Wife-in-Law Read online

  A shard of adrenaline went through me. Why had I done this?

  I did my best to compose myself on the way to the door. I opened it to find Kat wearing an almost-normal sundress, her wet hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and Zach in clean jeans and a T-shirt that was only slightly damp with sweat from the walk over.

  “God bless you fer this,” Kat gushed as I motioned them inside. She inhaled a huge breath of cool air. “Oh, man, does that feel good.”

  Smiling, Zach scanned my living room. “I swear. Betty Freakin’ Crocker.”

  Kat elbowed him, hard, in the side. “Shut up, Zach. This woman rescued us from spendin’ the night in a furnace with a million mosquitoes. Don’t make fun of her just because she’s a better housekeeper than I am.” She looked over my perfect parlor. “This is beautiful. Did you have a decorator?”

  Not a polite question, but I knew she meant well. “No, I did the whole house myself.” I stepped toward the hallway. “Let me show you to your room.”

  As they followed, Kat took everything in with wide-eyed approval. “Wow. This is gorgeous. You really got a knack.”

  When we reached the guest room, they exchanged a brief glance on seeing the twin beds, but didn’t comment, and I didn’t offer to push them together. The last thing I wanted was to hear them humping through the wall.

  “Have y’all had supper?” I asked, hoping they had.

  Zach’s eyes lit up. “Actually, we were so hot, we didn’t feel like eating.” As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. “But now that we’re cool, I could use a little something. But don’t go to a lot of trouble.”

  What did I have on hand? Pork chops in the fridge, and butter peas in the freezer. I could make a salad to go with it. “Do y’all eat pork?”

  “Oh, yes,” Zach said eagerly.

  “Great. Y’all just relax, then.” I pointed to the little color TV on the dresser. “Watch some TV if you’d like. I’ll have supper ready in half an hour.” I started for the kitchen, preoccupied with ordering my tasks.

  Kat followed. “Please let me help.”

  Remembering what Zach had said about her cooking, I knew her “help” would only complicate matters, but it would be rude to say no, so I accepted. “Sure. Come on.”

  I heard the Braves game coming from the guest room as we entered my eat-in kitchen with French doors onto the back deck.

  “Ho-lee crap!” Kat said in awe. “This looks like a magazine.” She peered at the gleaming surfaces. “How do you keep it so clean?”

  I responded with a massive understatement. “I like things clean.” I got the butane grill lighter and headed for the deck. “Just let me light the grill, and we can start cooking.”

  “A gas grill,” Kat admired, following me to the door, but staying inside the cool as I braved the heat. “I swear, this place is perfect.”

  I couldn’t help feeling proud to hear it. Back inside, I headed for the refrigerator to take out the meat and salad things, then start the butter peas cooking. “I know you’re tired from all that heat. Why don’t you just sit down and keep me company while I throw things together?”

  I could see Kat was relieved. “Thanks.” She pulled out a chair to face me and sat. “My luck, I’d probably make a mess or break somethin’, anyway.”

  Maybe it was her transparency, but I heard myself confide, “I had to learn to cook when I was little. My mother was too sick to do it. I started making recipes from the paper when I was only eight.”

  Sympathy clouded Kat’s features. “Wow. Is yer mama okay now?”

  “Managing,” I said, wondering why I was telling her. “I still bring her food.”

  “In Atlanta.”

  “Yeah. Off Defoors.” Too much, I’d told too much. I didn’t even know this woman. “How about you? Is your mother living?”

  Kat shrugged. “Beats me. She drank a lot, and it made her mean. Then she took off when I was twelve. Daddy did everything after that, but it broke his heart. He’d cussed liquor so long because of Mama, but after she left, he took to drink too. I tried to help him, but it never worked. Finally it got so bad, I took off and headed for Tenth Street.”

  I’d been tempted a thousand times to leave Mama, but never had the courage to do it on my own. “How did you manage?”

  Kat grinned. “I met Zach the first day. The rest is history.”

