The Woman He Married (4 page)

“R-restaurant.
N-no food tonight…fire…total loss,” Josie stuttered.

“Is Joe all right?”

Josie nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, how okay can he be when his restaurant just went up in flames?”

She stared at Gina, feeling helpless. “What am I
gonna
do?” she asked, putting a hand to her tightening chest. “I can’t breathe,” she wheezed.

“Okay, calm down. Breathe
slow
.” Gina began inhaling and exhaling deliberately, but Josie wasn’t following her lead. “You’re simply going to have to call John and cancel the dinner at your house. Maybe you can all go out somewhere.
The club?”
Gina suggested.

Josie focused on Gina, attempting to mimic her breathing. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll call John.” She inhaled and exhaled steadily a few more times until she was finally able to slow her breathing.

Now, better able to focus, Josie looked down at her phone, and with a shaky hand, found John’s work number. After taking another deep breath, she pressed send.

* * * *

“Did you talk to her?” Andy asked, raking a hand through his dirty blond hair. John watched as his younger brother and political advisor paced the floor. They had come a long way from the rural county they’d grown up in with their mother and younger sisters. A small town where folks still flew the Confederate Flag, mullet haircuts
were
considered fashionable, and people actually named their children Bubba. John and Andy hadn’t necessarily grown up “white trash,” but they were well acquainted with it. A past they had both spent most of their lives trying to overcome.

John leaned a hip against his desk. “She hasn’t had a drink in six months,” he said and hoped it was true.

Around them, the light taupe walls of his office at campaign headquarters held pictures of the current president and Supreme Court, a map of the judicial district and various forms of inspirational framed art. Perched on the arm of a sleek leather chair, his campaign manger, Patrick, nervously adjusted his bow tie, and then swiped a speck of dirt from his saddle oxford.

Andy stopped pacing and gave John a stern look. “And she knows to keep her liberal opinions to herself? I know I don’t have to remind you that
Montgomery
’s a traditional man with old-fashioned family values. All we need is our ‘meal ticket’ thinking you’re married to a communist.”

“Not this again.” Patrick removed his horned-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why do you continue to make it sound like Jocelyn’s trying to sabotage us?”

“It’s not just me,” Andy shot back. “Besides it’s my responsibility to assess risk. The entire success of this campaign depends on securing the financial support and endorsement of Southern Steel. Without that money we’ll never be able to pay for the ad and finish this campaign the way we need to.”

“I think we’re all aware of the situation,” John said, trying to move the conversation along and away from the subject of his wife.

Andy turned his staid eyes back to his older brother. “Good, then we’re all in agreement that projecting a perfect image of propriety is vital to our success,” he said, his tone nothing short of an accusation.

John knew Andy was no longer referring to Josie’s inappropriate behavior, but to his own, and he refused to accept censure from his little brother. “You got something you want to say?” he challenged, his stare boring into his accuser.

“No.” Andy put his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, is
all.
”

The phone on his desk rang. John sent Andy another silent warning before pushing the button for the speakerphone. “John Bearden.”

Josie’s frantic voice filled his office. “
John we have a problem. There was a fire at the caterers—a total loss actually, and Joe says he can’t possibly
—”

“Get to the point, Jocelyn,” he said.

“
John, we need to cancel—or move the dinner to a restaurant
.”

“Out of the question,” he barked. “Do I have to remind you how much I have riding on this?” Across the room, Andy shook his head. “I invited the
Montgomerys
to an intimate supper at
my
home, and that’s what we’re going to have!”

Josie continued to ramble about how impossible it would be to get another caterer this late, that she still had to pick up her dress, have her hair done,
get
the kids ready. John wasn’t really paying attention. Andy gave him an
I-told-you-so
look and John began to think his brother might be right. She always had an excuse, a reason to let him down when he needed her most. Early in their marriage, it was frequently something to do with the kids. Later, when she started drinking, she said she was lonely, that he didn’t pay enough attention to her—blaming
him
for her weakness.

He showed no mercy. “Jocelyn, when are you going to learn how to multi-task?”

“
What
?”

Andy’s smug expression spurred John. “Look, I’m real busy here. I don’t have time to worry about things like this—the caterer’s your responsibility. I’m counting on you to take care of this.” He received an approving nod from Andy. “However you want to work it out is fine, but we
are
having supper at our house tonight.”

“
John
—”

“I’ve got to go. See you at six.” He pushed the button to end the call and hesitated. The disappointed look on Patrick’s face told him he’d been too harsh.
Maybe
I should call her back.

“I’m telling you,” Andy said, stopping him. “She’s a liability.”

John felt his frustration peak. “She’s my wife and the mother of my children,” he said through clenched teeth. “I won’t have you disrespecting her any longer.”

“Right, ’cause you’re doing enough of that for the both of us,” Andy scoffed.

