I go inside, and Buster Loo and I head straight for the couch, and that’s where we are when Mason gets home from work a few hours later.
“Hey,” I say groggily when he wakes me up. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” he says, tousling my hair. “How are you, sleeping beauty?”
I sit up on the sofa, and he goes into the kitchen and fixes us each a drink. Buster Loo hops down on the floor and stretches.
“Well, how was the Nut Fest?”
“Let me just tell you, baby, boiled peanuts are the nastiest damn thing I’ve ever tried to eat.”
“What? I love those things!” he says.
“Seriously?” I ask. “I would’ve brought you some—”
“Tell you what,” he says, rubbing my leg. “Go out and eat with me tonight and you’re off the hook for not bringing me any squishy nuts.”
“Good deal!” I say. “Where are we going?”
“Let’s ride over to Gulf Shores and go to Lulu’s. I could really use a fried green tomato BLT.”
“Double good deal!”
We get to Lulu’s well after the rush, and I have a cheeseburger while Mason enjoys his FGTBLT. After sharing a Brownie in Paradise, we head back home, talking on the way about our plans for Sunday.
“Hey, baby,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you want to start going to the gym with me now that you’ve got the gallery up and running?”
“Mason, sweetheart,” I tease. “Don’t ever start a conversation with a line like ‘don’t take this the wrong way’ because there’s not but one way to take whatever you say next, and that’s the wrong way.”
“Okay, let’s try this again,” he says, grinning. “Ace, I think you are a sexy vixen. I am going to the gym tomorrow and would like for you to go. Not because I think you need to exercise, but because I’d like to hang out with you. I never asked you to go before because you were working all the time. Now you’re not working all the time.” He looks at me. “Do you want to go?”
I think about the Bratz Pack ladies I used to see at the gym in Bugtussle. They were always piled up on those megamonster treadmills, speed-walking in their skintight short-shorts and flopping their long, sleek ponytails all over the place. I can only imagine what the workout women of Pelican Cove, Florida, must look like, and I imagine I’d feel less welcome at the gym here than I did back home, where I didn’t feel welcome at all.
“Nah,” I say finally. “But thanks for asking.”
“Okay, baby,” he says, then starts singing along to an old George Jones song, and I ride the rest of the way home wishing I were deaf.
16
Sunday Mason and I enjoy a big breakfast at Round House Pancakes and then go home and take Buster Loo for a walk in an effort to relieve that stuffed-to-the-gills feeling that always follows eating there. Mason tells me that our honeymoon is booked and I casually mention that I’ve been checking out locations for the wedding even though I really haven’t. I decide to get over my issues and get on the ball because I feel bad for putting that off now that he’s booked us a bed-and-breakfast in freakin’ Vermont.
After our family walk, Buster Loo retreats to his deluxe doggie bed, Mason takes off for the gym, and I decide to spend the remainder of the morning at the beach. I pack up my gigantic polka-dot bag and head out to the sandy white seashore. I open my umbrella, get my chair situated, then sit back and gaze out at the ocean.
After relaxing for a few hours and then taking a light nap, I pack up and walk back to the house, cursing myself for forgetting my water bottle. I have sand everywhere it doesn’t need to be, which makes the walk back fairly miserable. Mason is home when I get there, and after a quick shower, I hang out with him in the living room, where I sneak another nap in while pretending to watch football. Later in the afternoon, he decides to make some gumbo, so I join him in the kitchen and fix some spicy cream cheese wraps. When we sit down to eat, I say a silent prayer that he won’t start talking about work, and then he starts talking about work and I start thinking about gouging my eyes out with my soupspoon, because then he’d have to stop talking and drive me to the emergency room. Or the nuthouse.
I sit and do my best to appear interested in what he’s saying, and he asks what I’ve got planned for the week and I just say, “Lots,” and then he remembers something he didn’t mention earlier about homeowners’ rights during foreclosures.
