by Josie Brown
“Perfect! Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Jack. It was his idea.”
Before I can ask him when he heard from Jack about this, I hear Emma’s sleepy murmur followed by Arnie’s exclamation, “Whoa, baby! Again? Sheesh! You’ve got to quit watching those Penelope outtakes! You’re wearing me out—”
His cell phone falls with a clatter before clicking off.
I guess Jack is expecting a row. Why else would he ask Arnie to put the show’s webcams on a loop?
Aunt Phyllis trails into the kitchen a half-hour later, yawning. When I offer her a fresh cup, she waves me off. “We’re not supposed to eat or drink anything for eight hours before the operation.”
When I set down the mug, my hand is shaking. “Aunt Phyllis, I wish you wouldn’t go through with that stupid operation.”
She crosses her arms below her ample chest. “But—I’m doing it for us.”
“If that’s the case, then I vote no. So does Jack. And if we were to ask the kids, they’d say no too.”
“Ask us what?” Trisha’s voice, hazy with sleep comes from the stairwell.
Phyllis blanches. “Nothing…” She sits down at the kitchen banquette. “Okay, yes. I’m having an operation today.”
Trisha’s eyes open wide. “What kind?”
My aunt waves her hands at her chest. “It's for my…heart.”
Trisha runs to my aunt. Crawling into her lap, she asks, “Is your heart sick?”
“No! ...It’s just that…” She peers down at the little girl cradled in her arms. “I mean…you hope you can change other people’s hearts so that they see you like you want to see yourself.”
“You look in the mirror all the time!” Trisha points out. “Don’t you like what you see?”
“Not always. Not…anymore.” She frowns as she stammers to relay her thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is...Sometimes, you want to change something about yourself so that…well, so that others will like you better.”
Trisha’s brow wrinkles with worry. “Who doesn’t like you, Aunt Phyllis?”
“I don’t mean just ‘like.’” Phyllis sighs. “I mean…I mean love.”
Trisha grasps her great aunt as if she’ll never let her go. “Everyone loves you—because you love everyone and everything.”
Aunt Phyllis blinks back her tears. “Well, little one, thank you for that. But…I want some special someone to love me.”
Some special someone.
Yes, Aunt Phyllis deserves someone who loves her completely.
And unconditionally. We all do.
Shocked at the implication, Trisha covers her mouth. Still, a giggle slips out. She pats my aunt’s face gently. “Aunt Phyllis, you are so silly! You’re the most beautiful aunt I know! And the kindest. And the funniest. Any man who doesn’t fall in love with you is an idiot! He’d be the one that needs the operation on his heart. Not you.” She waves her hand dismissively. “If he can’t see and feel what we do, we wouldn’t want him as an uncle anyway!”
Aunt Phyllis buries her face in Trisha’s hair. She doesn’t want my daughter to see her cry.
And because I don’t want Trisha or Phyllis to hear me bawl my head off, I leave the room.
“Pass the toast, please,” Mary asks Jeff, who isn’t sitting close to it.
Evan is, but for some reason, Mary is ignoring him. Tit for tat. When Evan came downstairs, he said good morning to everyone but Mary.
There is trouble in Paradise.
Usually, Aunt Phyllis has a way to get them to kiss and make up, figuratively if not literally. (At least, not in front of the rest of the family.) But by seven o’clock she’d been whisked off to Franklin’s sumptuous Beverly Hills offices. I know this because I was stepping into the shower when I heard the honk of the show’s limo in front of our house.
So now it’s my turn to spread soothing oil on the water roiling between Mary and Evan.
I’ve gotten into the habit of scanning all of the online celebrity news. As I do so now, I run across an item in US Weekly. The headline reads:
#HHHilldale Update! Mary Makes Jenna Cry—Again!
The accompanying photo shows Jenna at her school locker. She stares into the camera, teary-eyed. Mary, at the next locker frowns. She has her back to Jenna. Her arms crossed at her waist.
