Good Christian Bitches Read online

  Amanda thought for a moment. “How could you be sure that he never came if you don’t know who you were looking for?”

  “I might not have known who I was looking for,” Elizabeth reasoned, “but I sure knew what I was looking for. Single white male, forty to sixty years of age, affluent by the look of his clothes, positioned at a discreet angle to the front door so that he could see who was or was not coming into the restaurant.”

  “Sounds like half the men in Dallas on a Saturday night,” Amanda noted with a grin.

  Her mother thought about that for a moment and nodded. “Good point. A lotta guys out there lookin’ for somethin’, but I don’t think it’s love.”

  They shared a laugh, the first break in the tension between the two women since Amanda had come home two days earlier.

  “I know I’ve been kind of mean to you,” Elizabeth said.

  Amanda sat up a little straighter. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I was sitting in the restaurant . . .” Elizabeth began. “Actually, I need to be very frank with you. I had a little bit of time to think. And a couple glasses of wine to help me think. And I realized I’ve been furious with you and haven’t masked it very well, ever since you came home.”

  “There’s a shocker,” Amanda replied sarcastically. “I’ve been thinking, what did I do to deserve this?”

  “You didn’t do anything. It’s me. I haven’t been angry at you. I’ve been angry at myself.”

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” The Bogart movie went into commercials, so Amanda hit the mute button.

  “Your husband did the same stuff mine did. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you like this. My own daughter.”

  Amanda waited. This was a level of openness from her mother she had never seen before.

  “Well, we’re all adults here,” Elizabeth went on. “My husband had the same wandering eye Bill does. But I tolerated it. And I really hated myself for it. It just seemed like the deal that a lot of us made back then. You marry a guy, and he provides you with this great lifestyle. Which I already had, but still. I guess you can never have enough.

  “And then what does he do? He figures he can mess around with any girl, or all the girls he wants, because he’s earned the right. And the more money he makes, the bigger his right to go screw anyone and anything. Single women, married women, airline stewardesses, secretaries, babysitters or nannies, knotholes in elm trees, whatever. You know what I’m saying?”

  Amanda nodded slowly.

  “It’s disgusting, when you think about it,” Elizabeth continued. “I mean, it’s not quite prostitution on our part—okay, on my part—because I’m not providing sex for money. It’s kind of reverse prostitution—he’s providing money so that he can go off and have sex with whoever he wants, whenever he wants. I never thought about it that way, but that’s what it comes down to. It’s what my mother always told me. Never leave a provider.”

  “I guess that’s kind of how it is,” Amanda agreed. She didn’t know what was more surprising to her—the fact that her mother was being so open with her, or the fact that her mother was making so much sense. Both were new experiences for her.

  “Mom, I always kind of knew Dad was . . . well, not exactly faithful to you. Let’s just say I always knew Daddy was ‘a hard dog to keep under the porch,’ as the old saying goes. But I never thought I’d marry the same kind of man; although, Bill is far worse than Daddy ever was . . . At least I hope Daddy wasn’t as bad.”

  “It’s a shame,” Elizabeth said. “But it seems like too many women in Hillside Park tolerate it at some point in their marriages. I mean, I know there are a lot of husbands who are faithful, don’t get me wrong, but maybe those guys are faithful because they’re just not that interested in sex. I know there’s a difference in surviving an affair and saving your marriage, which I’m all for and think you should try to do, but that’s completely different from what I’m talking about. Of course, there are some men who really can walk the line. I’ve just never known many of them. Or known many women married to them. It’s just . . . endemic.”

  “Endemic?” Amanda repeated, surprised. She’d never heard her mother use that word before.

  “I’m not as dumb as I let on to be,” Elizabeth said. “I like it when people underestimate me. I can get away with a little more that way. I guess that’s how I’ve gone through life. But I think I really underestimated myself. I think I deserved more than a man who basically cheated on me my entire life. But it’s not something I felt like I could ever afford to let myself think about.

  “It’s just one of those thoughts that comes into your head and then you do everything you can to think of something else. And then you move back home, because you won’t accept that same life with Bill that I had accepted with Ed, well, it just did me in. It just got me thinking. And then all of a sudden here comes Mr. Black Mercedes and it doesn’t even dawn on you to go out and see who it is, even just for sport. I mean, it would have been the perfect opportunity for you to just do something—have a fling, take a weekend in Mexico with him—”

  Amanda’s eyebrows went up. This was definitely a level of intimacy she had never experienced with her mother, and she wasn’t entirely sure she was comfortable with it. But here it was, so she just had to deal with it. “Or maybe God was putting him in your life so that you wouldn’t be another forty-something, lonely divorcée, chasing after what available men there are here in Hillside Park like the rest of them. At least I had the dignity to get out of the game when Ed died. But I tell you, there’s no dignity in the way these women chase these men or compromise themselves to maintain a certain lifestyle. Believe me, your dignity is something you just might need later.

