Today’s task is to fill Thanksgiving dinner boxes and ready them for distribution to needy families. Folding tables are set out throughout the room, each stacked with groceries ready to be sorted and boxed. Maybe a dozen people buzz around the space, chatting and organizing. I scan the room, spying the usual familiar volunteers until my gaze stops on a woman I don’t recognize. She’s wearing black skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled boots, an oversized sweater tightly belted to show off her trim waist. Her pale brown hair sweeps past her shoulders and is expensively highlighted with rich gold streaks.
She looks totally incongruous among the gathering of housecoat wearing women who’ve massed together in the church basement to work the food drive. (My parents are both short and plump, with small feet and dark hair that clings tightly to their skulls. Think Hasbro’s Weebles toys—Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!—and you get the idea.) Everything about this newcomer screams out-of-towner. I’m guessing she’s one of the reporters who’ve descended on the town to track Granger’s challenge. I watch the woman work the room as if she’s known the people here all her life.
This is new territory for me. On the one hand, this is a church. Everyone is welcome. But on the other hand, if she’s a reporter, do we really want her here? It’s one thing to interview passersby on the street. That’s fair. People who don’t want a mic stuck in their face can just keep moving. But isn’t she going too far by insinuating herself in this gathering? Where do we draw the line?
Two seconds later the answer becomes apparent. I watch as she moves to my father, wraps an arm around his waist and gives him an affectionate squeeze. The gesture can only be interpreted as falsely familiar and highly inappropriate. But not only does my mother put up with it, she smiles! Actually encourages the woman.
Granted, the church is my father’s show and the town hall is mine, but obviously the lines have blurred. This is too much. I storm across the room to confront her but stop abruptly as the woman turns. I look at her face. Her body. Her makeup, hair, clothing, and jewelry. Then my gaze returns to her face. I can almost feel the wheels in my brain grind to a stop, as if my mind is mechanical contraption rather than a complex working of neurons and axons.
The woman watches me with one pale brow arched toward the ceiling and a teasing grin on her lips, as though waiting for me to catch up on the joke.
“Therese?” I finally manage.
“What’s left of me.”
My sister strikes a pose and steps back to be admired. Which I immediately do. It’s impossible not to. Therese has traded in her old, clunky body—once a mirror image of my own—for a sleek new model.
“Oh, my God, you look amazing!”
“I know,” she gushes. “You didn’t recognize me, did you?”
“Not from behind.”
Therese swivels around and thrusts out her rear, which is now impossibly high and tight. She bats her heavily mascara’d lashes.
“That’s my best view these days.”
“I can see why. Your ass is amazing.”
“Now, now,” our father interjects. “Kindly remember we’re in a church, girls.”
Laughing, Therese grabs my wrist and drags me with her to a corner of the room so we can talk. Once there, she wraps me in a tight hug. “God, it’s good to see you. I can’t believe it’s been over a year.”
I hug her back, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m used to the comfortable solidity of my sister in my arms. Soft breasts, rounded thighs, ample hips. The woman I’m holding now is all bone and sinew.
I pull away and demand, “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
Therese gives a good-natured grin. “I’m still me, only better.”
“My god. How much weight did you lose?”
“Sixty pounds and six sizes.”
“Amazing. Has Gil seen the new you?”
At the mention of her ex-husband, the sparkle in her eyes is promptly extinguished. Stupid thing to say. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I could kick myself. I really could. But Therese and Gil were married for twenty-two years. Frankly, it’s hard to remember not to ask about him. Fortunately she rallies quickly and waves the question away.
“I am unmoored,” she intones. “The anchor has been lifted. It’s a whole new me. I dumped the husband. Sold the house. Quit my job. There’s nothing left to weigh me down. Terrific, huh?”
I return her smile, but words fail me. Yes, she looks good. Or at least, I thought so when I didn’t know who she was. But now that I know it’s Therese I’m looking at, I’m viewing her through a different lens. (And yes, it’s a critical one, but I’m her sister. I’m entitled.)