He goes right to sleep as soon as we get in bed, and I lie awake and tell myself that it wasn’t a mistake to move down here. I look over at Mason and wonder how it could possibly be a mistake when I have wanted to be with him for as long as I have and now here I am, right next to him. I try to convince myself that Mason is just talking about work all the time because he’s so excited about helping Mr. and Mrs. Marks. I’m actually very proud of him for what he’s doing. I just don’t want to hear each and every detail about it, because it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever tried to listen to. I tell myself that Mason and I are just temporarily out of sync and that things won’t always be this way and that, in the meantime, I need to get some plans made for that wedding.
I remember that Avery is coming in to work tomorrow and make a mental note to ask her for some suggestions about where Mason and I could get married. Because we’re getting married. I’m not backing out on this just because he’s started getting on my nerves. I’ve wanted to marry him since I was eleven years old, so I’m going to get this done and be happy, dammit!
17
Monday afternoon, Avery comes at ten minutes before one, and she’s wearing khaki slacks, a cream-colored blouse, and a spectacular pair of Christian Louboutin heels, which I recognize only because of my pal Lilly Lane’s obsession with the red-soled shoes. I’m standing there in my cuffed denim capris and leather Børn sandals looking up at her in total confusion.
“Avery, you look stunning!” I say. “What’s with the outfit?”
“Well, it’s this or what I usually wear.” She shrugs. “One extreme or the other. I don’t have any normal clothes.”
“What you normally wear would’ve been fine, but I have to say that you dress up quite nicely.” I look down at her shoes, dying to ask how much those cost. “Can I please take a picture of those shoes?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Why?”
“Because my friend Lilly Lane is a label whore, and she is going to die when she sees these.”
Avery kicks off the shoes and comes down four inches closer to me. “You should put them on and let me take a picture of you wearing them and send that to her!”
“Oh no,” I say, waving that suggestion off. “I’m pretty sure my fat little feet wouldn’t fit in those. Plus, I don’t need to fall over and break something.” I look down. “Like the floor.”
Avery starts laughing and slips the shoes back on. “You are so crazy!” she says, then strikes a pose. “Where’s your phone?”
“I’ll be right back.” I run into the office and get my phone out of my purse. I go back out into the gallery and snap a few shots of Avery’s fabulous shoes and text the pictures to Lilly, who immediately responds with a flurry of text messages laced with “OMGs” and several other acronyms, most of which I understand. Then she demands to know whose feet are in those shoes and if the shoes are the “real” thing. I realize that I haven’t talked to Lilly since hiring Avery, and it takes me nine text messages to explain what’s going on and confirm that the shoes are indeed designer and not impostor, and she finally responds with, “Must meet Avery!”
“My friend Lilly is a power texter,” I tell Avery. “She can’t talk because she’s in class right now, but she wants you to know that she can’t wait to meet you.”
“That’s nice,” Avery says, and I get the feeling she knows way more people who wear expensive shoes than Lilly and I do. I watch her glide around the gallery in her designer heels. “This place looks great, Ace. It really does.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for stopping by on
Friday to help.” I look at her, thinking that she looks like she owns the place and I look like the hired help, and wonder if I should start dressing nicer.
“I swear that I would live here if I could,” she says.
“Well, there’s plenty of room upstairs for a bed,” I say with a chuckle.
“Speaking of upstairs, why don’t you run on up and get to work? I mean, that’s why I’m here, right?”
“Technically, yes,” I say. “But, you see, I have this wedding that I need to plan.”
“Oh wow!” she says. “Can I help?”
“But of course,” I say and make a grand gesture toward the sitting area. “Would you mind sitting for a second, Miss Cambre?”
“Why, no, ma’am, Miss Jones,” she replies with equal flourish.
We sit down and discuss possible wedding locations, and then I ask if she knows anyone who caters, does flowers, and/or bakes wedding cakes. I have to grab a notebook because, as it turns out, Avery is quite the authority on party planning. I realize that I’m having a blast chatting with her, and even though I had a few second thoughts about our arrangement at first, I’m thrilled with it now and so thankful that she will be hanging around.
