by Josie Brown
Jack chuckles in the hope that I will, too.
But I can’t, because my heart is beating too hard in my chest. “I was fascinated. I felt I was watching my future, my destiny, through them—and that they let me in on it because they thought I was cool, too. I had no idea that CeeCee was paid to hang out with me, or that it gave her the added convenience of seeing Bobby without her own mother knowing about it.” I sigh. “Soon I was fantasizing that it was me in Bobby’s arms—that he was making out with me, not her.”
“When did she catch on?”
“She caught me writing his name with mine, inside of a heart. When she saw how embarrassed I was, she laughed, and said she thought it was adorable. But I was mortified—even more so when she told Bobby about it, in front of me.”
“Did he laugh, too?”
“Oddly, no. Whereas other boys would have probably said something cruel about it, I think he knew I was embarrassed and he said, ‘I’ll keep it in mind. She’s going to be a knock-out when she grows up.’”
“He was right.”
Jack’s declaration lifts a smile from me. “I appreciate you saying so—and I certainly was flattered he thought so, too. But CeeCee wasn’t too happy about it. She huffed off. A couple of days later they made up—in fact, they made out in my bedroom. But things were never the same between CeeCee and me.”
“What about between you and Bobby?”
Can he see me blushing in the dark? “One night—I found out later that my father knew my mother’s prognosis by then, and my parents stayed overnight at the hospital, for tests—CeeCee was to spend the night with me. She used it as an excuse for a party. She invited over two girlfriends, and of course Bobby came over with two other boys. They played games. You know, Spin the Bottle, that sort of thing. One of the boys suggested that I play, too. I didn’t want to, but CeeCee insisted on it. ‘You’re going to do it sooner or later, so you might as well do it with people who aren’t dorky middle-schoolers,’ was how she put it.”
“That was cruel of her to say.”
“Oh, it gets better, believe me.” I take a deep breath. “The game is called ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven.’”
“I know it. Boy plus girl plus a room with a bed, behind a locked door.” He shakes his head.
“Exactly.” I shudder. “We used my bedroom. Each girl would pull the name of a boy out of a hat. I went last. The sounds behind my bedroom door freaked me out, but because I wanted to impress CeeCee, I kept my cool. But then … then it was my turn. I don’t remember the boy’s name now. All I remember is that he was big and bulky and made all kinds of dirty remarks to the other girls. When he heard his name, he snickered and high-fived the other boy. Then he jerked me by my arm toward my bedroom. I didn’t like the look in his eye and I began to panic, but he wouldn’t let me go. He held me around my waist and practically threw me onto my little twin bed. I fought hard, and the tears were falling so fast that I couldn’t see what was happening. Maybe that was a good thing, because I could feel his hand slip under my tee-shirt. At the same time, he was grinning like a mad jack-o-lantern … And then …”
Jack squeezes my hand. “What happened?”
“He wasn’t there anymore. Bobby had pulled him off and was pummeling the guy, and CeeCee was screaming at him. When he stopped, the other boy was bleeding all over. He scrambled out of there, and so did the other kids, even CeeCee.”
“You spent the night, alone?”
“No. Bobby stayed there—on the couch. But when he was trying to make me stop crying, he held me. And … he kissed me.”
The thought weighs heavy on my lids, pushing them down. But in the darkness behind my eyes, the memory plays before me, as if I’m watching an old movie:
Bobby is holding me, shushing me—
Kissing me.
On the cheek.
Until I turn toward him, so that his lips are on mine.
But just for a second—
One very sweet moment.
Maybe longer.
When he pulls away, he is breathing heavy, and I am, too. Then he says, “I’m with CeeCee.”
“But why?” I ask. What I mean to add is, when you can be with me.
“Because she is who I love. She is my everything. She is the queen of the universe.”
His universe. A place in which I don’t exist, and never have.
That’s my cue—to scramble away, to pretend it never happened.
But I don’t. If anyone is going to walk away, it will be him.
He gets up and goes to the couch.
“Donna, he didn’t—” Jack’s voice brings me back to the here and now.
“You mean … No! Quite the opposite, Jack, believe me. It was all very innocent. Even back then, he was very much in love with CeeCee.” I sigh. “But because he didn’t walk out with her, she thought the worst, too. Soon, the rumors were flying. I was a bad girl. I was no longer a virgin. At the same time, my parents broke the news to me that my mother didn’t have long to live. I became her caretaker. Thank goodness, it gave me the excuse I needed to take a leave of absence from school. Until Aunt Phyllis came over from the East Coast to live with us, I left my mother’s side only twice a week—for a grocery run, and to meet with my teacher after school, to get my homework and turn in the assignments from the previous week.” I shrug. “One day, as I was walking home, Bobby was waiting for me. He said he needed to talk to me. I knew it was CeeCee who had started the rumors, so of course I had nothing to say to him. But he insisted. He wanted to apologize. He said he, too, knew she was the source of the gossip, but that if anyone asked, he always denied anything happened. I wanted to believe him. And I asked him to kiss me, one last time.”
