The Achilles Heel (12 page)

We stood in the doorway waiting on my cab, and I promised Gail I’d fill her in on
a plan when I had my ducks in a row on the St. Croix trip. My next step was to get
the girls to commit to a few days at the beach, and with this group, I knew I could
get at least one to come with me. As soon as I got home, I carefully crafted a mass
text to my best friends, not only apologizing for my lack of contact over the last
few months, but also explaining to them that I was ready to start my life over, and
needed them with me on this trip. Of course, I would pay for our accommodations; I
missed them dearly, and I mentioned that this was the best way to find myself again,
but said nothing about my suspicions of Jamie or the questioning circumstances surrounding
Jack’s death. A text message was certainly not the appropriate avenue to spill my
guts and divulge my secrets; the beach seemed like a far better place for that.

While waiting for the replies, I accessed the Cotton House website to check availability
for an extended stay. Crossing my fingers and saying a mantra, “Please, oh please,
please, oh please,” it worked! It was booked only for the week of Christmas and available
for the next two months starting next week, so I called the owner and got a great
deal. Usually, high season rates run three grand a week, but I haggled him down to
total of fifteen grand for two months; a nine thousand dollar savings is a deal in
my book any day. He didn’t remember me‌—‌even though I’ve stayed there twice‌—‌which
kind of hurt my feelings, and I’m not really sure why. The house was booked along
with an airline reservation; I was set to leave next week with or without my friends.

I’d been thinking about the possible scenarios on how to get Andrea Bozeman’s passport
on the plane while also carrying my own and avoid being arrested, but none of my ideas
sounded fool proof. I considered putting it in a hard back copy of a book and carry
the book in my purse, but I don’t know anything about the make-up of a passport; for
all I know it might have some high-tech, built-in sensor. Another option was to cut
a slit in a seam of the lining of my suitcase and then re-stitch it, but again, I
know nothing about the journey a suitcase takes from the time it leaves my hands until
it gets on the plane. This sounded too risky, and I’d be a mess of nerves on that
flight. I wasn’t thinking outside the box; there must be an easier way to get that
passport past security.

Wait, I’m going about this all wrong. I don’t need to get it past security; I’d just
bypass that step all together.
I had the blueprint of a perfect plan and started to make a list of all the things
I’d need to take on the trip. As the list grew longer, I resigned myself to a Walmart
trip.

The next morning I awoke to four out of four
yes’s.
The girls were in‌—‌all for the same reason; using me mourning my husband as an excuse
for a vacation, and I was using them for a reason to go to St. Croix. I was thankful
they pulled out the big guns, and that I was important enough to be considered ammunition.

I knew their husbands would be the major roadblock in my plan, especially Leslie’s
husband Carl; when he heard the words ‘plane ticket,’ his ass probably puckered so
tight he wouldn’t be able to shit for a week. Carl Abbot is the kind of man you wish
for your best friend to marry. He’s responsible and kind, a loving father to their
girls and always puts the best interest of his family first. With that in mind, he’s
also a card-carrying conservative in khaki pants who doesn’t let two nickels leave
his pocket without anal consideration first. I’m really surprised he agreed to this
trip; she must have laid it on thick, maybe even cried.

Jenna was the other one who might of had a difficult time stealing away. Jenna and
her husband Paul are both chefs in Denver, and recently opened a farm-to-table restaurant
appropriately called The Farmhouse. It’s only been up and running for three months
now, plus its football season, and the Broncos just traded Tebow for Manning, which
means fans are partying in downtown Denver. With a usually packed restaurant, Paul
is probably pissed she even considered the trip in the first place.

I knew Tori could make the trip, because Tori always does whatever she wants, and
even last minute plans usually work out to her advantage. Even though she walked in
on her shit-for-brains husband banging the office coffee girl on his desk (only three
months after Tori gave birth) she is already back in her size two jeans, her Botox
looks amazing, and she was recently awarded several million of his dollars by a San
Diego judge in the divorce. She was married to a successful architect and signed a
pre-nuptial agreement which would be nullified by an affair from either party, so
she got full custody of their son and half of his money.

