A Convenient Catastrophe, page 4
From: Unveiled@officeweb.com
To: Helena1098@myFCcourier.com
Subject: Investigation
Thank you so much for your consideration. We — I always refer to my one-woman operation as a “we” like there’s a team of us busily scurrying around — are always happy to hear we come so highly recommended. Unfortunately, we have far too many commitments right now and will have to pass, but we wish you the best of luck.
Deaton texts me just before I’m ready to head out.
“Got any Socialite Special left?”
“Plenty. No one else orders it but you and the Dance Moms.”
“Pulling on my yoga pants as we speak!”
I make him a cup, lock up the café, and walk to the other side of the street with a smile on my face. I’ve put this mess to rest. I cannot help what a grown woman does, no matter how wrong it might be. My house of cards is not going to fall. Surely Helena won’t get far with this.
Stray limbs and leaves still litter the sidewalk from the storm the evening before, but the air this evening is filled with a sense of solace as if the beast that had escaped and gone on a rampage has been captured and pacified.
Atticus jumps from his perch in the window seat when I enter his presence.
“I get the feeling he’s not crazy about me.”
“Don’t take it personally. He’s a loner.”
“Ah,” I mouth, tilting my head back in realization.
We settle into the club chairs Deaton has positioned in the back corner of the store, and I kick off my shoes, pull my feet cozily up underneath me, and try simply to be a normal person with her friend, not someone struggling to carry the weight of an elephant. Talk comes easily. Our conversation flows from businesses on Sandpiper Street to the struggling economy to the latest best-sellers and, finally, to Cousin Patty in Iowa.
“Well, she’s moved into the old homestead,” says Deaton. “Ran into L.J. in the mercantile and he turned the other way, and Larry Sr. wants her to come on home and forget this nonsense, as he calls it.”
I frown and tuck my foot further under me.
“Good news is, Tommy Mobley, the grandson of Earl Mobley who built the house in 1929, says she’s still structurally sound and should be gleamin’ and sportin’ a whole new attitude before squirrel season.”
“The house or Patty?”
It boggles my mind to think this is where Deaton came from, who his kinfolk are, especially when he’s so urban and techy. I think of my own heritage and picture holidays at a table with Deaton’s mom and Aunt Patty and various other cousins and aunts and uncles. Deaton’s family sounds so much more fun and much less complicated than my own. Then again, so does John Gotti’s.
“Hey, you want some pot roast? I have some in the Crock-Pot upstairs,” Deaton says.
“As long as it’s not made with squirrel.”
I follow him to the back storage room and up the stairs to his apartment, behind Atticus, glad I’d had the foresight to feed Otis before I came over. If only I could have brought him with me, but Atticus would have never allowed it, and I’m not sure if Deaton would have been too thrilled about it either. The first time he came to the café and saw Otis he patted his head as if that were an unspoken requirement, and I could tell he hoped those few little pats would be enough to make Otis go away and stop staring him down.
“Wow. This is impressive.” Deaton has transformed the upstairs space amazingly well. His apartment is a bit smaller than Madame Bienve’s studio, but his play on texture and color, his ability to maximize the square footage, the way he’s worked with the natural light — the result is breathtaking. There’s just enough coarseness to the room to keep it from being sterile. Well, of course, he would have a way with fabrics and furnishings.
I try to think of things to keep the conversation going. “Did I tell you about one of the Dance Moms who recently got remarried? Nikki. They met on an online dating website. I’m kind of an eavesdropper,” I admit between chews.
Out of curiosity, we pull up the Potion #9 website. “Let’s do it,” I suggest, and Deaton nods in agreement.
“We could just see what happens,” he shrugs, good-naturedly. It’s like a social experiment, not anything we’re that invested in. It’s the middle of the week in Flannery Cove. What else is there to do?