I recognize the picture of Mary. It was taken last spring after her basketball team lost a game. She was not standing at her locker at all, but in the gym.
“I presume you’ve already seen this,” I hold my iPad up to Mary so that she can see it too.
“Oh, yeah, you bet!” With a scowl, she nods toward Evan but doesn’t look at him.
“The picture of you was PhotoShopped!” I exclaim.
Evan whips around to me. “It was?”
Mary turns to him. “See? I told you! Now will you quit believing everything that girl says about me?”
Before he has a chance to respond, she storms out of the kitchen.
“What has she been telling you?” I ask him.
“She says…lots of things. Not necessarily about Mary, though. She just needs a shoulder to cry on.”
“I know Mary has tried to be her friend. Why won’t she let her?”
Evan grimaces. “Because…what I’m trying to say is that it has nothing to do with Mary—although I can’t convince Mary of that! She believes too much of this stuff online.” He rolls his eyes. “And her girlfriends aren’t helping things by reporting every time Jenna and I pass each other in the hall—”
“Evan, I know that you’re…loyal to Mary.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “In a few days, all of this will be over, and you and Mary can go on with your lives as they were.”
God, yes, please!...
I think.
“And I understand you’re concerned for Jenna,” I add. “What is it exactly that has her so traumatized?”
“It has something to do with her family.” He shakes his head. “It’s made her brother, Jason, even angrier than usual. He hates his dad and blames him for everything that is wrong in their lives. And Jordan is…well, he’s just strange.”
Jeff nods. “Yeah, boy. He never opens up in class. And he’s obsessed with…war.”
Not a good sign.
Nonchalantly, I ask, “How are the Garrett kids holding up under all the notoriety from the show?”
Evan shrugs. “I can’t say. I don’t hang out much with Jason…or Adam.”
“They’ve started to hang together?”
He holds up his right hand. He has crossed his middle and index fingers. “They’re thick. They’re also assholes. You should hear how they talk to girls—and then about them behind their backs. It’s disgusting.”
“Does Mary…” I want to ask if she’s still enthralled with Adam, but I’m almost afraid of Evan’s answer.
“No! After he tricked her into chugging her way to a hangover, she steers clear of him. Unfortunately, he’s interested in Jenna.” Evan shakes his head at the thought.
I lay my hand on his shoulder. “I take it that you’re protecting Jenna.”
“Well, yeah! Someone has to! Her brother certainly isn’t! In fact, he’s…he told Adam that…that she’s no longer a virgin.” He shakes his head. “Even if that were the case, why would he say something like that?”
Good point. I shake my head in wonder. “It sounds as if all this notoriety has had an awful effect on the Garretts. How about Sami? Is he acting out, like his brother?”
“Sami’s okay,” Jeff replies. “I just wish kids would quit making fun of him. Yesterday, some of the juniors put him and his wheelchair in one of the gym showers and left him there with the shower running until one of the coaches heard him screaming for help. Mrs. Farnham was so angry that she pulled him out of school. I’m going over there later today to help him with his Geography homework.”
“That’s despicable,” I declare. “How could those boys be so mean?”
“It’s called high school,” Evan points o
ut the obvious.
“It’s sweet of you, Jeff, to stand by him.” I pat his cheek gently. “Both of you are doing your best to stay grounded. I know Mary is as well.” I sigh. “You boys had better grab your bags if we’re to get to school on time.”
Trisha shouts, “I call shotgun!”
“I’d love that,” Aunt Phyllis’s voice comes from behind us.
I turn and stammer, “But…I thought you went to—”
“Nah.” Aunt Phyllis shakes her head adamantly. “When the limo pulled up, I told New Girl and those hottie housewives to take off without me. I’m already perfect, am I right?” She looks down at Trisha.
If she’s looking for proof, her grandniece’s hug is all she needs.
She takes mine, too. And Jeff’s, and Evan’s.
“Mary!” Evan shouts. “Get in here!”
