Stilettos & Scoundrels (11 page)

“Anytime. See you around town I hope
,
if you aren’t doing anything tomorrow, a few of us will be hanging out at Pat’s.”

“That’s a dive
.” I
grimaced. Pat’s
was
primarily a trucker bar, though it did have a certain interesting quality to it.

“It’s a different crowd now
,
more yuppie-feel. Anyway, think about it
.
I know everyone would love to see you. Good to see you
,
Pres.”

“Hey, you too. Glad to know who to call if I get in trouble,”
I
teased.

A
s the bright sun washed into my room, I opened my
eyes a
nd for a moment forgot where I
was
.
I
didn’t really care,
as long as I could get some more sleep. I closed my
eyes ag
ain and rolled over, hugging my
pillow and snuggling down, in anticipation of at least a
few more minutes of sleep. I’d
been having a wonderful dream
about
a beach, a parade of good-looking men, and
me
in a
size-four
bikini
. I
wanted it to continue.

“Get up
,
lazy head!
Breakfast is on the table!” My
mother yelled up the stairs.

I
sat up and was quickly jolted into th
e reality that I was home. Not in my own home, but rather my
parents’ home.
Arg
. I
flopped b
ack down on the bed and shut my eyes again, willing my
self to go back to sleep and to
dream of anywhere but here. I wasn’t sure I
was ready to face the world this morning
—
a common
anxiety for me
, especially before coffee. There was a brief moment of silence
before I
heard the noises of the coffee maker
and
smelled the rich
aroma
of coffee and
homemade
waffles
winding its way up to my
room. Mmmm… heaven. Now this was motivation to get up. It was almost wort
h getting up this early. I wasn’t my best in the morning, so I
tried to avoid early mornings as much as possible.

“Come on,” my
mother yelled again. She wasn’t the most patient person in the world. She also didn’t believe anyone needed to sleep past five a.m. When
I
was in high school and stayed out late at the occasional party,
(
ok
every Friday and Saturday night), this aspect of my
mother’
s personality really sucked. My
friends always hated staying over because she always made them get up
early too
. The pleasure she derived from it was ridiculous.

“I’m coming! Give me a minute,”
Hold your damn horses, woman
, I muttered under my
breath, because it sure wouldn’t do any good for
my mother to hear me. I
lay in bed one more second an
d, groaning inwardly, pushed myself up and swung my legs over the bed. I
shuffled to the bathroom, t
rying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. My
room was s
till the same as it was when I
had lived at home; lime gre
en walls with hot pink trim. I
had chosen
the colors in middle school
, and while I
still liked that combination, a room full of it was a bit much. Stuffed animals
lined the shelves, along with my
pom-poms and other memorabilia
. It made me laugh when I thought of how important I
used to think all of this stuff was. Even now, it would be sad in a strange way
if I ever came home to an empty room. One time, when I asked my
mothe
r why she never redecorated my
room into something more practical, she said she was waiting for grandchildren so she could turn it into a nu
rsery. It wasn’t a topic I
ever brought up again.
I
didn’t need that headache
, and even though I
loved kids, at this point in my
life
,
it wasn’t som
ething I
wanted to think about.

I needed to wake myself up, so I
stepped up to the antiqu
e pedestal sink (a true antique my
mother found at a flea market, not a faux antique from Home Depot) an
d splashed ice-cold water on my
face. It helped a little and
I knew the coffee waiting for me
downstairs
w
ould finish the job.

I often wished I
could mainline coffee, stick the ne
edle in a few minutes before I woke up so I
was infu
sed with what it took to get my day started. I
thought about getting dressed for all
of two seconds, but decided I
really needed that coffee
sooner rather than later. If my mother didn’t like my
blue Scooby Doo pajamas, well too bad, she would just hav
e to live with it. They were my
favorite pair
because they were so
comfortable, and that
was
all that mattered to
me
. Why people felt compelled to wear nightgowns or even lingerie was beyond her.
I
preferred warm and cozy any day
, t
hough it might be
one reason I
was
still
single.