We start with my profile. Deaton reads the questions out to me, as I carefully consider each one. The screen reflects soft bluish light onto his face. I’ve moved from the table to the sofa, and I pull my legs under me and sit up straight like I’m about to clap my hands with glee. I try to relax against the pillows a bit, but I’m still a little eager looking — can’t help it, this is fun.
“What’s on your playlist?” He begins, cocking his head, interested in my response.
I haven’t updated my playlist in years. It’s still full of break-up songs: I’m a Survivor, You Give Love a Bad Name, Before He Cheats. I’m not sure I want to reveal this, so when I stare off into space like I’m trying to remember, I’m actually trying to think of what songs will make me look good, hot, confident.
“Quirks?” Deaton says, moving down the line while I’m still thinking.
“Quirks?”
“Yeah, you know. Like odd little things that are unique to you that no one knows. Name three.”
I frown, trying to think of cute, dateable characteristics. I think like I’m narrating a story. No way! Not admitting that one. I pretty much conjure up images for every thought that floats through my mind? Nope again.
I communicate daily with my mother who’s supposed to be dead. Is that a quirk? I’m a liar and a fraud, but I’m a pillar of the community, a responsible business owner, and a beloved daughter, and mother, and faithful friend — so it’s okay — but is it a quirk?
I hold up a finger. “I feel bad for other people too easily,” I say. “I mean, like people I shouldn’t feel bad for. Like people I should despise, actually.” Like my mother.
He looks up from the keyboard.
“Like if someone has been mean to me before, and I’m sticking pins in a voodoo doll of them, but then they say or do something nice or something happens that makes them appear vulnerable, I’m like a glob of putty. I make a million excuses in my head for their previous behavior.”
Probably because I hope someone does the same for me if ever… This Helena thing: If the truth came out could I be arrested? Could they say I covered up a crime, muddled an investigation? Conspired?
“That’s not a quirk,” says Deaton. “That’s compassion.”
Heat builds in my cheeks. “Well, I hate it.” I didn’t mean to make myself sound better than I am, even though that is my specialty. “I’m not that compassionate,” I assure him like I’m disclosing I’m not that smart after beating everyone at Jeopardy. “Honestly, I mean if Greg had fallen asleep in a running car with the garage door down I would’ve run to the bathroom for a good ten minutes or so.”
“I don’t think so.” He raises his eyebrows, fairly certain of this.
I do think so! I’ve been perfecting this facade since I was fifteen years old! I’m quite skilled by now.
“No, really. I don’t even know if Lyme disease is fatal, because it’s something that’s never concerned me.”
“You are heartless.”
“I like Pilgrims,” I blurt out.
“Wh… what?” Deaton tosses his head back and laughs out loud.
“Well, I mean. Not that I like Pilgrims. I wrote a book about two Pilgrims that fall in love on their journey to America, and I learned a lot about them during my research. Really fascinating. Did you know the Pilgrims didn’t steal the land from the Indians? No, it’s true,” I say as if he’s doubting me — as if he cares! “The Wampanoags never challenged the Pilgrims’ right to live on the land, and the Pilgrims paid for and purchased their land.” Now I know what it feels like to be Paulus, and I purposely look Deaton directly in the eye in case I’ve been staring straight ahead in a trance with encyclopedic knowledge nervously pouring out of me.
“You wrote a book? You never told me this.”
“A manuscript.” I shrug my shoulders as if this is insignificant information. “It was years ago when I was still married, before I had the café and all the things I have on my plate now. I shelved it, but it doesn’t seem to want to stay shelved — always poking around in my head.”
“Has anyone read it?”
“It’s been rejected a few times,” I say.
“Okay, but has anyone read it?”
I try to think. No agents have read it beyond the first chapter, and no one ever asked for more. Becky doesn’t like to read, so she wasn’t a good one to ask. My dad would have said it was good, offering nothing beyond that, and I wouldn’t have been sure he had even bothered. He might have even patted me on the head the way Deaton did Otis, hoping I would go away and stop begging. My mom had read it and said she loved it, but I wasn’t sure that counted. Asking for my mom’s literary opinion of my work was like asking her if I was pretty. “Of course,” she would say. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world. And your written words are more eloquent than Emily Dickinson’s.”
