Good Christian Bitches Page 9

  Dean was flustered, fantasizing so heavily about taking Sharon into a dark corner of the repair shop that he could barely remember the question. “Um, I’m sure we have. . . . I’m not really in charge of the deliveries. But I could make a phone call for you. I could find out exactly that information, ma’am, if you’d give me a moment to make that call.”

  Sharon smiled, angling herself at Dean in such a way that he found it truly impossible to keep his mind on his business.

  He swallowed hard. “Ma’am, let me just get Yolanda on the phone, and I can get you that information,” he said, his voice starting to crack like an adolescent boy’s.

  Sharon smiled primly. Unbelievable, she thought, this is actually working.

  Dean reached for his phone, misdialed, misdialed a second time, then waited a moment as the phone rang on the other end.

  “Is Yolanda there?”

  Short pause.

  “Could you find her, please? This is Dean. I’ve got a quality-control person from Mercedes of Stuttgart here in my office, and we’ve got a quick question for her.” Long pause.

  Dean glanced at Sharon, and then for safety’s sake, restricted his gaze to the calendar in the blotter on his desk.

  “Yolanda! I’m sitting here with—I’m sorry, your name was?”

  Sharon came up short. She hadn’t even thought of a name to give. If she gave her real name, someone in the dealership might recognize it. After all, she was “somebody” in Dallas. She rapidly looked around the office for something to clue her in and noticed all the “Top Sales” awards on Dean’s walls.

  “Sharon . . . Sales,” she said as convincingly as she could.

  Dean nodded. “Like I said, I’m sitting here with Sharon Sales? Of the Stuttgart office? She’s a QC specialist and she wants to know if we’ve delivered any black Maybachs in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I need to see the paperwork,” Sharon said.

  “She needs to see the paperwork,” Dean repeated, then listened.

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Sharon. “We delivered two black Maybachs yesterday—one to downtown Dallas and one to a residence in Hillside Park. Do you want the paperwork on both?”

  Sharon thought quickly. She tried to make it sound as random as possible when she spoke. “What if we just did . . . the home delivery one in . . . what was that neighborhood you mentioned? Hillside Park?”

  “It’s one of the nicer neighborhoods here in town. It’s just over Brookshier Road.”

  “That would be ideal,” Sharon agreed.

  Dean smiled with relief. It was just too much to be sitting alone in his office, even though it was a glass-walled office, with Sharon Sales from Stuttgart. Mercedes was known for springing quality-control experts on its dealerships, but the combination of sex and power that Sharon exuded was just too much for Dean.

  “Thank you,” he told Yolanda. “She’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll take you back to Yolanda’s office,” he told Sharon as he hung up, relieved to move her down the line.

  Sharon, however, wasn’t relieved; she didn’t want to carry her charade to another person. “I don’t understand,” she said, confused. “Can’t you get the records for me? I just need to see the bill of sale.”

  “It’s a different department,” Dean explained apologetically. “You know how it is. We just sell ’em. Yolanda’s group does all the record-keeping associated with delivery, warranties, the rest of it. I’m sure it’s the same in every dealership.”

  “Oh, of course.” Sharon nodded rapidly, as if she had the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  “Right this way, then, Ms. Sales,” Dean said, standing up to escort her out of his office and then down the hall.

  Sharon followed, disappointed. Who was this Yolanda, anyway? Was she going to buy the idea that she was Sharon Sales from the Stuttgart office?

  “That’s Yolanda right there,” Dean said, opening an office door and pointing. He gave her a little wave. “Yolanda, this is Sharon . . . Sales. She’s the QC from Stuttgart. Well, good luck, and safe travels.” He then got himself out of there as quickly as he could.

  “Um, hi,” Sharon said in her most professional voice—which wasn’t all that professional, even she had to admit. “I’m Sharon Sales? From the Dallas office? I mean, from the Stuttgart office?”

