Getting Warmer

Table of Contents

 

 

 

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2007 by Carol Snow

 

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PRINTING HISTORY

 

Berkley trade paperback edition / January 2007

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Snow, Carol, 1965-
Getting warmer / Carol Snow.—Berkley trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-425-21354-4

1. Women teachers—Fiction. 2. High school teachers—Fiction. 3. Adult children living with parents—
Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Truthfulness and falsehood—Fiction. 6. Scottsdale
(Ariz.)—Fiction. I. Title.

 

PS3619.N66G48 2007

813’.6—dc22

2006025801

 

 

 

The transformation from manuscript to book is a long and mysterious process and one I won’t even pretend to understand. For working their magic once again, I thank the talented team at Berkley, especially my editor, Cindy Hwang. Big thanks, also, to my too-wonderful-for-words agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan.

I am lucky to have so many friends who not only support my work but also cajole their neighbors, relatives, and neighbors’ relatives into buying my books as well. An extra large thank-you goes to Holly Wert and Charlotte Bischel for sharing their time and considerable talents. Thank you, too, to Carrie Hosozawa for making valuable connections and for teaching me a thing or two about eye makeup. I had to learn sometime.

Melissa Karl Lam was kind enough to supply me with a wealth of school psychologist lingo for this book, while Kim Rueben provided enough early inspiration to fill several volumes. Just for the record, she is not really from Saturn. Perhaps most importantly, Maurine Tobin gave me an education in education back when I thought I might be something other than a writer. Make no mistake: teaching is a far more important job and about a million times more difficult.

Thanks to Kim Snow, as always, for her first-reader feedback, to Susy Sullivan for her stealth merchandising, and to Andrew Tod-hunter for pretty much everything else. And to Lucy and Philip: thanks for just being you.

It was Friday at the Happy Cactus, and we had a big decision to make. “Happy Cactus Hour” would end in five minutes and along with it our chance to order the two-for-one margaritas. As the cardboard cactus signs plastered around the room informed us, Happy Cactus Hour ended at 6:00 sharp. They meant it, too. A few days before, we’d placed an order at 6:03, only to be charged full price. We’d downed an extra basket of complimentary tortilla chips as a way of exacting revenge.

“I’m done,” I said. “Gotta drive.” I picked up my curvy glass and sucked on the straw, only to be rewarded with slightly sweet melted ice.

“But I’m getting another, so yours would be free. Besides, they’re really weak.” My friend outweighed me by a good sixty pounds. She wasn’t fat so much as big-boned, not pretty so much as striking. In heels, she approached six feet tall. She could drink me under the table.

The waitress glanced around the mostly empty room, checking for impatient customers. In case you’d missed the spiky plants, lunar landscape and inhuman temperature outside, the restaurant décor let you know that you weren’t in Kansas anymore—or in Spokane or Cleveland or wherever you had flown in from. Indian blankets and pastel canyon scenes covered the stucco walls. The waitstaff wore silver bolo ties shaped like geckos. Every few minutes, a blender whined loudly enough to drown out conversation. Welcome to Arizona.

Another customer waved, trying to call the waitress over. She held up her pen to let him know she’d seen him. “Should I just bring the check?” she chirped, tapping her pen on her pad.

“I’m done,” I said.

“No, wait,” my friend interrupted. “We can’t go yet. It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in the parking lot. In here, it’s what?” She looked at the waitress. “Seventy?”

“I can ask the bartender to turn the AC down if you’re cold. But right now I’ve really got to—”

“Maybe I can help you ladies out.”

Here, then, was our knight in shining armor: mid-to-late thirties, average height, a rounded belly matched with incongruously skinny legs, a chubby face flushed from too much sun or alcohol or, most likely, both. His khaki shorts had a reddish stain in the middle of one thigh: salsa, probably. His white T-shirt read HOT, HOT, HOT.

