Hysterical Blondeness (18 page)

Well, not exactly a fiasco. Her last checkup with Dr. Bender had shown significant weight loss despite the “unexpected altered pigmentation,” as Dr. Bender put it. Actually, all considered, the results of her mad fling into scientific experimentation had changed her entire life.

Hopefully Marc could keep it that way. Thank God Paulie was back and would put some decent
food on the table. If she ever got home in time to have dinner with them. She felt that old feeling creep over her. How she missed her friends and Paul’s cooking and curling up on the sofa to watch
Desperate Housewives
on Sunday nights.

Tonight she was dining with the Nordquists, as Mrs. N herself had requested the honor of her presence to go over wedding plans immediately. She’d gotten a written phone message from a runner in the store, hand-delivered earlier this morning. All weekend she’d nursed Brett and watched football with him, but his parents had been away skiing.

Sometimes she felt like she was in a foreign country just starting to learn the language. Worse than that, she felt like she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. But who was she really?

Had she gotten the approval she’d always wanted from her mother just now? Not really, more like,
Oh, what a problem this is all going to be, Patricia, and have you thought this through, and by the way, congratulations.

She couldn’t win with her parents.

But she was winning with Brett.

“Henri Shreve has retired,” Peggy Hanagan told Paul flat out. “He faxed in a letter of resignation from Hawaii.”

“I thought he’d been ill.”

“He was, poor fellow, and he said he was taking a cure on the Big Island.”

Paul sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Hanagan and rubbed his chin.

“They’ll offer the position of head buyer to you, of course. You’ve been doing the job anyway. You’ll get a raise.”

“Are you interested in applying?” he asked her.

“Heavens, no. I hate traveling. My husband would have a fit. No, Paul, it’s all yours, if you want it.”

Of
course
he want the job. He loved going to Milan, New York, and all the other various locations they sent him.

It would get him back to see his grandparents and take more recordings of their history. He’d really worked hard at it this time and made them promise to write things down for him. He wanted to tell their story. He wanted to make it
into a historical novel. Being a buyer wasn’t a difficult job for him and it would give him the time he’d need to write.

But something was missing. He felt like Edward, King of England, in his abdication speech droning on in a quiet voice over the BBC. “
But you must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.
”

The speech that Pinky and Patricia had made him listen to when they were having an English history documentary-a-thon. They’d actually bawled like babies, the gooses. He knew it by heart because they’d rewound it ten times and said it out loud for a week as a reply to every silly thing that came up.

Now he actually knew how King Edward felt. Here he had been offered a great job, a great raise, and without the woman he loved the future seemed like a fog.

“Paul?”

“I’ll have to think it over, Peggy. I’m going to sleep on it.”

“Okay.” She slapped her knees and got up.
“What goodies did you bring back from New York for me? I saw a box downstairs you’d shipped. Is it full of fun? You’re just like Santa Claus.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” he said flatly. He pulled out a stack of digital photos he’d snapped at the showrooms and printed up over his painful, soul-searching weekend and spread them like a deck of cards on her desk.

“What’s up? Is it the job? Or is it a woman?” Peggy asked.

“Woman.”

“You’re such a nice guy. Let me give you some advice. Don’t waste your time on relationships that are constantly in a state of trouble, Paul. Life shouldn’t be so hard. Love can be easy if you pick the right person. Most of the time anyway. You men are kind of thick-headed sometimes.”

“Thank you, oh sagely wise Peggy Hanagan,” Paul said.

“You’re welcome. I hope things work out. Why don’t you go retrieve that box from the basement, and I’ll study your pictures?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Peggy smiled. “I’m just trying to keep you busy.”

“Can you do that for the next three weeks?”

“Want to work on the sales floor?”

“I’ll bring the samples up. ’Bye, Peg.” Paul made a hasty exit to the sound of his floor manager’s laughter. He had worked the selling floor before to get the inside picture of his customers and what they liked and how they went about making a choice. He had nothing but sympathy for the sales staff.

He nodded to each of them as he passed through the department and headed to the back of the store.

He also passed by fine jewelry but didn’t see Patricia working the floor. Maybe she was on a break, or in the loft. He’d been sort of a jerk to her all weekend. He’d cooked the most fattening food he could think of, he’d ignored her, and he’d put his Ipod and headphones on and tried to drown out his own thoughts.

He was waiting. But it was killing him.

Not that she was there much anyway; she’d spent the night elsewhere. She’d come and gone quietly, hardly talking to him. He kept reminding himself Brett was in a cast and sex was probably not happening over there at the Nordquist house.

