The Saturday Story: Mount St. Helen

Helen didn't like to make waves.  When the supermarket cashier forgot to scan her carefully collected coupons she said nothing.  When her children were young and an uppity room mother assigned her to make four dozen cupcakes from scratch on a day's notice, she did it without flinching.  When her and Bob's friends wanted to go to Dollywood instead of San Francisco for their annual joint vacation, she packed a cowboy hat and a smile.  She always let some louder, bolder person pick the restaurant, the concert, the movie.  All her life, people had cut in front of her, left her stranded, and forgotten to invite her to things.  But Helen had remained silent. It wasn't that she didn't have a mind of her own, or that she didn't get angry.  It was just so much easier to pretend that everything was fine.  Life was simpler that way, and everyone was happier.  Well, everyone except for Helen.  But the sacrifice was worth the peace.  That was what she told herself each time some fresh upset threatened to disturb her still waters.

Take today.  Helen didn't want to be driving to Lady Godiva's House of Hair all the way on the other side of town.  Never a beauty, she didn't devote much time or thought to her appearance.  But her sister Rachel had insisted, calling her brunette bob a disgrace in that know-it-all way of hers, her eyes caught somewhere between kind and patronizing.  Ever powerless in the face of such pressures, Helen resigned herself to an hour of awkward chitchat with Rachel's hairdresser.  Now Helen pulled up to the salon, which was a squat honky-tonk of a place despite its pretentious name.  She sighed, assumed the perky persona she reserved for such occasions, and thought, let's get this over with.

Inside Lady Godiva's, a woman with a bleached blond bouffant took her name and invited her to sit down.  Helen obeyed by perching on one of the floral chintz chairs and reached for a magazine.  She flipped past the recipes and makeovers but stopped for the quiz.  Helen loved magazine quizzes with all the fervor of a thirteen-year-old.  This one was called "Mapping Your Mad-o-Meter" and posed questions such as, "You're cut off in traffic.  You : A) Scream bloody murder and drop F-bombs onto the other drivers, B) Shoot the driver a cold but classy stare, or C) Do nothing, but snap at your nine-year-old for no reason when you get home."  Helen chose C, then answered the rest of the questions and tallied her score.  It was in the lowest range, setting her squarely in the "white volcano" camp, the description of which read:  "Like a slow-simmering pot that suddenly bubbles over, you bottle your anger until it has nowhere to go but out, and then it's watch out, there she blows!"  Well, that's a load, thought Helen, joining the long line of seemingly self-aware quiz takers who claimed that those stupid magazines didn't know them.

A girl in a black smock appeared, interrupting Helen's thoughts.  She introduced herself as Marcy and led Helen to a knickknack-choked station.  Then she smiled and informed Helen that Rachel had given her instructions to "do something special."  Helen didn't like the sound of the word "special."  It conjured up images of allegedly fancy things that always turned out to be anything but.  Yet her need for smooth sailing prevailed and she acquiesced, convincing herself that whatever this Marcy came up with couldn't be that bad.  Marcy framed Helen's face with her hands a few times and made deep-in-thought squinty faces before leading her to a sink.  A Top 40 radio station hummed as Marcy doused Helen's head, mingling with the shampoo suds into Helen's ears like so much static.  Helen tried to block out Marcy's questions about where she worked and if she had kids and what movies she had last seen even as she answered them, her rote replies creating the perfect cover for her inner monologue, the gist of which could be boiled down to a single thought: I wish I were in my hammock.  I want to drink lemonade and watch the birds.  By now Marcy was prattling on about plums, cautioning Helen not to buy them from Farmer Fred's because his had given her friend Cassie the runs.  Her acrylic nails raked Helen's wet scalp as she yapped, causing Helen to wince and resent Rachel all over again.  Just who did she think she was, sending her on this fool's errand, plotting her hairstyle as if she were a marionette instead of a grown woman?  The more Helen thought about it, the angrier she got.  Lady Godiva's became a gilded prison, its air strangled by the cloying synthetic scents of a dozen products.  Helen hated being there, hated that she'd allowed herself to be steamrolled.  It was as if all the hurts and injustices and disappointments and humiliations of the past forty-five years were rising up to the surface and out of her carefully contained control.