“Not really.”
“Can I?” He asks.
My heart skips a beat. I’ve been wanting an honest critique for a long time, but I’m not sure I can face it. It’s like being asked to strip down and let someone examine all my moles for skin cancer.
“Um, gosh. I’d have to dig the thing out.”
He studies me, trying to see if I’m evading the subject or if I really might have the manuscript buried somewhere under the rubble of brick and debris. “Show it to me and I’ll show you…” he puts a hand to his mouth, thinking.
“Yes? What?”
“I don’t know. My high school poems about my sexy math tutor? They’re basically the lyrics to REO Speedwagon songs, but I’ll dig them out too.”
“I have knees like baseballs,” I say, changing the subject back to quirks. Not that that one’s any better than my slush-pile manuscript.
He looks down toward the middle of my legs, but I’m wearing long pants. I flex my muscles anyway, pulling those lumps tight.
It’s true, the knee thing. The first time I noticed it was when I was fourteen or fifteen years old. I used to exercise like crazy, but they would never tone. Looking at the J.C. Penny catalog, I used to notice that all the models had knees that blended in with the rest of their legs, but I’d look down at mine and it was like God forgot my knees and stuck these little, round things on at the last minute, before shipping me out. To this day I still have them. Hailey says I’m imagining things, and my mom says my legs look like they were carved by a master sculptor, but I see them every time I look down. I’ve tried to get a close-up inspection, but if I crouch then they bend, and if I lean from the waist, the blood rushes to my head. But I know how my knees look. They can be seen in full-length mirrors.
“I’ll keep thinking. Let’s move on to you,” I say, and again we go through the same lists.
“Your playlist?”
“Springsteen, Mellencamp.” Deaton names people I never expected. I look at him with renewed respect.
What had I been expecting? Duran-Duran? Barry Manilow? Well... yeah.
“Quirks?” I ask. “We already know about your coffee.”
He answers quickly having had time to think about his.
“I hang all my shirts facing the same way, color-coordinated, every button buttoned.”
“O.C.D.” I purse my lips to deliver the diagnosis.
“Okay, hmm.” He starts to say something then waves a hand. “No. No, don’t put that. Let’s move on to the next section and come back to this.”
“Okay.” I turn the laptop back toward me and peer at the screen, running my finger down the profile form. “I don’t even see this quirks thing on here. Where is it?”
“Oh, it’s not. I was just being nosy.”
I stare at him for a few seconds and mutter something about how annoying he is, then find my place back on the screen. “Describe your ideal mate.”
“Easy.” “My ideal woman,” he begins.
Wait. Woman?
Hadn’t Deaton told me he pitched for the other team? I search my memory. I can’t recall those exact words. Was it the stereotypical love of books? The cat? The fabulously decorated apartment, or that pink oxford he’d been wearing the first day I met him? Probably it was that oxford, it’d even been starched. Or maybe it was the ability and forethought to put a pot roast in the Crock-Pot.
Oh! He said he hasn’t dated since coming out.
I plunge straight in because my foot never strays far from my mouth. I should have mentioned that as one of my quirks.
“Now, you told me you hadn’t dated since you, um, ya know, came out, er, if I remember correctly.” I tap my index finger to my chin, business-like.
“That’s right,” he confirms. “I’d been dating the same woman for a few months, but things fizzled. We broke up before I came out here.”
It takes me a second then, Oh! Coming out. Moving out here! No wonder I didn’t get it. No one says they moved out to the coast of Georgia! My fourth-grade geography teacher, Mrs. Lampler, appears in my mind and clutches a hand to her heart.
