Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married

by Heather McElhatton

  “Well, yes. Keeping Keller’s in the family was like her prime objective in life, besides torturing me and having a not-gay grandchild.”

  “So, wouldn’t she naturally detest the idea of ‘foreigners’ coming into her empire?”

  “Detest? Um . . . That would be accurate.”

  “You said she’s always meddling in everyone’s business. Isn’t it possible she knew these Japanese businessmen were up to something? And if she did . . . look how brilliantly she foiled them. They could take nothing, because nothing was there to take. They could leave nothing for the same reason. They were uncomfortable, left early, and never came back. There was even a government official there to assist in their departure. Most amazing is that she orchestrated all this without anyone knowing she did. That takes skill. I wonder if she’s CIA.”

  I’m not fast to accept the idea . . . Is it possible she’s right? I mean, what happened right after the Japanese were gone? We wound up with Christian investors that she met at church. That sounds like a Ma Keller plot if there ever was one. I’m suddenly flooded with conflicting emotions. What if this monster I hated had actually been trying to protect us, without our knowing about it? I hadn’t even thought of the possibility. I was too blind with rage at her. One thing is certain: She is as brilliant as she is evil. I suddenly regret not getting to know her better. The real her. Whoever that is . . . underneath all those layers of shellac and chiffon. I wish she would have let me in on some of her evil plots. I’d make a very good sidekick for a villain, I think.

  I certainly could have helped with her wardrobe.

  Ursula tells me she must make one confession. It wasn’t her computer forensics team that found the clues that led to this information. “It was not my men,” she says. “It was yours. I received an unscheduled visit from your maid last week. She did not have an appointment.”

  “Bi’ch? She’s my ex-maid.”

  “She brought her grandchildren with her.”

  “Star Fan and Pho? Was baby Pac Man there?”

  “That is no baby, Mrs. Keller. I can assure you. Babies cannot run down the hall with a fire extinguisher. Anyway, they brought me the information about the Ice Empress.”

  “It was Pho, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. The Pho boy is most intelligent, and I do not like children.”

  “No surprise there.”

  She says Pho uncovered the code that revealed just how long the Ice Empress filmed us, which was apparently from the moment we plugged her in to the moment I unplugged her during book group. When I told Pho to reprogram her, the original espionage software was corrupted and she stopped filming us. Then when I asked Pho to reactivate her original voice, he rebooted her system, restarting her original programming, and the camera was reactivated. She says Pho was able to extract some very interesting video footage.

  “Oh God,” I groan. “This is the indecency, isn’t it?”

  “Big-time,” she says.

  The Indecency

  “So . . . a video of what?” I ask, feeling queasy. “What was on it?”

  “Miss Johnson?” she says. “We caught the sonofabitch!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your husband! The video Pho brought me . . . it contains concrete proof that your husband was engaged in an affair. It is absolute, concrete proof!”

  “Oh!” I sit down on the bed, suddenly winded. A dull aching hurt rises like a gray balloon in my stomach. Brad was cheating? I had somehow convinced myself that he hadn’t been. Stupid, I know.

  “We hit the jackpot!” Ursula says again gleefully. “We got him damn good!”

  I ask her what’s actually on the tape and she says the Ice Empress caught Brad and a brunette in stilettos having sex on the center island. “And, Miss Johnson,” she says, “not only is the footage time-stamped, the Ice Empress camera was perfectly aimed for irrefutable evidence that penetration did occur! This is a rare treat for me . . .”

  “Oh, and for me too.”

  “It means an airtight case, Miss Johnson. I’ve already contacted Brad’s lawyers. God, how I love to hear grown men cry . . .”

  I tell her I don’t want to hear any more. I only have one more question.

  “Do you know who the brunette was?”

  She sighs and mutters something under her breath in German. “I do,” she says, and I’m just about to tell her I don’t want to know when she says, “Miss Emily Goodhue.”

  I pause. I chuckle. “Emily? Cute Emily? No, that’s not possible, there must be some mistake. She would never . . . She’s Todd’s secretary. They worked together, that’s all. She’s the sweetest girl, so friendly!”

  Ursula just sighs. “Can you hear yourself yet?”

  “Yes. I can . . . but Emily . . . she was getting married!”

