The Icing on the Cake (35 page)

Once my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature were taken, the nurse directed Mom and me down the hall to another room. I tried to make out what was inside the room. I saw several blurry hospital beds separated by equally blurry curtains that hung from the ceiling. Mom helped me sit down on one of the beds and then she sat down on a chair beside the bed. The nurse stood at the foot of the bed.

“So what are you seeing the doctor for today?” the nurse asked.

Um, can’t you see me? Isn’t it obvious?
“I have this terrible rash.” I held up my arms and pointed to my face.

The nurse took down some notes and said, “The doctor will be with you shortly.” He pulled a curtain closed around my bed and disappeared.

I leaned back into the inclined bed. “Mom, you can go if you want.” I released a heavy sigh.

“I’m not leaving you here,” she stated simply.

“I was trying to track down a key to my boss’s office,” I said.

“What?”

“That’s why I was at the golf course. I really messed up this time.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about that right now,” Mom said, fluffing the lumpy pillow that was behind my head.

“I gave him the wrong article. And if I don’t somehow get him the right one soon, I think I might lose my job.”

“What do you mean you gave him the wrong—” Mom began.

I cut her off. “But do you want to know a secret? Deep down, I’m almost glad it happened this way. Because the article I wrote, the heart-strings-tuggy one, it was good. It really was. Not because of anything I wrote, but because of what I was writing about. My whole life I’ve wanted to write something like that.”

Mom opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, the doctor, a woman whose face I could barely make out, pulled back the curtain. She took one look at me and began asking me a whole lot of questions.

After some discussion, it was concluded that I had probably suffered from an allergic reaction to the fertilizer used on the grass at the golf course. Apparently it was this new high-tech stuff that a lot of environmental groups were trying to get banned. And a whole bunch of people were having reactions to it, though none as severe as mine. The doctor knew all of this because she was a regular at Pine Hills.

I was then given a powerful antihistamine. And the last thing I remember was mumbling something to Mom about how when we left the hospital I would need her to take me to
Central Coast Living
and could she pick up some camouflage for me to wear so the mouse wouldn’t see me when I tried to steal Gilbert’s keys again.

I
woke up in my own bed. I sat up groggily, rubbed my eyes, and realized with glee that I could see again. I looked down at my arms. The rash had cleared up a bit, but some not-too-lovely traces of it still remained.

Mom was sitting at the foot of the bed, reading the bridal magazine I had bought to do research for Carrie’s shower. I silently hoped she hadn’t found the ad where I had written “Me” under the picture of the bride and “Isaac” under the picture of the groom.

“Good morning, honey,” Mom said, looking up from the magazine.

“Good—”
Wait a minute, did she just say
. . . “Morning? Oh. No.” I threw the blankets off of me and sat up straight. “What time is it?” I asked frantically.

“Oh, about eleven,” Mom replied.

Eleven. Too late. By now George had read my article and had discovered that it was completely off the mark, that none of it was usable, and that he would have to run something in its place. My cubicle was probably being cleared out and turned into a game den as we spoke. I leaned against my bed’s padded headboard and put my head in my hands.

Mom set the bridal magazine down and came to my side. “Oh, honey, what is it?”

“I tried,” I said pitifully. “I worked so hard. I put up with Jean-Pierre and then Patrique, and I even lost Isaac, and it was all for nothing. Nothing. By now George has read my stupid mushy article, wadded it up, and thrown it in the trash. I completely failed.”

Mom put a loving arm around me. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “You told me that you were happy with what you wrote. In my book that is the definition of success. Now how about I make you some breakfast?” The nurturing tone in Mom’s voice was soothing.

“Well, it has been a long time since I had your waffles,” I whimpered.

Mom smiled and left for the kitchen. I sank into the pillows on the bed.

“Oh, before I forget,” Mom called out. “Your boss called this morning.”

I jumped out of the bed and hurried to the kitchen. “What! What did he say?”

“I let the machine get it,” Mom answered.

I hustled to the answering machine and pushed Play. “George Kent here. I tried your cell phone first but got no answer. I was hoping to get in touch with you. I’ll try back later.”

I cringed. It was so obvious in his voice. He was going to fire me. He was going to fire me, and I would end up going door to door selling those electronic-toothbrush-holding contraptions that Bernie, Patty’s MatureMatch.com admirer, invented. And I would be a horrible saleswoman because I would always end up telling the people that the things weren’t safe. And then Bernie would fire me and I would be known as the girl who gets fired from everything and . . .

“After I finish breakfast,” Mom’s voice broke into my thoughts, “I’m going to get your prescription filled.”

“My what?” I plopped onto a chair in the dining room.

“Your prescription. The doctor said you should take some antihistamines for the next couple days.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “I can pick up the medicine, Mom.” Might as well do something to keep my mind off of my crumbling life. “Plus, I’m sure you want to get home to Dad.”

“Okay. But first let’s eat.”

Ah. My life may have been falling apart, but those words definitely helped cushion the fall.

A bell dinged as I walked into the pharmacy located in the Green Meadows shopping center near my condo. I walked to the back of the store and handed my prescription to the pretty, young pharmacy worker. She took one look at the traces of red rash on my arms and face and shot me a sympathetic glance.

The young woman informed me that it would take a few minutes to fill the prescription, and so to pass the time I made my way to the magazines in aisle eight and began flipping through an issue of
Cutting-Edge Coifs
. I was looking in awe at a picture of a woman whose hair had been styled into a peacock, complete with feathers and everything, when I heard someone calling my name.