"I don't want to get my hair done."  Quiet but unrelenting, her words punctured the breezy beat of the boy band ballad bleating from the speakers.

Marcy, who had been launching into a blind date story, eked out an inelegent "huh?"

"I don't want to get my hair done," Helen repeated, her voice louder and holding more of a challenge.

Marcy muttered that Rachel wouldn't like that, seeing as she'd already paid.

"Forget Rachel!" Helen was nearly shouting now, and the other women in the salon were beginning to stare.  "It's my hair." She was a little spooked by her own words, she who never contradicted anyone, but it was as if an unstoppable force had exploded, lava-like, to unleash her innermost thoughts.  Marcy uttered something unintelligible and backed away.  Helen felt a stab of remorse.  The girl was just trying to do her job; it wasn't her fault that she'd gotten caught up in the wake of Helen's white volcano fury.

"I'm sorry," Helen said.  "I'm sure you do lovely work."  She dug into her wallet, produced a twenty dollar bill, and pressed it into Marcy's hand.  Then she made her way past the curious, upturned faces of the other customers to the door.

Outside, the sun felt wonderful on her wet, still-mousy hair, the smell of heliotrope wafting sweet from a neighboring hedge.  Helen smiled as she slid into the driver's seat, overcome by a sense of well-being and calm.  It was a perfect day for a snooze in her hammock.

The Saturday Story: Help Wanted

Trish hadn't wanted to fill out the online dating profile.  But her friend Jackie had insisted, saying that she couldn't spend every Saturday night holed up in her apartment eating microwave pizza and watching reruns with her cat.  So, Trish had dutifully and painstakingly answered the questions set against Soulmate Search's bright aqua screen.  Trish supposed that the Web designers meant for it to be calming, but it only made Trish more irritable as she struggled to answer questions about her favorite foods and hobbies.  Was it pathetic to admit that she enjoyed bacon and a night of knitting?  Maybe.  She started to type "salad" and "aerobics" instead and then stopped.   No, if she was going to do this crazy-ass thing, then she might as well do it right.  Bacon and knitting it was.  She'd have to upload a photo, too (just the thought of that made her cringe), so at least her prospective suitors would know that she was thinner and younger than her interests suggested.  Not that she was exactly Gisele.  But her thin build and shoulder-length blond hair were a cut above average, even if her penchant for cat sweatshirts set her appearance back a few pegs.  Speaking of cats, Trish's profile wouldn't be complete without more than a few words about her beloved tabby, Tabitha.  Trish put on the breaks just as she was getting to the part about her and Tabitha's marathon sessions of hide-and-seek.  It was important, after all, to maintain an air of mystery.  With a few clicks, the questionnaire was finished.  Trish logged off her computer in relief, then channel surfed until she hit pay dirt with Legally Blonde.

Over the next few weeks, Trish logged into her Soulmate Search account with a mix of excitement and trepidation.  At first, she didn't receive any responses.  Then a few questionable ones trickled in, the most disturbing of which was from a magician looking for a lovely assistant to saw in half.  Trish hastily deleted that one, then steered clear of the computer for the next few days as if merely touching it threw her in harm's way.   When she finally got up the gumption to try again she was surprised to find a message from an attractive and normal-sounding insurance salesman named Bob.  He was quietly handsome - more Tom Hanks than Tom Cruise - and he enjoyed reading, camping, and live music.  She could do without the camping, but then no one was perfect.  Anyway, he had a cat, a calico named Cumin - because - and Trish could hardly read this without laughing - he firmly believed that variety was the spice of life.  Hokey stuff, to be sure.  And yet, there was something down-to-earth and warm in such honesty, in Bob's willingness to - as the kids said -let his freak flag fly.  Trish decided to message him. As she typed, Tabitha meowed from her perch on the couch. Trish couldn't help but take it as a sign of approval.

