Something About You (Just Me & You) (8 page)

“Absolutely, Theo. Can do.” Sabrina rose to her feet to
leave. It always made her feel slightly flattered when Theo “shared.”
Uncomfortable, but flattered.

“Once more word of advice.” He jabbed his pen in her
direction as she reached the door, a sly smirk spreading across his face.
“Don’t get those cuffs too dirty before then.”

And just like that, Sabrina knew.

Damn you, Gage Fitzgerald.

She found Carlton reorganizing the contents of the shelves
in Violetta’s desk. Violetta, who obviously couldn’t be wooed to come back to
work part-time, given how the Hon. Rep. had quickly distracted her from the
issue.

“Notice something different about Theo?” he asked.

“Funny you mention it. Yeah, I did. I’m just not sure what.”

“Grecian Formula.” Carlton stroked nonexistent sideburns.
“You know what that means.
Scandal
.”

He gave her a sultry look before turning his attention back
to the contents of the filing cabinet under the desk. Moira would have been
oblivious to a paratrooper over the Mojave, but Sabrina always knew — as
did Carlton and Violetta — when Theo had embarked on a new affair.

When she first landed the position as Theo’s Chief of Staff,
Sabrina had been too captivated by his charisma to notice that he wasn’t just
one of the state’s most influential legislators.

He was also a man.

A man with feet of clay.

One morning, Theo had summoned her for their customary
morning coffee chat, only his smile was a little too relaxed, and his office
smelled like a wrestling room right after a match. Then while she was going
over his schedule, she had spotted the empty condom wrapper underneath his desk
close to her feet.

Sabrina had instinctively known what she had to do even as
blood rushed to her face and sweat drenched her armpits. She had leaned over,
plucked the wrapper off the floor and pointedly stuck it in the pocket of her
messenger bag.

It had sent Theo a clear message loud and clear.
I’ve got
your back. Now you get mine.

After the condom wrapper incident, the Hon. Rep. went on the
down low, covering his tracks with the expertise of a seasoned survivalist and
taking his early-morning rendezvous to posh downtown hotels instead. But
Sabrina could sniff out his nefarious deeds. Today they smelled like
gingerbread pancakes from the Four Seasons and
Un Jardins Sur le Nil
.

Once everyone left for lunch, she sprayed Theo’s
perfume-drenched leather bomber with odor neutralizer and ran a lint roller
over the lining to pick up long, curly red hairs, grunt work she’d seen
Violetta do hundreds of times before. Sabrina wondered what Jillian Ward
thought when her husband came home smelling like Febreze.

Sabrina kept her eyes averted from a professional studio
photo of Jill and the girls that hung on the wall. Sabrina hated the cover-up.
It made her feel sleazy. Her job description shouldn’t include making sure Theo
didn’t join the fifty percent club, as Carlton called it. 

Theo’s conscience was his cross to bear, she reasoned. As
long as the Hon. Rep.’s biennial infidelities didn’t threaten his chance for
re-election — and therefore, her own career — his private life was
none of her business.

Cadence Corners was still lively by the time Sabrina got
home from work at dusk. 

She loved the smell of freshly made food and espresso that
filtered out of the cozy restaurants and wafted down Plum Street, the
neighborhood’s main avenue. Couples strolled down the street pushing prams and
walking dogs. The resident semi-pro cyclists were out as well. They nipped
around the Audi on their light aluminum bikes, reflectors gleaming under her
headlights.

She pulled her car into the driveway without bothering to
reach for the automatic garage door opener. She still felt a rush of giddiness
at the sight of her beloved 1930s Tudor Revival-style bungalow. The small
gingerbread-colored brick house, with its white-frosted front door, windows and
gables, seemed to have been custom-built for two — and possibly the
occasional overnight houseguest. The small yard had just enough no-maintenance
greenery to suit her tastes. Skyrocket junipers flanked the entry gate, and the
low brick fence was smothered in fig ivy. There were slender beds of earth on
either side of the walkway, just in case she had a yen to plant herbaceous
borders.

Sabrina hesitated in front of the solid oak door and looked
at the mailbox with dread.
Woman up
, she coached herself. A week’s worth
of envelopes, postcards and fliers were stuffed inside. She thumbed through
them, hastily shoving her mortgage note and the communiqué that contained a
copy of her civil servant’s check stub to the end of the pile. She tossed the
mail on top of the mantle, where it joined another week’s worth of its friends.
The note wasn’t due for another three weeks.

Time to focus on what she could control: tidying up all of
the frayed ends of her broken marriage.

A nonthreatening pile of boxes sat in the guest room,
wedding presents from Jackson’s side of the family. Sabrina had adamantly
refused to sign up for a gift registry, against Molly’s advice. “Suck it up,
sister,” her best friend had told her. “And don’t come crying to me about a
bunch of terrible gifts when you don’t.”

Terrible was an understatement. There was the garden gnome
dressed in a T-shirt bearing the mascot of Jackson’s alma mater. And a musical
figurine of two owls cozied up together that played the maudlin theme from a
movie about star-crossed lovers. The one that topped them all, however, was a
frilly pink apron with “Kiss the Cook” printed across the front.

