The Cinderella Pact (29 page)

I am miserable. I never knew how miserable I was.

Father Mike is behind me, patting me on the shoulder. “I don't mean to get down on you. That's not my intent. I just wanted you to see what was what.”

“I know.” I dab my cheeks and notice that my tissues are black. Next visit to a priest for a soul purging and I'm going to remember to wear waterproof mascara. “So, what do I do now?”

“Not enter the nunnery, that's for sure. That's not your calling. You actually flinched when I quoted from the Book of John.”

Thank heavens. “So, what can I do?”

“Give and forgive. My two favorite words. Magic words.” He returns to the chair across from me. “First, in the way that Jesus instructs us to love God, with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength, to paraphrase Mark, so should you forgive.

“Forgive your sister for not asking you to be maid of honor, for all the cruel comments she's made to you. Forgive your mother for coddling her like a spoiled child and always taking her side. Forgive the boss who discriminated against you because of your weight.”

“OK, but you don't know Lori DiGrigio. She's evil incarnate. I'm telling you, if you're looking for Satan, she's right up the road at the Princeton Corporate North Office Park.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He's wagging his finger like Nana Snyder. “Absolute forgiveness is absolute freedom. When I say it's magic, I mean it. Magical things happen when you forgive completely, Nola, especially if you practice forgiveness every day and every minute of every day until it sticks. And no holding on to a grudge here and there. That's not forgiveness, that's rationalization.”

This is a tall order, especially the Lori DiGrigio part. Despising Lori is a company pastime at
Sass!
, like Thursday night happy hour or the pickup basketball game on Saturday afternoons. If I stop hating Lori, I might as well throw in the towel on my office social life.

“As for giving, I'd like to see you give as much as you possibly can.”

Figures. That's the deal with church, always hitting you up for money.

I open my purse and reach for the checkbook, but Father Mike puts out his hand. “No, not like this—though I'm never one to turn down a contribution. What I suggest is that you go home and search your soul about to whom you want to give as well as how much. Look for those who aren't expecting your gifts—a rival, a stranger, a family member. And don't boast. Enjoy giving secretly.”

Suddenly, for no obvious reason, I'm smiling like a fool. Father Mike tosses me another tissue, but I don't need it. I've heard about people experiencing spiritual transformations, and perhaps this is my turn. Because something, something has changed within me.

I feel hopeful.

“It's good to see a smile on your face. Now, one more thing before you go.” He pulls his chair closer. “How am I going to get Ron and Nancy back together forever?”

“Don't worry, Father,” I tell him. “God invented a handy sin for just this occasion. It's called animal lust.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The trepidation that Eileen and Jim show walking slowly from Jim's muscle truck to my front porch is almost too good to be true. Eileen is wearing a clinging sweater in her favorite lime green (better to show off her lustrous—i.e., dyed—bronze locks) and brown pants that are smaller than most of my underwear. Jim has his arm around her protectively, like he's leading her to the executioner's block. It is all I can do to hold myself back from letting out a whoop as I watch them from my second-floor window.

I feel like Scrooge on Christmas Day. I do, and it's wonderful.

The conversation I had with Eileen on the phone the week before was very simple. I asked her and Jim to stop by my house after visiting our parents on Sunday so that we could have a “long overdue heart-to-heart about this wedding.”

“Ooookay,” Eileen said. “Mind giving me a hint what this is about?”

“I think you know very well what it's about,” I snapped. And then hung up.

Perfect.

I let Mom do the rest after I explained to her and Dad as gently as possible that they would not be paying for Eileen's wedding. At first my dad put up a stink. There was a lot of getting up from the kitchen table and shouting about the two of them being quite able to pay for their daughter's wedding, blah, blah, blah. But in the end he couldn't deny me, or rather, Belinda.

Mom says Eileen's been calling every day, sniffing for clues. And Mom has been playing her best frazzled mother—a role she has honed for thirty-five years—by replying with, “I don't want to get involved. This business is between you and your sister. Don't drag me into your soap opera.”

