15 Shades Of Pink (14 page)

“Mildred!” Her friend in the rhinestones smacked her with her purse.

I chased the chocolate with the rest of my wine. “No, I’m actually Independent in more ways than one, and I like men. A lot.” My last real relationship had been three years ago. Nick and the co-worker he cheated on me with were now married. So much for karma being a bitch. “I just can’t find the right one.” At this point, I’d even settle for Mr. Could-Be-Should-Be-Might-Be-Right.

“What about those dating websites I see on TV all the time?” asked another woman wearing a ruffled, lavender crepe dress.

“Tried three of them. No luck. I’ve agreed to set-ups. Blind dates.” I counted the lame attempts on my fingers. “I’ve even done speed dating.”

Lavender-dress-lady’s eyes popped open. “Oh dear, you shouldn’t turn to barbiturates. Drugs aren’t the answer. Just say no.” She nodded emphatically.

Pressing my eyes closed, I smiled. “Speed-dating is a really quick date with a bunch of men.”

Their eyes went wide, and Red Lips whispered, “We had a name for that kind of girl in my day…”

“You were that kind of girl,” Lavender said to Red Lips. That earned another purse whack from Rhinestones.

I gulped another mouthful of Chardonnay. “I’d probably have a date if I
was
that kind of girl.” I dropped my head in my hands. “I’ve tried everything. I swear, Cupid’s given up on me.” The wine was making me whiney. I needed to stop and remember all the good things in my life: great friends and family, a speedy metabolism, my job in sales for an educational software company that allowed leisurely lunches I could then write off. Seriously—all good stuff.

“Maybe you need to make some changes in your life,” Rhinestones kindly suggested.

“Like your hair. Are you a real redhead? I’ve never seen that shade before,” another lady asked, putting on the glasses that hung around her neck, then examining me.

I rubbed my temples. “I spend a lot of time at the hairdresser.” I changed my hair color more often than I swapped out new lipstick shades.

“Me, too,” said another lady. Her short, bobbed hair had a strange blue tint to it. Sitting between her and the white-haired woman, we must have looked like the American flag.

“Maybe something more natural would be appealing to the gentlemen?” Peacock suggested, nodding encouragingly.

“Ettie, Patsy—leave her alone. She’s beautiful just the way she is.” An older blond-haired woman waved the idea away with a sweep of her hand. “Women today don’t need a man to be happy. Wish I’d known that back in the day.”

The ladies laughed, but I pouted. “Actually, I really do want a man,” I said quietly.

The gals each let out little sounds of pity. And really, that didn’t help at all.

The blond woman shook her head. “I’ll bet your feng shui is all off.”

The other ladies murmured. “Oh, of course. You’re probably right, Virginia,” said Red Lips. “It must be bad feng shui. You’ll never land a man if you’re feng shui isn’t right.” She shook her head and tsk-tsk’d. “You need to get that adjusted.”

I gulped. “I’m pretty sure my gynecologist would have noticed that at the last checkup.”

The ladies giggled and Virginia whooped with laughter. “Feng shui isn’t a sex thing, it’s all about the energy flow in your home.”

“I live in an apartment. Not much room for anything to flow.”

She wagged a red-tipped finger at me. “Doesn’t matter if you live in a cardboard box. The types of things you have in your home and the way they’re arranged effect how energy flows through your life. There’s so much you can do to change your situation.” She fished a business card out of her purse. “I’m a feng shui consultant, among other things. Give me a call so I can see what’s going on in your apartment.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll bet you’ve got big problems in your relationship bagua.”

I took the card. “I didn’t even know I had a relationship bagua,” I said meekly.

The ladies laughed again. “Virginia really knows her stuff,” Blue Hair said with a brisk nod. “When she straightened up my prosperity bagua, I found an old life insurance policy my husband had tucked away in a book.” She crossed herself. “God rest his soul.” She shrugged. “Took a cruise to Alaska with the money.”

Lavender reached over and patted my hand. “You just don’t have your things in the right place, that’s all. Since Virginia fixed my place up, I haven’t been able to keep the men away,” she said with a giggle.