Forty-five minutes later, we have to put the conversation on hold when a passel of customers arrives at the gallery. One couple quizzes Avery about one of the paintings, and when she directs them to me, it’s clear that they think she’s the gallery owner and I’m there to sweep the floors or dust the walls or something. I decide then and there to stop thinking about it and start dressing better.
Avery volunteers to go pick up some afternoon snacks, and when she asks me what I want, I tell her to surprise me. Boy, does she ever when she comes back up with a flat piece of bread covered with bean sprouts and some kind of nasty-looking dressing from what I learn is her favorite restaurant, Eden’s Treats. I squeeze my eyes shut when I take a bite, and I’m so surprised to find that it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I like it way better than I did those boiled peanuts.
“You didn’t think you’d like it, did you?”
“Honestly? No, I didn’t. I don’t guess I need to tell you that I don’t have a lot of experience with the—I don’t know what you call it—organic and whole foods movement.”
“Oh, I can tell you all about it!” she says enthusiastically, and I don’t have much trouble containing my enthusiasm about that conversation. I watch her nibble on something that looks like a dark gray banana and I don’t even ask. Because I don’t want to know.
I finish my sandwich or whatever it’s called, thank Avery for both the advice and the snack, then head upstairs to paint. I finish the voluptuous mermaid that I started last week, then sketch out some new things I’ve had on my mind for a while. A little after five, Avery appears with the OPEN fish and I stop working and take my paint and brushes to the sink.
I adamantly refuse her offer to help because she’s dressed to the nines and I don’t want to get in a situation where I have to sell a kidney to pay for a piece of her clothing or sell my soul to the devil to replace those shoes should I accidentally splatter some paint her way.
I ask her about school and she tells me about her classes, her professors, and a few projects she’s working on. I ask if she has a boyfriend and she says no. Then she launches into a tale about the last guy she dated, who broke up with her when he found out her family was wealthy. I dry my hands, flip off the light, and follow her out the door.
“What was his name?”
“Well.” She looks back at me and then rolls her eyes. “His real name is Jason Smith, but he had it legally changed to Jacques Le Sumay.”
“Is he French?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“No, he’s from DeFuniak Springs. That’s like a hundred miles from here.”
“Oh.”
“He accused me of not being a real artist because I’m not poor,” she says as we walk down the steps together.
“Well, you’re better off without someone that idiotic and narrow-minded,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. “Wait, I don’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay, he’s definitely a narrow-minded idiot, but he’s also a genius in his own special way.” That Luther Vandross song starts playing in my head while I watch her get her purse and keys from behind the counter. “I see him all the time on campus, and he’s dating this horrible-looking girl with bad teeth, and I want to pull her aside and tell her to make sure she doesn’t stumble into any money, because if she does then he’ll put her ass on the road.” She starts laughing and so do I. “But I don’t. I don’t say a word. I don’t think she even knows who I am, and that’s fine. Better for everybody.”
“That’s a pretty tragic love story,” I tell her as we walk out the door.
“Tell me about it. And to make it all worse, my parents were thrilled when he dumped me because they were so appalled by him that one and only time they met.”
“That’s terrible, Avery!”
“I know, but it’s like—” She shrugs and looks at me. “Whatever. I’ll live.”
We bid each other adieu and I drive home wondering what Jacques Le Sumay, artistic champion of poverty, looks like. I’d be willing to bet good money that Avery was more attracted to his soul than his looks. Maybe I’ll ask to see a picture of him one day.
I get home, hop up the steps to the front porch, and see Buster Loo peeking at me through the bottom pane of glass. He yelps a few times when I open the door, so I pick him up and give him lots of good chiweenie love, after which I take him for a walk around the block. I see Margo out in her yard and I wave at her, and she pretends not to see me. I wonder what she would do if I flipped her the bird. Or mooned her right here next to her mailbox. No way she could pretend not to see that.