I
love
that.

So now is the big day. Sunday. It is October and delightfully colorful outside. The air smells of wood smoke and rotting leaves. Children are getting ready for Halloween, and Bitsy has hired workers to reinsulate the attic.

It is several weeks after my meeting with Father Mike. I have left my parents' house, returned home, and resolved to get my life in order despite my dieting setback. I can feel the weight around my middle, the tightness in my jeans and in my face. Still, something's changed.

Instead of throwing in the towel as I have after previous binges, I have simply shrugged off my week of comfort food, accepted my whatever-pound weight gain, and gotten back on track. Exercise. Water. Points.

For breakfast I routinely have an egg-substitute omelet made with mushrooms, peppers—any vegetables around—and the hottest salsa I can find. Zero points. Sometimes for lunch I have a three-point cheeseburger: “light” English muffin, veggie burger, one slice of low-fat cheese, and the works. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Mustard. And, of course, hot sauce. Hot sauce raises your metabolism. I am thinking of designing a hot-sauce diet.

Vegetables have taken a starring role in my life. My salads are huge, though the dressing is small. Mustard and balsamic vinegar combined can make anything palatable, including sautéed chicken breast. And if I want something sweet, nonfat whipped topping sandwiched between two low-fat cinnamon graham crackers and frozen for ten minutes. Yum!

I no longer need to look up points. Eating this way has become instinctive. For the first time in my life, I don't hate a diet because—I know this sounds corny—they're right. It's not a diet, it's a lifestyle change accomplished in small increments.

Meanwhile, Nancy has gotten down to where she feels comfortable and has announced that she has stopped dieting. From now on, she's just working out and watching what she eats. But basically she's just working out. Tony's even talking her into training for a mini-marathon—an inconceivable thought last spring.

Tony's own magic is working wonders. Nancy's old-fashioned big blue eyes are bigger and bluer. Her cheekbones have reemerged, as have her shoulders and hips. She is so strong, too. You should see her biceps and feel her calves. Like, don't ever get into a leg-wrestling match with her.

That said . . . there is one problem. Actually two.

“I've lost both of them,” she told me the other day while we were jogging—yes, jogging, you read correctly—around the cemetery.

“Who?”

“Betty and Veronica.” She cupped her chest. “That's what Ron named them.”

I stop running to bend over laughing. “You're kidding. He named your tits?”

“They were more like
our
tits. I loved our tits. They were my best asset. Do you know I was once a 54-G?”

Where did she find bras?

“I'm thinking of getting implants, but then I worry that I'll be back where I started. You know, that's how I got fat because crusty old Ted Kline kept making comments about my chest. It seems stupid to enhance my bust now. It's like inviting trouble from Ted.”

“Then maybe it's time you stood up to him. That way you can get your big bust back
and
still go to work.”

She frowned. “You know, you're right. It's about time I told him to stuff it. I should threaten to sue and get him kicked out of the firm or, better yet, get him to pay for the plastic surgery to beef up my chest.”

“Now you're talking.”

Meanwhile, Nancy and her measly chest were too busy with Ron on Friday to accept Deb's invite to shoot pool with Paul, her, and me at the Tiger Tail. I was glad to hear that she and Paul were going out and was all too happy to join them. Frankly, I'd been a bit worried about their marriage from the stories about Paul sabotaging Deb's weight-loss efforts. It would be nice to support them.

I wore my standard outfit—the black pants, white button-down top, big jewelry, and high-heeled boots. It was a toss-up what Deb would wear. She doesn't go out much.

The Tiger Tail was crowded and smelled of stale beer and popcorn, and if cigarettes were still allowed, it'd be smoky. All in all, not my favorite kind of place. But I wasn't here for me, was I? I was here for Deb. It wasn't so long ago that she was a housebound, shy matron sequestered at home with her knitting and tatting.

But there was no Deb at the Tiger Tail. No Paul either.

