Look Before You Jump (2 page)

‘Course
I
was considered the bad
influence on the pastor’s son when we got caught that night. Caused
nothing short of a scandal to have the police catch us in the act
in the bed of that F-150 and call our parents. I still remembered
the ridges in that truck bed, jamming against my spine with each
thrust.

Maybe I was the one who needed to do penance.
Did I or didn’t I take a vow of chastity after last night? Was I
becoming my pubic – er, publicly benevolent father? Perish the
thought.

Dear Dad loved playing the saint on Sunday.
That was after playing the Saturday night sinner. With Lisa. Or
Lola. Or whatever the pick of the week was. Or is. I try not to pay
attention to the sperm donor and his revolving door of girlfriends
too much these days.

Yup, like father like daughter. Only
difference, he’s married and acts as if he isn’t. I’m not married
and act as if I am. In some ways. One particular way. But at least
I can admit my sins of the flesh while he pretends to be the
epitome of a Christian man.

Far from it. Believe me. I grew up in that
household and had a front row seat to the train wreck of false
smiles and hearty hugs, pretending to be the happy family when in
reality life with my dad sucked ditchwater by the fathoms. From
prosperity theology to a God just waiting to play the Santa Claus
Savior and fulfill all the demands of His saintly sinners, the
sperm donor has ridden every theological bandwagon the
televangelists proclaimed – and ridden at least half the women in
the local congregation. In a church seating ten thousand a service,
that’s a lot of screwing around. Okay, maybe I exaggerated a bit –
it’s probably closer to a smidge south of half.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in God. I just
lack faith in the people He left in charge down here. Then there’s
my Jezebel ways, and I’m not going to juggle two different
lifestyles simply to satisfy the morality patrol. You know, the
whole Saturday Sinner/Sunday Saint thing? Doesn’t work for me.

Give me freedom. Or at least some semblance
of it. I’m no William Wallace, that’s for sure, but I’m not above
the occasional shopping trip to Macy’s and Neiman Marcus with my
mom and her no-limit credit card. Just because my dad and I have
zero relationship doesn’t mean I can’t have one with my mother.
Otherwise I’d never be able to afford my wardrobe on a bartender’s
salary.

Gee, does that make me sound shallow?

Don’t answer that.

I usually looked forward to Tuesday lunches
and shopping excursions with Mom every week. Usually. It gave me a
day to recover from my weekend extracurricular activities and
before I had to head back to work on Wednesday nights. I love her
for more than her credit card, mind you, even if we have a
difficult time relating to one another outside the mall or
boutique. Audra Elizabeth Bohanan, a respectable southern belle,
gave birth to a holy hell-raiser – that described our relationship
to a tee.

Secretly? I think Mom’s proud of me for
standing up to my dad. It’s more than she’s done, and Mom deserves
everything sainthood promises for putting up with her husband. Why
she hasn’t left him I’ll never understand, though it’d be awfully
hard to live without the luxurious standards she’s grown accustomed
to after all these years.

I know this firsthand.

Then there’s the whole scandal of divorce,
which in her circle would create even more problems. After being
the public face of disgrace for my family, I know what I’m talking
about here. Difference is, I just don’t care anymore.

Mom, on the other hand, also once sported the
title of Miss Texas and would never do anything to taint that proud
heritage. With long elegant legs and exotic green eyes that put the
‘eyes’ in
Irish eyes are smiling
, it’s easy to see how she
won the pageant that year. Even with the great genes I inherited
from her side, you’d never catch me dead in some beauty
contest.

Okay, maybe dead. But I’d be resisting in
spirit form and haunting the hell out of whoever put my body up to
it, I’m telling you.

But I digress.

Lunch and shopping were made for mothers and
daughters. Quite literally it seems. Having Janine show up only
doubled the fun. If only my best friend hadn’t brought
her
mother in tow, I’d have yelled out a hearty
howdy
. But the
presence of Mrs. Thomas De’Laruse – Charlotte to my mother – did
not bode well for fun and frivolity. Hence the
usually
in
how I felt about all but this particular Tuesday excursion.

