The Cinderella Pact (30 page)

“Just some fun. Is that a crime?” She sounded exactly like she did in high school when her mother found us hanging out in the parking lot with Paul, smoking cigarettes. “I've been cooped up in that house for years, Nola. Years. Me. The kitchen. The washer and dryer and the TV. That was my world and now that I have been freed, I never want to spend another minute in that prison. Isn't that why I went through all the hassle of surgery?”

“I thought you went through all the hassle of surgery so you could go to your son's graduation without embarrassing him.”

Deb bit her lip, thinking about this. “OK. That's what pushed me over the edge, but . . .” She threw up her arms. “Look at me. I haven't looked like this ever. At least Nancy was popular in high school and thin.”

“Not that thin.”

“But I've never been thin. Not until now.”

I hated to inform her that crossing the 200 barrier did not on the catwalk put her.

“Relatively thin,” she said, reading my mind. “And it's not stopping. The weight's falling off. It's falling off so fast, I'm scared. It takes my breath away. I can't believe this is happening.”

It was infectious, this enthusiasm of hers. Once again the green goblin of jealousy tiptoed out of hiding and whispered in my ear how I wasn't losing weight that fast. I tamped it down by remembering Father Mike's advice to concentrate on the positive.

“I'm happy for you, Deb,” I managed. “Really.”

“My only regret is I waited too long. I'm in my thirties and I feel like my life is half over. I wished to hell I'd done this sooner so I could have enjoyed my youth as a thin person. Then I wouldn't have ended up with a drip like Paul. I only married him because I was scared no one else would have me.”

As far as major confessions go, this one's a biggie. Even Deb must have realized this, because she was struck dumb by what she'd just confessed.

“Are you thinking of . . . divorce?”

Deb heaved her shoulders with resolve. “If I could find a way to earn some money, I'd do it tomorrow.”

We didn't speak again until we pulled up in front of her house and Deb refused to get out of the car.

“He's asleep.” She stared up at her bedroom window where Paul was snoozing. “When I come in, he won't say anything. He won't even ask where I've been. He doesn't give a damn.”

“Is that why you aren't wearing your wedding ring?”

She glanced at her hand as if it were simply an oversight. “I took it off when I got too fat to wear it. So how come you just noticed?”

“Because back then not wearing the ring meant you were too fat. Now it means you're not in love with your husband.”

“Yeah,” she said squarely. “You're right about that.”

With tears in her eyes, Deb leaned over, gave me a quick hug, and told me not to worry. Then she got out, set her shoulders, and marched up the stairs that a few months ago she labored to climb.

That's when I understood what it really means to lose weight. It's as though fat is a cloud that's around your mountain of problems. Not until you drop the weight and clear the fog, will you know how high you've got to climb to get on top of them.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

So I really got off subject there, thinking about last Friday with Deb. Right. Back to the task at hand. Setting things straight with Jim and Eileen, who are slowly, slowly treading up the stairs to my apartment.

I practice standing in nasty poses, one hand on hip, arms crossed, brows furrowed, and settle on answering the door with a frown.

“You're late,” I accuse.

“I'm sorry.” Eileen gingerly steps into my peachy apartment. “Mom and I had a knockdown drag-out about my wedding dress again. I swear, when she's through planning this event, my wedding is going to be Palookaville. I keep trying to tell her this isn't any old wedding. This is mine.”

“That's right,” I agree.

“I mean, Belinda Apple's going to be standing right next to me. What's she going to think when she sees me in an off-the-rack from Loehmann's?”

Oh, for a moment there I forgot. This wedding wasn't about saying vows to love and cherish each other before your family and friends in a church of God. This event was to impress Belinda the celebrity.

“Don't tell me. Let me guess.” Jim is in his standard navy Adidas tracksuit, scrutinizing me with an expert eye. “One . . . seventy—”

“Jim!” Eileen barks. “I thought I told you to stop guessing people's weight. It's so embarrassing.”

“What? What? She should be happy. Last I saw her on your birthday she was at two hundred—”

Eileen shakes her head ever so slightly. Jim, fortunately, takes the hint.

