Chapter Seven

“None of your business.” He buried his face in the invitation book.

Sourpuss. Jonson didn’t want to talk to me. Like he could dissuade moi. I personified the persistence of a dog digging for a buried bone when needling him. “Oh, but the wedding business is my business.”

One eye appeared over the top of the book.

“As you can see”—I emphasized my point with a sweeping arm motion, taking in the whole store. Standing, I twirled about to model the newly embroidered jacket—“I’m an employee of Wedding Wonderland. Tee-hee-hee.”

I stepped closer, circling the back of his chair to the far side.

His head jerked from left to right.

“How exciting for you, planning—what? Your third or fourth trip down the aisle?” I pressed a finger to my jaw. “No, no, no. I had it right the first time—your third visit to the altar—that I know of. My, my, my. This will be your third marriage, not your second, not your fourth. Your third. I bet Ms. Fenster believes she’s a lucky gal. Wouldn’t she love to hear war stories about your prior nuptials?”

I scrubbed my palms in a deliciously wicked way and, for a fun effect, swiveled toward Miss A. and his fiancée.

“Stay. Away. From Barbie. Bitch.”

I spun about. Bitch—me? I squinched my eyes and glared. Jonson hadn’t seen anything—yet. Like most women, I could channel my inner bitchiness if I wanted, and, oh, how I wanted to. I rubbed his skin raw, but I always had. We never-never, ever-ever liked each other. From our first meeting, something intuitively inside me recognized how he embodied a snake oil salesman. Totally untrustworthy.

He knew I knew.

I knew he knew I knew.

Scowling, Jonson re-crossed his long, khaki-clad legs, adjusting the “freshly starched by the cleaner’s creases” at his knees. From the side table, he picked up the water bottle Miss A. gave him and, ever-so-casually, drank.

“I have no problem telling the owner about you and insist she fire your ass,” Jonson said. “If she doesn’t, I’m happy to take my business elsewhere.”

Of course, he delighted in playing dirty, but his hold-Hattie-hostage scare tactics didn't worry me. I wished for a cattle prod so I could zap the monster multiple times in his most vulnerable spot. To hear him squeal like a suckling pig would bring me great joy.

I probably sounded perverted.

But doing so wouldn’t be fair to Miss A. and the success of Wedding Wonderland. I could contain my antagonism. Softly, I said, “Does Barbie know about your…extracurricular activities?”

“Like I already said, you”—Jonson pointed—“stay away from Barbie.”

“No problem,” I said with joy but didn’t mean.

I caught Miss A. squinting our way. Worry molded her mouth, just a downward turn to the corners.

She led newly gowned Barbie onto the viewing platform.

“Hattie,” she asked. “Would you like to join us?”

“Delighted to, Miss A.” I walked away, then remembered the hog in the room and paused. Over my shoulder, I said with a sweetness I didn’t mean, “So unlovely to talk with you, Jonson.”

While chugging more water, he cut me a hard scowl.

Squirm, you worm. With my most beatific smile, I threw back my shoulders and sallied on, conveying how little control Jonson’s “get you fired” comment swayed me.

As I drew closer to the other women, I clapped my hands and mustered cheerfulness in my voice. “Oh, Barbie.” A huge sigh. “You look…amazing.”

Miss A. and I oohed and aahed over Barbie. In the end, she picked a traditionally styled, long-sleeved, solid lace, stark white, full-skirted ball gown with a deep U in the back. Tiny, tiny pearl buttons had been fastened at the waistline. Swarovski crystals and more pearls were sewn onto the lace bodice, and when she turned and struck her Miss Somerville Automotive Parts pose, sparkles glinted and flashed, doubly emphasized in the mirrors.

Miss A. located on a display shelf a glittery tiara—after all, Barbie had been crowned a beauty queen multiple times—and a veil not trimmed along the edge with the matching lace, but with a row of the same crystals.

After noting any fitting issues, Miss A. escorted Barbie to the changing room to help her undress. She stowed the gown in her office for her alterations friend. She brought the tag to the check-out counter, where she entered a whopping amount in the computer.

From over Miss A’s shoulder, I watched her complete the transaction.

Jonson stepped forward and inserted a debit card in the reader.

My mouth twisted to one side as I wondered will his card bounce? When married to my sister, he acted like he never had any dough. He frequently lost at poker, but Tracey said he never won much when he did win. Right before she announced her divorce intention, he cleaned out their joint bank account. One could surmise he did the same for No. 1 wife.