During the next few weeks, Trish and Bob emailed regularly.  Bob seemed sensitive and insightful and said all the right things when she emailed him pictures of Tabitha, even going so far as to say that she would have been the perfect mate for Cumin had he not been neutered.  He commiserated when she complained about her job working reception at a car dealership.  For some reason her boss thought it was her job to make a donut run when the bakery box was whittled down to a few stale specimens.  Privately, she thought they'd last longer if he didn't eat so many, but that wasn't the kind of thing she felt comfortable telling anyone except Jackie, so it was nice to have a fresh pair of ears.  Trish found herself staring at Bob's picture more often than was probably healthy, mesmerized by his kind dark eyes and shy smile and the way his blue checked shirt complemented his tan.  There was a red canoe in the background, and Trish imagined she and Bob taking romantic trips down a sun-dappled river arbored by flowering trees.  Never mind that she hated the outdoors and couldn't swim.  She was sure that even the most rustic of activities would be made magical by Bob's presence.

A month passed before Bob suggested a face-to-face date.  Trish was thrilled; in her opinion, four weeks of unvoiced chitchat was four weeks too many.  She wanted to know what Bob sounded like, but he always demurred when she suggested moving their conversations to the phone.  Deep down she knew that there was something weird about his reluctance.   But then, what did she know about online dating protocol?  Maybe this was the way things were done.  Anyway, she was so head-over-heels ecstatic to be enmeshed in her own romance that not even a Mack truck of warning signs could have deterred her.

Bob wanted to meet at a restaurant called Del's Diner, which Trish had never heard of but should have.  It was a few blocks from the car dealership where she worked, and he wanted to meet her there the following Tuesday at seven.  Trish's heart sank slightly at this; she had been hoping for a Saturday date somewhere special.  But maybe this was better, more unpretentious, more cozy, more Bob.  At least that was how she pitched it to Jackie when she told her on the phone that night.  But Jackie was having none of it, uncharitably calling Bob a cheapskate.  Nevertheless, she cautioned Trish not to wear any of her cat sweatshirts, insisting that it was far better to go with something fitted and black.  Trish gave in but secretly plotted to clip a cat barrette in her hair.

Trish thought that Tuesday night would never come.  She daydreamed the hours away at work, inadvertently snubbing customers and flaking out on not one but three donut runs, much to her boss's annoyance.  She hadn't told anyone but Jackie about her date, not even her mother.  That way she could guard her secret like a precious jewel without anyone telling her that it was flashy or fantastic, or worse of all, fake.

Ten minutes before seven on the appointed Tuesday, Trish peered into her compact.  She'd stayed at work past her usual five o' clock quitting time for the convenience factor, a trial that would pay off when she could leave two hours early come Friday.  She pried mascara clumps from her eyelashes, blotted her nose and chin with pressed powder, and applied a fresh coat of her signature Revlon Silver City pink lipstick.  Then she adjusted her cat barrette, flecked an invisible speck of lint from her black sweater, and set out on her way.  Her heart was humming.  As she walked down the sidewalk, she wondered if this was how the beginnings of a heart attack felt.  The air was too hot for the sweater, causing rivulets of sweat to roll down her back.  But before she could dwell on this, Del's Diner emerged from the street, its dingy chrome exterior slicing the sky.   Trish took a deep breath and went in.

It was tiny inside and only half full.  Trish stood at the door, surreptitiously scanning the tables for a man who matched Bob's description.  At first glance there were none.  But when she looked again she noticed a man at the back corner table.  He had Bob's eyes but was blond instead of dark.  Also, he had a sheaf of papers in front of him and was crossing things out with a pen.  Uncertainly, she made her way toward him.

"Excuse me, but are you Bob? From Soulmate Search?"

The man put down his pen and looked at her appraisingly.  "Yes. You must be Trish."

His voice was flat.  Not anything so awful as high-pitched or girly or even menacing, but nonetheless empty, as if it knew nothing of the confidences they'd traded over the past month.  Unable to do anything else, Trish nodded and slid into the booth opposite him.

"I'm so glad you could make it," he said, giving his papers one last glance before pushing them ever so slightly to the side.  "I have someone else coming at 7:30, but we should be done by then."

"Someone else?"  Trish's stomach churned.  She must have misheard him.

"Yes.  I like to do all my interviews on Tuesdays.  That way I have plenty of time to plan my weekend."

"Your weekend?"  The walls were closing in on her, their dreadful plaid wallpaper hurting her head.  Was it her imagination, or was Bob beginning to look annoyed?

"Certainly.  I like to meet the women I've been messaging face to face.  You know, get a feel for them, see if we click.  Then I pick the most compatible one and plan a date for the following Saturday.  Years of online dating have taught me that this is the most efficient way."