“Why don't we sit?” I suggest, leading them over to my “living area,” where I have arranged a pitcher of iced tea and homemade lemon cookies. Otis growls at Jim. He knows a reincarnated Jack Russell terrier when he sees one.

Eileen throws herself down, reaches for a cookie, and then, meeting Jim's stern gaze, drops it. “If this is about the bridesmaids dresses, I want you to know that Mom has totally nixed those.”

“So what are the plans?” I ask.

“The usual. It is really boring.”

She doesn't have to tell me. I know the drill by heart.

“Wedding at two in the afternoon. Absolutely no evening wedding allowed. No rice. No confetti. Not even birdseed to be thrown. After that, a reception at the Union Club. Beer. Wine. Soda. Coffee. And buffet hors d'oeuvres to cut down on the cost of waitstaff. Which means”—she holds up her well-manicured hand and ticks off her fingers—“no band. No deejay. No champagne. No sit-down dinner. Not even a big cake. It's all going to be over by seven.”

Jim clears his throat. “I'd contribute more, 'cept that I'm trying to gather as much capital together as I can.”

“Don't tell Mom and Dad, but Jim's breaking out of Valley Fitness. He wants to start his own gym and he's looking for business partners. He's even drawn up a business plan.”

“Really?” I say. It's the first interesting thing I've heard Jim do. “And how will your gym be better than Valley Fitness?”

“Better located,” he says, straightening. “I got in on an old commercial property in Hellertown, right off I-78 near the waste haul. Perfect site for a gym 'cause you can get the commuters going back and forth from Jersey, coming into the Valley to work. My motto's going to be ‘No Excuses!' 'cause we're gonna be open really early and really late.”

“Jim's got the septic and zoning approvals already. It's going to be—”

“Jim's Gym!” I exclaim.

“Hey!” Eileen claps. “I like that.”

Jim nods in approval. “You know, I hadn't thought of Jim's Gym but I have to say, that's not bad. Not bad at all.”

It boggles the mind how he hadn't thought of Jim's Gym. Never mind.

“Anyway, the reason I asked you guys to meet me here was to discuss the wedding.”

Eileen sinks into the couch, dreading the inevitable lecture.

“It turns out, Eileen, that you won't have to worry about your wedding being, as you say, set in Palookaville.”

“Huh?”

“I've gone ahead and made arrangements for you to have a seven p.m. candlelight ceremony right here in Princeton at St. Anne's, followed by a full sit-down dinner for two hundred in Barnard Hall.”

Eileen seems confused. “
The
Barnard Hall in the university?”

“That's the one. Decorated to the hilt, any way you like it.”

“What?!” Eileen pushes Jim aside and pops up, rigid. “Are you for real?”

I suppress a smile of absolute joy. “Completely.”

“Mom and Dad are paying for that?”

“Noooo.” I grab an iced tea and take a sip. “Belinda is. She has offered to pay for the entire wedding, or at least up to a hundred thousand dollars.”

She slaps her hand across her mouth in shock.

“Good going, girlie.” Jim hi-fives the air. “I knew that British chick would go all out for you. You were smart to make a celebrity your maid of honor. Probably got wind of the Manville thing and said to herself, uh, no way.”

“She did no such thing,” I correct, monitoring Eileen, who is this close to fainting. “Belinda would have been perfectly fine in Manville. She did this because she knew a winter candlelight wedding was what Eileen's always dreamed of.”

“But . . .” Eileen runs her hands over her tiny hips, trying to comprehend it all, not letting herself get too excited until she knows it's for real. “But . . . Mom and Dad.”

“I've already cleared it with them. When I told them why Belinda wanted to pay full boat, they couldn't argue.”

Eileen regards me with caution. “Why? Why would Belinda want to do this for me? We've had two phone calls at most.”

“Because she works for your sister, dingbrain!” Jim shouts. “She's trying to suck up to the management at
Sass!
Geesh. Don't you know anything about business?”

