Hissy Fit Page 2

  I wriggled out of his grasp. “Be nice? Calm down? You sneak in here with her and bang her on the board table—during our rehearsal dinner? With me and my whole family and my minister in the same building, and you want me to be calm?”

  His face softened. He almost managed a tear. “Aw, Keeley. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, darlin’. You know I love you more than anything. Me and Paige were just foolin’ around. Things got out of hand. That’s all. Right, Paige?” He looked over at my former best friend for confirmation.

  “Tell her, Paige. We were both just a little drunk. Right?”

  Paige’s dark blue eyes glittered with malice. “Right, A.J. Drunk and bored. You were bored out of your mind with Keeley. That’s why you snuck over to my place last week, in your mama’s Escalade. And the week before that, why we did it in your office at the bank.”

  She gave me a perky little smirk. “Keeley. Sweetie. You’ve always been so concerned about proprieties. ‘That’s tacky, Paige. Don’t be so low-class, Paige.’ But it’s like my mama always said. If they can’t get it at home, they’re gonna go get it somewhere else. And I’m the somewhere else.”

  “Paige!” A.J. whispered. “That’s a lie. Tell her it’s all a lie. I never—”

  I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I wheeled around and grabbed a golf trophy from the elaborate mahogany display case by the door. It wasn’t just any golf trophy either. It was the A. J. “Chub” Jernigan Memorial Cup, a huge sterling silver chamber pot–shaped affair, with fancy cursive writing and a bas relief bust of Grandpa Chub on the front.

  “Bastard,” I cried, hurling the trophy at his head. It missed by a mile, but knocked two club presidents off the wall behind him. I turned around and stalked out of the room.

  And ran head-on into my future mother-in-law.

  “Keeley!” GiGi exclaimed. “What on earth is going on here? Everybody in the club can hear you carrying on. Have you lost your mind?”

  “Mama,” A.J. said, hurrying up behind her. “We had a little tiff, that’s all. Talk to her. Tell her she’s blowing things all out of proportion.”

  “Keeley?” GiGi said, her voice stern. “Honey, you don’t want to be fussin’ the night before the wedding. It’ll spoil the party.”

  I looked over GiGi’s shoulder. Our guests had followed her into the hallway, and they were all standing there, clumped together, clucking and whispering and staring at me.

  “He was screwing Paige!” I cried. “Back there in the boardroom.”

  “Keeley,” GiGi whispered, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Boys will be boys. Now get ahold of yourself. You’re causing a scene here.”

  “He’s not a boy!” I said. “He’s thirty-four years old, and he’s engaged to me.”

  “Hush,” she said, giving me a little shake. “Trust me, that girl means nothing to him.”

  “It means everything to me,” I said. I could feel my rage growing, feeding on itself, out of control.

  “The wedding’s off,” I cried. “Everybody go home.”

  The whispering and clucking got louder.

  “I mean it,” I shouted, pushing past GiGi and Mookie and my Aunt Gloria and all the rest of them. “Go home!” I made my way into the ballroom where the band was playing, and I found my father, who was sitting at a table with his golf buddies.

  “It’s over, Daddy,” I sobbed. “The wedding’s off. I want to go home.”

  Daddy stood up, his dear, weather-beaten old face suddenly animated and alarmed. His poker buddies melted away from the table.

  He’d unbuttoned his stiff white shirt, and his black tie was rolled up on the dinner table beside his Scotch and rocks. “Off? What do you mean, Keeley? Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Now, Wade,” I heard GiGi say. She’d come up behind us. She looked perfect. Completely composed. Not a hair out of place. “Keeley’s just a little upset. First Mookie ruined her dress, and then she and A.J. were fussin’ at each other, and she’s overreacted. Wade, I think maybe you should take her on home so she can get a good night’s sleep before the big day tomorrow.”

  “There is no big day tomorrow,” I exclaimed. “I wouldn’t marry that two-timing, lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch for all the tea in China.”

  “Honey,” Daddy started.

  “I’m serious,” I said, my voice trembling. “I wouldn’t marry A.J. Jernigan if he were the last man on earth.”

