Ex and the Single Girl (14 page)

“
Why did they break up, anyway?”
She held up a neon pink an
d yellow daisy-shaped bath mat. I allowed it. I
’
m not particular about bath mats.

I sighed, surprised that I suddenly felt a small impulse to cry. “
I don
’
t know.”

Beauji rested her hands on the top of her stomach and narrowed her eyes in thought.

“
You should go see him,”
she declared finally.

“
Oh. No. I couldn
’
t.”
I picked up the most hideous, neon- colored shower curtain I could find, sure Beauji would love it. She scrunched her nose at me and shook her head, pulling out one with the same daisy sch
eme as the bath mat and tossing it in the cart.

“
Y
’
all were pretty close, though, weren
’
t you? I remember he was always at your house, telling those bad jokes. He taught you to drive, God help him. You really should
—”

“
No,”
I said firmly, taking a few step
s away and pulling a pillow out from a huge bin. I turned around and saw Beauji standing right where she was, one hand on her belly, the other on the cart. I walked over and put the pillow in the cart.

“
I
’
m sorry,”
I said. She crossed her arms over her bel
ly and gave me The Eye. I sighed. “
Look, that
’
s just not how it is with my family. The Mizzes stick together, and that
’
s that.”

She twisted her mouth and stared at me. “
Mmmm-hmmm. Just don
’
t stick so close that y
’
all squeeze out everyone else.”
She turned
around and headed back down the aisle. I watched her waddle for a minute, thinking about what she
’
d said, until she turned back and waved one arm at me.

“
Well, come on,”
she said. “
You still need a bedspread and I
’
m surely not gonna let you pick one out on
your own.”

I smiled and pushed the cart, following along like the obedient baby duck.

I managed to keep up my Mizzes avoidance for another eight days, finishing off six of the seven Tan Carpenter novels in the process. I sat on the old sofa, staring at th
e seventh installment in the series just lying there on my coffee table. I could dive right into it, but then I
’
d finish it in a day or so, and I
’
d have to find another author. Or, and here was a thought, actually work on my dissertation.

Or, possibly, com
e to terms with the fact that a grown woman of thirty years should not be hiding away in a dank attic apartment to avoid her family.

I got up, walked over to the kitchen, and checked the clock on the bottom of my coffeemaker.

3:17.

My eyes drifted to the r
emote control for my little TV/VCR, which I
’
d picked up at a garage sale just in case I needed a fix of Darcy and Elizabeth. Sitting on the kitchen counter. Right where I
’
d left it. I opened the fridge. One bottle of chardonnay. Half of a deli sandwich I
’
d
gotten a week earlier.

On top of the fridge. A bag of Cheetos.

It was time. I headed to the shower, deliberately keeping my eyes averted from any reflective surfaces. I could feel another epiphany chasing me as I cleaned up, got dressed, and grabbed my ke
ys. I shut the door behind me, clean and ready to do something, anything, other than have another epiphany. Even if it meant taking Mags
’
s advice. I traipsed down the steps, hooked a left, and headed to Pearl McGee
’
s salon.

“
I like your hair,”
Ian said as
we walked toward the table saw at the back of the barn. I self-consciously tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. I still hadn
’
t gotten used to the lighter weight of it, the flippy ends. And every time I caught the blondish highlights in a mirror, I did a
d
ouble take. I was sure I
’
d get used to it after a few days, but for the moment, it was full-on weird.

“
Thank you,”
I said, running my fingers over it. “
I just felt like a change.”

“
Here.”
Ian handed me a pair of hideous clear plastic goggles. “
You
’
ll have
to wear these.”

I put them over my eyes and laughed. “
I feel silly.”

Ian lifted a long two-by-four and put it on the table. “
You
’
ll feel sillier with a big splinter of wood sticking out of your eye.”

“
Oh, come on. Like that ever happens.”

“
Fine. Don
’
t wear
them. Lots of men find eye patches terribly attractive.”
He tossed a wry smile over his shoulder and slid the wood down the table, situating it under the circular blade. He showed me how to measure and mark the wood to cut at a specific angle. I watched
o
ver his shoulder and tried not to let the smell of the soap on his skin distract me. He turned the saw on and the blade whirred as he effortlessly lowered it onto the wood. When he was done, he turned off the saw and lifted the blade, removing his glasses,
which left little marks below his eyes.

“
There. Think you can do that?”

I shrugged toward the wall. “
Can
’
t I just hammer the hell out of the wall over there and leave all this power-tool stuff to the big strong man?”