  “Here we go. The nine-hour ‘This can’t be true’ marathon. I can do this with you if you don’t mind being billed five hundred dollars an hour for it.”

  “Isn’t Emily getting married?”

  “Well . . . yes. We have confirmation that Brad proposed to her.”

  “She’s marrying Brad?”

  “I thought we would just rip that Band-Aid off fast. Now, I have very good news for you that we should move on to. Ready?”

  “What are you talking about . . . Brad is marrying Emily?” I feel funny. Like I’m having a stroke. My heart races. I can’t seem to puzzle out the words she just said, but the reptilian part of my brain has registered that something very bad just happened.

  “Okay,” Ursula says. “Good riddance to bad rubbish . . . Right?”

  “I—”

  “Onward, Mrs. Keller!”

  I’m actually grateful for her gruff tone. It reminds me to straighten my shoulders. Now is not the time to fall apart. Now is the time to keep calm and carry on. I’ll fall apart later. In private. Probably after drinking a bathtub filled with cheap red wine. For now, in this moment, I must be brave. Get all the facts and assemble them. Not show my weakness. The truth is, my heart is breaking just a little . . . Possibly more for Emily than for myself. “That poor girl . . .” I whisper quietly.

  “Exactly,” Ursula says. “Now, you want a fat sugar cube or not?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Please.”

  “It’s a fat one!” she says.

  “I have . . . no idea how to take that.”

  “It’s actually one of the fattest sugar cubes I’ve ever seen.”

  “Starting to get terrified.”

  The Fat Sugar Cube

  Ursula thinks I’ll figure out what the fat sugar cube is before she even says it out loud. She generously offers to give me a Henckles, Luststerben & Grump beer koozie if I do.

  She reviews everything we’ve already talked about. The fact that all Brad’s and my assets were frozen wherever they happened to be when the judge froze them. The fact that this caught Brad off guard. The fact that he’d been putting large amounts of stock into my name without my knowing it . . . and logically therefore hoping I would not find out about it. He of course was hoping to get all the assets himself . . . but he has been unsuccessful.

  Now there is new evidence against him . . .

  Concrete evidence of a most damning nature.

  “The video the Pho boy found changes everything,” she says. “It’s a categorical violation of your prenup and because of this, negotiations are over.”

  “Over?”

  “Over,” she says. “Naughty boys get nothing and winner takes all. Get it?”

  “Look, Ursula, I know you’re waiting for me to put something together, but I have news for you: My nerves are a little shattered over here . . . I’m not completely over the unpleasantness and I’m really not over the indecency . . . and I’m about to pass out, because for all I know a ‘fat sugar cube’ means something so awful it defies description.”

  “No, my dear. In this case your fat sugar cube is the fact that Brad cheated. Because of your prenup you get everything in the estate . . . including all the stocks he h
id under your name. They’re all yours now. Legally.”

  “Okay. How many shares are we talking about?”

  “Well, Miss Johnson, a great deal. When your divorce is final, you will have a controlling interest in Keller’s Department Store.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “You own it.”

  “It? What do you mean . . . it?”

  “I mean all of it, darling! You will own Keller’s Department Store! The entire thing. Lock, stock, and barrel. For the first time in its history, Keller’s will not be owned by a Keller. Maybe you should change it to Johnson’s! Strange, isn’t it? So sudden. But I told you it was a fat sugar cube. Those naughty little bunnies hid all their eggs in your Easter basket, thinking you’d never find them . . . and even if you did, you’d obey them. They never imagined you’d be so clever. They never saw this coming, did they, Jennifer? . . . Jennifer?”

  21

  Elegantly Invincible

  Flash forward a year.

  A fairly boring year actually, filled with court cases, legal battles, and unsuccessful lawsuits as the Keller family frantically tried to “sue my ass off” and get their company back. At the final trial, when the judge delivered her final verdict and declared me the rightful owner of Keller’s, the Honorable Ann Nelson brought her shiny black gavel down with a sharp crack! And then she looked at me and winked.

  She did. She winked.

