Just as we thought. When it comes toOperation Goodbye Earl, the good people of Fox Hole will look the other way.
“In any case, I’m taking advantage of my free time. Got some flowers for the old lady and then when I get home I have plans for us to…enjoy some jam, if you know what I mean.”
“Art, we all know what you mean.” Ivy laughs, slipping the bread onto the griddle. It sizzles from the excess of and the scent of ham and sweet fruitiness fills my nostrils. For once, the smell doesn’t make me immediately nauseous, though the thought of Artie and his old lady ‘enjoying my jam’ does make me feel like gagging, just a little.
“Okay, kids, that’s enough. How many jars do you want, Artie?”
Artie asks for so many jars that the number almost makes my head spin (and, unfortunately, conjures intrusive images of kiddie pools full of jam in his backyard that make me want to burn my own eyeballs out). Thankfully, I had Ivy working with me to prepare for the weekend because typically, a purchase like Artie’s would have cleaned me out. Thanks to her, I’ve still got enough to make it through the rest of the day.
Ivy wraps up Artie’s HJ and then gets to work helping him load three boxes of glass jars into his cart. I focus on ringing him up and trying like hell not to stare at the way the muscles in Ivy’s arms flex and strain as she lifts each box. That damn tank topshe has on should be illegal for the way it shows off her toned shoulders. Not to mention the tiny, enticing peek of the large leopard tattooed on her ribcage poking from the hem of the armhole. She squats to pick up another box, and her jean shorts ride low, showing off the butterfly tramp stamp she once called ironic but has since embraced since the trend came back in style. Under the black ink wingtip, I can spot a sliver of red that I know is the waistband of her underwear.
Heat blooms between my hips as I watch Ivy stand and stretch, that bit of red disappearing below the top of her denim cutoffs. There’s something so enticing about Ivy’s androgyny, something so captivating about the way her favorite boxer briefs and short hair give her a masculine edge while her hips and breasts create feminine curves that go on for miles underneath her Daisy Duke shorts that has my mouth watering.
Artie clears his throat, and I jump, realizing from the ‘caught you with your hand in the cookie jar’ look on the man’s face that my checking out Ivy was nowhere near subtle enough. I press my lips into a thin line, wracking my brain for some sort of excuse in case he rats me out, but then the sight and sound of the most agitating human being on the face of the planet interrupts my otherwise peaceful morning.
13
THE DOMINOES HAVE BEEN TIPPED
DELILAH
“Will you look at what we have here? I gave you the day off and you decided to spend the money I pay you at this dump? Artie, we might need to have a talk about your priorities.”
My almost-ex-husband saunters up, dressed like a total douchebag in khaki shorts and a sky-blue polo with matching blue boat shoes. I know from experience that those shoes will leave his crusty feet covered in blisters that he’ll pop on the bathroom floor and not clean up later. Thank god that’s not my fucking problem to deal with anymore. I wonder if the Joy Turner-looking blonde on his arm has already been tasked with cleaning up after Earl around hisown house. Seems he moved on from Mindy pretty quickly, but hey, who am I to judge?
“We both know you don’t pay me nearly enough to have any kind of opinions on my personal life, Earl. And besides, once the check clears, what I do with my own money is none of your damn business.”
“Nice hat,” Ivy adds, motioning to the fugly Ferrari-branded baseball cap on Earl’s head, covering up what I’m hoping is a patchwork of bald spots and pink straw sprouting from his scalp.
“Oh my god, I love strawberry jam! Look, baby, free samples!” Blondieexclaims, jumping up and down while Earl sneers at Artie.
“Would you like one?” I ask, spooning a bit of jam onto a small wooden sample spoon. Sometimes I offer my goods on tiny pieces of bread or even pound cake, but I find that I sell more if I let my jam speak for itself. Blondie reaches for the spoon, but Earl snatches it and throws it on the ground, leaving his companion pouting.
“You really shouldn’t litter,” I grumble quietly, knowing no one is paying attention to me, anyway.
“We don’t need to give these nobodies our time or attention, Sugar Pie.”
‘Sugar Pie’ has me scrunching up my nose. There go any good thought I ever had about sweet treats or cute terms of endearment.
“What are you even doing here, Earl? Don’t you have anywhere else you could be on a Saturday morning?” Ivy seethes next to me.
“The Earl—” Ivy audibly gags at his referring to himself both by his self-proclaimed title and in the third person, but he soldiers on — “is a pillar of this community, Ivy Crowe. Where else should I be rather than giving my support to the more reputable local businesses?”
“Your daughter is playing a flag football game at the high school right now.”
“You have a daughter?” Blondie looks up at Earl, and I can sense the confusion and a hint of sadness in her tone as well as the borderline disgust in her eyes. I don’t know how long they’ve been together, but at least she has the decency to be upset that her beau hid the existence of his kids from her. Still, I focus on Earl.
“You could be there, cheering her on. But considering you’ve never once made it to one of her games in her entire life, I don’t know why I’d expect you to start now.”
Earl’s face morphs into an ugly, red ball of anger, but I remain steadfast. I won’t cower under his faux-macho fear-mongering anymore.
“I haven’t been lucky enough to have the time to attend my daughter’s activities because someone hasto work to pay for them. Not all of us can sit at home all day doing nothing and playing with fruit. How much of your silly little jam have you sold today, Delilah? Not enough to make up for missing Sadie’s flag football game either, I suppose?”
Oh no, he fucking didn’t. God, I wish my feet weren’t too swollen for my spiky stilettos right now. If I were wearing those instead of the pregnancy sneakers that make it so I don’t have to bend over to get on my feet, I’d kick Earl’s stupid dick right off his body.
This son of a bitch thinks he can question my devotion to our child? He’s got another thing coming.
“No. It’s never worth missing out on time with Sadie, but I do it because I have to. I’ve made enough to pay the flag football team fees, as well as Sadie’s soccer camp fees, and the cost of her costume for the Junior Thespian Club’s production of A Midsommar Night’s Dream. Not to mention all the things she needs for the Campfire Girl’s camping trip to Cumberland Mountain at the end of summer. And when I’ve finished up here, I get to go pick up Sadie from my parent’s house and spend the night with her. I’ll get to hear all about the football game and watch the videos that Mom is taking on her phone.I’ll play video games with Sadie, and she’ll read to me from her chapter book before she goes to bed. I get all that time with her because I’m her mother and I make the time. And even though I send you every video of your kid playing sports or acting in the school play or dancing at her hip-hop recitals, you don’t bother to watch them. You never show up, you never ask about her, you never fucking cared!”
