making him look like a mad scientist.
“Hello, Mr. Hurston. How are you today?”
He gave me a glassy stare. “I saw you. I know what you did. I’ve got my eye on you.”
This was his standard greeting. He repeated those same words to everyone he met, repeatedly.
I nodded and followed Marianne to the kitchen. The layout of the house was a mirror image of my own, which always threw me off. My natural instinct was to turn left to go to the kitchen instead of right. After more than twenty years, I still veered to the left, bumped into the console table, and stubbed my toe. I went into the kitchen. Marianne was sitting at the circular wooden table with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.
“Have a seat and take a load off.” She smiled.
I sat and took a long drink. The lemonade was a mix, and it was so sweet I could feel my blood sugar rise. However, I was thirsty, so I chugged it down. Marianne Carpenter was the world’s worst cook. Her cookies were so hard I once used one as a wedge to level my kitchen chair. When she offered, I used my standard response, “Those look delicious, but I’m dieting.”
I wasn’t overweight. I’d describe myself as “big boned.” I was five feet four, one hundred fifty pounds, but compared to Marianne, I looked like the Jolly Green Giant. She was conscious of her figure and very conscientious of mine. She was extra-sensitive about everything else, but she understood dieting.
“Of course, dear, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Please forgive me. I’ve never had to watch my weight, but I do understand.” She patted my hand.
I plastered a fake smile on my face and dug my fingernails into my palm to prevent myself from flinging the glass of lemon-flavored sugar water at her.
“How are you holding up?” She leaned across the table and whispered with the look people wore to console family members at a funeral.
“I’m doing well. How are you?” I pretended I didn’t know she was referring to the fact that my husband had left me for a younger woman.
“Well, of course you’re fine.” She patted my hand again. “I’m praying for you two. In fact, when the pastor had altar call Sunday, I stood up and shared your situation with the congregation, and our pastor put your names on the prayer list at church.”
I dug my fingernails deeper and bit the inside of my cheek. “You did what?”
She smiled proudly, then hopped up and pulled a calendar off the refrigerator and brought it to the table. “Not only that, but I asked our prayer circle to keep you both on their prayer chain. There are people praying for you every hour of every day.” She looked at the sheet. “I’m scheduled from five to five thirty every morning.” She pointed her long, bony fingers at the time slot on the calendar.
I stared at the sheet until my eyes blurred and a vein throbbed on the side of my head. I stood up so quickly I nearly knocked over the chair. “Thank you for the lemonade, but I have to go.”
“You’re welcome, dear,” were the last words I heard as I rushed out the back door.
As I marched home, I told myself over and over again, “She meant well.” However, the idea of sharing my marital situation with the entire church in a small town like Lighthouse Dunes was the equivalent to posting an ad on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.
It took the rest of the afternoon before I calmed down enough to step outside. However, I needed groceries, and unless I went to the store, I’d be forced to order pizza again and the delivery boy went to Marianne’s church. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Albert was the one who cheated. He was the one who had an affair. He was the one who had left me for a bleached-blond Barbie doll who was young enough to be his daughter. Nevertheless, I found myself looking askance at everyone I passed at the grocery store and the gas station.
When I got home, I was surprised to find a large RV parked in my driveway. I pulled up next to it, and the door opened and out jumped a tall, thin woman with big Dolly Parton hair, tight jeans, lots of jewelry, and holding a tiny black poodle.
“Lilly Anne, I know I should have called.” She hugged me, careful not to squash the poodle. “I was so excited to get your e-mail this morning, I hopped in my RV and hightailed it up here to see you.” She pulled back and looked at me. “I hope that’s okay?” she said in her sweet southern drawl.
I smiled and gave her another hug. “Of course it’s alright, Dixie. I’m really happy to see you too. Please, come inside.”
She handed me the dog. “You don’t mind I brought a few of my dogs along, do you?”
I juggled my grocery bags and held the little shivering fluff ball to my chest. “Of course I don’t mind. I love dogs, but I thought you had big poodles.”
She opened the side door to the RV and out pranced two large black poodles that appeared to be shaved closely in many places, but where their coats were longer, the hair was wrapped up as though they were getting a perm. They had bright-colored wrappers hanging from their ears, and the hair atop their heads was a conglomeration of scrunchies and rubber bands. On the ground, the dogs came to my waist. They were big and carried themselves regally, regardless of the ridiculous wrappers and bands. There was something in their bearing that proclaimed, I don’t care what you think of my appearance. You are beneath me.
“I do have standard poodles.” She placed a lead over one of the dog’s heads. “This is Champion Chyna, the Ninth Wonder of the World.”
I raised an eyebrow at hearing the name.
Dixie shrugged. “That’s what I get for letting my nephew and his fraternity brothers choose the name.” She patted the dog. “I just finished her at the specialty, so that made the win even more special.”
She scratched the dog behind the ear, and Chyna looked as though her eyes would roll back in her head. “That’s her registered name, but her call name is Chyna.” She put a lead around the other dog. “And this is Champion Galactic Imperial Resistance Leader, call name Leia.”
“Wow. That’s a mouthful.”
She smiled. “The registered name is just for shows. Breeders try to come up with unique names that will make a statement with the judges. The call name is what we actually call the dog.”
“I get it. So, Chyna and Leia?”
She nodded. “You got it.”
I held out the fluff ball in my arms. “And who is this?”
She smiled. “I have no idea. One of the breeders rescued her from a puppy mill. Her husband went bonkers when she came home with another dog, apparently fifteen was his limit. She asked if anyone would be willing to take her.”
“She looks awfully small.” I stared at the other poodles relieving themselves on the shrubs that separated my house from my neighbor’s. I cringed at what Bradley Hurston would say when he saw me again.
Dixie must have noticed my cringe, because she quickly grabbed the dogs’ leads. “I’m sorry. I forget not everyone is a dog lover.”
“No, it’s okay.”
She
