by Kitty Margo
On the ride to Charlotte, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times Chia had plopped her plump fanny in my passenger seat and caught myself glancing around for any lingering long black stray hairs. No, stop that! Don’t ruin the day obsessing over that foreign adulteress.
After an hour drive, Adam pulled his fancy little sports car into Olive Garden reveling in the admiring glances the car received. In all aspects of life he tended to choose things that stood out from the rest of the pack. Don’t even bother asking how my plain Jane self fell into the lineup.
Adam was his old self again, laughing and making his usual terribly corny jokes. He chatted with the couple in front of us in line as if he had known them all his life and especially enjoyed when Southerners commented on his heavy Yankee accent.
I sipped a delicious Bloody Mary while we discussed a cabin that he wanted us to build in the woods in the spring. Then I ordered Fettuccini Alfredo and he ordered Ziti and held my hand while he rambled on and on about the bait and tackle he needed to purchase at Outdoor World. He didn’t release my hands until the best salad to be found in Charlotte arrived. Honestly, after salad and breadsticks at Olive Garden you can forego the entree and, as usual, I had to request a take out box.
At South Park Mall he purchased jeans at Nordstrom’s and shoes at Finish Line. I picked up a couple of cute shirts at The Gap. We were standing in line for Aunt Annie’s homemade pretzels when he said something that left me puzzled and slightly uneasy. “Let’s shop separately for awhile, Eve.”
“Why?” I cried, unfortunately drawing the rapt attention of several fellow pretzel lovers. My suspicious mind immediately leapt to the worrisome conclusion that he was trying to slip away and make a clandestine phone call.
“Would it be too much to ask to do a little shopping in private? Look around you, Eve.”
Humoring him, I gazed around the mall and saw red hearts hanging from the ceiling and taped to every window. Oh! How had I missed it? “Valentine’s Day!”
“Yes, Valentine’s Day is Tuesday,” an attractive sixtyish gentleman in front of me said and chuckled. “Now can he have some privacy to shop?”
“If I was you, I’d give that man all the time he needs and point the way to the jury store,” a charming elderly lady behind us joked.
“You take all the time you need,” I assured Adam as my mind raced with possibilities.
Wasn’t it nothing more than a thrilling coincidence that we happened to be standing a few doors from a jewelry store when the sudden need for privacy occurred to him?
His Christmas present, a Lucky Brand blue jean jacket, was hidden in the back of my closet. I was glad I hadn’t relented to the relentless urge to watch the jacket go up in flames. I would change the Christmas wrapping paper, making it the perfect Valentine’s gift. Before I turned the corner toward J C Penney’s I glanced back to see Adam walking into a jewelry store.
Oh my God! What if he was getting an engagement ring at this very moment? He was! I just knew it! Why else would he insist on privacy to enter a jewelry store? I was too excited to shop. I couldn’t think about anything except the possibility that I could be receiving an engagement ring in as little as two days. In a determined effort to calm down, I took deep breaths, bypassed J C Penney’s, and headed to Starbucks for a Grande Mocha Frappachino, my second greatest weakness in life. Even my mailman probably knew that Adam currently held the tarnished trophy.
When we met later, Adam carried a little white bag with gold lettering from Jared's Jewelry Store. Yep, you read it right, JARED’S JEWELRY STORE. To say my excitement was hard to contain would be a gross understatement. I could have easily joined the nearest cluster of scantily clad teenaged girls and giggled and discussed my possible engagement with them for the next several hours. I so wanted to snatch the bag from Adam’s death grip and take a quick peek inside. Curiosity could definitely kill this kitty!
“What’s in the bag, Adam?” As hard as I tried I couldn’t suppress the urge to ask.
“Just something to show someone how very much I love her.” His tender words caused my heart to restrict painfully. “I hope the contents of this bag will finally prove that my heart belongs to her forever and ever.”