  Yolanda did not stand to greet her guest. Yolanda, a no-nonsense Latina born and raised in San Antonio, had little use for the self-important Dallas women who breezed into the dealership, bristling with impatience, ill-concealed racism, and stacks of their husbands’ hard-earned cash. To her practiced eye, Sharon looked like just one more Hillside Park wannabe.

  “I left my business cards on the plane,” Sharon explained, flustered by Yolanda’s steely gaze.

  “No doubt,” Yolanda said, not giving anything away. Sharon broke eye contact then, noticing that Yolanda’s blouse scooped even lower than her own. Great.

  “I won’t be but a minute of your time,” she said, trying to sound as professional as ever. “I’m from—”

  “Stuttgart,” Yolanda said, her tone dripping with disbelief. “You want to see the bill of sale for the black Maybach we delivered to a residence in Hillside Park yesterday. Is that correct?”

  Sharon, uncertain about what to do with herself since she had not been invited to sit down, gave a nervous nod.

  “I’m sorry,” Yolanda said after checking her records. She put her elbows on her desk. “The car was purchased anonymously for cash. There is no name on the bill of sale. Do you still want to see it?” Her tone challenged Sharon’s entire sense of authority. Sharon, flustered, felt what little control she had over the situation rapidly ebbing away.

  “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “For cash? With no name?”

  “And in any event,” Yolanda replied, eager to put this conversation to an abrupt end, “the transaction has been rescinded. The car was returned to the dealership earlier this morning. Would you like to see the car? I can assure you there was nothing wrong with it.”

  “That—that won’t be necessary,” Sharon averred, backtracking slightly.

  “Did you say your name was Sharon . . . Sales?” Yolanda asked, making a note on a yellow pad.

  “Yes, b-but . . . I’d better go now.”

  “I think that’s probably a good idea,” Yolanda agreed, studying Sharon’s whole game, which she had to admit, was remarkable. “Let me guess. You’re checking up on your husband because you think he bought his girlfriend a Mercedes. Is that correct?”

  Yolanda fixed her steady, terrifying gaze on Sharon, who was speechless.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Yolanda told her. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get another husband in no time. Have a nice day, Ms. Sales.”

  Sharon meekly backed out of the office and practically ran out of the dealership, clicking her Dior heels on the highly polished showroom floor and nearly tripping as she ran. Once back in the safety of her gently aging BMW, she slammed the driver door. “Shit!” she yelled as loud as she could. Fortunately, she was out of sight and earshot of Dean, Yolanda, or anyone else at the Mercedes dealership.

  Sharon yanked her cell phone out of her purse and called Heather.

  “What’s up?” Heather said, bypassing “hello” or any other greeting.

  “The guy bought it for cash,” Sharon said angrily. “And she returned the car! She didn’t even keep it. Now we’ll never know who bought it.” Silence.

  “Shit,” Heather finally said.

  “You got that right.” Sharon was furious that Yolanda had figured her out. If only Dean could have gotten the information. “I’m late for work. This is so screwed up.”

  “I know you’re disappointed you didn’t get the 411, honey. But this will make you feel better. Guess who the next chair of the Longhorn Ball is gonna be?”

  “Amanda Vaughn?” Sharon’s mood quickly turned around.

  “Shush-shush. Mum’s the word
for now,” Heather said. “But it’s all been cleared by the powers that be. We just have to get her to say yes.”

  “Awesome! Well, it’s safe to say we just ruined her whole next year.”

  “Don’t worry about the car thing,” Heather said.

  “What car thing?” Sharon answered, her unhappy visit with Yolanda already receding into foggy memory. “She’s not gonna have time for anything anymore. She’s gonna be way too buried with the Ball.”

  “Call me later. We need a plan. That guy really, like, paid cash for the car? And she returned it?”

  “Right on both counts.”

  “I can’t believe it! What is she thinking?” Heather asked. “I have to say that Amanda’s got a little more backbone than we thought. I kind of can’t help admiring her.” There was a long pause. “But I mean, we’ll take her down,” she added quickly. “Not to worry.”

  “I’m not worried in the least,” Sharon said. In a much better frame of mind now, she clicked off the call, folded the phone back into her purse, started up the Beemer, and happily headed to work.