Besides the biggest hair in all of Texas –
and that’s saying something around these parts – Mrs. De’Laruse
sports the deepest Louisiana drawl this side of the Mississippi.
The wealthy De’Laruse clan was one of few who’d successfully
transitioned after the Civil War. Now they weren’t only rich, they
were
filthy
rich. ‘Course some say her great-great
grandfather colluded with the Union, resulting in the reprieve that
was granted to their plantation mansion instead of it becoming a
pile of charred and blackened ashes like so many of the others.

Charlotte then added to the family tradition
of breeding whispers behind closed doors by eloping with a man of
solid Creole stock – but Janine and I are prohibited from
mentioning the eloping part in conversation. So instead of dear old
Papa De’Laruse throwing him into the bayou as gator bait, Thomas
received a thorough education and grooming in what it would require
to someday take over the family financial empire. This, of course,
only after agreeing to drop his surname in favor of the De’Laruse
name. I guess some traditions are okay to toss out the window in
today’s hyphenated world.

“Victoria, dawling,” Mrs. De’Laruse drawled
as she returned her teacup to the saucer like a well-trained
debutante. “What’s been keepin’ you so busy on Sunday mornings you
can’t make it to church anymore? I haven’t seen you there in, what,
a year?”

More like two, but I wasn’t even going to
attempt a correction.

“Yes,
Victoria
.” Janine leaned forward
and batted her baby-doll blue eyes. “Do tell.”

Before I could voice the smart-aleck retort
bubbling up inside me, a swift kick to my shin lodged a piece of
chicken avocado sandwich in my throat. All I got out was a quick
cough before Mom stole my moment right out from under the table –
literally.

“She’s still trying to get that boss of hers
to let her off earlier on Saturday nights.”

My mom was either a more practiced liar than
I’d given her credit for, or she’d convinced herself of its truth
to assuage that pesky mother’s guilt. The pain in my shin, however,
had me leaning more toward the former instead of the latter.

Mrs. De’Laruse nearly snorted tea into her
lungs. “I don’t see why you feel the need for a job in the first
place. A woman of good breedin’ needs only a good man.”

Janine’s eyebrows came close to disappearing
into her blonde hairline. “Hear that, Vicki? A good man.”

If I could’ve untangled my new tangerine
pumps fast enough, I’d have sent a little of Mom’s message to
Janine’s shins. ‘Cept in her case, I’d have gone in with both
barrels.

Her mom beat me to the punch. “What would you
know about a good man, Janine? You’re wastin’ away chasin’ this
doctorate dream of yours. Look at you. Almost thirty and turned
down every prospect you’ve ever had.”

“I’m only twenty-six, Mama.”

“And unmarried still,” Mrs. De’Laruse
continued with nary a breath. “What’s the world come to, my dawling
Audra, when young ladies refuse to marry until they’re beyond
child-bearin’ years?”

“Mama!” Janine’s face reddened – and probably
not from the heat and humidity this fine Texas summer.

Mom interceded. “With good health and diet
these days, women are still within child-bearing capacity well into
their thirties and forties.”

Chalk one up for intelligent, well-informed
mothers everywhere. Part of me begged for my mother to use the word
fertile
. It kinda has a bit of a sexual tone to it, don’t
you think? That’s something my mother doesn’t like acknowledging.
Hell, neither mother used the term
pregnant
and instead
referred to women as
with child
, as if all pregnant women
were as virginal as the Virgin Mary.

“Speaking of children,” Mrs. De’Laruse
continued like a dog chewing the last morsel from its bone. “Were
you aware that Pastor Dennis’ son, Robert, has returned from parts
unknown?”

Robert? Did she mean
my
Robert – er,
Bobby? The man I gave my virginity to who summarily turned tail and
ran away from home, leaving me to face the firing squad alone?
That
Robert?

“And,” Mrs. D resumed, “he brings along a
wife
with child
.”

What’d I tell you?

“Why no, Mrs. De’Laruse,” I responded,
raising a brow in Janine’s direction. “No one told me.”

“Robert is married,” Mom emphasized between
bites of spinach leaf and strawberry salad. “With a child on the
way.”

As if I was deaf.

Janine picked up where her mother left off.
“Pastor Dennis wants to start the process of grooming him to take
over the senior pastorate at the church when he retires
someday.”

