How could a man be simultaneously edible and exasperating? I wanted to slap him upside the head and also kiss his face off until my lips burned. I raised my fingers to my lips as I waited for the light. I’d left them naked all day because they were still sore from last night. I cranked up Florence and the Machine and tore out of my idle by slamming my foot on the gas. I got a lot of good noise out of my clunky junky Land Rover Santana. It kept people from riding my tail, as it was with most things in life.
Back at the cottage, I unloaded my spoils. I didn’t need a man—especially not such a giant pain in the ass—in my life. And certainly not the competition. That would be nothing but a headache. I wanted my life easy and simple. I patted Billy on the head when he ran to the back of the truck as I unloaded. I didn’t have a dog. But I did have a pygmy goat who mostly took care of himself. I rubbed Billy’s little nubbed horns. He bleated at my return and nudged my thigh like he did to show affection. He followed me into the house, but mostly he lived outside and in his doghouse by the stream. I had a cat named Imelda too. She had a bit of a weight problem. Imelda lounged about all day in the sun. She never ever exercised, unless you counted her trips to the food bowl a couple of times a day. The vet had told me to purchase a laser pointer to encourage her to run. The first time I turned it on, Imelda looked at me and yawned.
“I hear you, sister,” I’d said. “I hate the treadmill myself. But the key to longevity is taking care of yourself. You could at least pretend to be interested so we can tell the vet you tried.”
Imelda had flexed her paw and looked engrossed in her claws. She’d begun to bite her nails, unmoved by my lecture. She’d chewed and spit them on her chaise. I’d tossed the laser in the junk drawer.
After feeding Billy and Imelda, I loaded the chili ingredients into the Instant Pot. I whipped up the cornbread recipe and tossed that into the oven. I’d made enough for a small army, but it was just me. At least I was hungry.
The phone rang, and I scowled when I saw it was my mom. God love and bless her, but she drove me up a fucking wall. She was the type of woman who was content being in the shadow of her husband. Not me. I wanted to be a full-fledged human being without the reliance on a man for my title. I had my own business—and one in a man’s world, no less. I didn’t need a man or a boyfriend to legitimize my work. I’d gotten there just fine all by myself.
But Mom and I were polar opposites. Mrs. Robert Mills never questioned her husband’s authority or her duties as his wife. She wanted me to get married more than she wanted me to establish any kind of life for myself.
“Hello, darling. How are you? Did you get the invitation to the annual Red Cross Charity Dinner?”
Oh shit. I totally forgot.
“Hey, Mom. I did and I RSVP’d, I think.”
I scrambled through a pile of mail on the counter that had been sitting there for, well, years. It all seemed to be ads and blasted catalogs. I usually only ever opened anything that had pictures of cars on it.
“You think? Will you be bringing a date?”
“Probably spinster it up, unless that’s embarrassing for you.”
“Darling, of course not. Well, now that you mention it, perhaps you would enjoy yourself more if you had someone to spend the night with?”
Tell me about it.
Maybe I could ask Clem or Mack to accompany me to the ball. I was sure they cleaned up well, although I’d never in my life seen it.
“Dear, just don’t bring one of your workers, because that sends the wrong impression, I think.”
Bingo. The thick RSVP card with gold embossed cursive was covered in blueberry filling and stuck to a home and garden catalog. When I pulled it off, it made a tearing sound, which I covered with a cough.
Bleating at the door, Billy pranced to be let out.
“Heavens, is that the goat? I can’t help but find him unsanitary.”
“He feels the same way about you, Mom. No hard feelings. I’ve gotta let him out, but I’ll pop this card in the mail and find a real date. I’ll dress pretty, too, I promise.”
“If you can cover as much as the artistry as possible, it would do your father good.”
“I know, I know, Dad hates my tattoos.”
“Speaking of tattoos, dear, did you see the list? Your competition has gained something of a celebrity status making that list.”