Читать книгу Naughty Or Nice - Sherri Browning Erwin - Страница 8

“Charge it!” Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, the original wives gone wild, had instilled the thrill in me at a very early age. Their solution: Charge it! With the exception of “I love you,” was there a nicer combination of words in the entire English language?

My credit card poised at the ready, I debated between the black patent platform Louboutin pumps, cheaper but so last season, and the red Dolce & Gabbana ankle boots, too hot for words with a price to match. WWWD? What would Wilma do?

When I was a kid, I used to get up early, before everyone in the house, and enjoy the company of my cartoon friends in the family den. My favorite, Wilma Flintstone, offered valuable insights to the way things should work for a modern Stone Age family. My family had been Stone Age all right. We didn’t even have cable.

Didn’t Wilma deserve her few indulgences, after all? She put up with a lot being married to a caution-to-the-wind type like Fred. And I’d put up with a lot, too. A widow for almost a year, I knew what it was to suffer, and I deserved a few indulgences of my own. Only six weeks to Christmas, but as long as I made sure Santa brought my kids everything on their lists, I was free to spend.

I looked at the boots, red-hot tops sticking out of lavender tissue wrap, and sighed. My role model, Wilma, was too practical to put her budget off balance so close to the holidays.

Practical? I would only get as far as the first snowfall with the pumps before I had to stick them in the back of the closet for another six months or so. And honestly, who knew if they would still be stylish by the time designers introduced their spring lines? By contrast, I could get a good five months out of the Dolce & Gabbana boots, and maybe a few months of the following autumn. Even though they were pricier up front, they would be a much better bargain in the end.

Pleased with my decision, I left the pumps in the box under the Christmas tree adorning the table at the side of the shoe department chairs and headed for the register with the boots. My heart lifted to the strains of “Silver Bells” playing in the background. Wilma would be so proud.

But Wilma wouldn’t be the one helping me go over my expenses at the end of the month to make sure all my bills were paid. That honor would go to my sister, Kate, and Kate was no Wilma Flintstone. Not even close.

“Charge it!” was not a part of Kate’s everyday vocabulary. The last time she indulged and bought herself a new pair of jeans, stone-washed had just been reintroduced to the market. Kate was uptight with a capital UP. Especially after baby Eliana came along and gave her a real taste of the challenges facing single mothers.

It was so much easier for Kate when she could tell me how to handle my kids without having to worry about caring for one of her own.

When I emerged from Macy’s into the Natick Mall parking lot, I couldn’t find where I’d parked the car. I looked around the lot, certain I’d spot it any minute.

Then I saw a guy loading an SUV onto a tow bed. My heart stopped. I almost dropped my shopping bag in the mad dash across the lot. “What are you doing? That’s my Lexus!”

“We’re repossessing.” He flashed me paperwork, some kind of order. “You’re behind on payment.”

“That’s not possible.” I thought back over the last few months. Didn’t I pay the bill? I had to have paid it. Sure, I’d skipped a few payments on nonessential things to free up some cash to pay down the credit cards, but I wouldn’t skip the car payment. I needed wheels!

“Three months,” he added in a lifeless voice.

I flashed him the glare, the same look that had Spence and Sarah admitting to minor household misdemeanors and running for their rooms within seconds. He only shrugged, apparently immune to tactics that worked wonders on the preteen set.

“Hmm,” I said, giving him the up-and-down appraisal. He was slim, well put together, about an inch taller than me, or taller than I would be in my new boots. “You don’t look like the normal repo guys.”

He raised a slim, curved brow. Obviously a waxer. In my experience, any guy who believed in regular spa treatments was not in the business of repossession. More like renovation, a designer like my sister, Kate. Or a cat burglar? Maybe a professional thief!

“I’ve seen Cops on TV.” I poked him in the chest. He had to know he wasn’t dealing with some clueless housewife. “And repo shows, like the one with the Big Pussy guy from The Sopranos. You look too neat. Normal. Tame as a TV weatherman.”

He tossed, or tried to toss, his immovably sprayed J.C. Penney catalog model hair. “So you’re familiar with my kind?”

“Weathermen?”

“Ugh.” He shook his head. “With repo men. Not that I’m surprised, considering your payment history.” He laughed at his own snarky dig in the sort of self-conscious male model way that made me pause and look around.

“Are we on TV?” I asked, wondering if maybe it was all a gag, like the TV news was doing a Candid Camera type of segment for the holidays. “So then, you’re not really taking my car?” Big sigh of relief.

I was glad I’d recently reapplied my lipstick, and it had been a pretty good hair day. I looked around to make contact with the camera. No unsuspecting fool, I. Mentally, I went down the old pageant poise checklist and considered my bio in case they asked for information to add a personal touch to the broadcast.

