Wave Good-Bye Page 3

  Beauty jumped up on the wicker chair in the waiting area and supervised my work.

  I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those girlfriends, the kind of grasping women who don’t know when to back off. I’d made a deal with myself not to bug Marty, especially within forty-eight hours of a visit, but I couldn’t stop myself. I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and called him.

  “Grace Ann? What’s up?” He sounded out of breath.

  “Well, I’m having a bad day, and I just—”

  “Hang on.”

  I could tell he’d put his hand over the phone. In the background I heard a high-pitched woman’s voice, and then I could hear Marty saying to another person, “Yeah, just give me a sec here.”

  I heard the sound of a zipper being zipped up. At least I assumed it was going up and not down.

  “Sorry about that. Just needed to get my briefcase closed. Right? You were saying?”

  “Who’s there with you?” I could have slapped myself, but the words tumbled out.

  “Caitlyn, my new intern.” He covered the phone again, and I heard a muffled, “Yeah, I’m coming. Hey, don’t do that!” and a smothered laugh.

  Then he was back again. “You remember Caitlyn? I showed you her picture.”

  “Right, Caitlyn. Tell her I said, ‘hi.’”

  Caitlyn was five foot ten, weighed 110 pounds, with long blond hair, and was all of twenty-three. I am five foot six, weigh 135 pounds, and every minute of thirty and ten weeks away from thirty-one. Don’t get the wrong idea: I don’t have a bad body image. Growing up in a beauty salon, I’ve always taken good care of my looks. I’m not a ten, but I’m a respectable eight and a half. That said, I’m not stupid. I know how younger women idolize older men, and, yes, it’s true: Blondes do have more fun. The statistics show that.

  “Look, do you mind if we talk later? Tomorrow even? I mean, can this wait? I promise I’ll be there this coming Tuesday. Go ahead and make reservations at that new restaurant you e-mailed me about. But I’ve got to go now. Caitlyn and I were almost out the door. We’ve been working on that new story all day and we’re both starved.”

  So they were going to dinner together. Big deal. Colleagues often did that.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure thing. See you Tuesday.”

  “I’ll call you before then.”

  * * *

  THE CLOCK CONFIRMED WHAT MY STOMACH ALREADY knew: time for dinner. I couldn’t stop by Denny’s and use my coupon because I didn’t want to run into Mom. Besides, the deal was a two-for-one special and I didn’t have anyone to share it with. So I ripped it into teensy, tiny pieces and tossed them into the recycling bin.

  I didn’t want to go to Angelini’s because I knew I’d run into Rachel and her mom, and I wasn’t in the mood. Not tonight.

  I had a taste for barbecue, but I knew if I showed up at B-B-Q Heaven, Althea and Kwasi would think I was stalking them, and I didn’t want to hear another lecture from Kwasi about imperialism and the economy of Africa.

  I would have given my eyeteeth to go to Enchanté, the new, hot French restaurant that got rave reviews in the Savannah paper, but I was saving that as a romantic treat for Marty and me to share.

  When it came to going out to eat, I was out of luck. There was nowhere to go without running into someone from work. Or seeing someone from my high school who was happily married or at least engaged.

  Heck, I couldn’t even order carryout because all the restaurants in St. Elizabeth are zoned for what we locals call Restaurant Row, so you can throw a stone from one eatery to another. Even if I managed to dodge my friends inside the restaurant by ordering ahead and picking up my food, there was a good chance I’d run into at least one of the Violetta crew in the municipal parking lot that all the restaurants shared. Especially tonight when people would eat early and go to the bonfire at seven.

  That left only one option: Walk-Inn Foods, a convenience store that’s kitty-corner from Enchanté.

