Good Luck, Fatty

holey Easter basket and liquidated on the cheap. In a soft-sided Marlboro cooler (most likely a “gift” for sucking down an insane number of death sticks), I locate a bunch of colorful but knotted Mardi Gras beads, which should work nicely for my purposes. I give them a little tug (not to separate them, but to test their strength) and am satisfied.
    As I reach for my money, the lady behind the table says, “You like those, sugar?” She’s middle-aged but made up to resemble a pageant queen with her bouffant hairdo and rosy cheeks, false eye lashes and glistening cleavage.
    “Yeah,” I say, the two dollars clutched in my grip.
    She pulls her lapdog, the breed of which I wouldn’t even try to guess (definitely not a Yorkie, but maybe something like it), to her chest for a cuddle. “They’re all yours.”
    “How much?”
    She shakes her head and smiles. “Free. You can have ‘em.”
    What the hell? I’m not a charity case. “I’ve got two dollars,” I say, opening my palm to prove it.
    “I got those for nothin’,” she tells me with a dismissive wave, “at the church bazaar. Don’t seem right to charge you for ‘em.”
    I see her point, but still. “What else is two dollars?” I ask, an invisible clock ticking off the seconds in my brain. Hopefully Orv and Denise don’t end up too pissed at me.
    “Depends,” she says. She scratches the dog vigorously between its ears. “What’re you lookin’ for?”
    “Something for my cousin,” I say with a shrug. “Or her baby.”
    “Oh, jiminy Christmas!” she squeaks. “It must be fate!” She extends an index finger. “Wait right there.”
    I don’t want to, but I do. And I’m not sorry. “Cool,” I say as she presses an old baby rattle into my hand. It’s bright and noisy, and I can already see my little cousin gnawing on it as if it’s a turkey leg (or at least that’s what Roy does). “Thanks.”
    I shove the rattle into my back pocket and toss the bills in the cooler. Then I vamoose. She calls something after me (probably an offer of change on the two bucks), but I just keep rolling.

 
     
    chapter 15
     
    CONSIDERING DENISE’S fascination with bridal magazines, I’d figured that, even though money’s tight around here, she’d have finagled a wedding that would make Martha Stewart proud. Instead, she and Orv are tying the knot in Gramp’s backyard with Denise’s Aunt Paulina (a notary public) as the master of ceremonies and me as maid of honor. Marie and Duncan (and even baby Roy) are invited.
    “Do I look all right?” I ask Denise as we model in front of her bedroom mirror, me in a poufy, knee-length yellow dress with lace trim and a beaded bodice, her in a cream-colored silk gown with an embroidered neckline and a tulle underskirt, which camouflages the beginning of a baby bump.
    My look is from Goodwill. Hers is a rental. Orv is decked out in his best—and only—suit, the one he bought for Gramp’s funeral. (Not that we’ve seen Orv; he spent last night on my futon in Hollyhock.)
    Denise bites her lip. “My gosh, Bobbi. You’re stunning.”
    I hope this is true, since Tom should be here any minute to walk me down the…dirt path by the fence. (We lined the ground with a paper runner, but I doubt it’ll hold up against my kitten heels.) “I’m so happy for you guys,” I tell Denise, an unexpected wave of emotion pushing me to the edge of tears.
    “Oh, shush,” she says, wrapping me in a hug. “You’re going to make me cry.”
    I’ve been too selfish to bring this up before, but now seems like the right time. “Have you and Orv…well, uh…? Do you still want me to live here, after the baby? Because I might be able to go with Duncan and Marie.” This offer is my wedding present to them, I figure. A chance to kick off their new family without me getting in the way.
    Denise freezes, blinks. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asks, sounding dumbfounded. “Of course we want you here.”
    She could be lying to spare my feelings. “Are you sure?” I persist. “What about Orv?”
    With a little huff, she says, “Orv loves you to pieces. You know that.”
     “He never says so.”
    “That’s not his way.”
    Orv is like Gramp, minus the warm and fuzzy. “I know.”
    “So it’s settled?”
    “It’s not like I want to leave,” I say. “I just thought...”
    “Well, stop it. There’s nothing to think about.”
     Her seriousness convinces me. “Okay,” I say. “Case closed, I