Bikini Season Page 2

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Daddy, Mandy just poohed in the tub,” called their older daughter, Gabriella.

  Brad grimaced and made a pretense of starting to get up.

  Angela put a hand on his arm. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He looked relieved. “Works for me.”

  She wasn’t being that noble, really. She’d rather deal with the pooh in the tub than the pooh in the picture. She should never have let herself get so fat. The darned pounds had sneaked up on her one at a time, first hiding on her bottom and then spreading out to expand first an inch here and then an inch there. If she didn’t do something about it soon she’d lose Brad to that redheaded home wrecker.

  She fished the girls out of the tub and got them into their jammies, then sent them downstairs to play with Daddy while she cleaned up the mess. If only she could pull herself together as easily!

  Brad had wanted her to see that picture, wanted her to see what she’d become. The other pictures were just cover. That one was where the real message lay. And it had come through loud and clear. She was a blob, a big, unsexy blob.

  They got the girls to bed, and then watched some TV. Well, Brad watched. Angela only pretended to watch while she thought about how she’d let herself go. After the news they went up to bed themselves. She scrambled into her sleep tee while Brad was in the master bathroom brushing his teeth. She looked down at the thing in disgust. Rachel probably wore Victoria’s Secret nightgowns to bed. Or maybe she slept in the nude.

  Angela was safely hidden behind fabric when Brad came out of the bathroom, ready for bed in his boxers and T-shirt. He was still in great shape, not an ounce of fat on him. He slipped in between the covers. “Hey, baberino, why don’t you lose that thing?” he suggested, nodding at her tee.

  “It is getting kind of ratty.” She needed to go shopping, get something new and sexy. But what was the point? She wouldn’t look sexy in it.

  He grinned. “No, I mean lose it now.”

  His words covered her smarting self-esteem like salve. She smiled at him. He still loved her. She was being silly.

  She joined him in bed, losing the tee once she was under the covers. She never used to be so bashful.

  He didn’t seem to mind. He found her under there just fine.

  But later, long after he was snoring happily, she lay in bed and thought about that picture. If she and Rachel had been cars, Rachel would have been a Maserati while she would have been an old, old minivan. What man would want a dumpy, old minivan when he could have a Maserati? Never mind that he’d had children with the minivan, that he still drove the minivan. He’d want the Maserati.

  Next she got to thinking about Rachel, Brad’s assistant, who worked late whenever he worked late. He’d stayed to work late just last week.

  That didn’t mean anything, she assured herself. Brad was a good man. He wouldn’t cheat on her. Still, how many good men, surrounded by temptation every day, finally lost the will to fight? Just like a woman surrounded all through the holidays by cookies and chocolate, who finally couldn’t take it anymore and dove mouth first into the Hershey’s chocolate mint Kisses, a man could probably only go so long. Brad was human, after all. Everyone had an Achilles’ heel. Was Rachel Brad’s? Again, Angela thought of that picture.

  Driven by a tsunami of panic, she slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the laundry room where she started digging through the bag for the dry cleaners, pulling out all his shirts. She sniffed each one and examined the collar for lipstick. She found nothing, but that didn’t mean anything, really, just that things hadn’t progressed too far yet. Brad and Rachel were still in the attraction stage, still flirting. She’d lean in close to him when putting something on his desk for him to sign. He’d sneak peeks down her blouse. Soon he’d be working late several nights a week. Soon the traces of lipstick would start showing up on his shirt collar. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.

  Then Angela would become like those poor, pitiful women who went on Oprah and insisted, “I had no idea my husband was having an affair.”

  No, she wouldn’t be like them, because she’d have had an idea. And she knew right now that if she didn’t do something drastic her husband was going to go Maserati hunting.

  Okay, so she’d turn thirty in March, but she still had plenty of hum in her engine. She just needed a better chassis. And she needed to get one fast. Suddenly, she remembered the place on Oprah’s Web site where a woman who wanted a new chassis could find the motivation and encouragement to get one. She padded into their little home office and got on the computer. Then she went to Oprah’s Web site, drilling her acrylic nails on the desk as she searched for what she wanted. There it was, all the help and inspiration a girl could ask for. Good.

  Rachel was going to end up on Oprah or Dr. Phil one day, no doubt about it. But Angela wasn’t going to be there with her. She was going to go to booty camp and get hot.

  Two

  Erin woke up with an anger hangover, still surrounded by the fumes of the previous night’s fight. She and Adam had spent what should have been a romantic evening together shoving blame back and forth like a hot potato neither one wanted.

  “You spent all that money on a dress you’re only going to wear once and now it doesn’t fit?”

  “Why are you giving me a bad time when I’m already upset? If you’d quit picking fights over everything I want to do …”

  “If you’d be reasonable and let me …”

  “If you weren’t such a cheap asshole …”

  That was when Erin’s inner mother jumped in. You’re not accomplishing anything by calling names, especially that one. I should wash your mouth out with soap.

  And she should have spanked Adam for being so insensitive.

  “You know, maybe I’d better go back to my place tonight,” he had finally suggested. Mom would have approved of that.