  What a world! Suddenly I owned Keller’s, but I confess, it didn’t take me long to figure out I was a really crappy CEO. My first action was to close the store for a week and give all Keller’s employees a proper vacation, which ended up costing us . . . I don’t like to recall the exact number. I never was any good with money or sales projections and profit forecasts, which turned out to be a big part of the job. My dad is much better at it. Plus he likes having a big fancy office downtown. I have an executive office too, but I don’t use it much. Usually the only occupants are an ever-growing tribe of dust bunnies under the couch and a bronze sculpture that sits on my desk and looks very much like a bat smashed against a grille.

  I don’t even have a secretary.

  Emily’s desk sits empty. I was sad, in a way, when I heard she’d left, and I packaged up all those lists I made her. I sent them to her along with a note.

  Emily,

  I’m not sure if you’re still planning on marrying Brad, but if you are, you’re going to need these a lot more than I am. Look out for yourself, Emily . . . you might be the only one who does.

  —Jennifer Johnson

  I’m not mad at her anymore. I’m too happy traveling around the world with Nick and the dogs on the SS Nevertheless, and even though we hardly ever come home now, I never worry about the store. I left it in quite capable hands. Not only is my dad the head bean counter, Lenny is the head of infrastructure management, and I hired a new president.

  The new president was a big deal.

  I knew I wanted him, but it took months of courting him and weeks of salary negotiation, not to mention having the entire executive suite remodeled exactly to his specifications, before he agreed to take the position. Everyone loves him. He’s quirky and creative. Every day he sits at a vast Lucite desk, and he spins around in a huge pink vinyl wingback chair. “Okay, ladies!” he says. “Grab your fairy dust, we have work to do!”

  Yes.

  Christopher is the new president of Keller’s Department Store.

  Best decision I’ve ever made.

  No contest.

  Seemingly overnight he transformed our dowdy, frumpy department store into a chic upscale shopping destination. He put in endless hours, obsessed with removing all traces of the old regime. He purchased all new product lines and banished anything cheap or poorly made. Whenever “previous Keller” merchandise surfaced—an old box of skorts or a crate of nude pantyhose—he ordered a ritual fire. He wants nothing from the past. His team worked relentlessly, painting and redesigning every floor as Christopher oversaw every imaginable detail. He even took down all the big oil paintings of the Kellers and the long-gone board members that had hung in the conference room since the store opened. He purged the place until not a single image of any Keller remained.

  “I want fresh ideas, people! Chop-chop! Dear God, no, honey. Take it away, before my poor eyes start to blister. How many times must I say it? We don’t do downtrodden anymore. Everyone listening? We don’t do downtrodden anymore. Or oppressive. Or soul-killing. Got it? Listen to me . . . and please somebody tell me there’s a triple-foam latte in this office for me . . . because I’m not trying to sound dramatic, people, but if I don’t get a coffee, I may— Oh, thank you! Wonderful! Thank you, darling. Delicious!”

  He works his staff hard, but he works himself harder and with more clarity of vision than anyone else could. They call him Queen Bitchy Bee. He routinely asks his assistants if they know that he had the first legal gay wedding in Minnesota, thanks to Keller’s CEO.

  Yes, his assistants moan. We know.

  “Did I tell you she paid for everything?”

  You did.

  “She said to me, ‘Christopher darling, I’m throwing your dream wedding. I’m paying for the whole thing and I don’t care what happens afterward, so make it gay, honey.’ I said, ‘Are you sure?’ Because she had that whole horrible Christian Keller militia breathing down her neck all the time. And she said she was sure. When I asked her, ‘How gay should I make it?’ she just looked at me and said . . . ‘As gay . . . as gay gets.’ Isn’t that wonderful?” (Here I’m told there’s usually the welling of tears.) “Gentlemen”—he sighs—“there’s only one Jennifer Johnson in this world. No one else even holds a candle.”

  Very sweet but totally untrue. I know a few people who are quite a bit more amazing than me. Greta now spearheads my international animal-rescue organization, ACE (Animal Care in Emergencies). I gave my Lake Minnetonka house to the Fang Gang, partially because they deserved it and partially because Mrs. Keller deserved it. Pho runs his thriving cyber-ninja business from the house and Bi’ch teaches survival training there with Dizzy Bee, who moved into the guesthouse. Star Fan married a very nice marine and is now pregnant. I knew we didn’t have long with her. Pac Man is my angel. He’s fearless.

