by Vicki Batman
He reached toward me. “Hattie.”
I closed the door. Mega-sensory overload caused my head to go woozy. The heat, the man, the smells, the everything. With my back resting against the closed door, I fanned my hands vigorously in front of my face.
The door knob jiggled. “Hattie. Hattie, open up,” he demanded. “Dammit, Hattie. Open the door.”
Too much was too much. I tipped my head from side-to-side to regain equilibrium. “No. Go away.”
A. Wellborn muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I was trying to be a nice guy.”
I agreed with him and felt my lips fashioning a small secretive smile. Occasionally, he was a nice guy, a very nice guy.
“And she’s such a hottie.”
Did he say I was a hottie? Cool. I’d never been called a hottie and could get used to this hottie stuff. I glanced in the mirror to see what hottie Hattie looked like. Huge eyes, untidy Bridget Bardot hair, swollen lips, pink-skinned.
“Hattie.”
Loud. I didn’t answer.
“Hattie.”
Louder.
“Hattie!”
Loudest.
“You’ll get over it!”
His manattitude—what guys said when they thought they had a handle on life and women didn’t—tinged his words. I slammed the security chain home, demonstrating his approach would not fly with this gal.
I examined my nails, thinking I had time to do polish them after all.
I wiggled my toes. And maybe toes, too.
Chapter Nine
Thank God for the weekend because I didn’t get a wink of shut-eye last night all due to kissing. And remembering the kissing.
Over and over like a stuck DVD, my mind replayed the evening with A. Wellborn. And the kissing. Which alternated with the police laughing. And more of the kissing. And who could forget the embarrassing and awkward moments? Which were followed by even more kissing. The doorbell ringing and Jenny discovering us.
With my tossing and turning destroying my bed, I rolled to my back and stared at the white ceiling. Oops, a cobweb in the corner. I hadn’t been kissed senseless in a long while. A. Wellborn was good; so extraordinarily tall-lean-and-mean good, he consumed my thoughts. As a result of the lack of sleep and the carousel of mind games, my body felt beaten, black and blue. I surrendered with a moan, “Oh, I can’t do this.”
Rubbery limbs dragged me to the bathroom where I stood a long, long time in front of the mirror, hands resting on the counter. I tried not to contemplate my predicament and more importantly, new—yet scary—feelings about him. Mom was right. A. Wellborn was perfect in every way. For me. How had I never known?
Reluctantly, I looked at my likeness in the mirror and jerked back. If I could summon the energy, I would have screamed. The girl reflected looked used and abused. My eyelids were swollen. My face all lined and smashed. And my hair stuck out like I’d been electrocuted.
With a rough grab, I pulled off my pink and green paisley pajamas and stepped into the shower. After adjusting the water temperature to a bearable stinging hot, I stood under the spray, numb to the pain. As a stream coursed down my nearly comatose body, the heat penetrated and relaxed my muscles. Better. I roused and rolled my shoulders. Much better.
My hand fumbled the bottle of floral-scented shampoo. I lathered my hair, relishing the sudsy foam and the therapeutic massaging of my scalp. I soaped my body with the sparkling grapefruit-scented shower gel with a foam body scrubber. With a long, slow blink, reality seeped in.
A. Wellborn.
What more could a girl hope for? Not only good-looking and well built, he was intelligent, funny, caring, and kind. He helped with my car problem, provided food, and was dependable and strong. And had an undeniable twinkle in his eyes.
There was a very good reason I had all those attraction feelings.
I wrapped myself in a lightweight, terrycloth robe and a towel for my wet hair. After grabbing a detangling comb, I went to the kitchen where I found Jenny sitting at the table, drinking her morning café au lait.
Once upon a time, Jennifer Arbuthnot and I had worked together at Tuckers. She’d been hired from a neighboring competitor to be our luggage buyer. Because her cubicle was located near the men’s division, she and I had become fast friends.
My old roommate had relocated to another city. I needed someone to share the rent. Jenny and I talked and decided to give it a go. She stood about five-four, had bright, reddish brown hair, a great grin, and acted most helpful in a crisis.