  Now, I don’t know who the marketing whiz is that came up with the name Walk-Inn Foods, but he or she should be shot at dawn without a blindfold. Every time I see that sign, I get this visual of food stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Weird name aside, they have a perfectly respectable hot food counter that satisfies all my nutritional needs. It’s cheap, it’s fried, and it’s fast. I usually go for the Southern Fried Chicken Bucket, which gives me three pieces of chicken. I couldn’t tell you what those three pieces are because they don’t resemble any part of any live chicken I’ve ever seen. With the Bucket, you also get two handfuls of greasy fries, a big piece of cornbread, and a foam cup full of overcooked green beans. Tonight I planned to knock that gourmet meal back with a Bud Light or two, so I grabbed a six-pack. Nothing cuts grease like a beer. After I picked up my Bucket, I tossed into my hand basket three of those individual fried cherry pies, a box of Good & Plenty, a Goo Goo Cluster, and two Snickers bars. I was deciding between pork rinds and Doritos when I noticed a familiar head of hair over in the personal items aisle.

  Mom always says that my younger sister, Alice Rose, would walk a mile to stay out of a fight, whereas I, Grace Ann, would walk ten miles to get into one. Ever since Hank and I got divorced three years ago, I’ve worked really hard on controlling my flash point. Right before he and I filed the papers, I visited a marriage counselor over in Savannah. I guess I wanted to assure myself I’d done everything I could before I called it quits.

  The therapist’s name was Mrs. Klaus. She looked exactly like Santa’s wife, I kid you not. “Grace Ann, sounds to me like your marriage is already over and has been for a long time.”

  I nodded.

  “Then why are you really here?”

  “I’m worried that if I leave him, I’ll just make the same mistake over again. I’ve seen my friends do that. I mean, maybe this is the best I’ll ever have—and he’s the best I’ll ever choose. Relationship-wise. If that’s the case, why bother getting divorced?”

  She smiled at me. “There are no guarantees that you won’t make a mistake again. You can’t change your spouse, that’s for sure. But you can change yourself. Here’s an important question to ask: What is it like to be married to me? Answer that honestly, and it will point you in the direction you need to go.”

  I nodded and thought about what she said. “I do have a nasty temper.”

  “Then see this as an opportunity to work on it,” she said. “May I make another suggestion? Be yourself, Grace Ann. My sense is that you are trying too hard to be perfect. Stop trying to be what everyone else wants you to be. Be yourself.”

  I’d pretty much ignored that last suggestion until recently. Vonda gave me a set of self-help books for Christmas. I brought the books into work with me and put them behind the counter so I could read them when it got slow.

  “I’m pretty happy with the old Grace Ann,” said Mom. “I like you just the way you are.”

  With that, she and Althea launched into a karaoke version of Billy Joel’s iconic song.

  It was nice of them to say that, but even so, I figured Vonda was onto something, so I started reading and tried to put into practice the principles. Mainly, I asked myself, “What do I really want?” rather than just going along with what everyone else wanted or expected.

  Right now, what I really wanted was to strangle Lisa Butterworth. My fingers itched for the chance to grab her by the throat and squeeze until her eyeballs popped out. The fact that I’d been complicit in helping her steal our customer list just made me all the more angry.

  So when I spotted her standing in the personal care aisle and reading the back of boxes, I marched right up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. “What the heck did you think you were doing? You worked for us under false pretenses. You stole our client list. You’re a cheat and a crook! I trusted you!”

  A couple of other customers turned around at the sound of my raised voice.

  “Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Either she was wearing eyelash extensions or
she’d been ladling on the Latisse, because I could barely see her irises when she batted her eyes at me, feigning innocence.

  I have to admit, despite the fluff around the eyes, she looked terrific. While I was in my wet, lemon-scented, anti-mold-solution-soaked cruddy jeans and a tired tee shirt, she wore a form-fitting blue dress the color of the ocean on a stormy day. My tennis shoes were grubby, but the flashing red soles on her sky-high, flesh-colored heels screamed Christian Louboutin, a designer whose work I’d only ever seen in magazines. Yes, she was definitely dressed to impress, and I looked like the neighborhood bag lady. But I didn’t care. I was loaded for bear and ready to take her on.

  I set down my basket and crossed my arms over my chest, intending to look menacing, because I was good and mad. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were hired to manage a social marketing campaign, and instead, you stole our client list! How can you live with yourself?”