Oh, I wanted to break into Oprah’s ugly cry right there between Abercrombie and Hollister! I would surely blubber like a blithering idiot when he placed a sparkling diamond on my finger. I determined right then and there to watch my salt intake over the next two days. Good Lord, what if I swelled up like a toad and the ring refused to fit my finger? Why did I have to eat that salty pretzel?
However, I also warned myself not to get overly excited about a supposed engagement ring and go jumping to all manner of conclusions, as I was very prone to do. It may be entirely too soon after. . . what’s her name. I also couldn’t allow myself to get too disappointed if it was a bracelet or necklace or even God forbid earrings. With Adam, who knew? I’m sure his credit was shot, what with the looming foreclosure, and I knew he didn’t have a few thousand lying around for frivolous expenditures. Life was so unpredictable with the man.
Having more bags than we could carry comfortably we returned to his snazzy sports car—which I secretly hated, give me a comfortable sedan any day-- where he made a point of locking the little bag securely in the trunk. Surely, at this advanced age, I was too old to even consider sneaking into the bag while he was asleep, wasn’t I?
“What’s so funny?” he asked, as I struggled to keep from chuckling at the absurdity of the thought. So I told him.
“So, in other words, I need to sleep with my keys under the pillow tonight?”
“It probably wouldn’t hurt,” I admitted as he reached over to kiss me. Good Lord, the man could kiss!
“We could visit Teri while we’re in Charlotte, if you want? Doesn’t she live close to the mall?”
I had to think fast. “No.” Adam didn’t want to be the victim of one of Teri’s severe tongue-lashings anymore than I wanted him to be. As strong as her absolute disgust was for him, who knew what type of misery her conniving brain might conjure up with him actually in her domain instead of having to plot his demise from afar? “No, I’m exhausted. Let’s go home. I told you Lawrence, her husband, can barely tolerate company at his age.”
“Would you marry a man for money, Eve?”
“I might consider it, if he had a bank account similar to Lawrence’s.”
“It would just be a consideration and we both know it.” He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips for a soft kiss that sent shivers curling down my spine. He stopped at a stoplight and leaned over to kiss me, leaving me breathless. “You are a hopeless romantic and would never marry for anything short of true love.”
I found it to be more than just a mind-boggling coincidence that he was discussing the concept of marriage shortly after placing a package, from a jewelry store, in the trunk of his car.
Oh! Believe me! It was a beautiful, sunny day in the hinterland.
At home we made a batch of fudge and popcorn and plopped down in front of the fire to watch one of those boring action flicks that failed to hold my interest long enough to keep me awake. Sometime during the night he woke me and we went to bed.
And to sleep! I just bet if he were crawling into bed with Chia, he wouldn’t roll over and proceed to snore like a lumberjack! Nope! I wasn’t going to think about that right now. I snuggled up to his back, breathed a contented sigh, and was asleep in seconds.
Adam came stumbling down the hall the next morning around 11:00. After his requisite two cups of coffee he mumbled, “I’ll see you tonight after work, Eve. That damn whippoorwill kept me awake half the night. Next time I come I’m bringing my shotgun.” Then he kissed me on the cheek and left. The poor thing would never be accused of being a morning person.
I called him at 12:00, then 1:00, and then 2:00 to ask if he wanted me to buy steak or chicken to grill later tonight, but he didn’t answer. What could that mean? Was he on the phone and not accepting my call
? No, he had most likely crawled in bed to take a nap before work.
Eight
It was the second Monday of the month and that meant girl’s night. We were going to Teri’s house for dinner, not supper as Tammy, Mallory and I referred to our evening dining experience.
Teri lives in the exclusive Piper Glen section of upscale South Charlotte, where you tend to feel like you’re walking into the Smithsonian the minute you enter her three-story manse. She happens to be one of those domestic goddesses who, if you drop a crumb, is at your feet with a dustpan, broom, and a look that begs the question, “Must you be eternally clumsy?”
Hey, we didn’t tell her to request the installation of pristine white carpeting throughout the house. And talk about cold! The girl is extremely hot natured and the house could easily substitute as a meat locker for Perdue Farms. I couldn’t understand why her frail husband hadn’t perished from a fatal bout of bronchial pneumonia years ago.
