“Miss Jones,” she says with smirk, “I’m Lenore Kennashaw.”
She offers a gloved hand and I can’t tell if she’s snarling or smiling, but I shake her hand and try not to jump to conclusions. I’m committed to turning over a new leaf here in Pelican Cove and being a normal, perhaps even pleasant person. Pretty much the polar opposite of how I conducted myself in Bugtussle.
“That was some speech.”
“Uh, thank you, Mrs. Kennashaw,” I say, cautiously. “I was really nervous.”
“You know, one would think one would better prepare oneself for such a momentous introduction into Pelican Cove society.”
“Yes,” I say and feel my cheeks burning. “Well, this one did.” I point to myself. “I actually worked on that speech for three weeks, but I was so nervous you probably couldn’t tell.”
“One couldn’t discern that any effort whatsoever had been invested in that jumbled, incoherent discourse,” she says flatly.
I wonder for a second how she might like one of my high heels crammed up her ass. I take a deep breath and focus on staying calm and keeping my cool. I try to remember what Gramma Jones used to say about making nice with my enemies. It had something to do with heaping burning coals on their heads. Lenore Kennashaw stares at me and I stand there and give her a big, phony smile, because I don’t trust myself to open my mouth.
“So,” she says and turns to the painting to her right. “Is this supposed to be some kind of Edward Manet knockoff?”
“I’m sorry, do you mean Claude Monet?” I ask, eyeballing her sparkly hammer brooch. I smile again, thinking of how she might react if I plucked that gaudy thing off her ugly-ass scarf and popped her on the forehead with it.
“I think you’re mispronouncing that, dear. It’s pronounced mah-ney, not moh-ney.” She gives me a snide look. “If you wish to be taken seriously as an artist in this town, you might want to educate yourself on the correct pronunciation of the masters.”
“I have a bachelor’s degree in art history,” I say, trying and failing to keep the edge out of my voice. “Edouard Manet painted, among other things, naked women, whereas Claude Monet generally stuck with landscapes and nicely dressed ladies.” I nod toward my painting of two boats and a grassy lakeshore. “That is indeed an impressionistic rendering of the subject matter, but it’s more consistent with the style and color palette of Mo-net. Not Ma-net.” I really enunciate the difference in pronunciation. Her expression of shock and disdain are so pleasing that I add, “And that’s a fact, Mrs. Lenore Kennashaw.”
“Why, Miss Jones,” she says coolly, “your conversational skills are almost as unpleasant as your oratory verboseness.” She winks at me and says, “But not quite.”
She turns to walk away and I stand there beside my beloved boat picture, fuming while I think of all the nasty things I’d like to say to Mrs. Lenore Kennashaw.
“Excuse me, Miss Jones?”
I turn to see a woman who is a bit shorter but way thinner than me and bears more than a passing resemblance to a wood sprite. She has sparkly navy blue eyes and short brown hair that I find immediately intriguing because it looks like she gelled each individual lock on her head, but somehow the overall effect looks tousled and unkempt. She’s wearing a strapless lavender dress and a short necklace made up of multicolored stones.
“I’m Tia Wescott,” she says and presents an ungloved hand. “Nice to meet you.” She’s smiling, so I smile back and shake her hand.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, hoping she’s as nice as she sounds.
“I’m an interior decorator here in Pelican Cove and I just wanted to tell you that I love your new gallery.” She keeps smiling, so I relax a little. She nods toward the painting that sparked my nasty little exchange with Mrs. Lenore Kennashaw. “Like that boat picture. That’s really nice. Is it supposed to be some kind of Eddie Money impersonation?”
“Excuse me?” I say and start feeling like I might have a Lilly Lane–style sobbing fit. “Eddie Money?”
She tilts her head to the side and says, “Or is it Eddie Rabbit?”
I stare at her and say nothing. Then she starts to laugh.
“Gotcha, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” I say, relief rolling over me like the evening tide. “You did. You got me.”
She smiles and hits the chorus of Eddie Rabbit’s classic song “I Love a Rainy Night.” I start laughing and she says, “I just wanted you to know that while I’ve had a truly fantastic time looking around your gallery this evening”—she takes a step closer to me and lowers her voice—“the highlight of my night was definitely eavesdropping on that conversation you just had with Lenore Kennashaw.” She smiles and I smile back. “Can I buy you lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say, delighted to have an ally.
“The Blue Oyster at noon?” she asks.
“You’ve got a date.” I pause and freak out because I can’t remember her name.
“Tia,” she says, as if reading my mind. “Tia Wescott.”
“Tia Wescott,” I say. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Let me assure you, Ace Jones,” she says, patting me on the back, “the pleasure has been all mine.”
The music stops and I hear the slick-haired man on the microphone again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s auction time!” he says with great pomp and enthusiasm. “Please grab your paddles and gather ’round!”
“You better head that way,” Tia says, nodding toward the balcony, where the spotlight is beaming down on the well-groomed man.
“Right,” I say. She gives me a little wave, then disappears into the crowd. I make my way to the stairwell, hoping against hope that I don’t have to say a damn word during the auction.
“Where have you been?” Lilly demands as soon as she sees me.