Sabrina taped each box shut and placed a return label on the
front. After her task was done, she eyed the canvas luggage that was lined up
in the corner of the room. She opened a smaller bag and sorted through a
colorful mélange of sexy, silky panties and bras, wedding gifts from Molly.
Like most men, Jackson appreciated lingerie. What was it with men and their
penchant for women in undergarments? Why not swimwear? Or form-fitting gym
clothes?

Didn’t they essentially have the same effect?

Sabrina supposed she’d understand men’s sexual proclivities
only in theory.

Jackson Sprinkle, with his daytime soap actor good looks,
had made sense in theory too. Sabrina had confidently assumed that her
husband-to-be, having spent the better part of five years around or with her,
knew what she considered important in life by the time the Polar Star embarked.
Thanks to contaminated shellfish for a bit of illumination. After a leisurely
brunch of chilled shrimp cocktail and lobster omelets, the ship’s captain had
officiated their brief marriage ceremony on the ship’s prow. Three hours later,
Sabrina and Jackson and a good number of other passengers had come down with a
punishing case of food poisoning. The sojourn turned particularly horrific when
she and Jackson started to race each other to the tiny latrine. There was
little else to do while they recovered but loll in their bunks, drink flat Coke
and talk.

The heart-to-heart had been years overdue.

Tanked up on Dramamine, Jackson had informed her that even
though she had decided against changing her name, he’d listed her on his life
insurance policy under his surname.
Sabrina Sprinkle.
Then he’d outlined
his two-year plan to get them out of Texas and back to the sodden gloom of his
native Washington state. He then told her that he expected her to hand in her
resignation once she became pregnant.

She did intend to get pregnant as soon as possible, didn’t
she?

Jackson’s revelations made Sabrina want to dive into the
turbulent waters of the Norwegian Sea and swim all the way back to the sunny
shores of Miami. She couldn’t remember how she eased into telling him that
everything he wanted from their marriage was precisely what she did not. But
vivid in her memory was the inflexible look on Jackson’s face as he stared her
down, refusing to budge a single inch.

Make your choice now, Sabrina. I’m not changing my mind
about any of it.

To his credit, he’d pleaded with her to change hers for only
three hours. Then after a bout of heated bickering over who should sign over
whose interest in the house, he had dispatched a Petition for Annulment to the
Travis County District Court and placed a request for separate cabins. The next
day, they had flown back to Texas on the same plane, sitting together in tense
silence. Sabrina had spotted him stalking the Dome a few times with one of the
Tide Brothers in tow, but their only communication with each other had been
through the attorney at the title company.

She hung the last of the never-worn cocktail dresses in the
closet and felt a serious case of the mopes descending. She wished Molly were
back from France. She’d want the low-down on her un-wedding. What would her
best friend say when she found out Sabrina had made out with Sebastian’s
college roommate? Or that Gage Fitzgerald had taken the liberty of using the
encounter as talk show material?

Sabrina pulled on her running shorts and a faded T-shirt
with the University of Texas insignia on the front instead. Outside her front
door, the sun had set, but Cadence Corners was still in full swing. Pedestrians
meandered from one dining spot to another, pausing to check out the windows of
local boutiques.

Sabrina loped past the string of cafés and stores that lined
either side of Plum Street. She zigzagged her way through the neighborhood,
taking a short cut through Peachtree Plaza to the last street on her run. A
familiar three-story structure popped into view. Ella Fontaine, a beloved
pillar of the community, had bought the large, rambling house during World War
II and converted it into a bakery and boarding house. The business had remained
under the same ownership for five decades. Sabrina had fond memories of walking
to the bakery with Molly after school and watching “Grandma Ella,” as she was
known to neighborhood regulars, slide batches of freshly baked oatmeal-raisin
cookies the size of Frisbees into the display case with brown, capable hands.

The property had changed hands several times after Grandma
Ella passed away. Now the slightly dingy white exterior had been repainted a
pale creamy pink, the scalloped trim light green. The front gardens were
maintained just as Sabrina remembered them as a child. The rose bushes and
other annuals had gone into hibernation for the coming cold season, but a thick
tide of English ivy crept along the screened-in front porch, and hanging
baskets filled with pansies and violas flanked the front entrance.

Although the café was open for lunch only, the windows were
still ablaze with light. A slender, dark-haired woman bustled around inside.
The smell of something sweet and heavenly teased Sabrina’s nose and whetted her
appetite. There was one thing that was predictable about Austin’s urban
singles, and that was their propensity to flock to restaurants in great masses
on any given night. She didn’t need the hassle when she was hungry after a
vigorous run.

No matter the time of day, Ella’s was still the one place
she could eat without battling a crowd.

**

“Selling the house would have been far easier.”

Sabrina watched Nola March retrieve a tray of key lime
tortes from the industrial-sized oven and place it on a large butcher’s block.