“Annabelle?”

I turned around and saw Rona, looking like she had just come from a photo shoot for one of the magazines on the rack.

“Rona,” I said, snapping the magazine shut. “Hi.”

“What happened to you?” Rona asked.

A few days earlier I would have begrudged the question and known for sure that Rona was glad that I looked so terrible because it would mean that I was less competition for her if she changed her mind about Ethan and decided to go for the other Matthews brother. But I didn’t think that at all. Okay, almost not at all. Hey, change doesn’t happen overnight.

“I had an allergic reaction to a chemical the Pine Hills golf club uses on their grass.”

“Does it hurt?” Rona asked. “It looks like it does.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t.”

“Well, I’m glad I ran into you,” Rona said. “I was just next door at Anne’s Partie and Paperie looking for decorations for Carrie’s shower, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I came here for a pick-me-up.” Rona held up a bag of peanut M&Ms.

“Well,” I said. “My prescription is going to take a few minutes. I could go next door with you if you want.” I was a bit shocked that those words came out of my mouth. Yes, we had shared smoothies together and decided to start over and all. But I wasn’t exactly planning on becoming buddy-buddy with Rona. Was I?

“That would be great,” Rona said with a relieved sigh.

Rona and I went next door to Anne’s Partie and Paperie, which is this gorgeous store with classy event decorations and paper products—the kind of stuff that you would find in the entertaining section of a glossy, chic magazine.

Once we were inside, I turned to Rona. “So what exactly are we going to be decorating?” I asked. “A living room? A banquet room?”

Rona looked at the ground. “Well, there’s been a little problem with that. The owner of a summer home I sold about a month ago had agreed to let me use his beachfront property for the shower, but his daughter just finished her first year at Berkley and decided she wanted to have a vacation there with her friends. And I can’t have it at my house because I’m getting the carpets replaced the day of the shower. So I put TBA on the invitations, and I’ve been searching for a place but . . .”

“We can have it at my condo,” I offered easily.

Rona’s face registered surprise and relief. “Really?”

“Of course. I would love to have it at my place.”

“Perfect,” Rona said. “I’ll call all of the invitees tonight.”

“I can help you call if you want,” I offered, surprising myself.

Rona sighed gratefully. “Thanks.”

“All right. So now that we know what space we’re working with, let’s check out the decorations.”

“Yes, let’s,” Rona echoed.

For the next thirty minutes Rona and I walked through the aisles of the store. Rona pulled decorations down from the shelves and held them up for me to see, and I shook my head at nearly everything she held up. Nothing was quite right.

Then we found an entire aisle that seemed to scream Carrie. It was filled with earthy decorations, many with Asian influences. As Rona and I walked into the aisle, I raised my eyebrows and looked over at her. She was nodding her head as if she too thought the decorations were perfect.

With huge smiles on our faces, we began scooping up paper lamps, floating candles, and bamboo wall hangings with Chinese characters painted on them. I even found a mini bonsai tree that I just couldn’t resist. We topped things off with thick, recycled napkins in an earthy green, and bamboo plates.

“Oh, this is going to be so perfect,” I cooed.

“And I just remembered I have some pillows in a similar style,” Rona said. “I could bring them and everyone could sit on them.”

I smiled giddily at Rona. This party was going to be incredible! We giggled as we approached the check-out counter.

“I’ll get these,” I offered as we set our items on the counter. I might as well spend my last hard earned dollars from
Central Coast Living
on my best friend.

“It’s on Miles,” Rona said. She retrieved a wad of cash from her wallet. “He said he has to make things up to Carrie. Something about almost ruining her wedding dress.”

I grinned to myself as the checkout girl smacked her gum loudly while scanning each of the items.

Bags in hand, Rona and I left the store. I was looking into one of the bags I was holding, engrossed in the goodies inside, when I ran smack into a man who crossed our path on the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at the man I had just run into, a man I immediately recognized. “Isaac,” I whispered.

Now, dear reader, I have been in your spot before. The spot where you think, “Yeah right, like she’d run into all these people she knows at some little shopping center in an area as big as the Monterey Bay.” But I’m telling you, the world is small. And apparently even smaller when one is covered in a red, splotchy rash.

“I, uh, I’ll see you later, Annabelle,” Rona said. She handed the bags she had been carrying over to me. “Why don’t you take these to your place, and I’ll call you later.” It was painfully obvious that she wanted to leave me and Isaac alone.

“Um, okay,” I said.

“Good to see you, Isaac,” Rona added casually. She stepped behind Isaac and made motions like she was boxing—apparently referring back to when she told me to “fight for my man.” I shot her a cut-it-out-he-might-see-you look. She grinned and strutted away. I stood frozen, not knowing what to say or do.

Isaac looked at the rash that covered arms and face. “What happened? I mean . . . are you okay?”

“A broken heart affects me badly, apparently.”
What in the world? Did I really just say that?

Isaac looked down at the ground. “Annabelle, we need to talk,” he said.

“We do?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Ready to go, Isaac?” An attractive blonde came and hooked her arm through Isaac’s. She was carrying a take-out box from the cute little Italian restaurant at the south end of the shopping center. She regarded me and shot me a look that said, “Oh you poor blotchy thing; it’s too bad you aren’t as pretty as me.”

“So are you ready?” the woman repeated. She looked at Isaac, awaiting his reply.

For a moment, Isaac looked at me like he was torn, like he didn’t know what to do. But the look soon disappeared. He cleared his throat and glanced at the woman. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later, Annabelle.”