“Goofy bitch,” I mumble, and Buster Loo starts to growl.
18
Allison calls dinner in at the Blue Oyster so I go pick it up and head over to the law office of J. Mason McKenzie. She’s on a roll with her nice-girl persona and we exchange polite but dull chatter as we spread the food out on the conference room table.
I ask her about her dog, whose name turns out to be Princess Parisa Persephone, and after she pronounces if for me the second time, I can see why Connor runs around calling it PoPo. I wonder if he chose that moniker because it’s short for “Pomeranian” or if that’s something he started after Allison came up with that tongue twister of a dog name or if he just does it to make her mad. I have a feeling Connor McCall doesn’t miss an opportunity to get his lovely wife all riled up.
She talks about the precious pup that she calls Princess to the point I think my eyes are going cross and I’m going to fall face-first into the shrimp scampi. Don’t get me wrong—I love hearing dog stories as much as the next dog lover, but Allison has embarked upon the dog story that refuses to end. I’m grateful when Mason and Connor finally join us in the conference room, and I sit quietly while the three of them discuss the day’s business. It’s almost as bad as listening to Allison ramble on about PoPo, but not quite.
“I heard you went to the Peanut Festival this weekend,” Connor says to me, and I jump like I’ve been startled out of a bad dream.
“Oh, yes, I did,” I tell him. “I hated the peanuts, but the barbecue was fantastic.”
He laughs and asks me whom I went with.
“Tia Wescott,” I say. “We took our dogs, Buster Loo and Mr. Chubz.”
“Buster Loo and Mr. Chubz?” Connor sniggers.
“Mr. Chubz?” Allison says. “Is he overweight?”
“Her daughter named the dog when she was five.” I didn’t feel like watering that one down for her.
“Oh,” Allison says and starts drumming her nails on the table like she’s bored. She looks at Connor. “What was the name of that dreadful hillbilly fest that you took me to last year and we had to sit in traffic for three hours trying to get home?”
“That was the Redneck Christmas Parade,” Connor says. “We’re talking about the Pe
anut Festival. Two different things.”
“Oh,” she says again.
“So is Tia a lesbian?” Connor asks and Mason looks up in surprise.
“I don’t know,” I say, somewhat shocked by that comment as well. “Would it matter if she was?”
“Not at all,” Connor says. “I was just wondering because she hasn’t dated anyone since she got rid of that shitbag husband she had, and that’s been, what? Ten or twelve years now?”
Allison is looking closely at him now.
“What? My brother graduated with Tia,” he says. “I’ve known her all my life. She was a Buckman before she married Bernie Wescott. She played softball and she’s always had short hair and she hasn’t dated anyone in a long time, so I just thought—”
“You just thought you’d do a little sexual profiling?” Mason asks. “Connor, you’re crazy as hell.”
“I think she’s been more concerned about raising her daughter than anything else, but I’ll be sure to ask her for you.”
“Ace! No!” Allison exclaims.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I don’t care if she is or if she isn’t, but if I find out either way, I’ll let you know, Connor.”
“Thanks,” Connor says, standing up. He looks at Allison. “What? I’m just curious. What’s wrong with being curious?”
“Nothing,” she says, getting up. “Nothing at all. Except that it’s rude.”
“It’s rude to be curious?” he says, walking out of the conference room.
“It’s rude to be so disrespectful about a woman’s sexual preference,” Allison calls out after him.
“I’m not being disrespectful! Damn!” Connor yells from the hallway.
Allison collects our takeout plates and tosses them in the trash. She thanks me for picking up dinner again and I can tell she likes me a lot better now that we’ve bonded over her dog. I kiss Mason good-bye and go home and snuggle up with Buster Loo, whose full name is actually Señor Buster Loo Bluefeather, but I didn’t tell Allison that because she didn’t bother to ask.
Happily Ever Madder : Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (9781101607107) Page 10