Repo-Ken caught his breath on the tail end of a throaty guffaw. “Uh, no. I need to get the car. You can sort it all out with the GMAC folks. If you hand over the keys, it’ll be easier for me to avoid damaging anything when we get her back to the lot.”

Damage? Now my breath caught in my lungs. “GMAC?”

It sounded familiar. Then it hit me—I’d thought GMAC was the billing code for MAC cosmetics, which I’d switched to over the summer in an effort to replace my more expensive Lancôme. I was so all about saving money. So when the bills came in, I figured I could skip a few payments to GMAC. What were they going to do? Repossess my midnight navy mascara?

Besides, I always caught up on my debts when a new check came in, one every few months. I guessed it was time for a new check. Patrick had provided for us, and my sister had set up the investments. I tried to make sense of it all, but I had no idea I’d let things slip so badly.

“Sorry, hon. The car folks say you owe. I don’t get involved. I’m just a paid go-between.”

“Yes, but—I’m Bennie St. James. Little Miss Massachusetts 1986. Mother of two. Recent widow.” My press-ready bio came shooting out my mouth, along with a few real tears. “It’s Christmastime!”

“Lady, I wish I could care.”

“But—we’re at the mall. How did you find me? Don’t you usually do this in the middle of the night, from people’s homes? Like the Grinch?”

“We’ve done our homework. You’re always at the mall.”

I glared. This time, it had some effect. He sobered instantly. “We prefer to follow you around and grab at the best opportunity. It cuts down on the chances we’ll get shot at or attacked if we avoid the primary residence.”

I could imagine.

“Can’t you just pretend you didn’t find me?” I gave him my best come-hither stare and a pout. Flirting would be a lot easier if he looked more Abercrombie and less J.C. Penney. I tried to use my imagination. “I’ll pay tomorrow morning, first thing.”

“Have a nice holiday.” Lexus loaded, he turned to join his pimply faced friend in the front seat of the truck. Too late to salvage any pride, I ran and tugged at his sleeve. “Please. How much? I can pay you now.”

I let my shopping bag slump to the ground and started rummaging around for my checkbook in my purse. A car behind me honked, obviously desperate to get the newly vacated parking space where my champagne gold Lexus RX330 used to sit. Checkbook in hand, I leaned into the window of the truck brandishing a check.

“I can’t take payment.” He shrugged, handed me a card with the name of someone at GMAC, and nudged my hand out before pulling away. “Merry Christmas.”

“I’m a widow!” I shouted after the truck. As if on cue, the honker pulled into my space, just missing my shopping bag of new boots. “My husband always paid for everything.”

I felt the sting of tears streaming down. The honker, an old fat man obviously missing Santa’s joviality, got out of his car, avoided eye contact, and huffed off toward the mall entrance.

I was left with no choice. I had no excuse, no way to get home.

No job, no prospects. No money.

I needed bailing out again. I reached for the cell and dialed Kate.

“I don’t understand,” Kate said over a loudly crying Ellie as I opened the front door about to climb into her Lincoln Aviator. “How could you have forgotten the car payment? It’s due on the sixteenth of every month. You have to mail it by the ninth to get it there in time. We’ve been over this.”

I opened the back door to stow my bags, but then I realized that Ellie’s cries drowned out most of Kate’s lecture. I closed the front door and decided to sit in the backseat with the baby. Over the sound of Ellie’s cries, Kate sounded like the teacher on A Charlie Brown Christmas. Wah wah-wah, wah-waaah.

“Where are the kids?” No sign of my two.

“I left them home,” Kate shouted over the din. “It’s a five-minute ride. They’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” I’d never left them home alone. I knew it was a five-minute ride, but who knew what could happen in five short minutes? Some maniac could break in, shoot them both, and be gone in two minutes or less. Or kidnap them. Or, okay, even just scare them. Finding a strange guy in your house trying to steal your presents, how terrifying is that? In real life, the little Whos down in Whoville would have been absolutely traumatized, not merely amused.

It had only taken Patrick a moment to lose control of the car, veer off the road, and end life as we knew it. I’d been left behind, with a new sense of the power of time, even the barest intervals.

I turned my attention to comforting Ellie in an effort to ignore my own urge to let the tears flow. I gave her the crook of my thumb to suck while I checked in the folds of her snowsuit for her woobie, which Kate insisted I call a pacifier. Too many parenting manuals and long, lonely nights had turned Kate on to all the “proper” parenting techniques, like using adult words, no baby talk. I’d baby-talked to my kids and they were just fine, thank you. Spencer had always been at the top of his class, and Sarah was honor roll every report card. Wasn’t it more important you talked to them at all?