  “And the men know it, and that’s why they feel no need to make a true commitment. You didn’t do that. You wouldn’t even go to the restaurant and see who it was. And I really believe you’re not even going to keep that car. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Amanda said softly. She was amazed—her mother was actually honoring her for a choice she had made. That was something different. On the other hand, maybe she had grown up a little bit out in California, away from the stifling confines of Hillside Park. Maybe her choices were a little more honorable than they might have been in the past, when she had done exactly as she pleased, with whom she pleased, when she pleased—which is why her relationship with her mother had never been that great to begin with.

  “I just think what you did tonight . . .” Elizabeth said, leaning slightly toward Amanda, just enough that Amanda could smell the alcohol on her mother’s breath. “I thought it was really cool. You’re tough as a boot, kiddo. And you quitting Bill because of the way he was sleeping around on you? I wish I’d have had the courage to do what you’ve done when I was your age. I don’t know what we would have done as a family, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered, because your father was away so much anyway. But at least I wouldn’t have been putting up with all that dishonesty and deceit, playing that charade of the perfect Hillside Park family, knowing that that fool husband of mine was doing some stewardess in Barcelona or Houston or wherever the hell he was.”

  “Mom,” Amanda said gently, a bit embarrassed for her mother by now, “don’t you think maybe you ought to get to bed?”

  Her mother thought for a moment.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” she began, and Amanda braced herself—her mother had been telling her what she was thinking for the last ten minutes, and it was more honesty than the two of them had shared in the last twenty years. It was almost more than Amanda could bear.

  “I believe he was sitting in his own car, the whole time, waiting to see if you would show up. Because anybody who’s got the kind of money—no, that’s not true. Tons of men who have that same kind of money wouldn’t think twice about plopping themselves down at the bar at Al’s, waiting to see what the selection of ladies will be on the menu this evening. So that’s not what he did. He was too cool for th
at.

  “Anybody who drops off a hundred-thousand-dollar car—I don’t even know how much it costs. Two hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand? I’m old-school. It’s hard to imagine anybody paying that much money for a car. But still. It was an incredible gesture on his part to give you the car, and it was even more impressive that he didn’t sit in plain view in the restaurant, flirting with all the other women in the bar until you came in, like many men in this town would have done.”

  “Mom,” Amanda said, shocked to hear such talk from her mother. But then, her mother had always been a pretty straight-shooting woman, and she probably talked this way with her friends. The only difference was that now she was sharing her innermost feelings with her daughter.

  “I’m okay,” Elizabeth said, waving a hand. “I know, you’re shocked to hear Mommy talking like this. But we’re all adults. You can take it. I’ve been angry at you these last couple of days, but the reality is that I’ve been really angry at me. For living that lie. I don’t know where you got the gumption to stand up for yourself, but I admire you for it. And I wish I’d had it, too.”

  “You were hardly the only one, Mom. Dad was definitely the rule back then, not the exception. A guy really had it all—a beautiful wife, wonderful family, awesome career with great financial success, multiple homes, expensive cars, and, oh yeah, a rockin’ mistress on the side that everyone knew was his, to discourage any possible legitimate suitors. So many of them did it in Dad’s time, and some still do; they just aren’t as arrogant about it.”

  They were silent for a moment. “You’re really gonna return that car?” Elizabeth asked finally.

  Amanda bit her lip. She said nothing.

  “You’re not gonna trade it in for an SUV? You could, you know. And you’d get a bunch of cash back, too. I’m sure Mr. Black Mercedes wouldn’t mind, whoever he is.”

  “I can buy my own SUV, Mom,” Amanda said quietly.

  Elizabeth nodded admiringly. “You’re a good girl, Amanda,” she said, yawning. “This heat just wipes me out completely.” She pointed at the wide-screen. “Movie’s back on. I like Bogart. Not that I would have liked being married to him. It would’ve been a part-time job. Well, maybe I would have. Why don’t you put the sound back on?”

  Amanda glanced over at her mother, awestruck by the direction the conversation had taken. She actually felt relieved to put the sound back on; the conversation had been a little too revealing for her comfort level. And yet, it was the kind of talk she had always dreamt of having with her mother. She hit the mute button and the raspy voice of Humphrey Bogart returned. A moment later, Amanda saw that her mother had fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear.

  Amanda watched the rest of the movie, secretly wishing she had a bucket of popcorn with lots and lots of butter. Forget SoCal tofu—if there were ever a time in her life for Orville Redenbacher, this was it. What a day, Amanda thought, letting out an exhausted yawn as the film credits rolled across the screen.

  Chapter 9

  Sharon Peavy knew she was not the perfect woman. She knew she was moody, insecure, flawed, and hard to stay in a relationship with, or at least that was the feedback she had gotten from men over the years. But she had read enough self-help books and been to enough relationship seminars to know that she was lovable just the way she was, and that if one man said no, there would always be another man coming up quickly behind him to say yes—so she’d been told.

  But the older she got, the longer the dry spells between men seemed to be. Sharon was well known as a “covert competitor.” The stories were legendary. She was the type that was always competing with someone for someone or something, but her opponent was never aware they were anything but the dearest of friends. When women who’ve never had to play that game encounter someone like Sharon, they end up hurt, deceived, and betrayed, but walk away from the experience just being very grateful they’ve never had to hone those skills and that they weren’t the type to have to try and make someone else look bad in order to try and make themselves look good. But Sharon had perfected this long ago and was truly a master of the game.