Immediately upon entering her house, I stop at the entry closet and grab an afghan, which she keeps there just for me and it remains draped around my shoulders for the entire visit. It never fails to annoy the hell out of me that she can traipse around her glacial dwelling wearing daisy dukes and a tank top as if the thermostat might register a sweltering 99 degrees.
Once she notices my lips beginning to turn an unsightly shade of blue, she usually breathes an irritated sigh and, as a great sacrifice to me, ignites the gas logs in the fireplace. Within the short span of five minutes she commences to perspire heavily, turn a bright vivid red in the cheeks, and appear to have difficulty breathing. So since I can gather warmth from my afghan, while she seems on the verge of an impending attack of apoplexy, I clutch my life supporting cover tighter and shut off the logs.
And get this. She listens to show tunes. Angela Lansbury was bellowing from the stereo singing something about somebody called “Mame”. “Don’t you just love this song?” Teri trilled in between singing to the high heavens with her arms thrown in the air and spinning gaily around the room.
“Yeth.” Tammy cried with a stricken look.
“Liar,” I whispered in her ear as Teri waltzed us through her imposing manor. Her husband is a wealthy, geriatric stockbroker.
“Surely she won’t force us to listen to that music through the entire meal will she?” Mallory asked with a put upon look similar to Tammy’s. Her shoes clicked on the black and white marble floor of the foyer as she trailed behind. She knew the deeper you ventured into Teri’s abode the louder the music would become.
“You know the will.” Tammy moaned. “Dothn’t the alwayth? Do you think Lawrenth ever complainth?”
“No.” Mallory said. “He only has to remove his hearing aids. To be so frigging lucky!”
“It sounds like the poor woman could be in pain.” I glanced at Teri and sighed heavily. “Why do you feel the need to torture us every time we come to visit?”
“How can you call “Mame” torture? Why, I never heard such a ludicrous notion! “Mame” torture?” She actually pretended to be shocked. “It’s a classic!”
Then she fell into dance and twirled around the room for the entire song, as I huddled in my life supporting afghan praying for the song to end, and the other two just looked at her as if scientist had just discovered a new form of life on planet Earth.
Years earlier, prior to her sex change, Teri had been a popular stage performer/drag queen with lurid tales of her onstage antics that could cause your ears to sizzle. I had been to several of her shows and remembered her doing an excellent Cher. Teri was then, and still is, an exhibitionist at heart. She had paid good money for her triple D’s and had no intention of shielding them from the casual observer.
At Teri’s domicile, if show tunes weren’t blasting from the Bose speakers hidden in the walls, she was playing songs from the 80's. Laura Branigan, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and Blondie were a few of her favorites. Where was the extra strength Tylenol?
To top it off, she has an obnoxious affinity for anything with a coat of fur or feathers. There is either a dog running, a bird flapping, a rodent (in others words a freaking rat) --which I keep about a hundred glue pads in my basement in an effort to annihilate the horrid creatures-- spinning on a wheel or a rabbit hopping through the house at any given moment and she treats them like her children. You never knew what was going to greet you when you arrived on Teri’s doorstep.
“Oh, would you just look.” I cried glancing around her Victorian inspired living room. Four stunning vases of gorgeous roses sat at various locations around the room, one each of red, yellow, pink and orange. “They are exquisite.”
“Lawrence had four dozen roses delivered for Valentine's Day. One for each year we have been married.” She frowned as we all moved to a different vase to touch and smell the delicate floral arrangements. “After four years of wedded bliss the man still hasn’t figured out that I simply detest flowers and I haven’t the heart to tell him.”
“But today isn’t Valentine’s Day, tomorrow is,” I informed her, sniffing the orange bouquet.
“We know. He said my real Valentine’s gift will be delivered tomorrow.”
“What do you think that will be?” Mallory was savoring the fragrance of a delicate, sunshine yellow rose.
“I’m guessing a convertible Porsche Carrera, since I made the mistake of commenting on one last week.” She grinned mischievously.