So. The heels are too high, the jeans are too fitted, the belt is cinched too tightly. She’s making the same mistake that nearly all women who drop a large amount of weight in a short amount of time and are subsequently astounded by their newfound slender selves tend to make. She’s choosing clothing that practically shouts, Hey, look at me! Isn’t this body amazing! Women who’ve been thin their whole lives don’t work so hard to advertise it.
And another thing.
Her job. She spent years clawing her way to the top of the hospital administrative staff and then quit? She doesn’t just have a new look; she’s got a whole new personality. The sister I know and love is solid, stable, predictable. None of those adjectives fit the woman standing before me. Sure, she’s still Therese, but with the dial twisted so the volume is cranked all the way up. Like getting a drink of water from a firehose.
“You all right?” I ask.
“I’m better than all right, can’t you tell?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What are you taking?”
“Taking?”
“An appetite suppressant? Speed? Did one of your doctor friends prescribe something for you? What is it? Because this is not you.”
“Oh, my god,” she laughs. “Listen to you. No wonder you were married to a cop.”
“It’s just strange, that’s all. I fell apart when my marriage ended. I went into therapy.”
“I remember. With two guys named Ben and Jerry.”
“Exactly! I gained thirty pounds. That’s the way normal people get divorced. You’re not supposed to sail through it looking fabulous.”
“Yeah, well, we’re different people. We had different marriages.”
I remain silent. Give her a hard stare until she finally relents and answers me.
“Rachel. If you don’t recognize me, it’s because you haven’t seen me happy in a long, long time. That’s all.”
I hear the subtle crack in her voice and am ashamed to have pushed her so hard. I reach out and give her hand a soft squeeze. “In that case, I’m happy for you, too. Now, what’s this about selling your house?”
She shrugs. “Why not? I don’t need four bedrooms anymore, not with Gil gone and the girls away at college.”
“So where are you living?”
“I bought a condo. Or rather, I’m buying a condo, but the owners won’t be out until the first of the year. So I’m spending the holidays here, crashing with mom and dad.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay with me and Matthew.”
“Thanks, but it’s fine. You know how crazy this time of year always is with everything going on at church, so I volunteered to stick around and help out.”
“Nice of you.”
“I don’t mind. Actually, it’ll feel good to be needed again.”
Well. Lots to unpack in that statement. Before I can decide how to respond, Therese changes the subject.
“You know, I was expecting this Christmas to be totally dull, but nothing doing. Eaton’s made the big time! You’re national news. Can you believe it? All because of that silly challenge. Lucky break for you, right?”
“Lucky?” I repeat. “I don’t know if I’d call it lucky. A lot of people were pretty upset about that website.”
“Oh, please. Ignore ‘em. The people I spoke with were buzzing with excitement. You’ve go
t to capitalize on this as fast as you can. This is too big to pass up. Worry about the fallout down the road.”
Sure. Go ahead and knock over the log, see what crawls out. Great advice unless you’re the one standing on top of the log.
She asks, “When does it officially kick-off?”
“The challenge? In theory, on Black Friday. But the town still hasn’t officially—”
“Hold on. Who’s that?”
I turn to follow the direction of Therese’s gaze and see Mike Capella looking around the church undercroft in a way that suggests he’s out of his element. Surprise courses through me. And if I’m being perfectly honest here, it’s accompanied by a tiny kernel of pleasure. Ridiculous. I don’t know the guy and have only met him once (and that unfortunate event occurring at the town meeting when I was totally blindsided by the Chubbiest Town website hardly counts) but for reasons I can’t fathom, he’s crossed my mind a couple of times since.
“Oh,” I say.
“Oh?”
“That’s Mike Capella. New school board member.”
“You brought a date to help pack turkey dinners?”
“He’s not a date. I didn’t bring him. I have no idea what he’s doing here.”