Last but not least Claire, the soft spoken, very regal and put together southern belle
who runs an interior design company and antique furniture store in Charleston. Her
husband Scott is retired from the Army, and he helps with the businesses on a regular
basis. I knew she’d have no problem taking a vacation. Claire is the epitome of sweetness
with never a cross word to say about anyone; I’m surprised she can stand to be around
the rest of us. She’s been married the longest, and has an eight-year old daughter
who is an identical duplication of Claire at that age. It seems as though she has
made a damn near perfect life for herself and I don’t know anyone more deserving.

Even though I did have ulterior motives for getting this girls’ trip together, these
women warm my heart, and when we are together, all seems right in the world; we laugh,
eat and drink until someone pukes.

I’m always impatient the day my vacation actually starts since it’s usually booked
so far in advance, but this trip was only a week away and I was going to be gone for
such an extended amount of time; I was in a bit of a panic with my long list of errands
while trying to tie up all the loose ends here. Once finally getting to St. Croix,
I’d be riding solo until meeting the girls at the airport.

The company of my best friends is something I
so
look forward to, especially since we would all be together at the Cotton House. I
needed their support because this time I wouldn’t be a new bride, and it wasn’t my
wedding anniversary; Jack wasn’t going to carry me over the threshold. On this visit
I’d be a widow. I could do this trip by myself, I knew I could, but just didn’t want
to and my girlfriends will be a great comfort as I ease my way into a new period of
my life; ready to make new memories. Hopefully, I’ll want to keep going back to the
Islands. Plus, this is the first activity I’m actually looking forward to since he
died‌—‌
Jack’s dead, Jack’s dead.
First things first, continue checking things off my list and figure out how much
luggage I needed to take.

Dread is an understatement when the possibility of a Walmart trip rears its ugly head;
I loathed it, and usually procrastinate shopping in that store for as long as possible.
While in route, I suddenly remembered my new financial status.
Forget it, I’m going to splurge.
I turned the car around and headed to the other side of town.

Even though Jack and I lived a comfortable upper-middle class lifestyle, I still clipped
coupons and shopped at Target only for home décor specialties like linens and table
lamps; everyday grocery items are seriously overpriced there. Walmart was meant for
basic groceries and Hy-Vee has the best meat and produce in town; even the butcher
knows my name. Obviously, I lead a very exciting, upper-middle class lifestyle since
I have time to categorize grocery stores. Before I knew it, I had a Target cart filled
with all kinds of crap; most of which wouldn’t even make the trip, but a little retail
therapy never hurt anybody.

At home I set out the most important items purchased, lined them up on the kitchen
table and thought about the best way to fit them into a large Halloween tin. After
filling the bottom of the tin with black and orange shredded paper, I then added marshmallow
peeps in the shapes of pumpkins and ghosts. Next, was a bag of seasonal coffee called
Witches Brew and the last item to go in was a puffy black Halloween cat that made
a hissing sound when you rubbed its back. First, this kitty was going under the knife.
Using an X-acto knife, I meticulously cut the stitching around the tail, pulled out
the noise making device along with the stuffing, and replaced it with Andrea Bozeman’s
passport; shoved it right up that cat’s ass. Even though the noise maker was now sitting
on the counter, I swear that cat hissed at me as I replaced some of the stuffing and
carefully stitched the seams back together with a needle and thread.

Not half bad.
I proudly thought.
Maybe I missed my calling as proctologist.

Everything fit snugly into the tin, and with a serious amount of packing tape around
the edges, there was no concern for spillage. My plan was to mail this box to myself
at the Cotton House. Since Halloween was only a week away; my hope was that it would
look like a care package for someone, and if it did get searched, I supposed the coffee
bag would be the obvious smuggling receptacle, not the cat. Maybe I watch too many
drug cartel movies, but it’s the plan I was going with, and if I pulled this off,
I’d be sharing cocktails with this little kitty, watching the sunset fade with my
worries into the ocean. But it’s a little early to get cocky.