Maybe he should apologize. How could he start figuring out a way to win this woman if they were hardly speaking?

He steered into fine jewelry and caught Mandy straightening pearl strands.

“Is Patricia in the back?”

Mandy was flirty. “No, she got fired or something. Madam sent her to get her hair and nails done and buy a wedding dress.” She shifted herself his direction in a sort of invitational manner.

“A trip to the salon doesn’t sound like she got fired, Mandy. You might not want to spread rumors like that around,” Paul said.

“Whatever.” Mandy gave up on him and went back to her pearls.

Every step Paul took today led him in two directions. One step toward giving up on Patricia and taking control of his life again, one step toward finding her and locking her in the attic until she turned back into a sane woman.

Patricia seemed so determined to crash-test-dummy herself into Brett’s lifestyles of the rich and self-indulgent. How could he possibly stop her?

As he descended in the freight elevator to
the basement of Nordquist’s, he knew he just had to find a way. He slammed his fist on the side of the elevator. There
must
be a way to make Patricia understand what a mistake she was making.

A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet.

Shakespeare

Patricia had been dreaming about
Nordquist’s.

Back at the store, Nordquist’s was decked out in all its holiday finery from head to toe and from floor to ceiling. Every department, from socks to sheets, looked like a rich woman in a designer formal at the Oscars.

There were gigantic red candles with fake flames, huge gold and red ornaments, and enough wired gold ribbon to circle the entire store five times.

But none of this was enough to take the edge off Patricia’s mood, because Marc in Pizzazz had given her the word of doom about hair dye. She was a failed patch test with little blotches of red up and down her neck like hickies. He’d done them all in the back where no one could see, and he promised they’d be healed by the wedding with the cortisone cream he slathered all over her.

He was down to lemon juice and water as a bleaching agent.

Patricia was a blonde time bomb and her fuse was lit. Brunetteness was creeping back over her in tiny millimeters of dullness. She’d actually cried this morning when she looked in the mirror. Last week it was barely noticeable, but this week things were starting to come to light.

She was doomed to actual grow-out, although Marc was still hopeful he’d find a natural product she could tolerate. He said her better bet was to return to her original brunette with some natural-type dye before she turned into two-toned Tessie.

All this stress had made her start hitting the leftover Halloween candy. She knew where Pinky hid it and it was starting to show up on the scale.
That, and every time she opened the fridge for leftovers Paul had made cannelloni or cheese-layered lasagna or something with a million calories. Last night she opened the fridge to find a full two-layer chocolate fudge cake.

Oh, that demon cake. She knew it well. It was one of Paul’s specialties. She hadn’t touched even a tiny slice of it. Yay for her. Maybe she’d have it for breakfast when she got up.

The stress was more about impending events than to-do lists. It wasn’t like she had a million details of her wedding to look after, because with Gloria Nordquist at the wheel apparently all she had to do was show up.

In a dress.

That the Nordquists paid for.

And it
was
her dream dress with the exotically beaded bodice, fit to perfection by Pinky’s own hands. She hoped it was anyway.

She had been able to give her future mother-in-law the color scheme, and, amazingly, Gloria had approved. Patricia reveled in her bed. This would be the last time she’d be sleeping alone on a Saturday morning. In twelve days she and Brett would be man and wife.

Brett had seen some specialist and moved
into a sort of walking cast thing so he could hobble down the aisle. And his jaw wiring was being replaced today with some high-tech sort of invisible contraption. He’d still be clenched, but he wouldn’t be stainless steel.

Patricia had considered asking him to push the date back, but he and his mother seemed hell-bent on a Thanksgiving wedding. She got the feeling that her wedding was sort of a diversion to throw people off the trail of the Lizbeth and Eric wedding being so fast.

Besides, she’d be completely out of her mind to ask him that. It was now or never for becoming Brett Nordquist’s wife.

Today she wanted to do something she hadn’t done for months. Go out and photograph life. The autumn leaves were about to vanish into the November bareness. She should capture them before they fell.

“Patricia? Are you awake? It’s ten-thirty. Why don’t you take a nice shower and dress up pretty and we’ll have a special breakfast?” Pinky talked to her through the door.

“Go away. I’m staying in bed all day.”

Pinky opened the door. “Now, why would the
little bride-to-be do that? Rise and shine, princess, it’s a special day.”

“Why is it special?”

“Oh my God, the hair is actually growing in.” Pinky ran over to Patricia’s bedside and ruffled her fingers through her hair. “What the hell are you going to do?”

“Lemon juice and sun, or a semipermanent natural-based brunette dye are my two options without turning into a blotchy nightmare. I’m allergic to hydrogen peroxide.”

