“Charge it!” Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, the original wives gone wild, had instilled the thrill in me at a very early age. Their solution: Charge it! With the exception of “I love you,” was there a nicer combination of words in the entire English language?
My credit card poised at the ready, I debated between the black patent platform Louboutin pumps, cheaper but so last season, and the red Dolce & Gabbana ankle boots, too hot for words with a price to match. WWWD? What would Wilma do?
When I was a kid, I used to get up early, before everyone in the house, and enjoy the company of my cartoon friends in the family den. My favorite, Wilma Flintstone, offered valuable insights to the way things should work for a modern Stone Age family. My family had been Stone Age all right. We didn’t even have cable.
Didn’t Wilma deserve her few indulgences, after all? She put up with a lot being married to a caution-to-the-wind type like Fred. And I’d put up with a lot, too. A widow for almost a year, I knew what it was to suffer, and I deserved a few indulgences of my own. Only six weeks to Christmas, but as long as I made sure Santa brought my kids everything on their lists, I was free to spend.
I looked at the boots, red-hot tops sticking out of lavender tissue wrap, and sighed. My role model, Wilma, was too practical to put her budget off balance so close to the holidays.
Practical? I would only get as far as the first snowfall with the pumps before I had to stick them in the back of the closet for another six months or so. And honestly, who knew if they would still be stylish by the time designers introduced their spring lines? By contrast, I could get a good five months out of the Dolce & Gabbana boots, and maybe a few months of the following autumn. Even though they were pricier up front, they would be a much better bargain in the end.
Pleased with my decision, I left the pumps in the box under the Christmas tree adorning the table at the side of the shoe department chairs and headed for the register with the boots. My heart lifted to the strains of “Silver Bells” playing in the background. Wilma would be so proud.
But Wilma wouldn’t be the one helping me go over my expenses at the end of the month to make sure all my bills were paid. That honor would go to my sister, Kate, and Kate was no Wilma Flintstone. Not even close.
“Charge it!” was not a part of Kate’s everyday vocabulary. The last time she indulged and bought herself a new pair of jeans, stone-washed had just been reintroduced to the market. Kate was uptight with a capital UP. Especially after baby Eliana came along and gave her a real taste of the challenges facing single mothers.
It was so much easier for Kate when she could tell me how to handle my kids without having to worry about caring for one of her own.
When I emerged from Macy’s into the Natick Mall parking lot, I couldn’t find where I’d parked the car. I looked around the lot, certain I’d spot it any minute.
Then I saw a guy loading an SUV onto a tow bed. My heart stopped. I almost dropped my shopping bag in the mad dash across the lot. “What are you doing? That’s my Lexus!”
“We’re repossessing.” He flashed me paperwork, some kind of order. “You’re behind on payment.”
“That’s not possible.” I thought back over the last few months. Didn’t I pay the bill? I had to have paid it. Sure, I’d skipped a few payments on nonessential things to free up some cash to pay down the credit cards, but I wouldn’t skip the car payment. I needed wheels!
“Three months,” he added in a lifeless voice.
I flashed him the glare, the same look that had Spence and Sarah admitting to minor household misdemeanors and running for their rooms within seconds. He only shrugged, apparently immune to tactics that worked wonders on the preteen set.
“Hmm,” I said, giving him the up-and-down appraisal. He was slim, well put together, about an inch taller than me, or taller than I would be in my new boots. “You don’t look like the normal repo guys.”
He raised a slim, curved brow. Obviously a waxer. In my experience, any guy who believed in regular spa treatments was not in the business of repossession. More like renovation, a designer like my sister, Kate. Or a cat burglar? Maybe a professional thief!
“I’ve seen Cops on TV.” I poked him in the chest. He had to know he wasn’t dealing with some clueless housewife. “And repo shows, like the one with the Big Pussy guy from The Sopranos. You look too neat. Normal. Tame as a TV weatherman.”
He tossed, or tried to toss, his immovably sprayed J.C. Penney catalog model hair. “So you’re familiar with my kind?”
“Weathermen?”
“Ugh.” He shook his head. “With repo men. Not that I’m surprised, considering your payment history.” He laughed at his own snarky dig in the sort of self-conscious male model way that made me pause and look around.
“Are we on TV?” I asked, wondering if maybe it was all a gag, like the TV news was doing a Candid Camera type of segment for the holidays. “So then, you’re not really taking my car?” Big sigh of relief.
I was glad I’d recently reapplied my lipstick, and it had been a pretty good hair day. I looked around to make contact with the camera. No unsuspecting fool, I. Mentally, I went down the old pageant poise checklist and considered my bio in case they asked for information to add a personal touch to the broadcast.
Repo-Ken caught his breath on the tail end of a throaty guffaw. “Uh, no. I need to get the car. You can sort it all out with the GMAC folks. If you hand over the keys, it’ll be easier for me to avoid damaging anything when we get her back to the lot.”
Damage? Now my breath caught in my lungs. “GMAC?”
It sounded familiar. Then it hit me—I’d thought GMAC was the billing code for MAC cosmetics, which I’d switched to over the summer in an effort to replace my more expensive Lancôme. I was so all about saving money. So when the bills came in, I figured I could skip a few payments to GMAC. What were they going to do? Repossess my midnight navy mascara?
Besides, I always caught up on my debts when a new check came in, one every few months. I guessed it was time for a new check. Patrick had provided for us, and my sister had set up the investments. I tried to make sense of it all, but I had no idea I’d let things slip so badly.
“Sorry, hon. The car folks say you owe. I don’t get involved. I’m just a paid go-between.”
“Yes, but—I’m Bennie St. James. Little Miss Massachusetts 1986. Mother of two. Recent widow.” My press-ready bio came shooting out my mouth, along with a few real tears. “It’s Christmastime!”
“Lady, I wish I could care.”
“But—we’re at the mall. How did you find me? Don’t you usually do this in the middle of the night, from people’s homes? Like the Grinch?”
“We’ve done our homework. You’re always at the mall.”
I glared. This time, it had some effect. He sobered instantly. “We prefer to follow you around and grab at the best opportunity. It cuts down on the chances we’ll get shot at or attacked if we avoid the primary residence.”
I could imagine.
“Can’t you just pretend you didn’t find me?” I gave him my best come-hither stare and a pout. Flirting would be a lot easier if he looked more Abercrombie and less J.C. Penney. I tried to use my imagination. “I’ll pay tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“Have a nice holiday.” Lexus loaded, he turned to join his pimply faced friend in the front seat of the truck. Too late to salvage any pride, I ran and tugged at his sleeve. “Please. How much? I can pay you now.”
I let my shopping bag slump to the ground and started rummaging around for my checkbook in my purse. A car behind me honked, obviously desperate to get the newly vacated parking space where