I still remember the sweetness of his lips.
And the shame in his eyes.
“I was with him at the most a half-hour. When I got home, CeeCee was there, sitting with mother, as if nothing had happened! I was surprised—shocked, really. But when CeeCee rose to leave, Mother called her by my name. I was heartbroken. I felt it was yet another of CeeCee’s cruel jokes, and I told her to get out of our house and leave us alone. She told me I was overreacting and laughed at me. It only made me angrier. It felt great to open the door and tell her to get the hell out.” I tremble at the memory. “When I got back into my mother’s room, she asked me if I’d ‘made the pie.’ I didn’t know what she was talking about! With her medications, she sometimes said things that didn’t make sense. But later, when I went into the kitchen, I saw that her recipe tin was open. Her special apple pie recipe was missing.”
“CeeCee had taken it?”
I nod. “Yes! Can you believe it?”
“She’s a politician. I’d believe anything.” He laughs as he pulls me out of the swing and into his arms. “I love your apple pie.”
“You should. It’s my mother’s recipe. Thank goodness I’d memorized it.” I shrug. “I guess it’s CeeCee’s now, too. I’ve no doubt it’s the one she used as her entry in the county fair—and as her ‘hobby’ for the Tip Top Teen USA contest.” I shrug. “I’m glad to see she’s too busy to use it anymore. And on that note—”
I reach for my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Jack asks.
I grin. “My old friend, Congresswoman Catherine Martin. She owes me a favor. Payback is an interview with Mary.”
He laughs. “She’s getting off easy.”
“You can say that again! She’s lucky it’s not with Brenda Stark, in Dominic’s torture grotto.”
The dogs leap as we kiss, but we don’t care.
Fate played me one winning card. I ended up with my dream man after all.
Chapter 11
Fishing Expedition
An investigation with no pre-determined purpose, often by one political party seeking damaging information about another. Such inquiries are likened to fishing because they pull up whatever they happen to catch.
You’re probably adept at fishing expeditions, and never realized it. For
example, when you ask your husband supposedly innocent questions about his business trips or his nights out with his pals, any and all information (or for that matter, fibs) can be used against him at a later date—either in the bedroom, or in a court of law.
Speaking of a great catch, here’s a wonderful way to serve salmon! Try it with this unique topping combination:
Black Bean Salmon
(Compliments of SamTheCookingGuy.com)
Ingredients
1/2 cup apricot preserves (which is pretty much the same as jam)
1/4 cup black bean & garlic sauce
1 whole salmon filet, about 1.5 pounds, skin off might be easier
3 green onions, finely chopped
Sesame seeds
Directions
Heat broiler to high.
Put salmon on a baking sheet covered lightly with oil.
Combine apricot jam and black bean sauce in a small bowl - mix well and spread on top of salmon to cover.
Broil 4-5 inches from heat, approximately 7 minutes for each inch of thickness.
Remove to a platter or serving plates and sprinkle with green onions and sesame seeds – serve.
It’s been one hell of a morning.
Besides the usual throngs of awed and adoring voters, Congresswoman Catherine Martin was met with tomatoes thrown by protestors who take issue with her vote to cut farm subsidies.
She ducked, and I leaped, taking them in her stead.
Then there was the bowl of borscht tossed at her, from someone upset over the speech poo-pooing UN sanctions against Russia for its human rights violations. I pushed her out of the way just in the nick of time, only to get soaked.
Dominic nodded approvingly. “You look great in red. Thank goodness it’s a cold soup. Otherwise, you’d have been scalded—especially around the Bristol region, since that took the brunt … Oh my! Perhaps you’d like to borrow my coat.”
I look down to see what he’s staring at.
Hmmm. Cold tomato soup on a sheer blouse equals nipples standing at attention. In other words, not a great look.
I leave my Acme team to go home and change clothes. Mary is out of school now, so she rides back with me. We catch up with Catherine’s entourage just as she’s wrapping up a speech with the local chapter of the League of Women Voters.
Mary listens, enraptured, as Catherine regales the crowd with her vision of America at its best. In it, employment is at its peak, and our nation of producers is rewarded with high wages and real benefits. Higher education is for everyone who wishes to take advantage of it. Teachers are paid handsomely for educating our nation’s best and brightest. Which of us doesn’t fit that description?
If only we saw ourselves as others see us.
In Catherine’s new world order, the safety and security of our citizens will always be a top priority. “We’ve already paid too high a price, forfeited too many lives, to go back on this promise,” she vows.
Mary’s iPhone captures it all on video. I’m sure it also picks up Mary’s declaration, “I want to be just like her.”
For once, I hope my daughter does not get her wish.
“I’m so happy your daughter was interested in accompanying us this afternoon,” Catherine says sweetly. “My goodness, what a pretty little thing she is! She reminds me of you at that age.”
“Do you really think so? I can’t imagine you’d remember me at fourteen. You dumped me as a friend before I was twelve.” I’m trying to keep the edge out of my voice, but my guess is that I’m failing miserably.