  “Keeley, angel.” A.J. himself was at my side now.

  I snapped then. I really did. Maybe it was chemical, maybe it was hormonal. I really couldn’t say.

  But I pitched a hissy fit.

  I did. And after that, nothing was the same.

  One minute I was standing in the ballroom at the Oconee Hills Country Club. I was a sober, respectable, thirty-two-year-old professional interior designer with a successful career and the respect of my community.

  The next minute I was a deranged force of nature. The sane Keeley Rae Murdock, the one who knew right from wrong, was shocked and appalled. But I was powerless to stop myself.

  Our minister, Dr. Richard Wittish, pastor of Madison First United Methodist Church, rushed over to comfort me.

  “Keeley,” he said quietly, his kind face flushed red with discomfort. “You don’t want to do this now. Let’s go in the other room. Let’s have some quiet time and say a prayer for serenity.”

  Instead I shook Paige’s red thong panties right in his face. The same face that had looked down on me from the church pulpit my whole life. “I don’t want serenity, Dr. Wittish,” I screamed. “I want to fuckin’ kill Paige Plummer and A. J. Jernigan.”

  “Keeley!” GiGi said, gasping. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  I snatched up Daddy’s highball glass and smashed it against the wall. “No, GiGi, you get ahold of yourself. Get ahold of your cheating, lying, son-of-a-bitchin’ son too, while you’re at it.”

  Now A.J.’s daddy, Big Drew, pushed forward. He was tall and distinguished-looking, with a shock of silver hair and a ruddy beef-and-bourbon kind of face. He’d disappeared sometime after the waiters served the appetizers. Outside sneaking a cigar probably. GiGi didn’t allow him to smoke at home. “Now, really, young lady,” he said, his voice booming across the hushed ballroom. “There’s no need for this kind of display.”

  “How about this kind of display?” I asked. I looked around for something else to throw. And then I saw it. At every place on every one of the round tables in the room, GiGi had placed a little party favor. Each guest had been gifted with a hand-painted Limoges snuff-box with the words “Keeley & A.J.” scripted in flowing fourteen-karat gold paint on the lid.

  I swept my hand down the center of Daddy’s table, knocking the crystal wineglasses and china to the floor, and gathering up six of the snuffboxes.

  “Here,” I cried, smashing the first box against the polished oak dance floor. “Here’s a display.

  “And here’s another display.” I looked around the room for approval. Everybody in the room was frozen in place. My Aunt Gloria stood in the doorway, clutching her hand to her throat in a look of horror I’ll never forget.

  But I couldn’t stop myself. I snatched up the other snuffboxes and flung them against walls, against the windows. I threw one at A.J., and when his mother gasped, I threw one at her too. There was movement in the room now. The band members were hastily packing up their instruments. Men were gathering up their wives, and wives were gathering their pocketbooks, apparently afraid of being my next target, and the waiters were gathering up the glass and china, to keep them from joining the carnage.

  Finally Daddy put a stop to my rampage. He stood up and wrapped his big bearlike arms around me and crushed me to him. “Keeley,” he whispered, stroking my hair. “Stop this, honey. Come on. It’s all over. You don’t have to marry A.J. You don’t have to marry anybody if you don’t want to.”

  The look on his face nearly killed me. Worry. Fear. Pain. He thought I’d gone berserk. And I had.

  “I
’m sorry, Daddy,” I whispered. I ran out of the ballroom, past the fleeing wedding guests, terrified waiters, my fiance, and my former best friend.

  I ran down the front steps of the country club, past the teenaged valet parking attendants who were huddled together, sharing a stolen bottle of beer. It wasn’t until I’d gotten to the parking lot that I realized I didn’t know where I was going.

  I glanced over my shoulder. People were streaming out of the country club. I needed to make a fast getaway. But how? I’d come to the club with A.J. His red Z-3 was easy to spot. He’d parked it in the front row of the lot and left the top down. I walked over and looked down at the black leather interior. For the first time I realized I still had Paige’s panties clutched in my hand. I draped them over the steering wheel. His keys dangled from the ignition. How very A.J.