While sipping her morning brew, her gaze scanned me with a sparkle in her eyes. She flashed the great grin as she took a bite of whole grain toast smeared with sugarless strawberry jam. “Bad night, darlin’?”
I discerned from her sarcastic tone she didn’t seem too concerned with my condition. Jenny was just plain curious. Staring right back, trying to determine where to begin, I asked, “When I told you all the gory details yesterday, didn’t you think they were gory?”
A perfectly tweezed eyebrow arched. “Gory?”
“Yes, gory. And when you found us with the doorbell rammed up my back, didn’t you think I would be embarrassed?” I dropped onto a kitchen chair and my forehead fell to rest on the table top. “Yesterday was full of horrid embarrassment. I can’t begin to describe how I feel.” After a small reflection, I raised my head. “Well, that’s not altogether true. I do feel better after a shower.”
Jenny showed nerve by laughing. “I’m so sorry you had a crappy day, hon. Frankly, it could be worse.” She said this matter-of-factly as she sipped from her cup.
“Like what? Like what could be worse than all the weird-ass stuff I’ve been through? I can’t even imagine.”
“Like terminal cancer. A hurricane. A plane gone missing. Et cetera, et cetera.”
Jenny had a way with words, and deep down, I knew she was right. Dying was worse. I stood and made my way to the fridge with slow awkward steps, retrieved a soda—my favorite remedy for any ailment. From the pantry, I seized a box of saltines. What I wouldn’t give for a couple of Ibuprofen to magically appear.
Returning to the table, I chewed and drank and considered. Who is in control of my destiny? Me. Maybe I shouldn’t dwell on the past, but look to the future. Nodding, I swallowed a drink and crunched on two crackers. I pulled a comb through my wet hair.
Jenny grabbed the cracker sleeve and removed one. “Honestly, Hattie, it wasn’t horrible. Telling you embarrassed me.”
“You have an odd way of showing it.”
An enigmatic smile flashed. “I’ll have some interestin’ tidbits to tell at book club today.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Which could be arranged.”
“I wasn’t aware you know any hit men.”
She laughed.
“Isn’t anything sacred?” But I knew better. I took another drink. “Guess I’ll go get the paper.” Taking a deep breath, I rose carefully, testing each major joint for pain. With shuffling steps, I worked my way to the door, released the security chair, and twisted the knob.
Plop! A brown paper bag tied with a balloon tipped inside the open doorway. With a hand pressing on my aching back, I bent over and examined the bag, inscribed with “Hattie” in black marker.
“What’s takin’ so long? What are you doin’?” Jenny asked.
“Check this out.”
She joined me. “A gift! Lordy, I haven’t seen one of those since the passin’ of dinosaurs. Who gave it to you?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Girlfriend”—she nudged me in the side—“I do believe you have a secret admirer.”
My insides were shouting woohoo. “Who could it be?”
We marveled the floating Mylar flower pot filled with colorful daisies. My finger plucked the string tying the balloon to the bag, causing it to bob and weave. Rare novelties like this should be savored. “I like the balloon. It’s colorful and happy.”
“Why a Get Well balloon? Are you sick
with somethin’ I don’t know about?” Her voice dropped to a concerned level. “Do you have some kind of sex disease?”
“No! I’m not sick. You have to fornicate in order to get those diseases and how would I get any if I’m in Nundom?” I nudged my toe against the bag. “It’s cute.”
“Maybe I should shoot a photo for posterity.” She dug her cellphone out of her pocket and captured the Kodak moment. “Smile.”
“Since this hasn’t happened to either of us recently, I think I’ll remember.” I shoved her arm. “And don’t go posting that picture to Facebook.”
“Remember the pot of red tulips last Valentine’s Day?”
As if I needed reminding. What a horrible blind date. I needed to settle a score with my friend Maggie for the huge mistake, undoubtedly one of her rejects. Despite popular belief, not every man looked good in a tuxedo. Most did, but this one hadn’t. “Yeah, but we burned the note ’cause the guy was creepy.”