This gift would be so much more pleasurable if Eileen were marrying someone who didn't need regular rabies shots. “Actually, Jim, there's a sad twist to this story.”

I stroll over to the window with my hands behind my back so I won't have to keep a straight face. “You see, Belinda doesn't want anyone to know this but she has”—I pause for dramatic effect—“only months to live.”

Eileen lets out a gasp and again slaps her hand across her mouth. “Does Nigel know?”

Nigel? What a bizarre first question. Why would . . . Then I remember how Nigel and Belinda were supposed to be an item. “Uh, yes. In fact it was Nigel who reserved Barnard Hall.” A relatively easy task, considering the school would be closed during Christmas break anyway.

There is an awful choking sound. When I turn from the window, my heart clenches to see Eileen in full sob. She has her head on Jim's shoulder and he's patting her soothingly, his mind obviously calculating the expenses Belinda has just saved him.

“What's wrong?”

“It's just that . . . it's so nice of her,” Eileen gulps. “No one's ever done anything so nice like that for me, ever.” Eileen lifts her head and dabs her eyes with a napkin from the lemon cookies, getting powdered sugar all over her cheeks. “It's as though Belinda somehow knows me, knows me deep down inside.”

I am touched. I am also tempted to scream,
I do know you deep down inside! You're my sister and I love you, Eileen.
But I remember what Father Mike said, to give generously and to give anonymously.

“Yes, well.” I sniff back my own tears.

And then an awful thing happens. Eileen plunges her hand into her purse. “I should call Belinda right away to thank her.”

Panic. This could be bad. My Belinda phone is in my bedroom and turned on. “Not a great idea. She's in the hospital for a few days and can't be reached.”

“Oh.” Eileen's face falls. “Is she going to be all right for the wedding?”

“I should hope so. Meanwhile, you have no time to waste, Eileen. Call this woman,” I say, handing her a sheet of paper with a name and number written on it. “She's your wedding planner, Helen Whittingham.”

Eileen delicately takes the paper as though it were gold leaf. “I've heard of her. She's awesome.”

“She's expecting you to call this afternoon. We're getting started on this late, you know. You and Jim are going to have to attend accelerated sessions with Father Mike, and then there's the dress you want . . .”

“You mean the Christos? The ivory, strapless—”

“That's the one. You're supposed to order it at least six months in advance for fittings so I went ahead and just bought it, with Belinda's permission, that is.”

“Ayyyee!” Eileen is back to being ecstatic as she leaps off the couch and throws her arms around my neck, squealing so loudly that my eardrums are about to burst. “Belinda might be paying for all this, but I just knew you had some input.” She cups my face in her hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . thank you so much for introducing me to Belinda.”

Slam! Sucker punched. Mustn't let it get to me. Giving for giving's sake and all that.

Jim snorts after Eileen races out for a quick introductory meeting with Helen. “So what am I supposed to do while she's busy with all that? I'm not spending my Sunday afternoon flipping through cake books.”

“No,” I say, smiling sweetly. “Why don't you relax. Read the newspaper or something.”

“Forget that. I'm going to show you how to drop that extra weight once and for all.”

 
“Here's your problem.” Jim plunks down an innocent-looking can of diced tomatoes with basil and garlic. “Read the ingredients. Out loud.”

I read the ingredients. “Tomatoes. Water. High fructose corn syrup—”

“Aha! Stop right there. High fructose corn syrup.”

“Oh, no. Not this with the 1980 corn lobby again.”

“You can laugh all you want. In the end, I'm speaking the truth.” He drops the can in a bag that we will schlep down to the local food shelf.

Where I'd assumed that I'd purged all junk food by cleaning out my cupboard of nachos, Hershey's syrup, movie butter popcorn, and Snickers bars, I apparently couldn't have been more wrong. Who knew that in almost every “healthy food” I'd been eating lurked high fructose corn syrup and added fat?

Take for example the multigrain bread I'd chosen as a “complex carbohydrate,” far preferable to Wonder. Guess what? It has more calories and the same amount of fiber as two chocolate-chip cookies. Let me tell you, I would have far preferred the cookies.