  She tucked the box she was carrying under her arm and jabbed a bright red fingernail at me. “Actually, I’m rather pleased with myself. It’s called business, Grace Ann. I’m the manager at Snippets, a real salon, not some rinky-dink little pretend salon that a bunch of untrained women run out of their home. Which, by the way, is a travesty! How zoning ever agreed to let you mangle that perfectly beautiful, historic Victorian house, I’ll never know.”

  “Rinky-dink? We’ve been in business—” And then I noticed that people were watching us.

  A small crowd gathered on the other side of the aisle. We were providing great entertainment at a reasonable fee—free!

  “Yeah, yeah, blah-blah-blah. Talk to the hand.” And she waved five beautifully manicured nails at me.

  Self-consciously, I hid my own pathetic dirty hands with their broken-off press-on nails behind my back.

  “And you’ll be out of business in no time. Snippets will mop the floor with you and your pathetic group of losers. And it’s all thanks to you! You gave us a wonderful start. Oh, and a real career boost for me. The company already sings my praises because we’ve done triple the projected business since day one because of my innovative marketing ideas.”

  “What?” I screeched. “Innovative—”

  “Ladies?” The pimple-faced young man behind the counter craned his neck all the better to see us and scold us like we were a couple of naughty school kids. “Could you keep it down? Better yet? Take it outside? I really don’t need a hassle here tonight. If you keep it up, I’ll call the cops.”

  Exactly what I didn’t need, getting my ex-husband involved in my no-good, horrible, terrible bad day.

  “No problem,” sang out Lisa. “She’s just leaving. Do you have any Feline Feast? My cat won’t eat anything else.”

  “Try the pet store next door, miss. Look, you’re welcome to shop here,” said the boy behind the counter. “I just don’t want a conflict, you dig? You-all make nice, okay?”

  I ignored him. I wasn’t done. Not yet. No, I was just getting started. “There’s nothing innovative about stealing. Ever heard of the Ten Commandments? Probably not! And let me make you a promise, we are not going out of business. Violetta’s is a staple in this community. We have loyal customers who—”

  “I really don’t have time for this.” She cut me off. “I have a date at seven tonight with Wynn Goodman.”

  I felt my jaw drop. “Wynn?”

  She might as well have punched me in the gut.

  “Yes, that’s right. Wynn is in town to do staff development. I told him you were working in your mother’s salon. He was shocked. Absolutely shocked. ‘What a total waste of talent,’ he said. ‘Of all the stylists I’ve trained, Grace Ann is the one I thought would go the distance.’” She smirked at me. “Of course, I had to give him the bad news. You didn’t go the distance. In fact, you certainly didn’t go very far, did you?”

  I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my basket as some of the items popped out onto the floor. “Wynn,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. We’ve been seeing each other for several months now. In fact, I need to get going. He’s taking me to Enchanté, that new French restaurant everyone’s raving about.”

  She sniffed and looked more closely at the spilled contents of my basket. “Poor you. Looks like dinner alone. Again. See you around, loser!”

  Chapter Five

  AT THE CHECKOUT COUNTER, I THREW IN TWO whoopie pies, a bag of peanuts in the shell, and a couple of bottles of RC Cola just for good measure. You never know when there’s going to be a shortage of major food groups.

  Then I dragged my sorry self home to a converted carriage house two blocks from where Mom lives.

  The fried chicken was cold and more batter than bird. The French fries were soggy, and there was a piece of cob in the green beans. I dragged down my secret photo album, the one with pictures of Wynn and me. On the cover was a handwritten note: STOP! Do NOT open. In case of emergency, call Vonda. Drawing on my tremendous willpower (not), I put the album back in its usual place at the bottom of my undie drawer.

  I unlocked my smart phone and gave my BFF a call.

  “Magnolia House Bed and Breakfast, now booking for the holidays. Please stay on the line, because we really want to talk to y’all!”