“When your marriage is perfect, you’ll have room to talk—”

“There’s no such thing.” Trisha’s silky voice suspended the tension as she swept gracefully into the room. Her glossy brown hair lifted gently with each flowing step, while her ample breasts moved under a tight sleeveless blouse. The buttons gapped to reveal a black, lace bra. “We always want what they can’t have,” John’s press secretary said. “Marriage sort of spoils it, doesn’t it?”

Patrick looked confused. “Spoils what?”

In one elegant movement, she turned and slipped her trim hips onto the desk. Crossing her tanned legs, she leaned forward and rested on both hands for support, increasing the swell of her breasts. “The sex, of course,” she said, drifting the gaze from her dark, almond eyes in John’s direction.

None of them seemed to notice the sound her bracelet made as it slid down her arm and came in contact with his desk.

* * * *

“Damn-him!” Josie snapped her phone shut. “Sometimes I really
hate
that man.”

“What did he say?” Gina asked. “Are you moving the dinner? Is it cancelled?”

“‘Real busy’ my ass,” Josie growled, and then noticing the reproachful glances of the other moms, she mumbled, “Sure as hell better be curing cancer or something.”

“What’s happening?” Gina asked again.

Josie didn’t answer; she only continued to rant in a slightly lower voice. “If he wasn’t the father of my children I would—”

“Would what?” Gina questioned in a cynical voice. “Leave him?”

Josie’s heart raced at the very thought hastening her to the third, and most vital, unofficial rule of being a stay-at-home mom: To be blissfully unaware that her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d always envisioned it would. And to do so—since she’d given up alcohol—she needed to stay insanely busy at all times.

“I have to go,” Josie said, in a huff. She didn’t know to where, but she knew she had to get moving. “I have to find another caterer.”

“Yeah, right.”
Gina laughed and then stopped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Got to go.
Can you handle things here? I’ll call you.” Josie didn’t wait for a response—she was already heading for the door.

* * * *

Josie talked to herself as she drove out of the school.
Okay, think. Where to find a caterer?
 
She thought about Joe and his burning restaurant.
How awful that must have been.
Of course!
There are about a million little places to eat right near Joe’s. Surely, one of them can do it.

The first restaurant she pulled into was located in a restored home from the 1800’s, complete with a wooden front porch, pots with colorful pansies, and white rocking chairs. The menu out front didn’t have any prices but there was a sign with the words, “Catering Available”.

Inside, the aroma of home cooking mixed with the musty smell of an old house. Deep, red velvet flanked each window and accented the round-backed chairs. The owner, a woman with stiff sprayed hair, tight pants, and wearing a set of the biggest beads Josie had ever seen, asked, “What can I do for ya, sugar?”

“Um, well, I need a dinner party catered…tonight,” Josie said, hopeful.

When the woman laughed out loud and slapped the counter, Josie assumed that meant “No.” And she was correct.

Josie moved from one quaint restaurant to another, all professing to cater, but all she heard was, “No, honey, we can’t do that.” And, “Not even my great aunt
Pearl
could pull together
somethin
’ that fast, God rest her soul.” Not to mention, “Lord have mercy, you got yourself in a real pickle, young lady.” None of them seemed to be real busy; how hard could it be to throw together something for ten people? Josie even offered to pay extra.

Doesn’t anyone in this town have any initiative?

Josie had grown up in the south so she was used to, and embraced the laid-back, no hurry, “it’ll still be here tomorrow” attitude—but right about now it was starting to get on her nerves.

Feeling hopeless, she pushed her way into the last place she could see that might be able to help her. Behind the counter was a young man wearing black pants, white shirt, and a forest green apron. He was thin with acne and looked like he might have been in his late teens or early twenties. He looked up and greeted Josie with a bored, “May I help you?”

“Yes, I need a supper for ten, catered,” Josie said, in the sweetest Southern vernacular she could muster at the moment.

“When?”
He was still bored, or half brain-dead. She couldn’t tell which.

Nonchalantly, Josie said, “Tonight,” followed by a sheepish smile—and she may have even batted her eyes a bit in desperation.

He chuckled just a little. He was awake. “I don’t think so,” he said in a tone that also implied, “Duh!”

“You don’t understand; at seven this evening I’m
gonna
have eight very important people—to my husband anyway—at my house expecting a fabulous meal that just
tragically
burned up down the street.” Josie made sure their gazes met for effect. “Can you help me?”

“No.”

“But I have no place else to go.” Josie was pleading now.

“Can’t do it.
No can do. Not
gonna
happen.” He was bored again.

Desperation morphing into rage, she said, through clenched teeth, “Look here…” looking him up and down for a nametag and when she couldn’t find one, she repeated, “Look here! I’ve got a beautiful table set for ten people I don’t even like, no food to serve them, a husband that doesn’t care and…and kids in banana costumes that look like
penises
! I need you to focus!”