The Reluctant Cinderella

More silence.

Finally, she spoke. “It’s Megan. Are you…all right in there?”

Another silence. Then a sniffle. And finally, hopefully, a woman murmured, “Megan?” More sniffling. “Is it really…” A sob. A tiny hiccup, then, “…you?” Even with all the sniffling, Megan recognized that soft Texas drawl. It was Carly Alderson.

Megan probably should have known. She made her voice even gentler. “Come on, Carly. Let me in….”

A second later, the door opened. Carly, strikingly pretty even with puffy eyes and a red nose, sniffled, sobbed and ushered Megan inside. Once Megan stood on the fluffy green bathroom rug with her, Carly shut the door and punched the lock.

Then, with a mournful little groan, she sank to the edge of the tub. Megan got the box of tissues from the sink counter and sat down beside her.

“Oh, Megan…” Carly paused to sniffle some more. She wiped her nose with a torn-up, wrinkled bit of tissue. “I just…I can’t…”

“Here.” Megan extended the box.

Carly whipped out a fresh one. Then she buried her red nose in it and sobbed. “I just…I can’t stand it, you know?”

Megan patted her slim back and stroked her soft blond hair and made soothing noises of support and understanding.

Finally, Carly pulled herself together enough to announce, “It’s final today. Our divorce. Greg and I are…no longer husband and wife. It’s over. Officially. Completely. Kaput.”

“Carly. I’m so sorry….”

Greg Banning, Carly’s ex, had moved out months ago—well, actually, Carly had kicked him out. As a gesture of fury and defiance. Because he’d asked her for a separation. She’d kicked him out and started calling herself by her maiden name.

But it had all been pure bravado. Carly wanted him back. Desperately. Getting her handsome husband to return to her was all Carly wanted, all she talked about.

No one in the neighborhood knew why Greg had asked for the split. There had been no big scenes, no angry confrontations—not that anyone knew about. Carly claimed they never fought.

But then, out of nowhere, he’d asked for a separation. She’d tossed him and his personal belongings out on the lawn of the great big house they owned that took up two lots in the heart of the cul de sac that was Danbury Way. Greg had left and never come back.

The neighbors assumed there must be another woman. But no one had seen such a woman, or had a clue who she might be.

Carly dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I know I shouldn’t have locked myself in here. But I couldn’t stand it downstairs. Everybody’s being so sweet to me, feeling so sorry for me. And then there’s Rhonda and Irene. Those two just won’t leave me alone. You know how they are. Like vultures, hanging around, picking at the bones of everybody’s troubles….”

Rhonda Johnson and Irene Dare were the neighborhood’s most notorious gossips. They lived around the corner, next door to each other, on Maplewood Lane.

“Those two,” said Megan, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ignore them.”

“Oh, I’m trying. I truly am. But every time I turn around, one of them is standing there, looking so sympathetic, whispering how I should tell her everything, every little detail, and she won’t breathe a word to another soul…. I mean, they shouldn’t even be here. It’s our block party, not theirs.” Carly sniffed. “Okay.” She blew out a hard breath. “That was petty of me. That was just downright small.”

“It’s all right….”

“No. Danbury Way parties are always the best ones. Everybody in Rosewood knows that. I can’t blame Rhonda and Irene for coming. I just wish they’d leave me alone.”

“I totally understand.”

Carly’s soft lip quivered and her china-blue eyes filled again. “Oh, Megan. If only he would call me. If he would just talk to me, you know?”

Megan dared to suggest, “Maybe it’s too late for that. Maybe what you need to do is to start finding a way to get over—”

“I just don’t understand.” Carly cut in, shaking her head, oblivious to what Megan had been trying to tell her. “I’ll never understand. I’ve been the perfect wife to him. He’s the center of my world. I know I could make everything right between us, if he’d only…” A sob escaped her. “…only…” Her eyes brimmed. “…give me a chance…” And she dissolved into tears again, crumpling toward Megan in her abject misery.

Megan dropped the box of tissues and gathered her close. Carly sobbed all the harder. Megan stroked her soft blond hair and whispered that everything was going to be all right. Eventually, Carly wound down to a sniffle and a sob or two.

Just when Megan was about to take her by the shoulders and tell her it was time to dry her eyes and rejoin the party, someone knocked on the door. Carly gasped and snapped up straight. Megan called, “Try the master bath,” and whoever it was went away.

But Carly did get the message. She heaved another big, sad sigh and pressed her palms to her flushed, damp cheeks. “Oh, I’m such a mess. I have simply got to pull myself together. We can’t stay in here forever. It’s just plain rude. And I was not brought up to be rude.”

Megan smiled. She really did like Carly, who was always the soul of courtesy and Southern gentility—even today, when her perfect marriage to the perfect man was over in the most final kind of way. “Come on. Splash a little cold water on your face, smooth that gorgeous hair and let’s get out there where you can show Irene and Rhonda that they don’t get to you in the least.”

Carly took another tissue and dabbed her eyes. “Megan. Thank you.”

“Hey. Anytime.” She started to rise.

Carly caught her arm. “Wait.”

As she sank back to the edge of the tub, Megan sent a little prayer winging heavenward that Carly wouldn’t turn on the waterworks all over again. “What?”

Carly straightened her delicate shoulders and hitched up her chin. “I’m calling Greg.”

Megan blinked. “Well, if you really think you—”

“No, silly.” Carly actually smiled. “Not for me. For you.”

Megan wasn’t following. “I don’t…why?”

“Your company. What’s it called? Design…?”

“Design Solutions.”

“Yeah. That’s right. You’re a…?”

“I’m a graphic designer.” And Design Solutions was all hers. Megan had a staff of six—okay, five and an intern. Her office was a short train ride away, in Poughkeepsie, close to home with low overhead.

Carly was nodding. “You do, um, brochures, business cards, flyers, things like that, right?”

“Right.” Megan did a lot more than flyers and brochures. But whenever she tried to explain about the real scope of effective design, about branding and positioning and how a top designer could boost a corporation’s bottom line, her neighbors tended to get glassy-eyed. As a result, except for Angela, no one in the area really understood what Megan’s work was all about.

It was kind of funny, really. The neighborhood wives were always trying to help her out. They had her designing invitations to their kids’ parties, making flyers for their charity yard sales, creating letterhead stationery for their own personal use, that type of thing. Then they’d slip her a fifty in payment and tell her how “talented” she was.

Megan knew they meant well, that they were only trying to be supportive. But they saw her in a certain way; she was the nice “full-figured” girl who rented the apartment over her sister’s garage.

They didn’t understand that she had owned a house three years ago, a house she’d sold so she could put all her money into starting up her business—and help her single-mom sister out with the kids.

Megan’s business venture had taken off. In a big way. She hardly had time anymore for a good night’s sleep, let alone for small jobs at nominal fees.

Carly muttered darkly, “Yeah. It’s the least Greg can do….”