“Meeting people,” I say.
“Nice people?” she asks.
“One nice person and one person I’d like to choke with her fancy gold scarf, then stick her in the eyeball with her tacky hammer pin.”
“You must mean her,” Lilly says, and I follow her gaze to Mrs. Lenore Kennashaw, who is standing front and center of the crowd with her auction paddle at the ready.
“Mark my words, Lilly,” I say, smiling through clenched teeth. “That woman is going to be a problem.”
Lenore Kennashaw catches us looking at her and flashes a snarky grin.
“No time to worry about that right now,” Lilly says. “C’mon, let’s get up on the balcony and get this party started.”
“Please tell me that I don’t have to say anything,” I whine.
“Don’t worry, Calamity Jane, you just have to stand there.”
“Can I take off my shoes?”
“No,” Lilly says and starts making her way up the staircase.
I look back at Lenore Kennashaw and she winks at me again. She’s winked at me twice in the past fifteen minutes, and in my personal opinion, that’s about two times too many.
I want to wink back, then flip her the bird, but everyone would see me and I’m relatively certain that I’ve made a big enough ass of myself in front of this crowd tonight. So I simply smile and turn around.
I’m going to be nice. Even if it kills me.
3
After an early breakfast at Round House Pancakes on Sunday morning, Mason and I see our Bugtussle friends off to Mississippi. After all the well wishes and good-byes, he heads to the gym and I go home and get back in bed. I’m physically and emotionally drained from the previous night’s excitement, and my feet are swollen and achy from being crammed into high heels for six hours. Mason wakes me when he gets home from the gym and we take our chiweenie, Buster Loo, for a leisurely walk around the block.
“So, you have a lunch date today?” he says.
“Yes, with Tia Wescott. Do you know her?”
“I’ve heard of her,” he says. “She does renovation, or restoration-type stuff or something like that?”
“S
he said she was an interior designer.”
“You like her?”
“She seems pretty cool,” I say and decide again not to mention the confrontation with Mrs. Lenore Kennashaw because that might make Mason think I’m not trying as hard as I should be to be the nice girl I promised him I would be. Not that he would care. It’s just that I don’t want to muddy the waters with petty crap like that.
“Well, babe, you’ve worked nonstop since you moved down here three months ago,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve finally branched out and found yourself a gal pal.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” I say. “Hey, have you thought anymore about where we might get married?”
“Oh yeah, I’ve thought a lot about that,” he says, and I can tell by his tone that he hasn’t. “And I’ve decided that wherever you want to get married is exactly where I want to get married.”
“So you haven’t thought about it at all?”
“Listen,” he says, stopping to wait on Buster Loo, who is doing some doggie business in a shrub. “I’m a man. Men aren’t picky. We could get married at Credo’s Wild Wings and I’d be happy.”
“Credo’s Wild Wings?” I stop and turn around. “Are you serious?”
Credo’s Wild Wings is a mom-and-pop joint about half a mile from where we live. It’s an old fishing camp turned restaurant with a big, wide deck sprawling out to the water. The parking lot smells like dead fish every now and then, but the food is so good and the view so fantastic that you tend to overlook it.
“Yes! It’s on the bay,” he says, digging a doggie bag out of his pocket. “They have an awesome deck. They’ve got supercold beer and really good hot wings.”
“They do have really cold beer,” I say, smiling at him. “And great wings.”
“And it’s beautiful at sunset,” he says.
“You’re so romantic, Mason,” I say sarcastically, and he starts laughing. “In a macho, wild-wing kind of way.”
“I do like to wing it,” he says, puffing out his chest. “Chicken wing it, buffalo wing it, wing it by the seat of my pants.”
“You are so crazy!” I say, laughing.
“Really, Ace, anywhere you want is fine with me. My only concern is that, after all these years and all the stuff we’ve been through, we just get it done. As for the location”—he looks at me and shrugs—“I couldn’t care less.”
“Tell you what,” I say, really wanting him to participate in planning our wedding but not wanting to nag. “I’ll narrow it down to three places and you can pick the one you like best.”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Then narrow it down to three and I’ll pick.”
*
I get to the Blue Oyster at eleven forty-five and don’t see Tia, so I wander up to the top deck, where every table has a spectacular view of the bay. I choose a seat that also has a view of the parking lot because, for some odd reason, I’m curious about what kind of vehicle Tia Wescott drives. I order a beer and finish it and one more by the time she arrives at five minutes past noon.
“Hey!” she says, waving. “Sorry I’m late. How are you?” She’s wearing short denim shorts and a coral tank top. I can’t help but notice that her short legs are very toned and nicely tanned.
“I’m great!” I reply. “Not that I’m a stalker or anything, but I didn’t see you come through the parking lot.”
“Oh, I walked,” she says, waving toward a residential area situated to the left of the marina. “I’m working over there.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes, on a Sunday,” she says drearily. “I don’t do that very often, but I’ve got what I call a ‘dragger.’”
“A dragger?”
“Yes. That’s what I call a project that just drags on and on with no end in sight.” She points to the houses again. “I’m renovating one of the older places, just, you know, trying to get it up to par with the rest of the neighborhood, and I swear that everything I try to do turns up fifteen other things that have to be done first.”