I know this to be the case when Catherine, responds, “Yes, I think you’re right! I’m sure it was your colorful reputation I remember. My God, who could forget it? I didn’t—not for years.”
Before I can say another word, she glides away, greeting Mommy Dearest’s publisher, Allison O’Connor, with air kisses.
I am left standing with a mob of fawning acolytes.
After what I divulged to Jack last night, I’m glad he’s not here to see her imperious diss.
Unfortunately, Mary does, and it embarrasses her enough that she turns her head in order to hide her mortification.
I can’t say that I blame her. From what she’s seen and heard thus far, Catherine is not only the dream candidate, but a great wife, mother, and issues-oriented candidate. In fact, on the limo ride here, Catherine graciously answered Mary’s long list of carefully thought-out questions, piercing my daughter with the gaze she reserves for the likes of Katie Couric, Anderson Cooper and Oprah. The staff adviser to Hilldale High School’s newspaper, theSignal, will run the interview on the front page, which thrills Mary to no end.
Now, if only her mother doesn’t ruin it for her.
Okay, I’ll be on my best behavior, from now on out.
I’ve allowed my mind to wander while the interview hits its stride. On the other hand, Mary sits quietly in a corner of the studio, scribbling away on her pad. I presume she’s comparing the magazine publisher’s questions to the ones she asked in the limo, and is taking special note of Catherine’s seemingly thoughtful answers.
She doesn’t realize that Catherine has spent a lifetime answering these very same questions, and that she's had years to hone her answers to them. Every tilt of the head, every pause, and every inflection is well practiced.
Robert and Evan, who sit quietly on either side of Catherine, wear the placid smiles that go hand in hand with a life spent reluctantly in the spotlight. I do notice, however, that Evan’s adoring gaze will sometimes drift from his mother to Mary.
Just as Robert’s eyes shift my way.
It’s a good thing that Jack is with Dominic, covering the studio doors. Otherwise he would have picked up on it, and gotten the wrong idea.
Me? I know better.
Suddenly something the publisher says catches my attention: “—your renowned apple pie recipe! If you don’t mind, we’ll duplicate it here, right now.” Allison’s hand sweeps out over the room, where a state-of-the-art kitchen awaits them.
Huh? Her recipe?
Catherine blinks twice. This is her gotcha moment. My mother’s recipe isn’t something she ever knew by heart.
Unlike me.
“Ah, what a wonderful—and totally unexpected surprise,” Catherine purrs. “But I wouldn’t want to muss my suit.”
“No problem! We’ve got a full apron, right here.” From behind her chair, Allison pulls out two of them, emblazoned with the magazine’s curvy script logo.
Catherine’s lips curl into a smile. “How thoughtful.” She snaps her fingers for her press secretary Lydia.
While Lydia rushes to her side, I grab my cell phone and call Arnie.
He answers with a “Yo, boss lady, what’s up?”
“Quick—you have the code to Congresswoman Martin’s iCloud account, right?”
“Yep. I’m still assessing the threats that came to her. Why do you ask?”
“I need to access something in there.”
“I’ll send it to you now.”
A second later I get the code—and I’m in the cloud, searching for the term Apple Pie.
Ah, here it is …
My fingers work fast. I delete a cup of sugar. Instead the recipe now calls for sorghum. Forget the pinch of salt. Add three-quarters of a cup. Use crabapples, not Fiji. And the crust will be cornmeal, not flour.
Done.
And so is any future reliance on this recipe by CeeCee Connelly Martin.
Should I warn Mary not to take a bite? Nah. It’ll be a great life lesson:
No one is perfect.
It’s obvious that neither of these women have cooked a day in their lives. They glare at the editor who dares to question the type of apple or flour or sweetener the recipe calls for, let alone the generous use of salt.
The photo op is priceless. At each step of the process, they stop to wrap their arms around each other and smile wide.
They coo when they pull the baked pie out of the oven and pause for the camera, with forks
poised at their mouths.
But the money shot is the look of horror on their faces as they spit out the pie.
The photographer, who is on rote, keeps clicking away, catching every squint, pucker, and gag.
I bite my lip to keep from snorting.
Only Robert doesn’t feel the need to hold his tongue or look the other way. He’s laughing so hard that the others can’t help but join in.
Everyone but Catherine.
Her eyes flash angrily. As if driven by a heat-seeking missile, they seek me out.
I wave back, innocently. But there is no mistaking the message in her glare: Destroy.
She stalks off, her advance team in tow.
Evan is looking over Mary’s shoulder, reading her notes. When she realizes it, she blushes deeply. He says something that makes her laugh. Her reply has him doubling over.
I feel as if I’m looking at my past.
Robert is watching them, too. I catch his eye. He winks back. Worse yet, he comes up to me.
It would be rude to walk away.
It will break my heart to make chitchat and pretend there was never anything between us.
Then again, maybe there wasn’t, and I imagined it all.
“The publisher is suggesting that they reduce the spread to just the interview, and nix the recipe,” he says with a grin. “But Catherine won’t hear of it. She says it’s all or nothing. I can’t wait to see how she spins this one.”