“He really was.” She tilted her head. “What are you waitin’ for? If you don’t hurry and open it, I will.”
I picked up the sack and untied the balloon which she took from me. Then, very cautiously, I opened the bag and took a peek. Thank God, no bombs. Crammed inside was a one-pounder package of peanut M&Ms, my favorite chocolate. Buried underneath, I found a white note card, decorated with a festive, pink heart. I extracted the card and unfolded it with care.
“Hurry up!” she said. “Who’s it from?”
“Hold your horses. I don’t want any more surprises.”
The card read:
Hattie, I’m sorry things were difficult for you yesterday. I would like to try pizza again. Call me. I hope the chocolate’s “restorative and curative powers” will help me.
—Allan
Jenny took the note card and scanned it. “Thoughtful.”
“Yep.”
“Nice.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Goin’ to call?”
I grinned. Chocolate and a dinner invite were the ultimate combination. I’d come to the conclusion A. Wellborn was a pretty decent guy and found I’d suffered no serious—only dramatic—side effects from being with him. So what if he thought he knew what was right.
Giving another of my infamous jumps, I tripped on the carpet as I came down. My shoulder hit the door. Remembering the last time, I checked the parking lot in case somebody might be watching and then slammed the door shut.
Ouch. The pain in my ankle was excruciating. I hobbled to the couch where I elevated my injured foot to rest on a pillow on the coffee table.
Jenny gave me a bag of frozen peas—something she unearthed in the dark recesses of our freezer—to curb the swelling. She headed for the shower.
Stuck with sitting for a while, I perused The Sommerville Express, the daily paper. I snapped it open to straighten the folds, and gasped an OhmyGod! Right on the front page was an exclusive article: Police Focus on Stolen Autos.
For obvious reasons, my attention had been grabbed.
This column detailed how the police were investigating a gang which had stolen parts off SUVs and sold them. Or they’d stolen the whole car and stripped the parts. Or they’d sold the stolen cars which were shipped to foreign countries for a specific customer.
Lester and Opal had shared this same information with me. “OhmyGod. Jenny,” I called. “Come here. Quick.”
Dripping wet and grasping a white bath towel round her middle, she emerged from her bedroom and shuffled closer. “What is it?”
“You have to read this article. You won’t believe it.” I punched my finger on the paper emphatically. “Look. Look right here.”
“Oh my,” she said, her hand propping the towel turban on her head. “How very interesting.”
“So it appears.”
“What else does it say?”
“A gang of thieves is operating in Sommerville, stealing cars or car parts. You know what I’m thinking?”
“You’re wonderin’ if your beloved auto could be involved.”
“Yep,” I said.
“It says the police are conducting an investigation into the matter.”
“Yep.”
The turban fell to the floor. She tossed her wet hair which flung water droplets everywhere.
“Hey,” I protested.
“Sorry, the article got me excited.” She took the paper and rapidly scanned. When finished, she asked, “Hattie, did you ask Allan ’bout this?”
I crossed my arms and huffed. “I’m wondering why he didn’t say anything about these parts thieves when he knows about my Jeep.”
Her brow creased. “He didn’t say anything?”
“Not a thing.” I backpedaled my thoughts to the citation writing incident. “He did say something odd when he pulled me over.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘I’ve been waiting for someone just like you.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. He was parked in an obscure spot, like the cops sometimes do, to zero in on speeders. Maybe he waited for someone with missing car parts to drive by so he could investigate.”
“Are you sure it isn’t coincidental?”
She had a valid point. “It could be, but I have a funny feeling. I think my car’s somehow tied to the stolen parts ring.”
“So, why didn’t he say somethin’ when he pulled you over?”
“I’ll ask him next time I see him.”
“If you get to.”
I picked up her towel and passed it to her. “I closed the door a little hard. It didn’t mean anything.”
She slung the towel over her shoulder. “Tell that to the Marines.”
“Maybe book club girls have some advice.”
“Go get ’em. I have to finish getting ready.” Jenny reminded me to do the same.
