Read Online NOT What I Was Expecting by Tallulah Anne Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tallulah Anne Scott
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expression. “Yes, we’re
meeting them there,” she answered distractedly. “Look it, here’s the deal. I
want to wear the black strappy shoes, but I know this is a solemn occasion,
with a woman being dead and all. That makes me think maybe I should wear the
pumps. What do you think?”
I tried to look
thoughtful for a few seconds, so my words of wisdom would be more believable
when I gave my advice. When I opened my mouth to respond, CeCe began her
justification for why I should pick the ones she had already decided on before
I was able to say anything. She just didn’t know she’d already made her
decision. Is she related to my mother or what?
“See, the strappy
ones make my legs look sexier and no, I shouldn’t be worried about my legs
looking sexy, except that Deputy Ben will be there. Can’t I support the sisters
through this difficult time and still try to look my best? When you think
about it, the sexiness is to help my mom, so wouldn’t that be considered one
way I’m helping her cope with the loss of her club member and friend?” she explained.
I could tell CeCe
was picking up momentum, so I let her go with it.
“I mean, if Deputy
Ben notices my sexy legs and finally asks me out, and we become an item, we
could get engaged,” she continued. “That would lead to the wedding of my
mother’s dreams, then her happily married daughter could find out she’s
pregnant, and Mother could be there at the hospital when the baby’s born.
She’d be so proud of her first grandchild who looks so much like Ben that we’d
think it would be cute to name him Bart, you know – sticking with a ‘B’ name.
When you think about it, I’d really be wearing the black strappies for my
mother’s benefit. You know how much she wants grandchildren.”
You gotta love her.
I had trouble suppressing the smile that crept onto my face as I listened to
this scenario. “Bart?” I asked, softly. “You’re going to name your son Bart?”
“What’s wrong with
Bart?” CeCe asked, sounding slightly offended that I didn’t love her baby’s
name.
“You do realize
you just named your child Bart Simpson, don’t you?” I had to ask.
As recognition
began to register in CeCe’s expression, my cell phone rang. I went over to dig
in my purse for the phone while it serenaded me with Journey’s song, “ Any way
you want it.”
CeCe quietly headed
back to her room to slip into the other strappy shoe. When I located the phone
and saw that it was my mother calling, I kind of wished we were already in the
car. I suspected I knew why she was calling.
“Maggie, where are
you girls?” my mother demanded. “We thought you’d be here by now. You know
how difficult it is to park if you get here at the last minute.”
Last minute? I
felt my eyes shoot heavenward.
“Mother, we’ll be
leaving in five minutes, we’re ten minutes away, and the funeral doesn’t start
for another 45 minutes. That means we’ll be there a good half hour before time
to begin,” I pointed out.
“Okay, dear,
whatever you think. I just hate to see you girls have trouble parking because
you cut it so close,” my mother informed me.
Although I could
have taken the time, and elevated my blood pressure, to explain that 30 minutes
is NOT cutting it close, I responded, “We’ll hurry.” It’s just easier.
“Let’s roll,
CeCe. The sisters are getting anxious because we’re so late ,” I yelled,
unable to hide the sarcasm in my voice.
As CeCe met me in
the living room, she tried to suppress a smile as she pointed out the obvious.
“Didn’t we plan to
get there half an hour earlier than necessary in order to avoid having
the sisters become anxious?” she inquired.
“Yes, we did,” I
agreed. “Once again they have proven themselves formidable adversaries and
were able to achieve new heights of anxiety in record time. Let’s go.”
After CeCe parked
her Toyota with no problem,
meeting them there,” she answered distractedly. “Look it, here’s the deal. I
want to wear the black strappy shoes, but I know this is a solemn occasion,
with a woman being dead and all. That makes me think maybe I should wear the
pumps. What do you think?”
I tried to look
thoughtful for a few seconds, so my words of wisdom would be more believable
when I gave my advice. When I opened my mouth to respond, CeCe began her
justification for why I should pick the ones she had already decided on before
I was able to say anything. She just didn’t know she’d already made her
decision. Is she related to my mother or what?
“See, the strappy
ones make my legs look sexier and no, I shouldn’t be worried about my legs
looking sexy, except that Deputy Ben will be there. Can’t I support the sisters
through this difficult time and still try to look my best? When you think
about it, the sexiness is to help my mom, so wouldn’t that be considered one
way I’m helping her cope with the loss of her club member and friend?” she explained.
I could tell CeCe
was picking up momentum, so I let her go with it.
“I mean, if Deputy
Ben notices my sexy legs and finally asks me out, and we become an item, we
could get engaged,” she continued. “That would lead to the wedding of my
mother’s dreams, then her happily married daughter could find out she’s
pregnant, and Mother could be there at the hospital when the baby’s born.
She’d be so proud of her first grandchild who looks so much like Ben that we’d
think it would be cute to name him Bart, you know – sticking with a ‘B’ name.
When you think about it, I’d really be wearing the black strappies for my
mother’s benefit. You know how much she wants grandchildren.”
You gotta love her.
I had trouble suppressing the smile that crept onto my face as I listened to
this scenario. “Bart?” I asked, softly. “You’re going to name your son Bart?”
“What’s wrong with
Bart?” CeCe asked, sounding slightly offended that I didn’t love her baby’s
name.
“You do realize
you just named your child Bart Simpson, don’t you?” I had to ask.
As recognition
began to register in CeCe’s expression, my cell phone rang. I went over to dig
in my purse for the phone while it serenaded me with Journey’s song, “ Any way
you want it.”
CeCe quietly headed
back to her room to slip into the other strappy shoe. When I located the phone
and saw that it was my mother calling, I kind of wished we were already in the
car. I suspected I knew why she was calling.
“Maggie, where are
you girls?” my mother demanded. “We thought you’d be here by now. You know
how difficult it is to park if you get here at the last minute.”
Last minute? I
felt my eyes shoot heavenward.
“Mother, we’ll be
leaving in five minutes, we’re ten minutes away, and the funeral doesn’t start
for another 45 minutes. That means we’ll be there a good half hour before time
to begin,” I pointed out.
“Okay, dear,
whatever you think. I just hate to see you girls have trouble parking because
you cut it so close,” my mother informed me.
Although I could
have taken the time, and elevated my blood pressure, to explain that 30 minutes
is NOT cutting it close, I responded, “We’ll hurry.” It’s just easier.
“Let’s roll,
CeCe. The sisters are getting anxious because we’re so late ,” I yelled,
unable to hide the sarcasm in my voice.
As CeCe met me in
the living room, she tried to suppress a smile as she pointed out the obvious.
“Didn’t we plan to
get there half an hour earlier than necessary in order to avoid having
the sisters become anxious?” she inquired.
“Yes, we did,” I
agreed. “Once again they have proven themselves formidable adversaries and
were able to achieve new heights of anxiety in record time. Let’s go.”
After CeCe parked
her Toyota with no problem,
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