  Minus a little thing called a wedding. I put a couple of strips of bacon into the boiling butter peas, then washed my hands and got out the cutting board to make the salad. “Do you like green peppers in your salad?”

  She colored, her glance shifting to the side. “Well … I like them, but they don’t like me, if you git my drift.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll leave them out.” I reached for my little food diary and opened it to K for Kat, then wrote her name, with “no green peppers” underneath.

  “What’s that?” Kat asked, alert.

  “A list of what everybody does and doesn’t like to eat, so I won’t ever serve them the wrong things.”

  Kat’s expression was a mixture of awe and this woman doesn’t have enough to do.

  “Anything else y’all don’t like?” I asked her, pen poised.

  “Onions, actually.” She leaned forward to confide, “They make me fart like a biker at a bean-eatin’ contest.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. She was crass, but frankly funny.

  I couldn’t imagine being so honest. Didn’t she know that people could use that to hurt her? “Okay. No onions for you.” I wrote them down, then skipped to the middle of the page and wrote Zach’s name. “What about Zach?”

  “Zach’ll eat anything,” Kat said. “Even snails.” The last came with a shudder. “But me … no insects. Not that you’d serve ’em, of course,” she qualified. “And I cain’t stand guts of any form. No chitlins or liver or brains or anything, no matter what kinda animal it comes from. I’d probably be glad to git ’em if I was starvin’ to death, but otherwise, n-o.” She smiled. “That’s about it fer me.”

  “I’m the same way about liver and all,” I said as I recorded the guts part, though I’d never thought of it in such crass terms. That done, I put the book back alongside The Joy of Cooking, then went to wash my hands.

  “You think that book up all by yourself?” Kat asked.

  I finished my handwashing ritual by drying thoroughly with a fresh white towel, then using some unscented lotion. I washed them so often, they chapped if I didn’t.

  “One of my home ec teachers told me about it,” I said. “She was really a great teacher.”

  Kat’s eyes narrowed. “I bet you were real good at school, weren’t you? All organized and everything.”

  Too much. Too many personal questions, too soon. I turned it around with, “How about you? Did you like school?”

  “Yep.” That was a surprise. “I love readin’,” she told me, “but I was a lot better in math. I was takin’ calculus before I quit tenth grade, but that was that.”

  The idea of Kat taking calculus in tenth grade seemed like a total oxymoron, but it made me realize I’d definitely made some hasty judgments because of her accent and bad grammar. “Did you ever miss school? Regret dropping out?”

  “Oh, I got my GED soon as I hooked up with Zach,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He insisted.”

  Good for Zach.

  “I’m startin’ college in the fall,” she said with pride. “Got me a scholarship to Oglethorpe.”

  Wonders never ceased.

  “What about Zach?” I prodded.

  She glanced back toward the sound of the Braves game, then told me in a confidential tone, “This is supposed to be a deep, dark secret, but seein’ as we’re neighbors, I’m gonna trust you.” She shot another glance at the hallway door to make sure Zach wasn’t coming, then said, “Don’t let on, but he’s got his MBA. From Hah-vahd.” She mimed locking her lips.

  I was properly shocked, but that explained his cultured accent.

  Then she dropped another
little surprise. “Went to work for one of them huge Fortune Five Hundred military-industrial companies, but they used him for a slave and tried to kill his soul. So he finally just dropped out.” She straightened, her features clearing as she draped one arm over the chair. “Never looked back,” she said with pride. “Plumbin’ suits him a lot better. He gits to help people who need him, and he says at least he can be honest shovelin’ the shit fer real. Plus, no pressure.” She grinned. “’Cept water pressure, of course.”

  Harvard?

  “I knew that would set you back on your heels,” Kat said with glee.

  “What would?” Zach asked, his question preceding him into the kitchen.

  Kat went scarlet. “Just girl talk. Never you mind.” She pointed to the plate of pork chops. “Why don’t you grill them chops fer Betsy?” She looked to me. “He’s great with the grill. If he wasn’t, we’d both starve.”