****
I wish I could have said yes, meaning Yes! Yes! Yes!, I’d accepted A. Wellborn’s pizza offer. But I didn’t. This particular Saturday had been set aside specifically for book club. However, the returned call provided an excellent opportunity to ask about my car baby, and if it could possibly involvement in his investigation, the one he hadn’t talked about. Rather mysterious when I thought about it.
Off the record, we book club girls called ourselves “The Women Who Want to Use Power Tools.” Did we know how to use power tools? Not really, except for Maggie who could use a hammer, and on occasion, a screwdriver, and I didn’t mean the drink.
Yeah, she used that kind, too.
All of us were proficient in duct tape. Last year for Christmas, Kellar received the book 101 Uses of Duct Tape You Didn’t Think Of and a roll of the indestructible product. Trixie amazed us by crafting a handbag. I’d requested a pink clutch.
Book club was fun and because we cherished each other like sisters, we called ourselves Funsisters. Our group, friends from high school, college, and work, bonded over favorites like mysteries. We craved them and didn’t discriminate against passionate romantic suspense or humorous crime thrillers.
Funsisters used each other as pseudo psychiatrists, hashing out numerous problems and leaving the rare secret between us. We encouraged our dreams and goals, wanting the best for our friends. On occasion, we connected on road trips to exciting places like Tulsa and Houston.
Balancing imaginary scales, I considered A. Wellborn vs. Book Club. A. Wellborn vs. Book Club. I harbored ambivalent feelings regarding yesterday, despite the excellent mind-numbing kissing. I called his cell, leaving a voice mail, which sounded a tad haughty, when he didn’t answer. “Thanks for the dinner offer. However, I have Book Club today.”
I didn’t say anything about getting together again. Maybe my omission could be construed as playing hard to get.
Remembering my well-schooled manners, I thanked him for the chocolate and the balloon. I added, “I want to ask some questions about stolen car part thefts.”
Jenny and I drove to our meeting at Trixie’s house.
Exiting her car ahead of us was Maggie. She waved. “Hey.” With red-gold ringlets and big blue eyes, Maggie reached the same height as me. She’d married her college sweetie and fulfilled a lifelong dream of becoming a doctor. When the Funsisters took road trips, we felt extra safe with our own personal physician. Fortunately, we were better patients than her real ones.
We waited for Kellar who had pulled in behind us. “Hi, guys.”
At the door, we were met by Trixie. Her nickname, Cesspool, was a contradictory term because she was beyond sugary sweet and kind. “What took you so long?”
Inside, we found my younger sister, Tracey. While growing up, Tracey and I’d shared a room. She’d cut her flaxen hair short. Tracey acted and looked more like me. Shoes were her obsession while handbags were mine. She dressed a little on the edge while I favored well-tailored suits.
Like me, she had attended State Technological University. Only God knew from where my sister had inherited the accounting gene.
I plopped on the sofa. “Did you girls see the front page of The Express?”
Maggie’s blue eyes widened. “I did. Your predicament came to my mind. What else do you know?”
Disappointment festered in my belly. I let my mouth deepen in a frown. “Nothing. The article said basically, the police are investigating a gang stealing parts or cars.”
“That’s all?”
“They interviewed Allan Wellborn, the detective in charge of the investigation. He didn’t divulge much information, only to reiterate we should lock our cars, keep an eye open, and report anything suspicious to the police.”
“What a big, fat no-help.”
“Yep. He’s good at being closed-mouthed—”
“Come and get it,” Trixie interrupted.
I dragged myself behind the others as they made their way to the food. I knew one more place I could go to retrieve what I needed, straight from the horse’s mouth—A. Wellborn.
He wouldn’t know what hit him.
An important element at book club, other than what to read, was food. Sometimes, we planned a theme around the selection, sometimes a dessert orgy, or sometimes we brown bagged. This month’s read, a mystery taking place near a beach, mandated a seafood theme. Trixie prepared pasta with chunks of shrimp and crab, Jenny fixed tuna salad, and Maggie made homemade, French bread, crusty from the oven and spread with butter.