Mary peeks out from the great room door. “Why should I?” she says sulkily.
“Group hug. And despite your misdirected anger, you’re still part of this family.” His demand leaves little room that he’ll take no for an answer.
“Ha!” she mutters.
But a moment later, I feel her arm around me.
All too soon, our arms loosen. Bodies, relieved of the tension the last few days have brought us, pull away reluctantly.
“I can’t believe we have another three days of this crap!” Mary exclaims.
“Four,” Jeff reminds her. “This is only the third day. The finale is on Sunday.”
Not for us—if we apprehend our suspect before then.
For my family’s sake, this is now my sole goal in life.
I keep the benign smile on my face until the children are out the door with Aunt Phyllis.
Then, I cry.
For Jack.
Because I know he’ll go as far as he has to, to complete this mission.
And I will too, which is why I walk upstairs and into my costume closet.
Chapter 13
Gunsmoke
“He draws trouble like a summer melon draws flies.”
—Festus Haggin, in Gunsmoke
Yikes! You’re caught in the middle of a gunfight! What’s a gal to do?
Before hiking up your skirt and tearing off a piece of your petticoat and waving it in tepid surrender, do this instead:
Tip #1: Duck—preferably behind something bigger than you. (Yes, it can be a person, particularly one who doesn’t quite strike your fancy. Human shields are always in fashion!)
Tip #2: Fight back. You may be outmanned. You may be outgunned. But you’re far from being outsmarted. If you can’t shoot, ambush. Once you’re close enough, you can punch, gouge, kick, and stab. Do you see a pattern here? Your life is worth fighting for, so don’t just lay down and play dead!
Or worse, let some stranger alter your reality.
Remember this: anything can be used as a weapon. A belt is ideal for strangling. A trash can lid will give your opponent one hell of a concussion when slammed into the side of his head, so may the force—and lots of it—be with you! Even a high heel, when broken off the sole of your shoe and crammed into your opponent’s jugular will extinguish the light in his beady little eyes.
(When you take the shoes back to the store, tell them they didn’t hold up as promised. They will replace them, no worries! They probably won’t notice the little bit of blood you forgot to wipe away…)
Tip #3: Get the hell outta there. Because there is only one way to quote-unquote live to fight another day:
STAY ALIVE.
For my surprise visit to James, I choose something I hope will turn his head—away from me long enough to scan his phone. My frock is vintage: white with red polka dots, with a short flouncy skirt and a collared halter-top that plunges between my braless, albeit already generous and never-been-enhanced-yet-still-perky breasts.
The blood red bow in my hair matches the hue of my kitten heels and the dress’s wide patent leather belt, where I tuck the cell phone scanner next to the portable stiletto knife already secured there.
Still, something is missing…
Ah, yes, the red polka-dot thong purchased in some sleazy sex shop on Melrose Avenue.
The final touches: I heavy up on my eyeliner and oxblood red lipstick to match.
Am I right to think that this outfit subtly suggests fun and sexy flirtatiousness, despite being a thirty-plus married woman with three kids?
In other words, it screams MILF.
No need for subtlety. I mean, hey, if this outfit doesn't get my target slobbering, I’ll give Franklin’s nip-tuck offer some serious consideration.
A few local fans catch sight of me as I enter the Hilldale Woodlands Market. One couple insists I take a selfie with them.
When the wife heads off in search of pomegranate seeds, her husband asks me for my phone number. I give him one to a porn addict hotline instead, and then I glide toward the deli to peruse which prepared foods will entice a hungry hubby eagerly awaiting his new and improved wife.
Finally, I select a whole roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, grilled broccolini, and chocolate mint brownies, which I'll tuck into the picnic basket along with a note that reads GET WELL! —THE CRAIGS
Here’s hoping James appreciates what he gets—
In the basket.
Because as far as I’m concerned, it won’t be much else. Some flirtatious adoration? Perhaps. A little slap and tickle? (Sigh…) If I must.