He laughed and slid the cut two-by-fou
r onto the floor. “
We need to cut the wood or we won
’
t have anything to hammer the hell out of.”

“
I don
’
t know,”
I said, moving in front of him and grabbing a piece of wood, trying to look graceful as I wrestled the thing onto the table. “
I
’
m not sure the goggles are really a good look for me.”

I put the wood on the table and turned to him, smiling. He reached over and moved a strand of hair away from the goggles.

“
I think it
’
s a great look for you,”
he said softly. I could feel my skin tingl
e as he spoke. I turned back toward the saw and measured the wood.

“
Thanks for letting me come here and work,”
I said. “
It
’
s cheered me up a lot this past week.”

“
Thank you for coming. It
’
s a nice diversion for me.”

I stepped back so he could review my wor
k.

“
Looks great,”
he said.

“
Okay,”
I said, looking at the goggles around his neck. “
Safety first, mister.”

He smiled and pulled the goggles back on. I hesitated, almost forgetting about the wood I was about to cut as I contemplated doing other things.

“
Por
tia? You in there?”

I looked toward the barn door. A man in a sheriff
’
s uniform stepped into the barn.

Davey.

I gasped and pulled my goggles off, moving toward him. “
Davey? Oh, God. Is Beauji okay? Is she having the baby?”

“
Beauji
’
s fine.”
He met us in the
middle of the barn, holding his hand out to Ian. “
David Chapman. I
’
m a deputy with the sheriff
’
s department.”

Ian shook his hand. “
Ian Beckett. Nice to meet you.”

Davey gave Ian a surrogate-older-brother once-over, then turned back to me. “
I need to talk
to you about something, Portia.”

“
Why?”
I asked. “
Is everything all right?”

Davey
’
s eyes went from Ian
’
s face to mine. “
It
’
s Mags.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “
Oh, my god. She
’
s sick, isn
’
t she? Is she...She
’
s not...?”

Davey shook his head. “
She
’
s fine. I m
ean, relatively fine. She...uh...”
His eyes went from Ian to me again.

I gestured toward Ian. “
It
’
s okay. You can tell me in front of Ian.”

Davey nodded. “
Mags is in jail.”

I blinked. “
In jail? For what?”

Davey touched his upper lip, and I could tell he wa
s trying not to smile. “
She let a bunch of dairy cows loose.”

“
I
’
m sorry, what?”

Davey straightened his posture, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. “
It appears she went to Carl Raimi
’
s farm and released all his livestock.”

“
That
’
s impossible,”
I said. “
You
’
re saying Mags Fallon let
animals
loose?

Davey rocked back on his heels. “
Yep.”

“
My mother?”
I said. “
With the big hair and the art deco nails and the strappy shoes?”

“
Do you need to sit down, Portia?”
Davey asked.

“
The woman who never let me
have a dog when I was a kid because it might jump on her and spill her drink? This woman went on a farm and let animals loose?”

“
I don
’
t know what to tell you, Portia,”
Davey said, smile in his eyes. “
She gave us a
full
confession.”

I tried to picture it.
I couldn
’
t. Mags was the type of woman who was appalled by both animals and dirt. She openly mocked the “
no animal testing”
labels on makeup and swore if it weren
’
t so warm in Georgia she
’
d buy a fur made from every fluffy scampering mammal on the planet.
Veal parmigiana was her favorite dish.

So what the hell was she doing setting cows loose and getting arrested like some sort of throwback sixties hippie? Was she crazy?

Oh, my god.
That had to be it. That was what Bev and Vera didn
’
t want to tell me.

Mags
had finally gone certifiable.

“
Portia?”
Ian touched my arm at the elbow. “
Would you like to go see your mother?”

“
Yeah,”
I said, reaching down to unhook my tool belt. “
I don
’
t think I can miss this one.”

I handed Ian the tool belt. Davey put his hand on m
y elbow and started to guide me out of the barn. After a few steps, I turned back and looked at Ian, who was standing there with the tool belt in hand, watching us.

“
Do you want to come with me?”
I asked. Ian
’
s smile twitched and he tilted his head a bit.

“
Do you want me to go with you?”

“
Yes,”
I said quickly. “
I mean, unless you need to stay here.”
He shook his head and tossed the tool belt on a pile of wood as we headed out of the barn.

Ian and I followed Davey
’
s squad car in Ian
’
s rented SUV. We passed t
hree sheriff
’
s deputies trying to wrangle a stubborn milk cow into a trailer on the corner of Loralee and Main. Based on the sporadic piles of poop that Ian and I had to step around as we crossed the street to the police station, I guessed we
’
d missed mos
t
of the good stuff.