Then, as she approached, Herb cringed and backed away. “You want to dance? Go find yourself a partner.”
For years after that, Carlotta had avoided him. Then, when they were seniors in high school, Herb started calling the house. He’d charmed her parents as he did all adults. Rose and Sam could not understand Carlotta’s refusal to go out with him. “Every night, you sit around like a bump on a log,” Sam observed. “It’s not like you’re such a raving beauty, Carlotta. It’s not like the boys are beating down your door.”
“I’m not interested, Daddy. Okay?”
“But he seems like such a nice young man,” Rose cajoled. “What do you have to lose?”
Eventually, they wore her down. Carlotta was pleasantly surprised on their first movie date, when Herb acted the perfect gentleman. The following month passed in a haze of romantic bliss: bowling, Skee Ball, Nathan’s hot dogs, miniature golf. Perfection.
One magical night, they were alone in the Lattimores’ rec room. The lights were dim, and Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice oozed from the hi fi: ‘Chances are…’
Herb asked Carlotta to wear his ring around her neck. He kissed her and confessed his undying love. When Carlotta admitted she felt the same, Herb implored her to express her affection in a physical way. He explained that he might suffer grave medical consequences if she did not. This would be their secret, he assured. A sacred trust.
Carlotta had believed him without reservation. For weeks, she hadn’t the vaguest idea why people at school kept snickering and whispering as she passed. Then, after lunch one day, she went to the girls’ room. Inside the door to the third stall, someone had scrawled the entire sordid story. Herb had pursued her on a ten-dollar bet. When Carlotta submitted to his advances, Herb’s best friend, Googie Nathanson, had been hiding in the closet with a tape recorder. By now, virtually every student at Southside High had heard Carlotta in the throes of passion, shouting, “Hoooo, baby. Yes!”
The incident brought Carlotta to her emotional knees. She was unable to show her face at the high school. She missed several weeks of classes and nearly failed to graduate. Hiding at home, she became bitter and reclusive and terribly depressed. She found herself unable to trust men or much of anything. From then on, aside from her plants and the occasional Sara Lee chocolate swirl poundcake, Carlotta’s life held precious little pleasure.
But that was about to end. At long last, she knew how to beat Herb Lattimore at his own game.
Irwin Draper noticed the change immediately. When Carlotta strode into the bookkeeping office the following morning, dumpy Irwin popped his thumb from his nose like a champagne cork and frowned. “What’s up, Carlotta? You look different.”
“Why, nothing at all.”
“Oh, yes, there is. You’ve changed. I can see it. You look-I don’t know-taller somehow.”
“Is that so, Irwin? Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ve grown.” Irwin had certainly not grown, she noted smugly. The man was positively potbound.
“She can’t grow, you big ninny.” Martha Siwicki guffawed. “She’s a middle-aged spinster, for Chrissakes.”
Carlotta squinted at the brown spots on Martha’s ham-sized hands. Definite sign of root rot. “Forgive me for being blunt, Martha, but you could benefit from less moisture and a hoe.”
At their next session, Dr. Hume probed for the reasons behind her improved frame of mind. “Frankly, Carlotta, I’m surprised you’re not upset about this latest development with Herb.”
“I’ve told you, Dr. Hume. I can handle this.”
“And I’ve told you, the only way to handle it is to be rid of the Herb issue, once and for all. You need to get done with him, Carlotta. You should have been rid of this long ago.”
“I hear you, Dr. Hume, and I could not agree more.”
“Why go to this so-called retreat, then? What can you possibly hope to gain?”
Carlotta smiled. “I think the better question is, ‘What do I have to lose?’”
The next months passed with striking calm. Nothing fazed Carlotta, not even the letter from the state board stating that she would have scored several points higher on the CPA exam had she decided to stay at home.
No biggie wiggy.
Her travel arrangements proceeded apace. She lost five pounds and bought three striking new ensembles. She indulged in a complete makeover at Peoria’s Salon des Dames Frumpees. A teenager down the block agreed to plant-sit during her absence.
Carlotta was a trifle nonplussed by Mr. Detuzzi’s response to her request for extra time off around the Labour Day weekend. “Funny you should ask, Carlotta. Actually, I was going to suggest you take a nice long rest from your duties here at Carswell. You’ve got unemployment coming, plus you’ll qualify for a nice pension in just a few short years. Ms. McGinness in outplacement will be happy to explain everything.”
Fiddle de dee.
She had far more important issues to address. Uppermost in her mind was the special offering Herb had asked her to bring along to share. Something from the heart, he’d said. Carlotta’s heart was full of things she’d love to share with Herbert Alton Lattimore IV. But one particular idea crept in and germinated. Carlotta compiled the necessary details from medical, horticultural, and culinary specialists. She consulted with the top criminal attorney in all of greater metropolitan Peoria. Everything she learned confirmed her belief that she’d hit on the perfect contribution.
Soon, Labour Day weekend was upon her. Carlotta primped and packed and bid adieu to her precious housemates. “Have a lovely weekend, my sweet Cypripedium calceolus,” she said. “Don’t cry for me, Artemisia.”
A liveried chauffeur awaited Carlotta at the arrival gate at JFK. “Greetings, Ms. Little. I’m Hathaway. Mr. Lattimore asked me to drive you to the retreat.”
He held forth a nosegay of sweetheart roses and baby’s breath. “These are for you, ma’am. Compliments of Mr. Lattimore.”
Carlotta recoiled in horror. “Murdered in their infancy, no less. Is there no depth to which that creature will not sink?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“I most certainly will not,” Carlotta huffed.
Herb’s house was an imposing Tudor in the ultra-rich Old Canterbury section of town. Years ago, Carlotta would have been humbled by the opulent surroundings, but now she stood apart from such frivolities. Above them.
The Southside High School class of seventy-two elite was assembled among the priceless antiques in the living room. Julia and Apulia Venable, the cheerleading twins, looked terminally perky as ever. Wendy Whitley, prom queen emeritus, stood beside bull-necked Chip Savage, football captain turned shopping mall mogul. Googie Nathanson, sporting two extra chins and a mail-sack belly, stood puffing a fat Cuban cigar. There was pretty Pinky Goldhaven, willowy Raquel Morgenstern, pompous Myron Peltz, and-
“Hey, boys and girls, look who’s here,” Herb bellowed from across the room. “Carlotta, baby. Great to see you. Come give your old pal Chervil a great big smooch.”