But if James reaches for a breast, leg, or thigh that isn’t attached to something that once laid an egg, he’ll find himself in traction.
It should be interesting hearing them explain that to their already sore wives.
As I promised Ryan, I make my way to the Garretts’ ranch-style home, located in the back of our planned community in the older section of town.
Here, random vehicles are few and far between: only the people who live on this cul-de-sac, or delivery trucks.
The Garretts’ lot is one of the biggest in Hilldale. A regiment of Italian cypresses flanks the deep front yard, creating a sky-high barrier that makes the house itself hard to see. Perhaps it’s for the best. The Garretts haven’t lived there a year; still, it’s been long enough for the wear and tear that comes with six children and a husband who seems to lack a green thumb. The grass planted by the builder has already browned out. Weeds line the sidewalk to the front door.
Both James and Patty’s cars are in the open garage.
I make the decision to pull into the driveway. I won’t be here long, so the likelihood of someone seeing my car—let alone knowing that it is mine—is slim.
Patty is asleep on some operating table in Beverly Hills, and Arnie assures me James is home. “He hasn’t left the house since he dropped the toddler at daycare.”
“Arnie, have you modified the show’s webcam feed?”
“Yep, I put it on a loop a half-hour ago.” Arnie sighs. “Jesus, what a crap storm! He picks fights with her all the time. If her eyes aren’t red from crying, they’re black and blue from his punches. Lucy made the decision that it was too much of a downer for the audience to see.”
“My, my! Isn’t she a sport,” I mutter. “One of her contestants is getting beat up, and she can’t do the right thing and call the police?”
“I should have done it myself.” Arnie sounds embarrassed. “But we’re not supposed to get involved.”
“That’s not an Acme regulation.”
“No—it’s Brin’s, for her staff. And if Lucy learns it’s been broken she’ll blame ‘the New Girl.’ We can’t afford to have Emma tossed off the show.”
True. Still, no one is stopping me from having a conversation with Patty.
Or breaking a few of James’s fingers. Maybe then he’ll feel Patty’s pain.
I ring the doorbell. No answer.
I knock hard. Again, no wary hello, let alone the sound of footsteps.
I try the knob. Locked.
I have the right tool to pick it, hidden in the fold of a napkin in
the picnic basket.
A few seconds later, I’m inside.
The place is as dark as a tomb.
The foyer seems devoid of air. I’m surprised that it is painted dark gray instead of the usual Realtor Beige. Even the molding around the ceiling and floorboards is flat gray—
Like a military barracks.
“Hello?” I call out. “Anyone home?”
No answer. Where is James?
I glance into various rooms—the kitchen, dining room, formal living room, great room—before making my way down the long hallway. Yes, barracks is an apt description. In each room, the furnishings are modest: metal or unadorned wood; and neat with military precision.
There are bunk beds in the children’s rooms. I don’t see toys or video games, let alone computers of any kind. They could be occupied by soldiers.
The thought sends a chill up my spine.
There is one more room, at the end of the hall. I presume it’s the master bedroom. I stop to contemplate if I should enter. I’d hate to walk into a scene like the one I found in the Powells’ home.
A hand grabs me by the wrist and wrenches my right arm behind my back.
Cold hard steel snuggles against my temple. “You’re just the person I wanted to see,” James whispers in my ear.
I attempt a smile. “If you’re so happy to see me, why are you holding a gun to my head?”
His laugh spews spittle on my neck. “Because you broke into my home. And I caught you snooping around.” He digs the gun deeper into my temple. “Why are you here?”
“I left food in the kitchen—a roasted chicken. I figure Patty won’t be in any condition to cook for you tonight.”
He laughs. “I don’t let Patty cook, period. Besides the fact that she stinks at it, I’m afraid she might poison me one day. My oldest girl, Jenna—now she knows her way around the kitchen.” He chuckles again. “She knows how to please me.”
“Great. Well then, surprise, Jenna gets the night off! Now, if you’ll excuse me.”