  I handed Zach the plate with new respect, but couldn’t resist cautioning, “They’re better if they’re not too well done. Well, they do need to be done, but not dry.”

  He grinned, carefully keeping the food away from his beard. “Done, but not dry, comin’ up.”

  While he was doing that, I finished the salads, then hesitated before setting the table. They’d probably feel bad if they knew I’d already eaten, so I decided to set myself a place too. Once everything was done, I put the salads and the bowl of butter peas on the table, then lit the candles.

  “Candles?” Kat protested mildly. “You don’t have to use up yer good candles fer us. We’re just grateful to be here.”

  “‘Treat royalty like friends and friends like royalty,’” I quoted, snapping the lighter off. “I love making things special.”

  Kat peered at me in assessment. “Bless yer heart. Nobody ever made things special fer you, did they?”

  In one brief conversation, she’d gotten closer to the truth than any of my other so-called friends. “I just like to do things for people,” I blustered. “Strictly selfish. Makes me feel good.”

  Fortunately, Zach arrived with the pork chops, and the conversation shifted to eating. During supper, I steered the topic to the development, and we shared what we’d heard or seen about potential buyers and the beginnings of the swim/tennis club. Both Zach and Kat turned out to be quite witty, and we all laughed a lot. By the end of the meal, something amazing had happened: I felt quite at home with these weirdos.

  So when I turned off my bedside light to watch the eleven o’clock news, I did so without a shred of fear. I didn’t even care if my guests were fornicating on the other side of the wall. After getting to know them, it didn’t matter so much. After all, their relationship was their business, really, and Christians aren’t supposed to judge.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Greg what had happened. Now that I knew all about the neighbors, he couldn’t get mad at me for rescuing them from the heat.

  The trouble was, I only thought I knew them. Turns out, transparent Kat wasn’t really that transparent, and Zach had deeper, darker secrets to hide, ones that didn’t blow up (literally) till later.

  Four

  The past. Sandy Springs. June 1974, the day after the hippies spent the night

  “You what?” Greg hollered so loud, I had to pull the receiver away from my ear. “Good Lord, Elizabeth,” he scolded, “have you lost your mind?”

  That stung, in light of Mama’s mental illness, which I prayed daily wasn’t hereditary. “Calm down, honey,” I soothed. “I couldn’t very well just drive right past them when they were camping out in the hundred-degree heat under a funeral parlor tent in their front yard. It wouldn’t be Christian. The mosquitoes would have eaten them alive.”

  “And probably gotten high in the process,” Greg snapped. “Honestly, Betsy, this makes me wonder how I can leave you alone. Letting those people into our house was absolutely reckless.”

  “Well, I had my panic button,” I defended. “And anyway, it was fine.” I explained everything I’d learned, finishing with, “So you see, the police chief was right. We don’t have anything to worry about. They’re really very nice. A college student and an Ivy League–educated plumber.” A thought occurred to me. “Heck, he might even play tennis, after all. I should have asked.”

  “No you shouldn’t,” Greg bit out. “He shouldn’t have even been there in the first place, much less talking to you.”

  “But honey, it all worked out fine,” I coaxed.

  “Lucky for you,” he said. “What if it hadn’t? The police would have had to break in to find your body.”

  I could tell he was really shaken. Greg was so protective of me, he didn’t even like my going to my old neighborhood alone—in broad daylight—to see Mama. “Honey,” I said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry.” How could I make it up to him? “I invited them on impulse. I promise I’ll never ask anybody to spend the night again without talking it over with you first.”

  That seemed to mollify him. “Good. And stay away from that Zach guy, okay? He’s still a hippie. He might slip you drugs, then ask you to do a threesome or something.”

  “I promise you, he’s harmless.” I was flattered by my husband’s jealousy, but Zach didn’t seem to be the underhanded type, and he definitely wasn’t a swinger. In my old neighborhood, I could tell by the time I was twelve who was and who wasn’t a swinger, which was why I’d been so drawn to Greg when we met. I’d liked that he was older, already settled with a great job, and so protective of me.