That stopped the teacup on the way to my
mouth. Good thing I hadn’t yet taken a sip, because I’d have ended
up spraying it all across the table. Mom tried teaching me good
manners – honest she did. In my case, it wasn’t so much the teacher
as the student.

“Bobby’s a preacher?” I finally blurted
out.

“Really, dear,” Mom clucked. “Do you listen
to nothing I say? He graduated from seminary several years
ago.”

“I thought you said he went to the
cemetery.”

There were times after Bobby left that I
wanted to personally put him there. In a grave. Dug to China. But
I’d finally gotten over the heartbreak and forgiven him. Cross my
heart. After all, I knew firsthand the pressures he’d faced under
the watchful eyes of the sanctimonious saved and couldn’t blame him
for wanting to escape. However, now the thought of seeing him again
sent an involuntary flutter from my heart all the way to my nether
regions. But Bobby – a pastor?

Janine interjected before my mother could
berate me further. “He’s going to start as the pastor of the
children’s department.”

“But he’ll quickly move up to somethin’ more
worthy of his family name,” Mrs. De’Laruse finished.

Janine smiled over the lip of her teacup – a
devious, cunning, and very wicked smile directed my way. “Will that
get you up for church next Sunday, or what?”

Or what indeed.

***

I have an innate ability to walk into Neiman
Marcus and zero in on the party-girl section – you know, where they
keep the leathers, laces, and things that make you want to go bump
in the night.

In this case I mean dancing. The stuff that
comes later doesn’t involve clothes.

The shopping assistant met us inside the
store and after introductions, whisked us off toward shoes – which
took Mom and I right past my favorite department. A momentary
slowdown offered a view of a great leather sheath dress that would
be perfect at my job. Pair it with some thigh-high boots, and I’d
look like a dominatrix right out of a movie. ‘Course Mom would
never agree to such attire – not willingly, that is.

During the last few years of working at the
bar, I’d had to get creative with my wardrobe. What was a tasteful,
long top or blouse to Mom became a mini-dress to me. A peek-a-boo
lacy overlay? Forget the underlying camisole and let the lace speak
for itself, I always say. What good are colorful and decorative
bras if you don’t get to show them off once in awhile?

“You coming, Victoria?” Mom called, having
stopped up ahead.

“Yeah,” I responded, somewhat despondent.
“These new heels aren’t as comfortable as I thought.”

Don’t judge me for the little white lie.

Mom looked down at the new tangerine pumps
she’d purchased just that morning to go with the
appropriate
summer dress she’d bought me the week before. When it comes to
shopping, luncheons, or just leaving the house, Mom always says a
woman should look her best because you never knew who you’d chance
to see. Hell, every Tuesday’s outing I looked dressed up enough for
Sunday church. Too bad my attitude didn’t match the attire.

Mom tsked. “We’ll have to find a more
appropriate pair while we’re here.”

The solution to everything in Mom’s book?
Dispatch the old and buy something new. Sometimes I missed the days
of not having to worry about balancing a checkbook or saving for
new tires on the Vette. But freedom came with a price – one I was
glad to pay if it meant not having to deal with the sperm donor.
The clothes Mom bought me every week? Let’s chalk that up to the
price a mother wished to pay to spend time with her daughter. I
really tried not to take advantage of her generosity – most of the
time.

While checking out at one of the registers
toward the end of our shopping excursion, Mom noticed a lovely
little floral number she just had to try on, which left me standing
there with a pile of clothes and shoes that rivaled the heights of
the Matterhorn. I nearly piddled in my panties when she handed me
the black, no-limit AmEx and waltzed away with the personal
shopping assistant toward a dressing room. My eyes locked with the
clerk.

“I’ll be right back.”

With a potential three to five minute window,
I sprinted across the store in my brand-brand new tangerine pumps.
I grabbed the size four black leather sheath and saw the matching
studded bolero jacket I just had to have – hey, it was part of an
ensemble. Then my roving eye caught the platinum-colored, barely
there lace dress they happened to have in my size as well. New
bar-appropriate attire in hand, I raced like a pursued purse
snatcher back to the previously vacated register.