  Lots of changes happened in the Keller family too. Sarah opened her own clothing boutique, and Brad moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career as a songwriter . . . so he’ll be coming home soon. Sadly, Mr. Keller left his wife for Ada, a fact that made me feel a little bad, until Mother Keller herself remarried and was happier than anyone had ever seen her. She married Pastor Mike at Grace-Trinity, a real coup by any standards, and it catapulted her into the highest echelons of church-lady power. So basically she’s in heaven. Her own Lutheran Jerusalem. Martha Woodcock defected across the street, to Mount Holyoke Lutheran.

  All I know is life is designed to be a disaster.

  In every way you can possibly think of. We get lost, we fall down, we marry the wrong people . . . life is a mess. It’s also oddly, eerily perfect. Rough seas and stormy passages build something quite ferocious inside us. Something uncontainable and even ugly to others but something wildly free.

  Strange miracles come in odd packages. The people who wound up helping me the most weren’t rich and famous. They were surly Hmong teenagers, limo-hearse drivers, homeless old men with diabetes. They taught me that if you want to come in from the rain, stop searching for shelter. Look for something else that needs help and protect it, because when we shelter something else, no matter how small, we become shelter ourselves. We never need to look for it again.

  Magnetic north is shifting, which means the old maps are wrong and getting wronger. Old routes won’t take us where we want to go. So we must find the new ways ourselves, slowly, carefully, often in the dark, and sometimes falling down. We are the new mapmakers. Strange miracles are hurtling toward us right this very moment, so hang on. Miracles are coming as fast as they possibly can.

  Acknowledgments

&nbs
p; The author would like to acknowledge the fact that many people helped her with this book, including the unstoppable Jeanette Perez, the saintly Amanda Bergeron, the irreplaceable Carrie Kania, the indomitable Cal Morgan, the full-of-savoir-faire Alberto Rojas, the unkillable Jen Hart, the adorable Mary Sasso, and the mysterious Julia O’Halloran. Special thanks to Laura Cherkas, my production editor, and to Natsuki Schwartz for Japanese translations. You’re all as much a part of this book as I am . . . which may call for certain apologies.

  Deep thanks to all my agents, my lawyers, and all those who would sue . . . the fiercesome John Stout, the dapper John Larson, the lovable Tom Weiss, and the indefatigable Stephanie Unterberger. Also to the lovely Elizabeth Sheinkman at Curtis Brown London, and the sharpshooter duo of Debbie Deuble and Steve Fisher at APA. God love your wily, sharky hearts, every one.

  Many friends helped me with this book, probably because I had their phone numbers. Rick Bursky sent poems, Billy Collins wanted to, Joyce Carol Oates provided ongoing sparks, Neil Gaiman told me I could . . . so I did. Special thanks to Harry Drabik, who provided sanctuary. Marcy Russ took notes, My Lee Xiong double-checked my Hmongs, Ari Hoptman killed all the joy, Jeffrey Hagen took pity on me, Jodi Ohlsen counseled, Chris Strouth knows his bad porn, and Christian Barnard sent treats in the mail. Andrew Bendel could have been helpful but wasn’t. Tim Peterson was available for caffeine infusions, Bart Regehr always astounds, and Andrew Peterson is a living idea machine. David Sunderland makes everything pretty. Love to the Breadloaf Kittens 2000—I always am grateful to you—and Matty Dillon, Jim Zervanos, Leslie Blanco, Speed Weed, Miss Meghan Cleary, Thom Didato, and the other hardworking Borts out there all writing away in the dark.

  Thanks and apologies to the Ludington-Klings for the completely inappropriate use of their beloved dog’s name, Farfel, and to high school friend Billy Davis for becoming a deacon against his will, and to the Swenson gang for wacky authenticity, and also to the Morganthalers, a lovely family in every way. Hurrah to the hale souls of Key West, specifically Judy Blume, who inspires me; Grand Vin, who let me write on their porch; Tom Favelli and friends; Meredith and Michael, who conjure 3-D poetry; Michael Baier, my cajoled mentor; my adopted German family the Seigerts; and Pepper, Tennessee Slim, Cookie-Man, Deb, and all the rest of the Key West gang . . . my world is better and much weirder because I know you. My deep love and sympathy to the Commodore and Jane McKean, along with the whole schooner Appledore crew, who lost their first mate, J. C. Smith, while I was writing this book.