“You have to go back to dark hair, Patricia. You can’t walk down the aisle with dark roots and platinum tips, can you?”

“I was thinking about a hat. But maybe it’s better for Brett to see me as I truly am.”

Pinky was dead silent for a moment, then a big smile crossed her freckled face. “Patricia, that’s the smartest thing you’ve said in quite a while. We will lemon-juice you till the big day, then turn you back into yourself for the wedding. You said it yourself—all the colors are brunette colors, and after all, Brett is marrying you, not your hair color, right?”

Patricia thought about that. She pulled the
covers over her head. “I hope so, Pinky. He’s been pretty good to me these last few weeks. He’s given me presents, and did you know I have an account at Nordquist’s now where I can buy anything I want? I’ve stuck to the basics, but he all but ordered me to buy china and linen and said we were going all-out.”

“Are you two going to buy a house?”

“No, there’s an entire apartment in the east wing of the house. It’s really cute. Mrs. Nordquist, Gloria, showed it to me. She asked me how I wanted it redecorated.”

“Holy crap,” Pinky muttered. “Well, let me show you the fine art of the headband today and we will get you all prettied up.” She flipped back the covers.

“I told you I’m staying in bed today. I want to wallow in self-pity and enjoy my last days as a single woman. Either that or I’m going to dust off my Nikon and go out for a photo shoot.” Patricia grabbed her covers back.

“You can’t. We’re having a freakin’ bridal shower for you. It starts at noon. So get out of bed and get your ass prettied up.” Pinky smacked her covered-up foot.

“Shit. Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding. As long as you’re no longer surprised, here’s more. The guests include your sisters, some friends of yours from college, your mother, your future mother-in-law, and her guest.”

“Who is her guest?”

“Lizbeth, your future sister-in-law.”

“Who came up with this guest list?”

“It was a snowball kind of deal: sisters to Mom, Mom to Mrs. Nordquist, Mrs. Nordquist to Lizbeth.”

Patricia groaned and rolled up into a ball. “Tell them I’m sick.”

“Fat chance.” Pinky caught her foot under the covers and pulled it. “Get out of bed and face your music, Princess Patti.”

Patricia slid almost to the edge of the bed, then screamed—so Pinky let go.

“I brought you home a dress. I knew you weren’t thinking that way, so I hit our favorite vintage store and found this dress that they just marked down for a preholiday sale. It just looked like you,” Pinky went to Patricia’s own closet and pulled out a plastic garment bag Patricia hadn’t even notice, not that she was noticing much of anything lately. Inside was a chiffon floral-print
day dress that any society matron would look stunning in.

“Pinky, you are so amazing.” Patricia sat up. The colors are so autumn and the whole dress is divine. Brown and orange and gold and the whole overjacket thing. What year was it from?”

“Early sixties, and a longer length for that time. I think my grandmother had one like this she used to wear to luncheons.”

Patricia wiped away a stray tear that spilled over her cheek. “It’s so not Nordquist, you know?”

“Yes, I know.” Pinky hung the dress back up and came over to Patricia. She sat with her and gave her a big hug. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up. I’d say this is one day where I’m going to let you swig down a nice glass of flaming rum punch before your guests arrive, but only one, okay?”

“Yes, yes. My overindulgent days are over. Brett’s nurse cut off his beer supply and he’s been drinking diet cola through a straw. That and a whole lot of milkshakes. He’s lost ten pounds, I swear. He’s starting to look too thin.” Patricia sniffed back her impending breakdown and laughed.

“Wow, we should have just wired your jaw shut and skipped the pigment-altering experimental drugs, I guess.”

“I guess. Thank you, Pinky, and I apologize for any relative of mine, current or future, for whatever they say today, because you know one of them will say something stupid.”

Patricia got herself out of bed and grabbed her flannel robe. She’d have to find some clean undies. Brett had been having the personal shopper at Nordquist send her piles of lingerie, most of it stuff she’d rather die than wear.

“Did you see that pile of gifts?”

“The never-ending stream of deliveries has been interesting. What’s in there?”

“Things with no crotch. I think Brett is feeling better.”

“What, no flannel?”

“I’m going to exchange most of it for a couple of amazing French peignoir sets and some more practical things like full-cut spandex underwear.” Patricia laughed. She took her towel off the back of the closet door and stopped to talk to Pinky before she went for a shower.