“Is that right? No idea, huh?”
Her lips curve knowingly. Absurd to think I could bluff her. After all, we grew up together. We shared secrets, dreams, middle-school crushes, and teenage angst. We agonized over arguments with best friends, slumber parties we weren’t invited to, and whether or not we’d get a date for prom. Therese, rather than my mother, explained what a period was, how tampons worked, and in a corollary that in hindsight was terribly inept (but understandable given that she was twelve and I was ten at the time), explained that was also where a boy wanted to put his thing. (Effectively putting me off sex and puberty for as long as I could manage. Not until I had much say in the puberty part, that arriving on schedule near my thirteenth birthday. The sex? Didn’t meet the right guy until my junior year in college.)
The point of all this being that Therese can burrow under my thoughts and emotions like one else. We are close in a way her two daughters aren’t, despite our dreams for them and the fact that their age difference is the same as ours.
“Don’t even think of going there,” I say. “Anyway, he’s got kids. I’m sure he’s married.”
“No ring.”
“You can’t see that from here.”
“I’ve been back in the dating pool for six months. Believe me, I can see that from here.”
After a couple of seconds of blank befuddlement, looking around the bustling room as people whiz past him (which for some reason I find charming) Mike spies me and makes a beeline in my direction. Now, Mike Capella isn’t the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd. He’s a bit taller than average, medium build, warm blue eyes, and a slightly receding hairline. Nothing special there except the subtle, mystifying tang of attraction I feel. And maybe his smile—he’s got a great smile.
Tonight he’s dressed in a blue button-down shirt and a brown sports jacket that somehow magnifies his boyish appeal. But the whole thing is ridiculous considering I don’t know anything about him and the thought of dating hasn’t crossed my mind in years.
“Leave it to me,” Therese murmurs, demonstrating her sibling radar is in excellent working order. “I’ll get all the dirt on the guy.”
Alarm rushes down my spine. “No. Don’t.”
“Are you kidding me? He looks normal. Employed. Nice guy. Potentially no prison record or long stints in rehab. Do you have any idea how rare that is? You’re looking at a real live unicorn, Rachel. At our age, you cannot afford to allow him to escape.”
“Therese. I’m serious. Do not even think—”
“You’ll thank me later.”
Mike joins us before I can slap a bag over Therese’s head and send her spinning off in another direction.
What follows is an excruciating six-and-a-half minutes in which my sister, under the guise of friendly chatter, extracts nearly every piece of pertinent information from a hapless Mike Capella except his dental record.
She finishes with a bold, “Oh, my. Look at the time. Maybe you should call your wife and let her know you’ll be late for dinner?”
“Oh, um, I’m not...that is, I’m divorced.”
Therese swivels to me and delivers and an arch look. “Divorced. Isn’t that interesting. And teenage sons. You two have sooo much in common. I’ll leave you to it.”
With that parting remark, she saunters away. Mike and I watch her go.
“My sister Therese,” I say. And because I obviously owe him an apology, “Sorry about that. She used to be intelligent. Then she lost weight.”
Mike blinks. It’s clear he’s trying to puzzle out whether he heard me correctly. That’s the problem with crazy family members. They’re a contagion. Spend any amount of time with them and you end up sounding as nutty as they do.
In the end, he simply pastes on a polite smile and says, “Your sister? Right. I see the resemblance.”
Although I assume he means that in the nicest way possible—flashy clothes aside, Therese does look fabulous—I can’t help but feel distinctly unfabulous in comparison. The words plump and frumpy spring to mind. Right now, I look more like my mother than my sister. If that doesn’t let the air out of the libido, nothing will. To defray any suspicion that I might be interested in him, and by extension am capable of imagining he might be interested in me in return, I launch myself into work mode.
“So,” I say, literally rolling up my sleeves as I speak, “You’re here to help pack boxes for distribution?”
“Oh. Um, sure. What can I do?”