And that’s when a silver-haired man approached the table and said to her, “Dance with me, or you’ll break my heart, which would be a shame considering I just got the old ticker fixed.” He patted his chest.

She gave him a coy smile. “I knew I bought a new pair of dancing shoes for a good reason.” She stood up and they shuffled off to the dance floor.

Virginia looked at me. “She’s not kidding.”

But feng shui? It sounded like something I’d avoid on the menu at my favorite Thai restaurant, not something that could turn my love life around. I looked at the couples gathering on the dance floor, and then at the few of us solo guests left alone at the tables. I snatched Lavender’s Hershey’s kisses. She was too busy whooping it up to notice.

I spent the rest of the reception chatting with the ladies, exchanging Facebook information and Twitter ID’s. I kept an eye out for any single men that I might’ve missed. There were a few—in their seventies. My new gal-pals had a stream of dance partners. I had to battle them on the dance floor as we lined up to grab the bouquet; Rhinestones caught it and waved it over her head in a victory celebration, the show-off. I waited for my two pieces of cake and went home depressed. I stood in my apartment, wondering where my relationship bagua was, and if it came with a warranty because mine was certainly broken.

“How was the wedding?” my mother asked on the phone the next day. She and my stepfather were spending the month in North Carolina visiting his new grandchild. No pressure there.

“It was nice.”

“Did you meet anyone?” Mom asked.

Here we go
. “Seven nice senior-citizen ladies. I told you, I’ve got a boyfriend. Charles just couldn’t come. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone.” If she knew how desperate I was, she’d probably fly home and start lining up blind dates for me in some pathetic bachelor draft-event.

I was only twenty-seven, but she was ready to pay someone to date me. When she was my age, she liked to remind me, she’d been married twice. It killed her that I didn’t have the same inborn mate-finding genes. Neither did my half brother. Only, he was smart enough to move to Alaska and work as a long-haul trucker where he was unreachable five days out of seven. 
Maybe I should see if they have any openings. There are tons of single guys in Alaska, right?

“Well, I just can’t wait to meet this Chuck at your cousin Emily’s wedding. I hope he won’t be busy
that
day, too.”

“He’s a bar manager. It’s tough to get weekends off.” At least I’d been born with good fibbing genes. “But he’ll try his best.”

“Wait, I thought he was a restaurant manager?”

Okay. Not that good of a liar
. “Uh, they have a bar and a restaurant. He got a promotion. They gave him a big plaque and everything.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t have a good feeling about this one, honey. I just don’t hear the excitement in your voice.”

“Don’t worry, Mom.”
And next, I’ll tell the grass to stop growing
. I hung up and the phone rang five minutes later.

“How was the wedding?” my best friend, Sarah, asked.

I fell back on my bed. My friends and family seemed even more desperate for me to meet someone than I did. It just made me more panicked about the whole thing. “Eh, it was okay.”

“I bet that dress was a killer.” She’d helped me pick it out, and guaranteed it would be a success. Then, we found two more to rotate through the rest of the weddings. I swear, if I wasn’t snacking, I was shopping. I did both things very well.

I planted my feet on the wall. This all felt very junior-high, like I was recounting the dance I’d gone to the night before. I’d never had much to report back then, either. “The reception was depressing, but the cake was good. I might order one from the same bakery and eat the whole thing myself.”

“You won’t fit into your dresses; and you’ve got six more weddings to go to,” she said in an obnoxious, singsong voice.

“I could always cancel. Every wedding has its no shows.”

Her sigh was long and exasperated. “You’re coming out with me tonight.”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t want to go to another bar. Unless it’s a chocolate bar.”

“You’re right. Stay home. Someone will probably just come knocking on your door.”

I sighed. She was right. “You are not as nice as you look, you know.”

“You’ve been talking to my exes.”

“I’m not wearing thongs anymore,” I said to Sarah as we scooted off the dance floor. “Especially not if I’m going to be dancing.” I winced. “If a guy won’t love me with panty lines, he’s not worth it.” I’d spent an hour getting ready, sliding into clothes that actually hurt—for what? Accidental groping on the dance floor by guys five years younger than me? I tucked my hair behind my ears and looked around the room hopelessly. “I’m going shopping for new undies Monday. Wanna come?”

