“What’s the big deal? Why do you care so much if she was there?” His eyes crinkled with mirth.
“You don’t get it!”
He blew out air, folded his arms across his chest. Pouted, obviously, because he wasn’t going to get any from her right then. “I honestly don’t. We have more money than God. You’re at the top of the food chain. For Christ’s sake, Charleigh, you’re getting all wound up over nothing.”
People advising Charleigh with any version ofcalm downhas always had the opposite effect on her. That phrase is gasoline being poured on a campfire. Frustration surged through her veins; she stomped from the room.
She plodded into the kitchen and tried Jackson yet again. Slammed the phone into the receiver when he didn’t answer.
She had gone to the club for her weekly Jazzercise class but arrived late. She was planning to catch the last of the class, then hit the upstairs lounge for daiquiris with the ladies right after, like they always did.
As she neared the exercise room, she heard the final bars of Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical,” the song the instructor plays at the end. Charleigh was going to pull the door open and step inside, but just as her fingers curled around the handle, she noticed something through the glass.
All her friends were clumped in a circle. Just as the song ended, they pulled apart, revealing who was in the middle: Abigail.
Charleigh’s ears literally began to ring at the sight of her. She opened the door but didn’t enter, just stood staring at the unbelievable scene.
She wasn’t in a leotard, of course, but another one of her handsewn getups, a prairie dress. But her fawny hair was slick with sweat, so it was obvious she’d been a part of the class.
Emily, the perky instructor, trilled, “And a special thanks to Abigail, for joining us today!” Her hair was twisted up in a high ponytail, which swung as she continued. “And thanks for your potion! I’ve been having the best sex of my life!”
What the…fuck.
Charleigh let the door close, turned around, and galloped over to the front desk. “Excuse me, Lucy.”
Lucy, the receptionist, petite with a mousy-brown bob and cat-eye glasses, looks demure but loves gossiping, shooting the shit with everyone.
She folded her newspaper, glancing up at Charleigh. “Heeeey! What’s up?”
“What isshedoing here?” Charleigh jerked her head toward the exercise class. “That lady in the dress.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, grinning. “Abigail?”
“Mm-hmm…she a member?”
“No, but she brought by these samples.” Lucy ducked under the desk, ostensibly to retrieve them.
“Oh, I don’t need to see!” Charleigh squeaked.
“Okaaay.” Lucy slunk back up to sitting. “Well, I’ve gotta okay this with management, but I think we’re going to start carrying them!” Her eyes glittered with excitement. “So I gave her a friend’s pass today. I mean,of course, she’d need to join to keep coming, but I just thought—”
“Got it.” Charleigh cut her off, then, biting into her tongue, tromped away.
Where the fuck is Jackson?
22
Jane
The sound of Pa’s circular saw convulses across the pasture.
It’s two o’clock, and I’m still out here working, aerating a new patch of red clay soil in order to plant purple hull peas and okra. We’ve never grown these before, but Mr. Oldham at the general store swore they’ll thrive here.
Finished with the last row, I walk over to Pa, who’s slapping freshly cut two-by-fours to the ground, laying out the frame for something.
“Whatcha building?” I ask.
He tugs off his mustard-colored leather gloves before tossing them to the ground. “It’s a surprise. You’ll see soon enough.”