Deaton continues describing his ideal woman while I try to focus on filling in the blanks on the screen as if I’m helping him fill out boring social security forms or something. He’s thrown me for a bit of a loop, but whatever…
“Long hair,” he says. “Prefer brunettes over blondes.”
I run a hand down my long ponytail, catching a glimpse of Loreal’s Natural Light Brown.
“Compassion is a must,” he says. “The ability to forgive is a virtue.”
I nod and begin tapping keys efficiently, trying not to read anything into something that’s not there. He’s not referring to my earlier comment. Everyone looks for kindness. No one says they are hoping to meet a tall, dark-haired vixen to take home to their mom.
“Big knees,” he says. “I’ve always had a thing for big knees.”
No! No. No. No. All wrong. Detour! Road-block! Five minutes ago I thought the man was gay. Deaton is like a brother.
What have I done now?
Otis and I get home right after Hailey. I’m so exhausted I wave a hand at her, and she goes upstairs to her room, and I go to mine. I collapse in bed and turn on my sound machine. Sleeping is a hobby of mine, but not one I get to enjoy that often. Most people invest in paints and canvasses, diving gear, and gardening supplies while I stock up on cushy pillows, downy blankets, and anything that promises peaceful slumber. The atmosphere is changed to sleep conducive by pulling down the thermostat and covering up any lights on the electronics. I’d tried to get used to wearing a sleep mask, but I kept imagining someone standing over me and I had to keep pulling it down to peek, so it was counterproductive. That should have been listed as one of my quirks. I have a feeling those are going to be jumping out at me from every direction now.
I flip my pillow to the cool side and plump it. Mmm, laundry detergent, Springtime Meadow. What a day! My car barely made it home, I turned down a plum assignment, free advertising, and a much-needed paycheck, and threw another load of dirt on my mother’s coffin while I solidified my good standing with my dad, and totally rocked being a single mother to my beloved daughter. And I made my best friend fall for me. It was probably that comment about sympathy, which made me sound like something I’m not.
Now I really need to find a man on that stupid website, if for no other reason than to be unavailable.
THREE
In 2007 I started hearing about this phenomenon called social media. Hailey was too young to use it, and I was too busy. I was working, raising a kid, going to school, and trying to keep my husband satisfied. I was cleaning up his messes — both literally and figuratively — and keeping my feet firmly planted in two opposing lives. I wasn’t the least bit interested in any platform designed to shed light on myself — transparency not being my thing.
When Greg’s infidelities were no longer deniable, I became more active online, searching for the women he was being linked to. Old acquaintances found me, and I got sucked into the online community. Suddenly I was privy to everyone’s thoughts, their family dynamics, even their constant whereabouts. It was oddly fascinating that other people in the world lived out in the open like that, truly who they said they were, who their friends and family knew them to be. Turns out some people sharing their real selves are constantly on the prowl for the next avenue of their life, even if it takes them on a major detour from the one they’re on.
I had followed my husband. I’d done stake-outs. One morning I’d even crawled through the window of his buddy Frank’s bachelor pad, where he was staying after I had kicked him out. There I found a little wooden box next to the bed he’d been sleeping in with letters from some woman named Felicity and receipts from the Comfort Inn.
I knew people who stayed with philanderers. I knew people who knew about it and turned a blind eye, people who suspected but had no proof, and people whose minds it had never entered but should have. And that’s when I deviated from my own avenue and formed a company.
I was due to graduate from my business degree program in two months, which I did. But I’d minored in psychology, and I wanted to do something with it as well. It was a crazy, fleeting thought, but I grabbed on to it. Why not? I thought. I know this by heart. I enrolled in an online course, took a test, and got licensed by the state of Georgia as a private investigator. I’d been practicing the craft since I was a mere adolescent, after all. Becky helped me set up a website and an online presence, and after donating my wedding dress to Goodwill, I came up with the name: Unveiled Investigations. People assume it means uncovered, exposed. It does not. For me, it means freedom.
