The Cinderella Pact (18 page)

The Sisters of Mercy, who are associated with St. Anne's, are made of tougher stock than I am. They take public vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and dedicate themselves to serving the poor in the community, especially women and children.

Lord. That's asking a lot, isn't it? I mean it's bad enough you've got to be poor yourself, not to mention chaste and obedient. Then you've got to dedicate yourself to helping other poor people. Where's the “me” time?

I fold the
So . . . You Want to Be a Nun?
pamphlet and tuck it into my purse next to the Leatherman and head home. The showers stopped hours ago and turned the grass a bit greener, the air somewhat sweeter smelling. It is humid, like Caribbean humid, and once again I am amazed by Princeton's summer students who will exercise in any conditions, their shirts soaked in sweat as they bike past me.

Now that I'm back on Weight Watchers and can eat only 28 points worth of food and drink a day, I forfeit my afternoon pick-me-up of a cappuccino (4 points) and chocolate-chip cookie (2) for a crisp gala apple (1 point) and a bottle of water (0).

This is followed by the familiar feeling of denial that plagues me whenever I have to give up a treat. I don't mind eating Special K for breakfast, for example, instead of a cheese omelet with home fries and rye toast because breakfast does not fall into the treat category. But my four p.m. chocolate-chip cookie and cappuccino I look forward to all day and I can't help but feel as though I'm being somehow punished by having to be satisfied with a gala apple.

I try to remember what I've learned over the years, that hunger is good. Hunger means the diet is working. Fat cells are being burned! After all, I didn't put on this weight overnight. It's not going to come off overnight, either.

With a couple of hours until Chip arrives, I move into phase two of my plan. The Walk. This, I know, will be something I'll have to do every day, probably before work. I don't mind the Walk. It's the Jog I can't stand. But the Jog will take the weight off faster than the Walk, no matter what the modern media claims. You know it. I know it. We all know it. We might as well stop lying to ourselves that walking is just as good. Therefore, I will slowly, gradually ease myself into a run.

Besides, when I think of the alternative—the gym with hulking Rider—a spell of brisk jogging isn't so bad.

I pull on my freshly washed sweats and sneakers, clip a leash on Otis, and head out. For five blocks I make it look like a stroll with no intention of formal exercise. I dread the possibility of my neighbors seeing me and my wiggling ass as I lumber along, breathing heavily and stopping every twenty paces. That's what I distrust about jogging—too many parts of me jiggle.

At the cemetery where it is cooler and shadier, I unclip Otis and let him practice pouncing on the squirrels and birds. Then, looking around to make sure there are no svelte runners nearby, I move into a slow, heaving jog. I like cemeteries for this type of physical humiliation because there are many paved walkways—and dead people. Dead people cannot point and laugh. Or maybe they can, but no one can see them.

The cemetery is a pleasant place. It smells fresh and, ironically, renewing. The trees are old and spread their green branches protectively. The taller tombstones hide me from other runners, plus they're good for collapsing against when I'm out of breath, which is frequently. I decide after fifteen minutes of this torture in sweltering heat that tomorrow I will bring an iPod—as though that will help.

When I get home I shower and put on my standard going-out outfit—a pair of black pants and a white blouse with mid-length sleeves, accessorized with various pieces of clunky jewelry. My hair is blown out and brushed so it's full and shiny. I expend all my creative effort on the facial area—foundation, taupe eyeliner, brown eye shadow, blush, and the high-tech expensive mascara to make my puny lashes look fuller and longer. I pause and ponder how and why having hairy eyeballs became sexually desirable.

I would outline my lips except that on the dot of six thirty “Rule Britannia” rings from my purse in the living room. Charlotte Dawson has the absolute worst timing.

“Ello!” I say, somewhat testily.

“Oh!” gasps the familiar girly voice. “I forgot. It's probably like eleven thirty your time, isn't it?”

I hold out my phone and inspect the screen. This isn't Charlotte. . . . It's Eileen, my sister! What's she doing calling me, I mean Belinda?