  She was also self-evolved enough to know that her attractiveness to men wasn’t entirely spiritual, and that they were not drawn solely to that tiny kernel of lovability that she possessed. She knew that a lot of men were interested in her simply because, in addition to all her other fine points—a great sense of humor, an adventuresome nature, and pretty eyes—she had absolutely, positively perfect boobs. Some said she had the very best rack in Dallas.

  The truth was they weren’t store-bought, they didn’t need an assist from a Miracle Bra, and they had never been surgically enhanced. They were naturally, absolutely perfect, and she was exceedingly proud of the fact that it was common knowledge they felt real. At the gym, on the rare occasions when she went there, she frequently saw women in their twenties glancing admiringly and curiously at her, and she would look right back at them. Those girls might have been ten or fifteen years younger, but they had nothing on Sharon Peavy—or so she had convinced herself.

  She was also one of those women who would be the first to complain about how she hated it when men wouldn’t look her in the face because they were too busy staring at her chest, but she dressed to show it off anyway. So when Sharon needed something—companionship, attention, affirmation, or information—she knew that all she had to do was show some cleavage and the world was hers. Most men would say that Sharon had a great body and a face to guard it with. Most women just considered her hard-looking. One particularly disenchanted suitor had told his buddies that without makeup, Sharon looked rougher than a truck stop waitress. But even he couldn’t deny that she had a great body.

  And she knew it could get her places. As she arrived at the Mercedes dealership the morning after her and Heather’s chat with Darlene, Sharon wore a revealing, scoop-necked electric-blue Dolce & Gabbana top she had “borrowed” from a Hillside Park friend. She didn’t want to buy a car—she was determined to find out who the gentleman was who had bought Amanda her car.

  She parked her four-year-old BMW, a gift a boyfriend had given her in a fit of perfect-body-inspired generosity, power-walked across the parking lot, and approached the first salesman she could find and asked for a manager.

  “Dean,” the salesman said, “she needs your help.”

  With his eyes focused squarely on Sharon’s chest, Dean dropped his jaw. He found himself unable to speak for a moment.

  “She doesn’t need anything,” he finally said. “She’s perfect the way she is.” And then to Sharon, brightly, “How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m from the head Mercedes office in Stuttgart,” Sharon said authoritatively. “Could we talk in your office for a moment, please?”

  Dean blinked several times, trying to reconcile the idea that this most attractive woman had anything to do with the head office.

  “I left all my business cards on the plane,” Sharon lied. Somehow the comment galvanized the still-awestruck Dean into action.

  “Right this way, ma’am,” he said, leading her past the longing glances of the other car salesmen to his private office.

  Once seated, Sharon thought about doing the Sharon Stone “crossing and uncrossing of legs” thing, but Dean was obviously already so flustered that that might have sent him over the edge.

  “How are—how are things in Stuttgart?” he asked.

  “Great.” Sharon tried to think for a moment about how things really were in Stuttgart. She’d never been, but she’d once dated a German. In her time, she’d covered most of the categories. Her German ex had been scrupulously hygienic, and come to think of it, he had pitched a fit about the dangers of air pollution.

  “Smoggy,” she added as an afterthought. “Very smoggy. Especially this time of year.”

  Dean nodded knowingly, as if intimately familiar with the subject of seasonal smog in Stuttgart. “We have that same problem here in Dallas, ma’am,” he said, groping for common ground.

>   “Mmm, I’m sure you do,” Sharon murmured. Then she got to the point. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here. Basically, Stuttgart sends me around to all the dealerships as kind of a secret shopper, but not really.”

  Dean struggled both to simultaneously follow what she was saying and keep his eyes off her chest, neither of those an easy task. “Well, I’m not really a secret shopper, in the sense that I’m not shopping for a car.” Sharon’s explanation served only to pitch Dean into a greater state of confusion and despair.

  “What I’m trying to say is . . .” Sharon started to think that maybe she should have come up with a simpler story. “. . . Is that I’m supposed to look at a random transaction y’all have completed in the last twenty-four hours? And just make sure everything was up to the standards that we at Mercedes try to instill in our dealerships.” Dean and Sharon exchanged a look of great relief—Sharon delighted that she had actually gotten her story straight, and Dean grateful because he finally understood, at least on some level, what she was talking about.

  “You just want to make sure that we’re satisfying our customers,” he said, translating Sharon-speak into something that he could understand and explain to himself.

  Sharon brightened. “That’s it exactly!”

  “Um, sure. We’ve delivered about a hundred cars this week—I could get you all the QED reports you want, or phone numbers of the customers, or anything.”

  “We’ve chosen at random,” Sharon said, going back to her story, emboldened by the success she had already achieved, “for our study a black Maybach. And we’re trying to focus specifically on black Maybachs that have been delivered to residential customers in the last twenty-four hours. Do you have any vehicles like that that might have been delivered in the last twenty-four hours?” She tried to sound professional.