I’m betting Barbie’s dad, the one loaded with beaucoup de Benjamins, funds him.

The idea crossed my mind—should I inform Barbie what Jonson would do to her and her family?

But I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not the right place or time.

Every day, I read the “Aunt Sally” advice column in the Sommerville Express. She counseled countless readers to button their lips. I should heed her guidance. Besides, who would want to be Ms. Spoilsport, ruining Barbie’s happy day?

Hopefully, she would see Jonson’s true colors before the monstrous event and boot him to the curb.

Miss A. returned Jonson’s card and placed the receipt in a white leather folder embossed with the store’s name. She handed it along with a pen to him for his signature. “Here you go. If you will sign on this line…”

He scrawled his name, adding a flourish to the III. Clearly, a financial institution offered him credit.

“Thank you so much, Miss A., for all your help. I look forward to our planning sessions.” Barbie tilted her head and smiled.

Once Barbie’s additional purchases were bagged, she gathered the sacks and, in the fashion of a rock star’s entourage, swept Jonson out the door. She chattered the entire way to the high-priced, German sport utility vehicle he drove.

Miss A. and I stood in the doorway and called “bye-bye” like flight attendants watching passengers deplane. Only I didn’t mean what I thought in a nice way. More like in a “good riddance” manner.

Miss A. returned to the desk.

Slowly, I followed her. Revenge ideas churned in my head. Nothing would be better than to conjure up a sabotaging scheme. Jonson belonged to the slimiest lizard category like the “disturbing, flesh-eating Komodo Dragon with flicking tongue and sharp talons” kind. The creepiness of the mental image infiltrated my brain, causing my shoulders to auto-shimmy.

Miss A. rounded the desk to pick up Jonson’s half-drunk water bottle and tossed it in the trash can. All the while, she prattled on about how “incredibly thrilled” their upcoming nuptials were.

I wanted to scream.

“You know,” she said. “Barbie’s parents are outstanding in the Sommerville community. Her mother is on the Sommerville Library Board—”

With my mother.

“Her father chairs one for the Sommerville Performance Hall—”

With my father and Mrs. Wellborn.

“Mr. Fenster owns the local lumberyard, although the business grew to be more than that. What a grand coup to get his help.”

I hated to say Jonson’s standing was never built on a good foundation.

“Hopefully, when their big day hits the newspapers,” Miss A. said, “Wedding Wonderland is mentioned. The store will get lots of word-of-mouth referrals. Barbie and Jonson’s influence will go a long way in discoverability.”

Scrolling the mouse, she reviewed the appointment, information, and selections.

Then, a niggle of puzzlement crowded her eyes, as if she remembered something.

“Hattie, as a long-time resident of Sommerville, you know a lot of people—”

“I do.”

“How well do you know Jonson Leggett?”

Tainting her opinion didn’t sound like a good idea. Before answering, I hem-hawed while stacking paperwork in neat piles, avoiding eye contact. I didn’t know how to tell her and implement being tactful at the same time. I adjusted the stapler. Then tweaked the pen jar.

“Dearie, I think you do know him. How?” Miss A. took off her bifocals. “Dare I ask, did you date him?”

For the third time, I controlled the urge to upchuck. “No way. He’s a loser.” Oops, I probably shouldn’t have used my pet name for him in front of my new employer. I had a way of stating the unexpected brutally honest truth at inappropriate moments.

Miss A.’s eyes rounded to the size of cereal bowls. Her mouth dropped slightly open. “I apologize if I upset you. You aren’t friends?”

Fix her mistaken belief quick, Hattie, or risk termination. “I’m sorry for being rude, Miss A.” I touched a finger to my lips before continuing. “No, you didn’t upset me. I do know him, but we aren’t friends. We won’t ever be.”

“How are you acquainted—if you don’t mind my asking a personal question?”

I always found being honest the best way to go. However, sometimes, reality needed to be manipulated in a delicate and subtle fashion. I placed my hands on top of the monitor. “He’s a slime ball. A creep.”

My social graces regarding Jonson Leggett the Third evaporated. Non. Ex. Is. Tent.

Her eyes widened as she cupped her throat. “Creep. Loser. Slime ball—why would you call him these names?”

“Miss A.”—I set my fists to my hips and looked over the store, wondering where to launch my story—“what I have to say is…unsettling.”

She nodded. “Take your time.”