I waited five minutes, walked around, and deciding I must have gotten the night wrong, was about to leave when a distinctive peal of laughter broke out from the far corner where a bunch of men in dirty jeans and work books were huddled around a table.

Then, upon further inspection . . . Was that Deb?

Sure enough, it was her—pushing the limits on fat fashion in a low-slung top and
tighhhhht
jeans. She was half dressed in a black V-cut strappy tank top more often seen on teenage girls than on mature mothers of two. OK, so she'd lost weight. But not
that
much weight. She still had a gut that spilled over the top of her jeans like a muffin top.

“Hi, Nola!” Deb's hand shot straight up. “Come on. We're over here.”

I pasted on an oh-there-you-are smile as I trotted on over, one eye out for Paul, who had either left or wasn't invited to begin with. The men didn't seem nearly as thrilled to see me as they were to be gathered around Deb. A construction crew, clearly. Mud still on their boots, beer in their guts, lust in their eyes. Eeek!

“Let me see if I can get this straight.” Deb squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “Kevin. Josh. Tyler. Steve.”

Tyler and Steve gestured to each other. “Vice versa.”

Deb giggled. “This is my closest friend in the whole wide word, Nola. Have a seat, Nola.”

I sat next to Kevin (who smelled kind of like running shoes) and zeroed in on Deb's drink, which was pink, noncarbonated, and in a martini glass. I knew from our Saturday morning with Suze the nurse/nutritionist that Deb was not supposed to drink martinis or Cosmoplitans or anything alcoholic for at least a year after surgery—if ever.

Then again, I wasn't sure Deb was supposed to be throwing a leg over the laps of strange, sweaty men either, though I don't think Suze addressed that particular issue.

Now, if my mother had been here, she'd have had no problem bringing Deb in line. Would have enjoyed it, in fact. In a very loud voice she'd have asked where Paul was and then probably would have noted that Deb shouldn't be drinking alcohol after weight-loss surgery and what about those two adorable kids of hers? Weren't they recovering from the stomach flu?

I highly doubted that Deb had mentioned her maternal status to the construction crew and from the searing glare she was shooting me from across the table, I had better not bring it up either.

I ordered a Diet Coke and engaged in small talk with Steve (who didn't smell half as bad as Kevin) about the mechanics of building a stone wall—a fairly interesting topic involving ancient Celtic lore. I also tried to keep an eye on Deb, who had begun flinging herself onto the pool table, flashing lots of cleavage, and asking for “hands-on instruction.”

“What's she doing with the cue now?” I asked Steve as Deb began gyrating in a circle.

“Looks like a pole dance.” Steve crooked his head upside down. “I've never seen anybody suck a pool cue before.”

Right. When they're sucking on pool cues, it's my cue to go. “I think I better get her.”

“I'll be here as backup.”

I was glad for the offer as Deb was more than recalcitrant, stomping her foot and shouting movie clichés like, “Back me up here, boys.”

“I don't think she should drive,” Tyler said, leaning over her protectively. “I'll take her home.”

Deb folded her arms and pouted, her lips still blue from pool-cue chalk.

“Come on, Deb,” I said, taking her hand.

“No. I wanna stay.” She yanked her hand back. “Besides, I've only had one drink.”

“Yeah,” chimed in the shortest player, Josh. “Leave her alone.”

Most scientists do not believe in ESP, but I have never been good at science, thankfully. Which is why I mentally radioed to Deb that if she did not come with me at that very moment I would have no choice but to announce that waiting for her back at home were two children, a dog, a cat, a pile of tatting, and a husband with a serious temper problem.

“Forget it, guys. We'll do it another night.” Deb stepped away from them, one strap of her tank top sliding over her shoulder—very classy.

“Aww,” they chorused in regret.

Even though it was a chilly fall night, I put the top down in an effort to rouse Deb to her senses. There was none of the foot dragging she displayed at the Tiger Tail. Au contraire. She was bubbling with excitement.

“You mind telling me what the hell's going on with you?” I asked her point blank. “What were you after back there?”