I
padded down the stairs into the kitchen where both
my
parents were
seated
. This had always been the gathering sp
ot growing up and was one of my
favorite parts of the house. The other parts of the house seemed rarely used compared to the kitchen, when
I
thought about it.
My
mother was constantly in the kitchen cooking something, or brewing an endless supply of iced tea. The smells were always wonderful coming from here. The kitchen was a warm and homey place where
,
as a kid
,
I would tell them about my
day after school, leaving out any bad things
I
did, while eating
fresh-baked, homemade
cookies.
The kitchen
was still decor
ated the same as it was when I was growing up, but I
liked it. It felt comfortable
: p
ale yellow walls with light blue trim, accented with a brick red tile design as a splashguard behind the sink and around the counter. The whole house had beautiful oak wood floors; real wood that stood the test of time, not laminate crap, and the kitchen was no exception. In this room
,
my
mother had a beautiful handmade rag rug under the table
, t
he kind where you wanted to take your shoes off and dig your toes in.

My
dad sat
at the table, talking to
my
mom and nursing his coffee. Together since they were fifteen, they were still best friends and never seemed to run out of things to talk about.
My
mother
was
already dressed for the day in her Junior League uniform
—
ivory dress slacks and a rose-colored silk blouse with ornate buttons
,
complete
,
of course
,
with earrings and her pearl necklace
. She
handed
me
a steaming cup of coffee when she walked in
, j
ust the way
I
liked it
:
lots of cream, two Splenda
s
.

“Thank you,” I
said and gave her a hug while I
inhaled the wonderful aroma of the coffee.

“So when is your appointment to interview Senator Daniels?” asked
my
dad over his coffee as
I
sat down to
my
plate of steaming waffles and crispy bacon. It was nice to b
e spoiled with coffee put in my hand and food on the table. I
could get used to this
—
there had to be some great guy out there wa
nting to cater to me
. Was that really asking too much?
I n
otic
ed my
dad w
as still in his bathrobe, so I
didn’t feel so bad for being in pajamas
, though I was surprised my
mother let that slide. She must be loosening up.

“Sometime this afternoon,”
I
replied and took a swig of coffee. The first sip of coffee always tasted so good
; I
knew it was purely psychological
, but I swore I
felt it coursing through
my
veins
, waking me up bit by bit. I poured syrup on my waffles and dug in with my
fork. My
taste buds were in ecstasy.
So good!
I
had become so used to the frozen stuff
that I
forgot how much better homemade ones were.
I didn’t ever cook. In fact, I
w
asn’t even sure the stove in my
condominium even worked
and I was pretty sure I didn’t own a
waffle maker
.
I
was a microwave girl. It
wasn’t worth the trouble for me to cook, but I
was more than willing to eat someone else’s
efforts
.

“His assistant, who by the way is Tobey Stone, you remember Chris Stone
,
don’t you,”
I
s
aid looking at my
parents. “He was, well still is, the younger brother of Chris Stone. The tall dorky guy
who
use
d
to hang out with Brian sometimes. He said to call this morning between nine and ten to confirm a time. Except for that, I have my morning free. So, I was thinking about going into town to see Katy. I would love to see her new salon and the look on her face when she sees me.”

Katy, my
best friend from high school, owned the town’s most upscale beauty salon. To be more accurate, it would be the town’s
only
beauty salon, u
nless you counted Bob’s Barber Shop
,
which wasn’t technically a beauty salon.
I
knew it was the best
,
even by Chicago standards.
Kay and I
both attended cosmetology school via the vocational program in high school. Katy did it because she loved it
;
I
did it because Katy was doing it and
because it got me
out of two class periods in school. Si
nce it had been a while, I
was looking forward to surprising Katy
.

“Katy
does a great job, Presley,” my
mother spoke up. She was
now
standing at the waffle maker, waiting for the remaining waffle to finish cooking. “You should see what she did with Gertrude Mayweather. She looks ten years younger.”

“Then she looks seventy instead of eighty. Is that really an improvement
,
Sue?” my
dad teased.

“It’s important to women,” she replied, and gave him a dirty look. “It might be something you should take note of,” she continued, frostily.

At this, I rolled my
eyes. To an outsider, it might look as if he had made her
mad, but I
knew this was a game to them. My
parents found it amusing to pretend
-
argue.
I
thought it strange
.
A
hobby or something would make more sens
e, but after all these years, I
was used to it.

“Have you guys talked to
Jesse
lately?”

“He’s like you. Doesn’t call like he should,”
my
mother replied.

“He called last week, Wednesday I think it was, to let us know that he was going on a few interviews, or auditi
ons, whatever they call it,” my
dad said.