I inhaled deeply. “Long before you moved here, Jonson Leggett the Third was married to my sister, Tracey, for one year. A horrid scandal followed. She divorced him. Front page gossip in big, bold headlines in the Sommerville Express for the entire universe to read. My mother nearly fainted.”

“Married? For only one year?”

At my nod, Miss A. tugged on her bifocals, letting them dangle from the chain on her chest.

“Oh my, not very long. You say the marriage took place before I came to Sommerville?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clasping her hands in front of her sternum, she looked from her left to the right before pinning her bright blue eyes on me.

“I’m guessing a story is in there somewhere. Can you say what happened?”

Biting my lip, I crossed my arms. Tracey wouldn’t mind me telling her side if doing so helped someone. I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. “Jonson talked my sister into eloping to Vegas. While they were on their honeymoon, he, er, engaged in a one-night stand. He came home and had another…and another—”

Miss A.’s mouth shaped an OhmyGod “O.” “Why that’s…that’s…disgusting.”

“Disgustingly true.” I bobbed my head. “Jonson Leggett the Third is not a nice person. Luckily, my sister uncovered his true colors before children entered the picture.”

Miss A. stood with rigid arms. Her fists balled tightly, outrage evident on her face. “He messed around while… Oh”—she fluttered her hand in front of her face—“now, he’s a client. Oh. Oh. Oh. Poor Barbie. I feel so sorry for her. What is she getting herself into?” The color drained from her face as if she would collapse any moment.

I didn’t handle hysterical people well. Taking her by the elbow, I guided her to a reception chair and assisted her in sitting. I raced to the mini-fridge for a water bottle, which I thrust in her hands.

Miss A. drank greedily. “I had high hopes Barbie and Jonson’s event would launch Wedding Wonderland as a premier shop to visit for all wedding needs. Won’t happen with them now.” She took a deep breath, and once calm, she finished the bottle. She struggled to gasp. “How horrible. How despicable.”

“Yes, ma’am. Later, I found out he was married before Tracey.”

“Your-your sister… She didn’t know?”

“No, ma’am.”

“He should have told her. It’s the honorable thing to do.”

“Yes, ma'am, but Jonson and honorable are incompatible.”

“Marriage is based on love—yes, but also, on values we admire like truth and honesty, not lies and deceit. Someone should have said something to your sister.” Miss A.’s fist pounded the chair’s arm.

“You’d think. People in love do silly things.” Dropping into the matching armchair, I slumped against the comfy pillow back and lengthened my legs, flexing and unflexing my toes. “Blame the whirlwind courtship. He was divorced for three months. The bastard charmed Tracey off her feet and swept her to Sin City on a friend’s private jet for a quickie marriage. For the total sum of a few hours, my sister experienced utter happiness.

“Jonson had a chance encounter with a floozy he met at the bar who interested him more. Tracey went to their suite to change clothes before dinner, opened the door, and heard the unmistakable sounds of laughter—his laughter and another woman’s. She stayed in the closet, while they did the, um, nasty.

“After they left, she found a red lacy thong in the bed but never said a word to Jonson. Just asked room service to change the sheets and dispose of the leftover lingerie. While they did, she stood in the hallway and phoned me. I had never heard my sister cry rivers of tears. My heart ached for her. I begged her to take the first flight home, but she wanted to iron out everything with him.”

Miss A. lifted her hand and shrugged. “People make mistakes.”

“Not him. He’s irredeemable. I swore I would have revenge someday.”

“Be careful with the revenge notion, Hattie. Revenge is bad for everyone involved. Trust me on this.”

“So I’ve heard.” I returned to a proper seated position with my hands in my lap. “He’s worse than a snake in the grass, a jerk, creep, slime ball, and a whole lot of other nasty words my mama told me never to say combined.”

“I can understand how you feel. My ex and Jonson share comparable characteristics.” Miss A. pressed a finger to the tip of her nose. “I also understand if you don’t want to help Barbie and him with planning their wedding—”

I shook my head. “I need to help. I can handle myself like the professional I am. I promise to be agreeable. And nice. Very nice. You don’t have to worry about anything.” To confirm my oath, I shaped three of my fingers in the Boy Scout symbol. “On my honor.”

She cocked her head. “If you’re sure, Hattie.”

All her glittery self had faded. Her immaculate white coat suddenly appeared less shiny, tarnished, like exhaustion dimmed her persona.

“I am.” I bobbed my head. “I can’t imagine Jonson coming back here anyhoo. Definitely, not his style.”