  Should I just take the car and leave? And go where? And do what?

  I had a better idea. I grabbed the keys and considered the gleaming expanse of freshly waxed red paint.

  The valet parking guys were heading out to the lot to start retrieving cars. I had to work fast. My letters were big and bold and scary. The handwriting looked like that of a serial killer. Excellent. I wanted him to fear me.

  “Asshole!” I whispered triumphantly, reading what I’d just written in five-inch-high letters. I wrenched my engagement ring off my finger and threw it in the car. “Asshole.”

  I heard a cough then. I looked around. For the first time I noticed the car parked next to A.J.’s, a big old canary yellow Cadillac, the vintage kind with the fins. A man was sitting in the front seat. He was laughing his head off.

  “Ash-hole,” he said, laughing again.

  “What did you say?” I asked, my voice dripping venom.

  “Ash-hole.” He repeated himself. “You spelled it wrong.”

  3

  I’d never seen this guy before. He certainly wasn’t from Madison. I’d have remembered a car like that. He was in his early to mid-thirties. He had red hair going gray around the sides, and he was good-looking in a sort of outdoorsy way, even though he was dressed in a tux.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not really,” he said. He pointed at A.J.’s car. “See? You left out an ‘S.’ So it sounds like you’re calling him an ash-hole.”

  “Mind your own damn business,” I snapped, giving my hair an “I don’t care” toss.

  People were walking to their cars. I had to get out of here. I took a few brisk strides through the lot. Damn. I’d forgotten about my shoes. High-heeled slingback sandals are not exactly made for walking. And my strapless silk dress wasn’t either.

  I didn’t care, I told myself. There was no way I was going back inside to beg a ride from Daddy or anybody else. Not after the spectacle I’d made of myself. I half jogged out of the parking lot and up the two-lane blacktop road back toward town. My apartment was less than two miles away. I can walk a ten-minute mile most days. But most days I don’t walk in cocktail attire.

  After less than fifty yards my calves were screaming in protest. I could feel blisters forming on the tops of my toes. And I had to keep hiking up the top of my dress to keep my boobs from falling out.

  I wasn’t wearing a watch, but it was full dark now, so it had to be past nine. Mosquitoes swarmed around my face, and moths fluttered softly in the muggy night air. One of the county road crews had recently mown the grass along the shoulder of the road. The warm green smell would have been wonderful any other night. But tonight grass blades were clinging to my ankles, and my spike heels sank half an inch into the rain-softened earth. I sighed and stepped out of the sandals. I’d make it home faster barefoot.

  Cars slowed as they approached me. I could see people craning their necks to look at me, and then look away quickly and speed up before their eyes could meet mine. I was the county’s newest freak.

  The big yellow Caddy pulled over on the side of the road, forcing me deeper onto the grassy shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said, pissed.

  “Hey yourself,” the driver said. “Come on, Keeley. Get in. I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

  How did he know my name? I took another look at the car. It had a white leather convertible top and shiny chrome hubcaps, and real white leather tuck and roll upholstery. It was a supreme pimpmobile.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “My daddy taught me never to get in a car with a stranger.”

  “We’re not really strangers,” he said. “We were introduced earlier tonight. Back at the party. Before you went nuts.”

  “I’ve never seen you before,” I said. But really, I thought maybe I had.

  “Sure you have. Your cousin Janey introduced us. Come on, Keeley. It’s at least two miles back to your place.”

  A chill ran down my spine. A redheaded stranger driving a pimpmobile. Was this the price for notoriety? Did I have a stalker already? “How do you know my name? And where I live?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Your name is Keeley Murdock. You live above that sofa store in town. And if you don’t get your butt in this car right now, I’m just gonna leave you here.”

  “It’s not a sofa store,” I said. “It’s an interior design studio. And I don’t remember meeting you. I don’t need a ride. I like to walk. I love to walk.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I saw the Jernigan crowd leaving the country club right behind me. They’ll be along any minute.”

  I hopped in the front seat of the pimpmobile. “Hurry up and go before somebody sees me with you,” I said.