It hadn’t been a mistake. We all knew Teri well enough to know that her comment had been timed with painstaking precision.
Teri led us up the curving mahogany staircase to her computer room to show us her latest online acquisitions. The girl is an EBAY junkie, purchasing an amount equivalent to my mortgage payment on a weekly basis. She has enough shoes, clothes and handbags to supply a small country. The Fed Ex man has become such a regular at her house that she has taken to inviting him inside for tea and crumpets and… whatever…while Lawrence is away enjoying his daily round of golf, or more aptly put, his round of being chauffeured around in his tricked out golf cart.
We followed her into her bedroom to admire her latest Louis Vuitton collection. What a diva! Who actually changes their purse daily? I consider it no small feat if I find time to change mine every six months. Although I shouldn’t complain, since after a couple of weeks she often tires of a new bag and passes it along to me. I had a stash of handbags in my closet, while Mallory and Tammy were quite content with their Jaclyn Smith K Mart bags, thank you.
We made the appropriate oohs and aahs to the latest acquisitions in her cleavage revealing, curve hugging, designer wardrobe and then meandered to her husband’s weight room in a mannerly effort to speak to him. He was having his twice-weekly session of physical therapy due to last year’s massive heart attack and gave us a cursory wave.
Lawrence begrudgingly tolerates us on Teri’s night to entertain, but he would much rather spend the evening alone with his voluptuous wife. He is a very peculiar person who guards his privacy zealously and wishes that Teri would as well. Like that will ever happen.
“When was the last time you two had sex?” Mallory asked moving into Teri’s bedroom and taking a seat at her vanity to spritz perfume on various locations of her body.
“Oh, we don’t have actual sex per se. Every night I sit on the edge of his bed naked and he fondles my breasts until he drifts off to sleep with a satisfied smile.” Teri swiftly took the perfume bottle from Mallory. “Why must you insist on smelling like a French whore?”
Mallory ignored her and began sampling different shades from the vast array of lipsticks before continuing undaunted. “Well, when was the last time you actually had actual sex?” She settled on a rich peach color and added a topcoat of gloss.
“With Lawrence you mean?”
“Yes, Teri, your husband.”
A pained expression crossed Teri’s face. “Oh, that was the night of his heart attack.”
The night of Lawrence’s heart attack had been a terrifying ordeal for Teri,
for all of us in fact. She might not be in love with him, but she really did love him. I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
She had called us from the hospital sobbing hysterically that Lawrence was going to die. It was only a few months after her sex change surgery and she had insisted, rather loudly, “It’s all my fault! I know it is! I killed the poor man with my brand new, silky smooth, extremely tight, state of the art twat.” She said this from Lawrence’s somber room in ICU. God only knows how many nurses, doctors and patients had needed resuscitation after that heartfelt confession.
The three of us had rushed to her side and were witness to her genuine relief when Lawrence was taken off the ventilator and smiled at her.
“Is anyone hungry?” Teri asked as we headed back downstairs, where blessedly the soundtrack had ended. “Now that you have snooped into my personal life, when was the last time you fornicated, Mallory?”
“Today. Twice. And it was damn good! It was all big and crooked. You all know how good a crooked dick feels.”
“I'm tharving,” Tammy announced, clearly grateful for the silence. “What is that wonderful thmell?” Her gratitude was short lived however, as the next CD that fell into place contained the coma inducing rendition of one of the most annoying songs on the planet Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
“How does Beef Wellington sound?” Teri removed the dish, which smelled scrumptious from the oven. She is a culinary marvel.
“Great!” we all said in unison.
We plopped down on bar stools at her kitchen counter. None of us, given a choice, would have chosen to suffer through a meal in her elegant dining room with its exquisite French lace tablecloth and window treatments. I personally would have been more inclined to choke from thirst, rather than risk picking up a crystal wine goblet in the elaborately appointed room. It was difficult to enjoy libations with the ever-present fear of tipping the glass and having to watch in absolute horror as red wine soaked into her plush snowy carpet.