“Belinda?” she's saying. “Did I wake you? The time difference totally slipped my mind.”

“No, no,” I mumble, trying to sound groggy. “Not asleep. Not quite.”

“It's just that I'm soooo excited.”

“Er. How did you get my number exactly?” I regret the question immediately as I hear a car door slam and Otis meow from his perch on the windowsill. Must be Chip. Otherwise Otis would be hissing and sharpening his claws on the slate.

“It's in the memory of my phone. I figure that if you were, like, really uptight about that kind of thing you'd have the phone company block your number.”

Note to self: Get Belinda's number blocked.

I hear the doorbell ring downstairs and Bitsy clicking across the foyer to answer it. She's laughing and so is Chip. There's a bit of muffled conversation. Good.

“So, anyway, I have something very important to ask,” Eileen says.

I close my eyes in horrified anticipation.

“I was thinking of asking Nola to be my maid of honor.”

Whew. Easy street. “That seems traditional. Excellent idea. Well, if that's all . . .”

“That's what I
should
do. That's what my mom says I should do, but like you said, it's not her wedding, it's mine, and I should do what's in my heart.”

I said that?

“And so, I just want to know if it's OK for me not to ask Nola. I mean, she'd be a bridesmaid and everything, just not the maid of honor.”

Relief. Yes! Yes! Yes! I want to holler from the rooftops. Make someone else the maid of honor so I, the unmarriageable hulking jealous sister, don't have to stand next to you, the slim princess in white.

“The thing is,” Eileen continues, “she's already been other people's maid of honor lots of times.”

Twelve.

“And I'd think she'd be sick of it.”

You have no idea.

“So is it OK if I ask another girl instead?”

“Absolutely.” I hope we're almost done since there is now a definite stomping up the stairs. A male stomping, not a Bitsy stomping.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

“Really? That's OK?”

“Positive.”

Knock.
“Nola! It's me, Chip.”

Cripes. What if Eileen hears that? “Come in, the door's open,” I call, praying that he's not equipped with a rope and knife right off. What to do? What to do? I have to hide, at least my voice.

Eileen is still babbling as I'm running down the hall, half listening to her, “. . . and you're sure my sister will be OK with that?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I say, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door.

“That's sooo great,” Eileen trills. “Thank you, thank you, Belinda. I never thought you'd say yes. Don't forget—it's the week between Christmas and New Year's. I'll send you a photo of the dresses as soon as I pick them. You are such a star to come all the way from England, just for little ol' me. Oh, and bring Nigel if you want. That would be awesome.” She clicks off.

I don't know what I've done. I'm not sure, but I believe I may have just agreed to be my sister's maid of honor. As Belinda.

Which is when I think that this Belinda stuff, at some point, is going to have to stop.

Chapter Eighteen

I unlock the bathroom door and step out in slow motion, my head in a fog as I try to picture me, as Eileen's bridesmaid (probably last in the lineup) and me, as Eileen's maid of honor.

“I cannot be two places at once.”

“Funny thing. Me neither.”

I blink and come back to reality. Chip—or the man formerly known as Chip—is before me in a loose gray T-shirt that hangs off his shoulders and those faded jeans again. Does he wear anything else?

“Hey,” he says, standing back to take a look. “Don't you look nice. Turn around.”

“Uh, sorry.” I click Belinda's phone shut. “I'm not really a turning around kind of gal.”

“Boy. You are a hard case, aren't you?”

And you're not Chip,
I want to say.

“So, ready to go?” He is rubbing his hands, possibly itching to wrap them around my neck.

“Actually . . .”

“Actually, I have a big surprise. I went through a lot of trouble for this, so don't start making excuses that you have laundry to do or it's the night you change Otis's litter.”

“Does it involve a box cutter and dark green garbage bag?”

“What?” He is thoroughly confused.

“Just wondering.”

“Come on. They won't stay open much longer.” He tries to take my hand, but I am too fast for him.