  He pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the yellow land yacht’s rear wheels spurted a shower of dirt. We sped down the blacktop toward town. I glanced over at my driver, and when his lips twitched in a sort of snicker, I hitched up the bodice of my dress again.

  “Is that blood?” he asked, pointing at the red stain on the front of my dress.

  “No, dammit,” I said. “It’s just strawberry daiquiri. My aim was off.”

  He winced.

  “What did you say your name was again?” I asked.

  “Will.”

  “Will, what?”

  “Mahoney.”

  I knew that name. I took a closer look at him. He was tall, taller than me even, I thought, and his dinner jacket didn’t fit him exactly right. The red hair barely brushed the collar of his dinner jacket. Not a mullet yet, thank God. My reputation might be in tatters, but I do still have some standards.

  Will Mahoney had the freckles that usually go with that color hair, and deep brown eyes that took in more than they should.

  “Will Mahoney? You’re the guy who wants to tear down Mulberry Hill?”

  “You have a problem with that?” he aked.

  One thing you have to know about Madison, Georgia, is that the place is just run over with historic old antebellum mansions. In fact, our state claim to fame is that when that Civil War boogeyman William Tecumseh Sherman was burning and pillaging his way to the coast during the dying days of the Confederacy, he took one look at Madison and just seized up over how beautiful it was. He put away the matches and had supper instead.

  Well, anyway, that’s the story.

  Mulberry Hill, a big white clapboard pile off U.S. 441, was, to be honest, neither the oldest nor the wonderfullest mansion in town. It had been empty so long, most folks were waiting for it to fall down all by itself.

  “It’s a historic landmark,” I said disapprovingly. “Anyway, what were you doing at my rehearsal dinner? I don’t know you, and I’m sure the Jernigans don’t either.”

  “Your mother-in-law invited me,” Mahoney said.

  “GiGi? I don’t believe you. She’s the one who started the petition drive to save Mulberry Hill.”

  “I’ve had a change of heart,” he said. “The house stays put. I even made a donation to the historical society. I’m your mother-in-law’s new best friend.”

  “She’s not my mother-in-law,” I pointed out.

  “Not after tonight, no,” Mahoney agreed. He was wide-open
grinning now. “That was some floor show you put on back there. No wonder the orchestra left.”

  So he’d been there. My mortification was complete. I stared out the window at the landscape whizzing past. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  We were coming into town now, thank heavens. In five more minutes I could be home in my own apartment. I could burn my ruined dress, turn off the phone, and give serious thought to moving to another state.

  “Turn right at the next light,” I told him. “It’s two blocks up.”

  “I know where it is,” Mahoney said. “Glorious Interiors, right? And your aunt runs the business? You live in the second-floor apartment. Nice building. I’m thinking of buying it.”

  Our building, with its elaborate plasterwork detailing, had been the old Merchant’s Mercantile building up until the mid-fifties. My granddaddy bought it from the original owner and turned it into Murdock Notions, which he ran until shortly before he died in the late 1980s.

  “Buy our building? Dream on. Gloria inherited that building from my granddaddy. It’s been in the family for more than fifty years. She’d never sell. Especially not to you.”

  “Whatever you say,” he said. “I’m not gonna cross a hot-blooded woman like you, Keeley Murdock.”

  He pulled the car alongside my own five-year-old red Volvo sedan, which was illegally parked in a loading zone. But it was our loading zone. The parking space that should, by rights, have been mine, was taken up by one of the bumper-to-bumper cars whose drivers were probably having dinner at the half-dozen new restaurants that have popped up in our revitalized downtown recently.

  Our own storefront, with its jaunty black and white striped awning stretching out over the sidewalk, was softly lit. I’d decorated the window myself, earlier in the week, with a gorgeous French Art Deco chaise longue I’d bought at the Marché aux Puces flea market outside Paris, a stack of shiny Hermès and Chanel hatboxes, and an unfurled bolt of Pierre Frey fabric in a luscious gold damask. I’d been thinking French, of course. A.J. and I were to have honeymooned at a villa in Provence this coming week.