I couldn’t find Ellie’s woobie, but I couldn’t resist sticking my finger in her belly button region just to see if she was poppin’ fresh. All in white, she looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. She laughed like him, too, all of a sudden. No more crying. Ellie and I had always had a special bond. And why not? We shared a common enemy, her mother.

Not that Kate was my enemy, most of the time. Only when she thought she knew it all, which was at least half of the time. I caught Kate’s glare in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t figure out if the malice in her gaze was because I made Ellie stop crying without much effort, or because she was still stuck on the car thing, or both.

“I lost track of time,” I said, sounding helpless and young, and feeling stupid. “I didn’t realize I hadn’t paid.”

The tears hovered, but didn’t fall. I kept a meticulous kitchen. I’d had the holiday cookie baking schedule charted out weeks ago. Why was it so hard for me to stay organized when it came to money?

“I know, honey. I know,” Kate said, all traces of anger vanishing. “We’ll take care of it.”

I noticed her “we” instead of “I” and it made me feel better that she meant to include me in the process. So often, she steamrolled right over me in her attempt to fix things and make it better. That she was such a capable fixer made the know-it-all part of her more tolerable.

Patrick used to do the same thing. He would fix things so that I didn’t have to trouble or worry myself. He thought he was protecting me. To be honest, he made me feel incapable. I wasn’t sure if it was worth having things fixed only to have lost that part of me that believed I could straighten things out for myself.

“I’ll fix it. I appreciate your help, but I have to start working things out on my own.” I had no idea where the voice came from. Was it even mine? But I guessed it had to be mine, didn’t it? Ellie wasn’t old enough to talk.

Kate, apparently as surprised by the declaration as I was, found the road again in time to brake instead of running the light. At the sudden stop, Ellie’s baby face crumpled as if she was about to bellow again. I tweaked her stomach and she laughed in response.

“You have the money to work it out? How far behind are you?”

“Three months,” I admitted too easily. “I have it. It’s no big deal.”

I didn’t have it. It was a huge deal. I had no idea what I was going to do, exactly.

“Do you? The way we’ve set up your investments, you don’t have a lot of cash for frivolous spending and I notice you’ve been doing a lot of shopping lately.”

“True. It’s Christmas. I have a lot of gifts to buy.” I shrugged. Kate had no response. For all she knew, I could be telling the truth. I could imagine her in the Dolce & Gabbana boots. Merry Christmas, Kate!

“You should have another check coming in for the first of the year. In the meantime, why don’t you let me go over your accounts, see what we can do? I can move some things around, set up the car payment as an automatic withdrawal, and maybe even free up a little extra for holiday spending.”

My mind latched on to the part about the check coming on the first of the year. As in, after Christmas. What good would it do me then? I had to make it through six weeks when I knew Kate’s idea of “a little extra for holiday spending” wouldn’t begin to cover all the things I planned to buy for the kids. I miscalculated when the check was due to come in, my own stupid mistake. Again.

My lip started to quiver and I took a shaky breath. As if sensing my desperation, Ellie raised a chubby fist, held out her missing woobie, and smiled as if she were offering me the moon in consolation.

I couldn’t help but smile back. I might have been lacking in finances, but I had a little angel niece who loved me and two growing angels of my own at home. I could be the biggest failure in the world, with no money to buy presents, and the children in my life would always love me. Maybe my situation wasn’t so dire after all.

I thought the worst of my day was behind me.

And then Kate dropped me off and I entered my bedroom in time to catch my adolescent son trying on my lipstick.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said, quickly putting the cap back on my favorite tube of Lancôme’s Ginger Flower.

“What does it look like?” I asked, thinking it looked like I might have to hide the new boots, and any of the designer dresses he might decide to try on with them. At twelve, he was barely old enough to go to the movies alone with a girl, let alone consider his dating preferences.

“I’m not gay,” he said matter-of-factly as he reached for the eyeliner. “I’m going Goth.”

“Goth? Like, walking dead, black is the new black, vampire wannabe stuff?”

“Like, Shelley Miles is experimenting with becoming a witch and she needs a warlock stuff. I like her, Mom. I think if I do the Goth thing, she may get interested.”

I stifled a sigh of relief and took a seat on the edge of my bed. “So you’re wearing makeup for a girl?”

“You got it.” He pointed at me with two fingers and a cocked thumb, game show host style. “A really, really hot girl. You’ve seen her, Mom. She’s got—” His hands moved to his chest, then dropped as if he’d suddenly thought better of offering a vivid explanation. “Style. She’s got style.”