  Chapter 10

  “This house sucks!” Will pronounced in his angriest voice as Amanda did her best to direct the movers to unload the furniture into their new home. It was another sweltering, humid afternoon, and between the stress of trying to figure out where to put stuff while contemplating her new life and dealing with her belligerent son, Amanda felt at the breaking point.

  “Will,” she said wearily, “for the hundredth time, please don’t use that word. It’s just so inappropriate.”

  “It’s totally appropriate!” he said with a snarl. “It’s exactly how I feel, and it’s exactly the truth, which makes it appropriate, and you know it!”

  Amanda glanced around the house. Okay, so it was only six thousand square feet, and it looked out on a view of other, equally large homes, instead of twelve thousand square feet looking out on the Pacific. She felt a pang of guilt that her son’s sense of values could be so skewed. Granted, she had grown up in a house larger than the Harrington home they were renting, but her values were pretty down to earth. Where exactly did Will get his attitude about life, so deeply rooted in entitlement? That’s not how kids were when she was growing up. But then she thought, maybe they were and she just never realized it. Who knows how these things happen. Still, she couldn’t help but think her son’s outbursts were way out of line.

  “Where does this box go?” one of the movers asked, and Amanda sighed, staring at it and trying to decide exactly what its contents might be. She had been in such a hurry to pack and move that she had neglected to label many of the boxes. Dozens of brown boxes, with who knew what inside them, littered the living room floor. She shook her head. It would take months to unpack everything, and then after a year or two they would move on, so she’d have to go through the whole process all over again. Next time she’d hire a service instead of trying to do it all with her housekeepers. On the other hand, next time she wouldn’t be running from her ex-husband, desperate to start a new life for herself back home and put the past behind her.

  “Just put it in the living room with all the others,” she said, resigned to her fate of spending an endless stretch of days trying to turn boxes and boxes of possessions into something approaching a normal home for her family.

  “Can I go swimming?” Sarah asked cheerfully. “I love our new pool!”

  Leave it to my daughter to find something good in all this, Amanda thought. “Of course, honey,” she said. “Will, you can go with her if you want.”

  “I don’t want to go swimming, Mom,” he said, scowling. “I’m just gonna skateboard on the front steps. Our landlord should’ve put in a skateboarding ramp instead of that dumb pool.”

  “Will,” Amanda said, trying to mask the exasperation she felt, “the movers are trying to use those steps for the boxes and the furniture.”

  “Well, then, maybe they can find another entrance,” Will replied testily. “I live here, not them.”

  Just at that moment, a Jaguar pulled up to the house. From it emerged Heather, who had been driving, holding a beautiful flower arrangement, and Sharon, holding a large object covered in tinfoil.

  Amanda scratched her head, trying to figure out why the two women were coming to visit right now.

  “We’re the welcome wagon!” Heather sang out, prancing up the sidewalk in an outlet mall Calvin Klein sheath that clung to her narrow hips. She had taken a couple of extra diet pills and was a little more wired than usual, which was saying something.

  “We baked you a pie, darlin’!” Sharon added as she moved boldly toward her former best friend, having sufficiently recovered from the debacle in Yolanda’s office to regain her usual cheery state.

  “Yum-yum,” Heather said, patting her stomach and then frowning by force of habit. “We just wanted to say welcome home. We want it to feel like you never left.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Amanda said, touched and yet suspicious, then immediately upset with herself for feeling that way. Why couldn’t she just accept a nice gesture at face value? Maybe, she thought, because Sharon had been leading the Bible study where she had been prayed for—or was it preyed upon?

  “I seem to remember you having a fondness for chocolate pecan pie,” Sharon said. “I know my grandmother’s was your favorite. I’ve attached her recipe.”