“I’ve already had this conversation with Molly.” Sabrina
licked a dab of buttercream frosting from her thumb. Her mother’s
lemon-curd-filled cupcakes were so angelically light she could practically
inhale them. “I don’t see why I should have to sell my home just because
Jackson and I didn’t stay married.”

“I didn’t say you
should
have sold it, did I?” Nola
qualified her statement promptly. “I said that putting it on the market would
have been easier. But that’s what happens when a couple buys property together
and then di—”

“—Please, Mom, I beg of you,” Sabrina interrupted. “Stop
using the D-word. My marriage was
annulled
.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Nola sighed wearily.

She watched her mother navigate around the large kitchen
efficiently, dragging bowls and utensils from cabinets and drawers. Evenings
were Nola’s designated prep time. Pies, cakes and other sweetstuffs were mixed,
baked, cut, iced, and attractively arranged under bakery cases. There were also
tasty savory dishes left over from that day’s blue-plate specials stashed in
the large refrigerator. Before the cupcake, Sabrina had indulged in a bowl of
burgundy beef stew with sour cream dumplings.

The Fontaines never had children of their own; however, the
bakery had kept their extended family afloat during difficult economic times.
Sabrina remembered Grandma Ella as a warm, motherly soul, her dusky cheeks
dusted with flour. Her eyes had been creased with deep smile lines, and her
laugh had seemed to trip over itself, like water rippling through a rocky
brook.

The walls of the café were lined with old framed pictures.
Sabrina turned a wistful gaze toward an old black and white photo of Ike and
Ella Fontaine that had been taken on the day of the bakery’s grand opening. The
couple stood in front of the house, beaming into the camera. Ike had his arm
wrapped around his wife’s shoulders and wore an expression of unabashed pride.

“I suppose we could discuss Molly’s W-word, had Cybil Cole
deigned invite me—” Nola gave Sabrina a shrewd look. “—and had it actually
happened. Because it didn’t, I’m making small talk. Besides, I didn’t bring up
the D-word, Sabrina. You did, in your roundabout way.”

One slim arm picked up a whisk the size of a Little League
baseball bat, and Nola went to town on a large bowl of egg whites. Sabrina
still felt impressed whenever she watched her mother at work. The New Nola bore
no resemblance to the Old Nola, the woman who’d taken her divorce with a hefty
shot to her self-esteem. The Old Nola walled herself up in their small condo,
watched daytime soaps, and eschewed hormone replacement therapy.

Shortly after Sabrina graduated from college, the New Nola
emerged. She traded in TiVo for tennis shoes, joined a ladies’ gym, and shed
twenty pounds. She updated her wardrobe and grew her hair into a contemporary
shoulder-length ’do. The New Nola then pulled up her Totes, took a few online
business courses, got a loan and bought the old bakery, which had been
languishing on a weedy half-acre under threat of demolition.

Nola had the foundation leveled and the house rebuilt
according to the architect’s original blueprints. Along with baked goods
prepared with Grandma Ella’s stash of recipes, the lunching spot served homey
fare like meatloaf sandwiches, chicken and dumplings, and paella with a modern
twist (“Trust me, honey. Lemon zest makes everything wonderful,” Nola had
said). Newcomers to the neighborhood called the café by its proper name,
“Ella’s Edibles,” but Corners lifers referred to it as “Grandma Ella’s” or
simply “Ella’s Place.”

Nola’s newness made Sabrina go through an adjustment period.
Sabrina was used to making late-night market runs for Stouffer’s macaroni and
cheese to quell her mother’s crying jags, not helping her research city
regulations. If the experience had taught Sabrina one thing, it was that
estrogen met the gold standard of all human hormones.

She swore on a stack of holy books that once her biological
clock wound down, she would never go without it.

“Does Les know about you and Jackson?” Nola asked, still
beating away at the egg whites. The New Nola also referred to Sabrina’s father
by his first name, Les, and also spoke of their divorce as though it were a
major surgery from which she had long recovered.

“I didn’t tell him in person, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Sabrina snagged a second cupcake from the platter. “I sent him an email. It was
short and to the point.”

“I’m sure that confused him thoroughly,” Nola said dryly.
“That was probably the best way, though. Les isn’t exactly the type of father a
girl can confide in.”

“Oh, Dad handled it like I thought he would.” Sabrina peeled
away the cupcake wrapper carefully. “I believe his exact response was, ‘What
the hell, Sabrina? I didn’t even know you got married in the first place’.”

“Good lord,” Nola groaned. “You didn’t even bother to tell
you own father you got married?”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Sabrina muttered. The truth
of the matter was that she had stopped sharing the bigger events of her life
with Les the day she graduated from university with highest honors and he had
dotingly said, “Great job! Now, go out there and get yourself a comfy little
desk job to tide you over until you find a good man to marry.”

Nola finally put down the bowl and whisk. “Out of all of the
people involved in this sad debacle, I can’t help but to feel the sorriest for
poor Jackson,” she sighed.

Sabrina couldn’t believe her ears. “Poor Jackson? What about
poor Sabrina? How was I supposed to know that Jackson’s idea of adding meaning
to my life was joining the Junior League and pulling after-school carpool
duty?”