 

“I couldn’t help but hear you ladies talking. I was just thinking about ordering a margarita myself, and so . . .” He gestured with his beer bottle as he talked.

Once the margaritas had been successfully ordered, our new friend motioned to a chair at the empty table next to us. “You mind?”

He dragged the chair over and plopped himself down. “Wheeew,” he said. “All that talk about ‘It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. ’ What a load of bull! If you ladies will pardon my French.” He took a draw on his beer. His eyes darted back and forth between us. Neither of us is beautiful, but I knew what he was thinking: blond or brunette? Big or small? Like he was choosing between a burger and a chicken salad, coleslaw or fries.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and continued. “This morning I burned my hand getting into my rental car—like touching a hot iron.” He held up his palm (which didn’t look any redder than the rest of him), holding his beer bottle between his thumb and index finger. He took another swig of the beer before switching the bottle to his left hand and holding out his right. “I’m Darren, by the way.”

“Pandora,” I said, shaking his damp hand.

“Jo,” said my friend, wisely choosing a finger wave over a soggy handshake.

“I’m in from Saint Louis for the fireplace convention. You hear about the fireplace convention? I’m with Bilco—you’ve probably heard of us, we make freestanding gas stoves, gas fireplaces and gas inserts.” He drained his beer.

“You’re in sales?” Jo asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Second biggest producer in the Midwest region this quarter.”

“Does the first biggest producer get to come to Arizona in January instead of August?” I asked. Darren ignored me.

“And what do you ladies do for a living?” he asked, directing his attention now to Jo. “Professional models, perhaps?” He raised his eyebrows slightly, anticipating girlish giggles.

At this, the waitress showed up with the margaritas. “The bill,” I mouthed. She nodded, understanding, and left to get our slip.

Jo left her full margarita glass on the table and poked idly at it with the straw. At the rate she was going, we’d be here all night.

“I’m a health care assistant,” I said. I reached into my purse and pulled out a white pill. I put it on the table and slid it over to Jo. “You told me to remind you.”

She held my gaze for a minute before giving in. She picked up the pill and downed it with a sip of margarita.

“You got a headache or something?” Darren asked.

“A headache? Oh, no.” She stared off into the distance.

He giggled. It was not attractive. “Is that, like, speed, or something?”

I shifted in my chair, tilted up my chin. “We do
not
take illegal drugs.”

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“This is strictly prescription-only.”

“Antidepressants?” he guessed.

“Hardly,” Jo said with a toss of her blond mane. “I have nothing to be depressed about. Not anymore.”

“They’re her . . . you know.” I looked at Darren. He didn’t know. “Her hormones.” I checked his face: still confused. “Jo is a . . . you know.”

Jo sipped her drink and gazed at the ceiling fans spinning lazily above us.

“I don’t know,” Darren said finally.

“A man!” I said. “At least for now.” And then, turning to Jo: “Joseph, you’re starting to pass!”

“It’s Josephine now,” Jo assured Darren in a voice that suddenly seemed lower. “Or, it will be once I get the papers filed. I’m counting down the days until the operation. Perhaps we can get together then?”

After Darren left—well, fled—Jo sat in silence for a while, grimly munching on slightly stale tortilla chips. “What?” I finally asked.

“Nobody would ever believe you’re a man,” she grumbled.

I shrugged. “You never know. People generally assume you’re telling the truth.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a little plastic box. “Tic Tac?”

Okay, before you jump to any conclusions—that I am a pathological liar, or an identity thief, or a nut—let me explain. My name is not Pandora, and I am not a healthcare assistant. My name is Natalie Quackenbush, but I can go days without being called Natalie. People call me Miss Quackenbush, Ms. Quackenbush, or Mrs. Quackenbush—no matter how many times I tell them that Mrs. Quackenbush is my mother. When they think I can’t hear them, they call me The Quack or Quackers or, simply, The Duck. I teach English at Agave High School in Scottsdale, Arizona. Go, Roadrunners!