“Oh, stop,” Sarah said. “You’re a thong girl and you know it.”

We headed for the bar. “It’s kind of false advertising when you think about it, because if I do get together with someone, I’ll certainly stop wearing them. Why lead them on, right? Honesty. That’s the best policy.”

A dark-haired guy appeared next to me, grinning.

Well, this is an interesting development
. I smiled back.

“There’s another option. You could wear no underwear at all,” he said. “And maybe add your bra to the collection up there.” He pointed to the jungle of bras hanging above the bar.

Ah yes. My loser-magnet must have fired up
. I groaned. “So that’s your method? Eavesdrop and then slide in cheeky comments?”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Cheeky, definitely cheeky, especially without the underwear. Why not go take yours off and try it out? It’ll make things easier when I take you home later.”

I rolled my eyes and looked at Sarah. “There’s gotta be a late-night bakery around here with cupcakes, right?”

Recovering from my sugar hangover Sunday morning, I did some cleaning up. I put away my dress and shoes, and cleaned out my clutch. I pulled out Virginia’s card. “Virginia Collins: Interior Decorating and Feng Shui Consultant.” I fiddled with the card. “What the hell.” I dialed her number. What did I have to lose?

“Virginia, it’s Brianna Keller. We met at the wedding Friday night? I’d really like to hire you to check out my feng shui problems.”

“I’m so glad you called. You’ll be amazed what a few simple changes in your home will do.”

We made an appointment for the following Saturday afternoon. After meeting an engaged man at a bar Thursday night who was looking for a “special friendship” until he got married—and maybe afterwards, too—and then bumping into a businessman in town looking for company on Friday night, I decided I didn’t need to make some
little
changes in my life; I needed to make some
huge
changes—fast. I was thrilled I’d made the appointment to meet her.
It couldn’t make things worse. Right?

“Oh, dear,” she said when she walked through my door. The smell of flowery perfume followed her in.

I twisted my hands in front of me. “It’s that bad? You can tell already?” Was I like one of those women who walked around with a bad highlighting job and didn’t know it?

She walked over to the fireplace and pointed to the huge picture hanging over the mantle. “You’re sending the universe the wrong signals, dear. If you want to be part of a couple, you shouldn’t be displaying artwork featuring a sad, single woman! That’s what you’re drawing into your world.”

I looked at the watercolor I’d purchased at an art festival a few years back. “She’s dreamy, not sad.”

“She’s pathetic.”

I stepped back and tilted my head. “Wistful?”

Virginia scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “Wretched.”

I stared at the painting and realized she did look as if she was thinking about ending it all.
Ugh. She looks like me!
I flopped into a chair. “So, what do I do?”

“Take it down. Put up a picture that shows a couple, or at least a pair of something. Nothing singular. And this candle?” She picked up an old jar candle I had sitting on the mantle. “You need two candles, not just one sitting up here. If you want to be a pair, you have to send that idea out to the universe. Heck, put a bowl of pears in your kitchen. Right now, you’re practically begging the universe to keep you single.”

“This here is what’s been causing all my problems? My relationship bagua?” I gestured to the family room.

“No, that’s the rear right corner of your home. But if you’ve got all of these solitary symbols in your home, that’s a big problem, too.” She scribbled something in her notebook.

“The back right corner, huh? That’s where my bedroom is,” I said.

“Let’s go have a look at the damage.”

I led her to the room and wondered what she’d see. My antique sleigh-bed sat against the far wall, along with a matching dresser, a nightstand with a light, and a desk with my computer on top. It seemed simple enough to me. How could
this
be impacting my love life?

She frowned and shook her head. “No wonder. Remember what I said about pairs of things? You need two nightstands and two lamps. And get the computer out of here—unless you want a relationship only with your work. You need symbols of love and romance in here. Some pink roses and pink quartz.”

She flung open my closet. “Whoa. Can one woman wear all those clothes in a year? Clear some space in here, like you’re expecting to share it with someone.” She winked at me.

We went through the house moving things and making a pile of stuff that had to go, for sure. Like the lonely lady painting. And my unicorn collection from seventh grade, just in case one horn was a bad omen, too.