Pinky opened a couple of boxes and pulled
out some stringy items. “Are these all from lingerie?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking that’s Lizbeth’s department. Kind of strange, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t think about it like that. I’m sure he’s just on a lingerie roll, but she’ll get some nice commissions from all this, anyhow. That’s a nice parting gift to her, I guess, now that she’ll be marrying his brother.”

“Sure, commissions,” Pinky said in a sort of sinister tone.

Patricia was confused, but Pinky had been coming up with out-of-the-blue comments all morning, so she let it go. So Brett had a personal shopper pick lingerie for her. It was just a coincidence that it was Lizbeth’s department. It could be any department. It could be china.

“I’m going to get cleaned up and hit the flaming rum punch before noon.” She paused and turned back to Pinky from the doorway. “Is Paulie coming?”

“He’s our token male. He’s also the caterer, so it was the polite thing to do.” Pinky smiled a Cheshire cat smile.

“Oh,” was all Patricia said. She left the room and Pinky noticed Patricia seemed to have a whole lot on her mind. Well, she had a lot on her mind, too. Like the continuing coziness of Brett and Lizbeth, and the impending Nordquist heir Lizbeth was carrying, and just exactly how pregnant was she? Had she been seeing Eric for that long?

Rumor had it she’d been toying with both of them for over three months, even with a brief standoff with Brett to try and get him to pop the question, so who knew? Only Lizbeth, and she wasn’t telling.

Pinky really liked the idea of Patricia going brunette again. If she and Paul couldn’t get Patricia to see daylight and stop this madness, maybe ol’ Brett himself could lend a hand. He was pretty skilled at making bad choices. Maybe he’d screw up a few vital things before the wedding and Patricia would regain her senses.

Paul was trying so hard to patiently work his way into Patricia’s heart, but the clock was ticking for all of them. Twelve days from now Patricia would be walking down the aisle to marry Brett.

Pinky decided after she lived through this party she was going to go back to work and do some snooping around. Cold hard dirty facts could always be found in the backrooms of Nordquist’s department store. And something smelled fishy. Like lutefisk.

In their five years of cohabitation Paul had met Patricia’s sisters but never her mother. Poor Paul, Patricia watched him balance trays of crostini with mozzarella, basil and slices of heirloom tomatoes, and melon bites wrapped in prosciutto through the ladies, who acted like none of them had eaten breakfast. They attacked his trays in a very unladylike manner.

They also acted like it was happy hour and were sliding the mimosas down pretty easily. Except Lizbeth, who seemed to be on the wagon like a wise pregnant girl. She looked a little worse for the wear today, for reasons Patricia knew but were not obvious to others at this point.

Patricia’s mother Melinda had begun micromanaging every detail of the party from the minute she’d walked in the door. Pinky finally dragged her off and made her a slightly stiffer
drink involving orange juice and vodka, which subdued her enough for Paul to finish up in the kitchen.

Paul had outdone himself and fixed a fennel-spiced prawn citrus salad with blood oranges, and an amazing red bell pepper soup. She hoped the only blood by the end of this thing would be blood oranges. And of course the incredible chocolate fudge cake that she was now glad she hadn’t eaten last night.

Pinky had done the most creative decorating job on the house she’d ever seen. She’d basically brought fall inside with twigs and scarlet-leaf Virginia creeper twined into the light fixtures and her beloved Japanese maple leaves scattered everywhere. Thick spicy scented candles the color of pumpkins were tucked in all the windowsills, surrounded with maple sprigs and wildly cool pale yellow spider mums.

Patricia’s dress looked like all the elements in the room had come together and rested on the sheer, lovely fabric. She fit right in with the décor. Only Pinky could have done that.

Their special table was set for luncheon with another flower arrangement. This arrangement
had been picked to death by her mother. Patricia thought Pinky might slap the woman, but it seemed like Pinky made the table bouquet the sacrificial item that Melinda Stillwell could focus on instead.

Her mother’s energy sure wasn’t focused on her daughter. Her sisters had actually given her big hugs, but could her mother even acknowledge her? Apparently not.

She should be used to this by now. Why did she always think it would be different? If she’d colored in the lines better, did better in school, married the right person, or had the proper grandchildren, would her mother love her then?

“Patricia, these photographs are beautiful.” Gloria Nordquist was staring at the framed photo work on the wall. “Whose are they?”

“Mine. I’m a photographer for fun. In my spare time.”

“You’re very talented, dear,” she said. And it was a genuine compliment.

“I didn’t know you took pictures, Patti.” Her mother let that slip out. Mrs. Nordquist gave Patricia’s mother a funny look because, of course, Mrs. Nordquist knew everything about her sons
and loved them despite their flaws. Patricia’s guts twisted.