  Erin certainly did. “Maybe you should,” she’d agreed, turning her back on him. And so he had. And she’d had another margarita and finished off the chips. It was a small bag.

  Anyway, she was going to make up for it and not have breakfast this morning. The idea of breakfast didn’t appeal even remotely. Until she checked her messages and found no penitent message from Adam. Asshole. He is, Mom. Really.

  Now, now, said her inner mother as Erin baked herself a Pop-Tart in her toaster. It’s a new day. You don’t want to start it off in a bad mood, do you?

  As a matter of fact, she did.

  She showered and dressed in the last clean clothes left in her closet—she had to get that pile of dirty laundry off the bedroom floor tonight before Adam said something. Except maybe he wouldn’t come around to say anything. After their terrible fight maybe he’d decide he didn’t want to be with her after all.

  She tried to envision herself alone and adrift without him. She couldn’t. She could, however, envision herself having another Pop-Tart.

  She made a second one, fed Ariel her goldfish, then grabbed her purse and her car keys, shrugged into her coat, and dashed through the January drizzle to her car. On the way, she stepped in a stinky present from the neighbor’s dog and had to turn right around and run back through the drizzle to the apartment to clean off her shoe. After first having to stop in the drizzle and rub off the worst of the mess on the grass. Wasn’t this day just getting off to a fun start? But she didn’t say a bad word. Mom would have been proud.

  What would Mom have thought of Adam? She’d, of course, have proclaimed him a total hunk. And she’d have approved of his career choice. Very noble. And she’d have to have liked the way he took an interest in everything in Erin’s life, from what happened at work or when she went out with her friends to her long-range career plans—he wanted to share it all.

  But Mom would have been horrified by his cheapness. As a single parent, Mom had often had trouble making ends meet, but no matter how crazy their life or how tight their budget they had always found a way to splurge on celebrating li
fe’s important milestones. Erin remembered how much Mom had spent to help Brett and Carly get married in style, how she’d splurged on that crazy trip to Mexico for Erin’s college graduation. She never had a surplus in savings and she died broke.

  “But I’ve lived happily,” she told Erin during their final visit. “You do the same.”

  Erin had tried, but it had been impossible to be happy without her mom. Until Adam had come along.

  She’d call him and make up as soon as she got to work.

  He called her first, reaching her on her cell just as she was getting back in her car.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I didn’t think before I spoke. I was just concerned about how much it would cost to replace that wedding dress.”

  It would have been nice if he’d been concerned about her. This was his idea of making up? She started the car with a forceful foot on the gas, making the engine roar. She did a quick check over her shoulder, and squealed away from the curb. “The dress can be altered.”

  Although having her wedding dress let out was the last thing she wanted. And if she was too fat for her wedding dress now, what would she look like on the beach in Hawaii in a bikini? She was going to have to bag the bikini. Maybe they should bag Hawaii. Maybe they should go to Alaska, someplace where she could cover up with lots of clothes.

  “Do you really want to do that?”

  Now he was probably worried she’d just keep swelling up—the incredible growing bride. “Of course not. I’ll lose the weight. I just have to stop eating every time I’m stressed.” She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her hair and makeup were fine. Was her face looking fuller than it had last week? Who cared about her face? She didn’t have to fit her face in a wedding dress.

  “Then don’t get stressed. You’re putting pressure on yourself about things that don’t matter.”

  “What?” She was working hard to make their wedding a memorable day and he didn’t even care. She gunned the gas and sailed through a yellow light.

  That was red, said her inner mother.

  No, it was orange.

  “People will have a good time no matter what kind of flowers you have or what your bridesmaids wear,” he continued. “You’re worrying about stuff that’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me, Adam. This is a special day.”

  Adam let out an impatient sigh. “Are we building up to another fight?”

  She hated when he did that sighing thing. It made her feel like she was being petty. But maybe she was. “No. I don’t want to fight. It seems like that’s all we’ve done since you asked me to marry you. I don’t understand how two people who love each other and want to be together can find so much to fight about.”

  “We don’t fight that much,” Adam argued. “At least not about things that matter. The important thing is that we love each other. Right?”

  “Of course. And I’m sorry I got so mad last night.” Maybe Adam was right. Maybe she was stressing out about things that didn’t matter. The wedding was important, and she wanted it to be as special as the man she was marrying. But it was only one day. What was that in comparison to the rest of their lives?

  “Me, too,” he said. “And don’t worry. You’ll get into your wedding gown in time. You’ve got months, and I’ll help you.”

  “You don’t need to. I can do it,” she assured him. The last thing she needed was Adam’s overzealous help in the diet department. They were still dealing with the after-effects of him helping her get organized.

  In November, when she’d complained about her piles of papers, he had run out and found her a filing cabinet on sale at a discount office supply store. They’d spent the entire weekend sifting through her coupons and catalogs and bills. That had been embarrassing.

  That had also been when Adam decided she needed his assistance with managing her money. She really didn’t. She wasn’t in debt.

  He’s only trying to help. Now back to the real problem: how are you going to lose the weight to get into your wedding gown? nagged her inner mother.

  Drop it, Mom.