KESSLER

W
e were all slow getting started the next day; Hope and Wade didn’t creep out of their
bedroom until close to noon. I have to admit though, it was a comforting feeling waking
up and knowing I wasn’t the only one in the house; a conversation with someone else
was only a few feet away. I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and moved things
around until I found all the ingredients for a big southern breakfast. Starting with
a sausage log, I shaped little patties and started frying them in an iron skillet,
while simultaneously grinding the beans to put the coffee on. I had a little payback
for yesterday waiting for Wade in his coffee cup this morning. Getting the better
of Wade, especially when he’s in the vulnerable state of a hang-over, is better than
Christmas.

The smell of breakfast cooking always reminds me of my mama bustling around the kitchen;
one woman doing the work of three. For the life of me, I’ll never figure out how she
managed to prepare all those different dishes and have them ready to eat at the same
time; she always made it look so easy.

I poured myself a cup of Community coffee with chicory, and poured one for Wade, too.
Community coffee is a Louisiana staple; you can’t find it anywhere else, and chicory
has been around the French quarters since the mid 1800’s. Chicory is the root of a
wild flower that when roasted has a similar taste to coffee, but it’s incredibly strong,
so a little goes a long way. Obviously, a wild flower root is a hell of a lot cheaper
than a coffee bean, and Southerners are no stranger to a bargain; we pride ourselves
on it. The outside of chicory is that if you aren’t accustomed to its bitter taste
it can feel a bit pungent in your mouth. I knew Wade was going to walk out of his
bedroom hung-over and feeling like a big ole pile of shit; I couldn’t wait to blindside
him, and hopefully, get a temper-tantrum reaction.

“Hey, buddy, looking good this afternoon!” I boasted when Wade finally emerged from
his bedroom wearing a ratty wife beater and Hawaiian print boxer shorts.

“Coffee,” he grumbled.

“I’ve got a cup of Louisiana’s finest, freshly ground and piping hot, just for you,”
I said with my thickest accent.

Wade took the cup and put it to his lips, never once taking his eyes off me. “Well,
just what in the hell’s wrong with you? Why you actin’ so chipper? You have sex with
my wife last night and feelin’ guilty about it?” he accused me, as he set the coffee
cup down on the counter without actually taking a drink.

“What? Jesus, no!” I protested, trying to mask my excitement of watching him choke
on a swig of that coffee. “I’m just trying to be a good host and start your day off
with a nice breakfast.”

“Uh-huh.” He hesitated suspiciously. “Now,” he started to say, as he took a huge gulp
of the steaming coffee and immediately spewed it out of his mouth and across the counter.
“What the hell was that, Kessler?” he yelled, as he searched for a towel to wipe the
stream of drool running down his face. “You put that chicory shit in my coffee again?
Who the fuck drinks that stuff? It tastes like somebody pissed in my mouth,” he yelled,
still choking, but also rambling now.

I bent over, laughing so hard I couldn’t speak.

“Oh, okay, you’re a funny guy today. That was mean, but well played,” he said as he
came over and gave me a hug, along with the hardest nipple twist I’ve ever received.

“Ahhh!” I screamed, as my laughing stopped all together.

“See, I can be funny too, Kess,” he noted with a smile as he stuffed two sausage patties
in his mouth at the same time, clapping his hands together yelling, “Wahoo!” and sending
half chewed sausage bits across the kitchen island. “It’s gonna be a great day! What’s
on the agenda?” he asked with a childish grin.

“First, you’re going to put some pants on so I don’t have to see your tiny dick peeking
out of those boxers. Second, I’ve got something real good in store for you; might
be even better than Christmas, but first, pants,” I ordered.

“Ooh, I’m intrigued; be right back!” he wailed, as he galloped into the bedroom.

He was back in less than ten minutes; apparently the same amount of time he takes
in the bedroom with his wife, and dressed like a manager at the Tommy Bahama store.
Wade had covered himself head to toe in palm tree prints that were a variety of different
colors; all of which were awful. Atop his fat head was a wide brim, straw hat.

“Oh, Wade, nooo! As your friend, I can’t let you leave the house dressed like that.
If the tabloids get a picture of you, it’s career suicide,” I pleaded.