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“I’ve always said boys need to sow their seeds to become men. Better now than after they’re married.” They nod in unison.
I fill the glass, and just as I’m pulling myself together, Snooty says, “As for the girl, hopefully he doesn’t get her pregnant. I hear she’s a vile creature.” Leaning in again, she whispers, “Likes to make a show of theirsexualrelationship.”
The other woman gasps, throwing her hand over her heart. “Poor Delta.”
“We can only hope he doesn’t fall in love.”Too late, bitches.“You remember how that whole thing worked out for the Jen—”
“Sh!” They share a look, a secret exchanged.
Shaking her head, she tsks and lowers her voice even more. “Her parents were heartbroken when she fell pregnant.”
“Just awful. I’ll tell you, though, if they didn’t have so much money, the Westcotts would be run out of The Pointe because of those boys just like they were.”Who’s they?“I bet her husband cheats.”
I clip the foot of her chair with my shoe, and the pitcher rattles in my hand. But I just about catch myself before I spill any tea, unlike what they’ve been doing. But sometimes an opportunity presents itself, and waiting for karma takes too long. The pitcher falls from my hand, hitting the floor, and splashes from the top opening . . . right onto to the bitch’s skirt.
Not expecting it to work as well as it did, I gasp this time, throwing my hand over my mouth to hide my grin. They both lurch from their seats. Tiff’s mom has tea splattered over her pale pink skirt. But the other woman is covered in the dark liquid. The perfectly coiffed streak she probably spent too much time taming into place is now wild and intermingling with the darker strands. Other than their screeches, the entire room is silent and watching, but no one makes any effort to help them.
Larry runs out of the kitchen, passing Dane, who’s laughing his ass off. Larry asks, “What happened? What happened, ladies?”
Brushing her hair and streak aside, the woman’s nose goes straight into the air. “This girl just spilled a pitcher of tea all over me.” Her daggering eyes are intense, but I wear my anger like armor protecting me.
He yells for Dane to bring towels as he tries to help with the napkins that fell from their laps. She reaches down and grabs her handbag. “This bag costs more than your business, Larry. You’re going to pay for it if it’s ruined.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bensimone.” Larry scrambles to pat it dry but also glances at me. “Don’t just stand there. Help.” He keeps profusely apologizing, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re awful people and don’t deserve an ounce of my respect.
The worst of the two women points and starts yelling at me. “Why are you standing there like an idiot? This bag is worth more than your life.”
Through the chaos of the cleanup, I look at the turquoise bag, the one that’s apparently worth more than my life. I can’t be around these people. Not caring a damn anymore, I walk away.
Larry says, “Where are you going? Get back here.”
I walk toward Dane, who’s walking, not bothering to run, with his arms full of towels. Our eyes connect, and I may be wrong, but I detect a note of respect. Just as we pass each other, under his breath, he says, “Way to stick it to ’em.” After our conversation earlier, I’ll take it.
Untying my apron, I then push through the service door of the conservatory. Larry says, “You’re fired,” but his words are cut off when the door swings back. I pull my phone from the pocket and dump the apron on an empty rack in the kitchen, never breaking my stride as I head through the service entrance to the delivery area.
Remorse doesn’t hit, and neither does fear.
I have a right to be treated with respect even if I screw up. And whether I technically screwed up remains to be seen. I take a deep breath. Although the days are chilly, there’s still sunshine. I soak it in and start walking. It’s only a handful of miles to the edge of town. I can take the trail sandwiched between the lake and the highway and use the walk to clear my head.
Wearing tights and still heated from offense, I’m not worried about getting cold.
By the third mile, I didn’t take my work shoes into consideration. They’re great when you’re standing around all day, but they’re not made for hiking. I come to a favored spot of daredevils, and others who just like a great view. I’ve been to Devil’s Edge a few times over the years, but I’ve never gotten close enough to the edge to verify if the legends are true—do the gray walls of the cliff sparkle like diamonds in the sun?
Since I’ll probably never be in a boat to know, I decide to rest closer to the edge and hope to find out.
With my legs dangling over the side of a jagged cliff, I take my shoes off and rub my feet. I should be more worried about paying my bills and how I’m going to get by. But the names I was called and the gossip about the Westcotts are still spinning in my mind. I can’t believe those women. They’re callous at best and hate-filled at worst.
Just awful.
My phone buzzes, so I pull it from the pocket of my short skirt to see a text from Harbor:How’s the country club crowd?
I smile and then look out over the massive lake. I can barely make out the other side, giving me a sense of my size in this world. It’s good to feel the greatness of nature. I wish Harbor was here with me to experience this.
I reply:Truth? They’re horrible people.
Harbor texts:I already knew that.
Texting, I take a deep breath:I guess you do.