  Her inner mother always knew when to shut up. She dropped it.

  Kizzy Maxwell left the doctor’s office wearing a frown. Okay, so according to the biopsy her problem probably wasn’t cancer. That was the good news. But she was now going to be “monitored,” which wasn’t all that exciting. And the doctor wanted her to take off “some weight,” which really meant about sixty-five pounds. Sixty-five pounds! He may as well have said a hundred. And how the heck was she going to diet with Lionel around?

  She stopped by the Safeway store’s deli on her way back to her kitchen shop and picked up a coleslaw salad. Coleslaw was good for you. Except for all the mayonnaise. But a little mayo probably wouldn’t matter since coleslaw was all she was eating until dinner. She had salad makings in the fridge at home. She’d bake some chicken and make a salad for tonight. If he had meat, then maybe Lionel would be happy.

  Until he found out there was no dessert. Lionel always expected dessert.

  There was ice cream in the freezer. He could have that. She sure wasn’t baking anything. Maybe she’d never bake again. How depressing!

  But not as depressing as having cancer. She needed to get a grip on what was really important here. All she had was a thick uterus that hadn’t properly sloughed its walls when she went through menopause. A thick uterus and a thick middle, both conspiring against her. Ugh.

  Her cell phone rang and she fished it out of her purse. Of course, it was Lionel.

  “So, what’s the doctor say?”

  “It looks like we dodged the bullet, but they’re going to watch me.”

  “You don’t have cancer.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why are they going to watch you?”

  “Just to be sure.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. What’s the problem?”

  “The doctor’s pretty sure I just need some progesterone.” Too much fat had turned into too much estrogen. And that was why she had to take off some weight. The fat was contributing to her estrogen-overload problem.

  “So, if they put you on hormones does that mean your sex drive’s gonna go up?”

  “What’s wrong with my sex drive?” she demanded, then realized that she had just gotten the attention of the deli counter clerk, two shoppers, and a stock boy. She lowered her voice. “As if you don’t get enough, you big pig.”

  “Come on, girl, when it comes to you, you know there’s no such thing as too much.”

  Kizzy shook her head. “You can sure dish up the sweet talk.”

  “And you love me for it. So, you want to go out to dinner and celebrate?”

  “No, I’ve got dinner planned. Just come on home.”

  “Okay, then. See you later.”

  And when he did see her later, he came bearing gifts: champagne and a box of Godiva chocolates.

  She turned from the pot of soup she was stirring and pointed to the candy. “Not with that we’re not celebrating. I need to lose weight.”

  He set the candy and champagne on the granite kitchen island and gave her a hug. “Naw, you don’t. I like a woman with some junk in the trunk.”

  “Well, I’ve got to empty my trunk. Dr. Stevens said so.”

  Lionel gave a snort of disgust. “A skinny white boy? What does he know about what looks good?”

  Kizzy shook her head at him. “We didn’t discuss my looks. We were talking about my health.”

  Lionel’s scornful expression turned to instant concern. “I thought you were fine.”

  “Well, I am, but I still need to lose weight.”

  Lionel flipped back into scornful mode. He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck. “That doctor may know about your insides, but he knows nothin’ about the rest of you. You look fine, Kiz. You really do.”

  She gave his cheek a caress. “You’re sweet, Lion.”

  Of course, it was wonderful to have her husband love her just the way s
he was. But she didn’t want to turn into some of the ladies at Zion First Baptist that she’d gawked at as a kid. It was one thing to have a body like Queen Latifah. It was quite another to have one like three Queen Latifahs put together. And she was already about a Queen and a half.

  Lionel frowned at the soup and salad offering she placed on the oak kitchen table where they always ate. “Do I look like a rabbit to you? I hope this is just the first course.”

  She pointed her fork at him. “You could stand to whittle down a little, too, you know.” He looked like an out-of-shape Emmitt Smith. A very out-of-shape Emmitt.

  Gus, their King Charles Spaniel, sat nearby, watching them. At this, he cocked his head at Kizzy and whined as if fearing he, too, would get caught in her diet net.

  Lionel wasn’t any more receptive. He reared back his head and frowned at her. “Just because the doctor picked on you doesn’t mean you have to go passing it on to me. I’m happy the way I am. And you should be, too.” He forked the last bit of salad into his mouth, then he went to the fridge to forage. “I need meat.”

  “You had meat. There was chicken in the salad.”

  “And potatoes,” he added, pulling out a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes from the night before. “Kizzy girl, we both work hard. We have got to eat.”

  “Not as much as we do. You sit at a desk all day, and I don’t exactly run laps at the shop. That doesn’t burn calories.”

  He stood in front of the microwave, watching the potatoes heat and shaking his head. “I don’t know why they can’t just give you some medicine or something. There’s nothing worse than a stick-straight, skinny-ass woman.”

  Did Lionel have any idea how many pounds she’d have to lose to fit that description? “Believe me, I’ll never be that.”

  He returned to the table and set the bowl of potatoes between them.

  Kizzy’s potatoes were never just plain mashed potatoes. They oozed garlic and butter and sour cream. Now the aroma of garlic danced around her nostrils.