  “I mean it, Betsy. Keep your distance from that guy,” he repeated.

  He was just worried about me. It had been reckless, inviting them over without knowing anything about them. “Okay,” I conceded, “I’ll steer clear of Zach. But is it okay if I have Kat over, by herself? She doesn’t know how to cook, and it would be fun to teach her.”

  Greg hesitated, then said with reservation, “Okay. As long as she’s alone. But make sure she doesn’t put anything into the food. Those hippies try to turn people on all the time.” As if he knew, which he didn’t. So far, the closest my husband had gotten to a hippie was when we drove within three blocks of Tenth Street to see the opera at the Fox. Still, it was sweet of him to worry about me.

  “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Okay. And keep an eye on things across the street. If you see anybody suspicious over there, write down their license numbers.”

  Oh, really. “What if I can’t see them?” I asked.

  “Use the binoculars in the top drawer of my dresser.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay. But only because it’ll make you feel better.”

  A pregnant pause followed, then Greg said, “I almost hate to bring this up now, but there’s been a change of plan. The client’s board wants me to give a report on our progress at their regular meeting Monday, which means I’ll have to work all weekend to put it together.”

  So he wouldn’t be able to come home on schedule. My heart sank, but I resolved to remain upbeat. He couldn’t help it, after all, and he’d warned me this might happen. “I’m sorry, honey. I’d planned a special celebration, but it’ll keep. When will you be able to come, or do you know?”

  “Oh, the weekend after, absolutely. And I’ll get to stay till Wednesday this time, so I can turn in my paperwork and bring the office up to speed.”

  “That’s fabulous.” That would give me five whole days with plenty to do, and my husband back in my bed. I hadn’t realized how horny I was till I thought about it. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “You sure are a wonderful corporate wife,” he complimented, his voice warm.

  I smiled, missing him intensely. “You sure are a wonderful corporate husband.”

  “I love you,” he said, the first time in quite a while. The fact that he didn’t say it often made it even more precious.

  “It sure feels good to hear that,” I mooned. “I love you too.”

  “Bye. I’ll call tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  I lay back in t
he muted light of the TV, happy that I was married to a man as good as Greg. And happy that I’d gotten past telling him about the hippies. “Dodged a bullet there,” I said aloud.

  But I’d be alone this weekend. And bored.

  Maybe it was time to start teaching Kat to cook.

  Wide awake, I got out of bed and headed for my cookbooks to find some simple recipes to start with.

  Greg’s warning resurfaced on the way to the kitchen: But make sure she doesn’t put anything into the food.

  I mean, really.

  Somehow, I had to figure out a way for Greg to meet Zach and Kat on level ground. I knew he’d like them, if he just gave them half a chance. Especially if Zach played a decent game of tennis. The courts were coming right along.

  Maybe Zach could braid his beard to play.

  Three years ago, home from L.A. to Hartsfield Airport, Atlanta

  I always hate coming home from a trip. I hate good-byes. And returning to reality.

  Normally, Kat would have taken me to the airport and picked me up, but ever since Greg had started filling her head with lies about me, I hadn’t felt comfortable asking. My younger daughter Emma had up and moved to Alaska when her father refused to support her after she finally graduated two years behind her class, and Mama was useless, of course. I wasn’t close enough to anybody else to ask, so I’d driven myself and parked in the cheapest long-term lot I could find, miles from the airport.

  My flight landed in Atlanta on time, but we were stuck on the blazing tarmac forty minutes, waiting for a gate. Once we finally deplaned, I went to baggage claim, where it took another forty minutes for my suitcase to come up. Then I wrangled my luggage out into the afternoon heat to get to the long-term parking shuttle. Fifteen minutes later, I got out at my white Infiniti SUV and popped open the back for the shuttle driver to load my suitcase and carry-on. “Thank you so much.” I tipped him five as he closed the hatch. “I really appreciate that.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I always overtip. It’s a compulsion.