“Big bundles of it, I’ll bet.” I rolled my eyes. My little boy was growing up. As much as I hated the idea of him leaving the house in makeup, my protests would most likely drive him to do it behind my back. “Stay away from my good cosmetics. I’ll go to CVS and get you some makeup of your own, if you like.” Tomorrow. Once I got my car back.

“Good idea.” He turned back to the mirror. “I don’t think Ginger Flower’s my color. Maybe they have black. I could deal with black lipstick.”

If Patrick were here, he would be freaking out, but was it so different from the eighties, after all? I’d been a Duran Duran fan. Those boys knew their way around a makeup palette.

“Black might be a little harsh with your fair coloring.” I’d pictured having this conversation with my daughter in a few years, but never with my preteen son. Fortunately, Spencer tired easily of trends. He would be done with the Goth makeup and on to the next big thing in a matter of weeks, maybe days depending on the reactions of other kids at school. “We’ll run out tomorrow and try a few on. For now, I really need a nice long bath. Scoot. And make sure the dogs get out for a walk.”

Once Spencer shut the door behind him, I stripped. I needed a long bath to think about how I was going to pay for lipstick among other necessities like food, gas, and Miss Clairol Strawberry Sunset number 116. My roots were beginning to show.

It was time to face the cold, hard facts. I needed to get a job.

The phone rang as I was about to sink chin-deep into bubbles.

A glance at the caller ID told me it was Kate. I dried my hands and picked up. The sound of Ellie crying in the background told me why she was calling before she even said a word.

“I think she may be teething,” I offered. “Her gums felt hard in the car tonight.”

“Plus, she’s drooling all over the place. And the crying.” Kate’s voice broke off in a groan. “But isn’t she a little young for teething?”

“A little, yeah, but they all go at their own pace. Spencer and Sarah were both late bloomers, but Ellie has her own style.” If she was anything like her mother. “Where is she now?

“I put her in her crib for a few minutes. I need to know what to do, Ben. You’re the expert.”

I smiled. You’re the expert. This was a big admission from the perfect sister. I inhaled deeply of my favorite almond coconut bath bomb from Basic as I took a minute to appreciate the comment. Kate had always been the overachiever, the smart one. I was the “pretty” one. Finally, there was an area in which she could recognize my superiority in something more substantial than hair and makeup.

“Frozen bagels,” I said, after a minute. “The topical ointments never seemed to do much for the kids, but giving them something substantial to gnaw really helped.”

“Frozen bagels? What if she bites off a piece and chokes?”

“With swollen gums? Yeah, that’s going to happen. Look, I got it from T. Berry Brazelton. He knows his stuff. It worked for Spence and Sarah. If that makes you nervous, you could try a frozen washcloth.”

“Okay.” Kate sounded a little nervous. “I’ll go try that.”

“Call later if you need more help. You two can always come and sleep over here.”

Just after Ellie was born, Kate spent the night quite frequently. Kate’s house was only a few miles away and nothing rendered her near helpless quite as effectively as her own screaming child. With me, the expert, close at hand, she never really had to go it alone for long. Fortunately, Kate kept her own hours at the office and she was often able to return the favor and pick my kids up from school in the event that my Pilates class should go long or, more often, I decided to stop and pick up a new outfit on the way home.

I clicked the phone off and dropped it on the towel at the edge of the tub. As good as it was to have a sister to share in the parenting, she was not a substitute for a real partner. I slid down into the bath, felt the silken water smooth across my thighs, and ached for my missing husband, my dear departed Patrick.

I remembered the way he used to come home late from work sometimes to catch me just slipping into the bath. He would stand just there, across the room in the doorway, with a smile of appreciation crossing his lips, making the freckles dance across his crinkled nose. God, I missed those freckles.

More than just missing my husband, my best friend, I missed being loved. I missed being kissed in a way that made a tingle go right down my spine. I missed feeling like a woman. I was almost thirty-three years old, for goodness’ sake, and the mother of two. I loved my kids, but would they be my entire life now? Was I ever going to have something for me, just for me, ever again?

The mere idea of dating made my palms sweat. I wouldn’t mind a little romantic attention, but how to meet suitable men? I wasn’t about to go looking for love in singles bars or matchmaking Web sites. Colin Firth as Fitzwilliam Darcy wasn’t about to trot his white horse down my path. Maybe a job would be good for me, more than just a way to fund my shopping habit. Maybe I would actually find something I liked, something to fill the void. But what on earth would I possibly be good at?

Before I got out of the bath, I heard my sister’s car pull into the drive, followed by the sounds of Ellie’s cries getting louder all the way up the walk. Good thing I’d anticipated their arrival before Kate had even called. My freezer was fully stocked with washcloths.