  Amanda had to laugh at the fact that Sharon was so clueless, she didn’t even get it that most people hoped the famous Peavy family recipe would’ve long since been forgotten. The story of Sharon’s grandmother and her now famous chocolate pecan pie was a legend in the neighborhood. It was said that Grandmother Peavy’s pie was so good that the recipe was not only jealously guarded, but coveted. Very few received the recipe, and those who did paid a tremendous price—and never in dollars. Grandmother Peavy gave out the recipe only as a last resort, when she wanted a favor from someone or wanted to influence someone’s thinking. Over the years, she’d shared it with no more than half a dozen people, and always with the stipulation that the recipient had to cross her heart and promise to never share it with another. They all went to Hillside Park Presbyterian together, so the provision was easy to enforce. For years, recipe recipients marveled that no matter how hard they tried, or how often they made it, no one could ever seem to quite master the recipe like Grandmother Peavy. It was truly a phenomenon, and many attributed her luck with her being blessed for all her good deeds. For many, many years, she taught Sunday school, volunteered in the nursery for the early service once a month, and helped out in the pastor’s office once a week. She was almost a saint. So, of course, no one could justify disclosing the secret recipe. One year, in an attempt to “honor” her grandmother, Sharon snuck a copy of the famous pie recipe and submitted it for publication in the much-anticipated church cookbook. You can imagine the shock that ensued when it was discovered by comparing the recipes that the original called for real butter, not margarine, and one-half cup more sugar than the version Grandmother Peavy had given out over the years.

  Oddly, when these same lucky people followed the new cookbook version, it tasted exactly the same as Grandmother Peavy’s. Poor old Mrs. Peavy had a heart attack and died just days after the cookbook came out. Though everyone had a different theory regarding Sharon’s true intentions, to her credit she had wept throughout her grandmother’s entire funeral service. In fact, it was the last time anyone remembered having seen Sharon Peavy cry. Amanda grinned. She hadn’t had a slice of chocolate pecan pie in her entire sojourn in California, and it was her favorite. She accepted it graciously.

  “That’s really so sweet of you, Sharon. Thank you. How have you been, anyway?”

  “I’ve been fine, honey. You know how it is. This, that, and the other. I don’t know why I never picked up the phone and called you all that time you were out West.”

  “Phones work both ways,” Amanda admitted sheepishly. “I could’ve called you.”

  “Let’s not be strangers,” Sharon said.
“You’re here, you’re back, your children are here, and I just want to be close again. I can’t see why it can’t be like you never left.”

  Amanda nodded. On one level, it really felt as if she had never left. The heat, the humidity, the homes—all that was the same. Even Sharon strutting around half-dressed all the time. She had been the same way in high school. When you’ve got it, flaunt it, I guess, Amanda thought.

  “What a beautiful home!” Heather gushed, and Sharon nodded in agreement.

  “We’re really lucky it was available,” Amanda said. “It’s just a couple blocks from my mom’s, so I can keep an eye on her, and she can see her grandchildren easily. A lot more easily than getting on a plane to Southern California.”

  “We missed you!” Sharon exclaimed. Amanda couldn’t tell whether she was being sincere or not. Then she thought of one of her ex-husband’s favorite sayings—that the hardest thing in the world to demonstrate is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made. And she asked herself again, Why am I being so suspicious of these women?

  “Would you look at all this stuff,” Sharon said, looking around at the mess. “I guess you’ll be unpacking those boxes for a long time, mmm?”

  “I know. I feel like I’ll be unpacking forever.”

  Sharon felt that old familiar jealousy for Amanda raising its ugly head again. How could two people who were so close end up so differently in life? Sharon hadn’t made such poor choices. She was always a victim of circumstance. And look at Amanda. Those beautiful children, this home, these beautiful things everywhere. If Sharon were to ever get lucky enough to move from her aunt’s house, all she’d need is a friend with an SUV willing to make two trips.

  “I can’t believe how busy I am,” Amanda said, rolling her eyes. “Between taking care of the children and getting these boxes sorted away, I don’t think I’m gonna have time for anything else. Not for a long time, anyway.” Heather and Sharon exchanged glances, and Heather cleared her throat.

  “Actually, Amanda,” she said, “there is something we wanted to talk with you about. Is this a bad time?”