I study the man formerly known as Chip standing there with his messy blond hair and baby blue eyes and notice that they are accentuated by tiny laugh lines. His nose is a bit too large and somewhat hooked, as though it had been broken once or twice, ruining what would otherwise be classic good looks. Yet, these imperfections make him seem innocent and endearing.

Now you take a picture of Ted Bundy and study it as I have, often, and you'll notice his features were neatly divided and perfect—a sure sign of a psychopath. This man formerly known as Chip doesn't have it in him to murder thirty to a hundred women. You can tell by his nose.

“What's the holdup?” Chip is saying.

“Listen. I gotta know. You're not a serial killer, are you?”

He doesn't flinch. “Would you like me to be?”

That catches me off guard. “Not exactly.”

“OK, then, no. Being a serial killer is not one of my life goals.”

“Thank God.” It is flabbergasting how much consolation I take from that statement.

“What else?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Chip makes a face. “Are you serious? Are you implying that the only reason I might want to be nice to you is because I'm a serial killer and you're a potential victim?”

I shrug. That pretty much cuts to the chase. “Kind of.”

“Man. You've got to get out more. Now stop screwing around and hurry up. We've got about ten more minutes.”

I don't know where I expected Chip to take me. Dinner. Or maybe bowling. A movie. The thing is, I never thought we'd really end up going out because after we got the serial-killer status squared away, I had planned to confront him about his true identity while holding the Leatherman to his neck.

Why I didn't say, “Hey, you're not Computer Chip who works in Tech Ass” is a mystery. If I bothered to undergo some deep analysis, I'd probably conclude that I was afraid of pissing him off.

As for the nun thing, well, I hadn't given myself over to God yet, had I? And, let's be honest. Chip is cute. He's fun. He listens. He's kind of sexy. He's got a groovy nose.

“Do you like sushi?” We're speeding to Lord knows where in his Toyota pickup, down Route 1. “ 'Cause I'm addicted to sushi.”

Sushi? That's what the big rush is for? Excuse me. A four-course meal at the Nassau Inn is worth a speeding ticket. Bait on rice is not. Besides, sushi's not as great on the Weight Watchers points as you would think for something made out of itty-bitty fish and seaweed. One homemade chocolate-chip cookie equals four tuna rolls. I ask you, where are the priorities?

“Sure,” I say unenthusiastically. “But I only like California rolls and eel. Sea urchin, I can't even look at. It's too wobbly and gross.”

“Uni? I
love
that stuff. When I lived in Japan, I ate so much I had to go to the hospital for food poisoning.”

Japan. Ah, so. Another clue to the puzzle that is Chip. “When did you live over there?”

“Years ago. I used to teach English. Man, was that a blast.” He smiles to himself, recalling fondly the hours his stomach was pumped in Tokyo General.

“Where do you live now?” A reasonable question.

“I'm kind of bi.”

This could have so many implications.

“Bicoastal bi?” I ask. “Or Vince Lombardi Rest Area bi?”

Chip laughs. “I spend most of my time in L.A., though I spent part of my childhood here so it's kind of like home. Either way, it's complicated. Hey. We're almost there.”

We can't be almost anywhere, though, because we're nowhere. Where we are is on the bleak, ugly auto strip. I am keeping an eye out for sushi restaurants when Chip swings into Princeton Mercedes Benz.

“Surprised?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

“Uh, kind of. Are you buying a car?”

“No.” He pulls right up to the showroom and kills the engine. “You are. We're here to get that car you wanted, the Mercedes convertible.”

In a second, he's out the door, leaving me awestruck, staring at the feast of luscious Mercedes posed behind the plate glass like a line of Amsterdam hookers. I can't go in there. I can't go into this gleaming showroom where cars cost more than my parents' house. I have no business being here.

Chip flings open the door. “Geesh, you're slow to move.”

“Chip.” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “Whoever you are. I have the feeling you're a pretty rich guy.”

“Born rich. Didn't earn it,” he says honestly.