat poured from her skin, ran down the sides of her face, and left dark spots on the red Nike tank top and sports bra.

  By the time she began to feel winded, the hard part was over. The ninety minutes had flown by, and her entire body was soaked but cleansed of a week’s worth of stress. Donna high-fived her and the other gym bunnies in the front row.

  Minutes later, she lay on the floor for the fifteen-minute stretch, the real payoff for all of this loud music, high kicks, and Donna’s lighthearted verbal abuse.

  She only allowed herself to think positively during the stretch. And her thoughts fast-forwarded to the evening ahead. She imagined herself having a good performance that night. A representative from a small but respectable jazz label would be coming to hear her sing, thanks to a good word the jazz critic at work had put in for her. Maybe she would try to squeeze in a massage before rehearsal with the quartet this afternoon. And no, she wouldn’t make any more useless calls, tracking down that MetroBank story. Obviously, there was nothing there.

  She reached her left arm all the way across her body and took in a long breath. The stretch soothed her aching triceps, and she let her arm relax on he
r chest for just a few seconds. She felt something. It was a hard spot that contradicted the smooth softness of her right breast. She looked around at the women on the floor in similar poses. This was not the time to feel her breast. It’s probably nothing, she mused. Stupid cysts! She hadn’t had one in years, and now was not a good time to get herself or her doctor all excited over nothing. It would go away once this horrible fat week, or PMS, was over with. Pain in the butt, or boobies, she sighed as she moved her spent body into the next stretch sequence, thinking only good thoughts.

  At the showers, she stripped without an ounce of self-consciousness. In fact, she liked the fact that she could walk around the locker room completely naked and not worry about the bumps and bulges that terrified some of the other girls into hiding behind their towels. She noticed the surreptitious stares. Yeah, she thought. I worked hard for this body; go ahead and stare all you want.

  “You look so great,” said one tall and sinewy girl, who also looked as if working out were her other full-time job.

  “Thanks, babe.” Tari smiled. “So do you.”

  She raced toward the showers, edging out another girl who was ambling toward the stalls and clutching her towel to her soft body for dear life. You snooze you lose, Tari thought as she claimed her favorite stall and undressed quickly. She ran her hand over her breast again as the water poured over her, and it was still there. Dammit! This thing had better go away by next week! Ten years ago she’d had one, and that had been scary enough. She couldn’t bear the thought of going through another painful biopsy. “Some women just have lumpy breasts,” the doctor had shrugged after the ordeal was over. But she hadn’t shrugged. It had been scary.

  At least she’d been down that road before, she thought as she pulled on a pair of low Chip & Pepper jeans, tank top, and some flip-flops. Her I’m-real-cute-without-even-trying look. She sighed. Just another annoying cyst that would probably require another annoying, time-consuming visit to the doctor. She looked in the mirror and frowned. You look like a twelve-year-old, she thought. Oh, to be taller; she glanced at the tall girl who had complimented her earlier. Oh, well.