  After three rounds of that cheery message I gave up. I cracked open a Bud Light, finished it, and felt even sorrier for myself. The album beckoned. I turned on the TV, cruised the channels, and finally watched ten minutes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta before I couldn’t stand any more. I picked up the latest adventure of Stephanie Plum and flipped it open to my bookmark, a tired Chinese takeout menu.

  After having a rough time tracking down criminals, Stephanie was feeding Rex, her hamster, who lived in a Campbell’s tomato soup can. Empty, of course.

  “That’s it!” I bounced up off my sofa. “I need a pet. That’s what’s missing from my life.”

  Of course, in the back of my mind, I knew it was nearly seven o’clock and that Pet Emporium was right across the street from Enchanté, but if you would have asked me, I would have looked you straight in the eye and said, “Really? Do tell?”

  Downtown St. Elizabeth proper comprises three city blocks square, with a municipal parking lot sandwiched smack-dab in the middle. I pulled my Fiesta into the only empty space, a spot by the Denny’s, and crossed the street to Pet Emporium.

  “You fixing to close?” I asked yet another pimply faced young man who was standing behind the checkout lane counting dollar bills. I made a mental note that if I ever had any extra money I would buy stock in Proactiv. On second glance, his name sprang to my lips. “Petey Schultz? You’re Ray’s younger brother, right?”

  He grimaced and nodded.

  Ray Schultz had been a year behind Vonda and me in high school. Ray was one of those troublemakers who mainly makes trouble for himself. Several times he’d been caught pulling stupid stunts like spraying graffiti on the Highway 40 overpass, gunning his motor at stoplights, and smoking dope under the bleachers during football games. Once his rap sheet got too full, he decided to enlist and join the army. Two months after boot camp, a roadside bomb killed him. His mother claimed she had a vision of his death before it happened and knew her son was being called to his glory. Or so she claimed. Since she was a known drunk, most of us murmured our sympathies, shook our heads, and walked away.

  “We’re open until nine, most nights, but I’m closing a little early tonight.”

  “To see the game?”

  “Nah. Got to check on an installation we did for a business. A real whack job.” Petey rocked from side to side, with his face twisted into a frown. “If I’m done with her in time, I’d like to go to the homecoming game.”

  “This shouldn’t take long. I’m looking for a pet.”

  “No kidding? You do realize this is a pet store.”

  “Right.”

  “Any certain type of pet?”

  “A hamster. Stephanie Plum has a hamster named Rex. That would be a good pet, wouldn’t it? Loving, sweet, easy to keep
.”

  “I don’t know about Stephanie Peaches, or her hamster, but our hamsters? They bite.” And he held up a bandaged finger.

  “Fish. Fish would be good.”

  “You know anything about setting up a tank?”

  “No, but I’d like a saltwater aquarium.” Rachel had been so impressed by the one at Snippets. Why not get one for my apartment?

  With a jerk of his head, he motioned me over to a display featuring a wide variety of tanks. I leaned over and looked at the price of a combination tank, filter, and light. “Yikes!”

  “That’s just for the tank. Check out the cost of the fish.”

  I did and couldn’t believe it. A couple of them cost as much as one week’s after-tax pay for me.

  “Ix-nay on the ish-fay.”

  He picked at a scab on his neck. “Considered a kitten? Those are always popular.”

  I thought about Beauty. I like her, and even though she’s officially Stella’s cat, she’s sort of the shop cat, so it would feel like cheating on her to bring home a smaller, cuter version. Thanks to my ex-husband, I knew exactly how that felt. “No cats.”

  The paper bag he’d been carrying moved.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Parakeet.”

  “Don’t they usually live in cages? Bird cages?”

  “Not if you’re going to kill them.” He shrugged and walked back over to the checkout area.

  “Kill them?” My voice went up an entire octave. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s kinder than letting his friends peck him to death.” Setting the bag on the counter, he studied it, picked up a bag of marbles, hefted it, and appeared to calculate the arc of the wallop he’d need to flatten the sack.

  “Peck him to death?”

  “They’ve already taken out his eye. If I put him back in the big display cage, they’ll finish him off.”

  “What were you planning to do with him? I mean, how were you planning…?”