Clearly that’s not what he came here for, but now that I’ve got the ball moving in that direction, it seems best to let it roll. I lead him over to one of the tables spread with foodstuffs. All the Thanksgiving favorites are represented. Sweet potatoes. Marshmallows. Pecans. Potatoes. Boxes of stuffing. Gravy. Rolls. Coffee and soda. Cranberries and assorted vegetables, both fresh and canned. I explain that the turkey and other perishables, things like butter, milk and whipped cream, are kept in refrigeration at the local fire department until everything’s ready to go out for delivery, which will happen tomorrow.
I hand Mike a box then lift a sheet of paper from a stack on the table.
“No name?” he asks, glancing at the sheet.
“Nope. We assign each family a number instead. It’s a privacy thing. There’s a directory for the drivers, but their neighbors don’t need to know.” I nod at the sheet. “Okay. So if there’s a two in front of stuffing—”
“Wait a minute, let me guess. That means I put two packages of stuffing in the box.”
“Hey, you’re good at this.”
“And let me see...there’s one check in front of pumpkin pie, another in front of pecan. Don’t tell me. I wonder if I can puzzle out the meaning.”
“You just got yourself a job, Mr. Smarty Pants.”
“Great. But… listen, before we get going, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I can tell by his tone of voice he’s getting around to what brought him to the undercroft in the first place. “Yes?”
“Eaton’s weight loss challenge. The $100,000 award?”
“What about it?”
“At the town meeting Granger suggested the money be used to cover the shortfall in the school recreation budget, but I didn’t see any language about that on the town website. There’s nothing there that officially commits the funds to the schools. Maybe if they see that, more people will be motivated to sign up.”
Actually, Audrey informed me this morning that we passed the two hundred mark. I let Mike know.
“That’s great news. In that case, all we need to do is get the language to the town attorney.”
A fair and reasonable request, but he’s a day too late. “We’ve already sent the terms on to the attorney to be drawn up,” I say. “But how’s this? If we
undertake the challenge and win, the money will go directly to the schools to cover the recreation deficit. You have my word on it. Good enough?”
Mike hesitates a fraction of a second while some mental calculation takes place. Then he catches himself and says, “Of course, Mayor. Good enough.”
I hold out my hand. Mike shakes it. And then it happens. Damned if there’s not a spark between us. Not a literal spark, like the static electricity on my slip when I run out of dryer sheets, which is about all I’m used to these days, but the kind of spark that sends a warm, gushy thrill buzzing through my body. I feel ridiculously self-conscious, and at the same time, pleasantly aware of Mike in a way I haven’t been aware of a man in a long, long time.
Too long.
“Rachel,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“Not mayor. You can call me Rachel.”
His smile broadens. “All right. Rachel.”
Did I mention how attractive his smile is? Only it’s completely absurd for me to notice since I’m a grown woman with a teenage son and a career. And I have absolutely no time for that kind of nonsense right now. And just because he’s divorced doesn’t mean he’s available.
Mike shrugs off his sport coat and sets it aside. “Well, you know what they say. Many hands, light work.”
I instruct myself not to notice how well he fills out that starched blue button-down. I certainly will not notice his broad shoulders and masculine build. I will not think about loosening his tie and unbuttoning one or two of those buttons. This is a church, not happy hour. I am a professional, middle-aged woman and it is inappropriate to think those thoughts.
I spend thirty deliciously unprofessional seconds thinking those thoughts. Then we join the rest of the volunteers filling boxes.
SEVEN
This month’s book club meeting is at Susan Brandon-Willis’s house. Last year Susan and her husband Drew, who’s the manager of the local GM dealership, learned their family was expanding from four (their sons Trey and Jacob are seven and nine respectively) to five. They went through a big ‘do we sell the house and move to a bigger one or stay here and add an addition’ phase. In the end, they did a major remodel, updating the kitchen and adding a great room and a master bedroom and bath suite.
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 5