“Wow,” I say.
A waitress appears with lunch menus and a glass of ice water.
“Thank you, Jenna,” Tia says to the waitress.
“Sure thing, Ms. Wescott,” Jenna the waitress says. “Do y’all need a minute?”
“Yes, please.”
“So,” I say after Jenna the waitress walks away. “What’s good here?”
“Oh, the crab cakes are top-notch. The fried crab claws are amazing. The crab dip is good, too.” She flips the menu over. “And their stuffed crab will make your eyes cross.”
“I take it you’re fond of crab.”
“I’m quite the crab connoisseur, if you will.” She looks at me and smiles. “I was born and raised in Pelican Cove and I eat all kinds of seafood, but, yes, crab is my favorite.” She nods toward the restaurant. “I love this place because everything is homemade and fresh, so it’s all good. You really can’t go wrong no matter what you order.” She looks at me. “And you can’t leave here today without having a slice of key lime pie. So don’t even think about trying, okay?”
“One thing you need to know about me,” I say, “is that I am not the kind of girl who walks away from pie. Any pie. Ever.”
Jenna returns and I order crab cakes and another beer and Tia orders crab claws and a Diet Pepsi.
“So,” she says after we order, “what about that Lenore Kennashaw?”
“That woman is such a bitch!” I whisper. “What is her deal?”
“Just that,” Tia says, sipping her Diet Pepsi. “She’s an intolerable bitch. And here’s the thing about her.” She leans in, so I do the same. “Her husband owns all these Kennashaw Home and Garden stores all over the South, and their stuff is total shit! After Hurricane Ivan hit back in 2004, they kept selling Chinese drywall even after it was found to be toxic. Then when Mr. Kennashaw got sued for it, he hired Lennox Casey, a sleazeball attorney from New Orleans, to come over here and get him off the hook.”
“That’s horrible!”
“Yeah, but that’s only part of their story,” she says, keeping her voice low. “Lenore is the chairwoman of the biggest charity organization in northwest Florida. It’s called Caboose Charity, and she weaseled her way into that position I don’t know how many years ago.”
“Being involved with charity doesn’t seem consistent with her dreadful personality.”
“Exactly,” she says. “She and her husband are first-class scuzzy-buckets, but they present themselves in society as the world’s greatest benefactors.” She leans back in her chair. “I know for a fact that they give the absolute minimum required to keep Lenore on the board, which is only about five hundred dollars a year.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
She looks around and whispers, “I have a friend who volunteers for Caboose and she can’t stand Lenore Kennashaw, either. A few months ago, she snuck around and checked the records to see just how much the Kennashaws give each year, and she wasn’t surprised to find that it was the minimum specified in the bylaws.” She stirs the ice in her glass and continues. “The Kennashaws couldn’t care less about the cause. All they want is to attend the high-profile events and rub elbows with the big shots in Pelican Cove.” She looks at me. “People who give tens of thousands of dollars to that charity.”
“No one cares that she barely meets the financial qualifications?”
“Well, no one knows. My friend—her name is Jalena Flores, by the way, and I think you’ll like her because she’s crazy as hell. Anyway, she can’t tell anyone because she’d get into big trouble because Caboose Charity is adamant about privacy”—Tia punches her straw around in her ice—“which works great for Lenore.”
“What about the fact that she’s a stupid bitch?” I say. “She can’t hide that.”
“Oh, but she does.” Tia gives me a sly look. “She only shows her true colors to people she considers ‘beneath’ her on the
socioeconomic ladder.”
“I’ll black that heifer’s eye,” I say, and Tia laughs out loud. “I can’t believe she acts like that and no one notices.”
“No one but me.” Tia smiles a devilish smile. “And I tell everyone I work for that Kennashaw Home and Garden sells second-rate products at ridiculous markups and that they’d be better off going to Lowe’s or Home Depot.” She looks out at the water and raises her eyebrows. “A lot of people listen to me, but others are so hell-bent on buying local that they just go over there and give them their money, thinking they make all these big donations to charity.” She looks at me. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for buying local, especially in this economy, just not from Kennashaw Home and Garden.”
“I bought something from there,” I confess.
“Oh, we can’t be friends, then,” Tia says, laughing. “I’m so sorry.”
“I took it back,” I say. “Does that help?”
“No,” she says. “What was it?”
“Paint.”
“Oh, I knew you were going to say that! Their paint is the worst! Did you get your money back?”
“Sure didn’t. And it made me mad as hell.”
“What did you do?” Tia asks, looking amused.
“I thanked them and left because I’m trying to turn over a new leaf down here and be a nice person instead of a short-tempered nut job like I always was in Bugtussle.” I lean forward and put my elbows on the table. “So instead of pouring that damn worthless paint all over their parking lot like I wanted to, I took it back to my studio, where I’m going to try to work it into some of my projects.”
“Did you just say ‘Bugtussle’?” Tia asks with an odd look on her face.
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Bugtussle, Mississippi. And before you ask, yes! That is the real name of a real town, and I used to live there.”
Happily Ever Madder : Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (9781101607107) Page 2