The women he'd been messaging?  Years of online dating?  The words mocked Trish, joining forces with the wallpaper.  Yet curiosity kept her seated.

"Right," she said, as if Bob's little ritual made all the sense in the world.  "Say, why is your hair blond?  You were brunette in your profile picture."

Bob patted his pale pate.  "Studies have shown that women feel safer with dark-haired men.  So I post a picture of myself with dyed hair.  Plus, I like to gauge women's reactions when they see that I'm blond.  Helps me to judge their adaptability to new situations."  He eyed her critically for a moment, then checked something off on one of his papers.

Trish withered, sure that he'd just issued her some kind of demerit.  Then, unable to go on with the charade any longer, she said, "I feel like I'm applying for a job."

Bob didn't look surprised.  But then, he'd probably heard it before.  "An online dating profile isn't so different from a help wanted sign," he pointed out.

"Maybe so," Trish allowed, getting up from her seat, "but I think you're the one who needs help."  Her voice sounded so sure, so steely, so woman-scorned perfect.  He would have never guessed that she was trembling inside, the tears so painfully close to the surface that they threatened to choke her.

He was wordless as she left Del's Diner.  Humiliation clung to Trish like a second sweater.  Yet as stung as she was, there was a part of her that had always known that Bob wasn't real.  Confirming that suspicion was painful.  But it also gave her a strange sense of closure.  Trish put one foot in front of the other, secure in the knowledge that she would soon be back with Tabitha and her reruns, a frozen brick of pizza thawing in the microwave.

The Saturday Story: Too Many Dresses

Vanessa's closet was tiny.  That was the thought foremost in her mind every time she crammed another bunch of freshly washed dresses into the already-bursting vestibule.  She knew that she should donate some of the garments.  Several were out of style, a few no longer fit (or never had, especially if they were the spoils of some not-to-be-passed-up bargain blow-out), and a good deal many more were too splashy to wear to work or to the staid gatherings that made up her social life.  Even when she wore the (at least to her mind) only marginally outlandish numbers, people said things like, "Quite a dress, Vanessa.  What's the occasion?"  Vanessa wanted to retort, "Life!" but instead usually muttered, "I don't know.  I got it on sale," before creeping back to the safety of her desk or table.  She sighed as she shoved aside a sherbet-colored shift to make room for a heart-printed halter.  Where, exactly, had she gotten the madras meringue of a dress in her hand? Honestly, madras was hideous.  But the full skirt was just the sort she liked; wearing one always made her feel as if she were the heroine (okay, cute friend at best) in an old movie.  That must have been why she'd bought it.  Gritting her teeth, she jammed it in between the shift and halter.  A wayward plastic hanger scraped her arm on the way out, leaving a mark but not drawing blood.

Disgusted with the whole rigmarole, Vanessa abandoned her closet and walked out to the mailbox.  The usual deluge of bills, catalogs, and junk mail spilled into her hands.  She had just flipped past the electric bill when she caught sight of a thick, creamy envelope.  She tore it open and found that it was an invitation to her cousin Fran's wedding.  Vanessa didn't particularly like Fran.  She was the kind of woman who derived great pleasure from telling people that her boyfriend (now fiancé) Ned was a corporate lawyer, and she had a habit of fixing Vanessa with faux sympathetic eyes upon hearing that she herself had not yet found "someone special."  But Vanessa did like the Princess's Palace, which was the venue of Fran's reception.  Although Vanessa had heard many people rave about the Palace's pink marble walls, rainbow fountains, and shrimp and soufflé-laden buffets, she'd never had the chance to experience its opulence firsthand.  Vanessa didn't have a date.  But she could more than make up for her lack of escort with a to-die-for dress from the back of her closet.

                                                           * * * *

Vanessa stood uncertainly in front of the full-length mirror in the ladies' room of the Princess's Palace.  Lush green ferns unfurled behind her, and the heady scent of Chanel No. 5 filled the air.  She was wearing her black strapless cocktail dress, the bodice of which glittered with a galaxy of colorful moon- and star-shaped rhinestones.  She'd set it off with a silver clutch and edgy silver stilettos, and a large rhinestone star-shaped clip winked in her hair.  She loved the dress, which she'd found in an obscure boutique, and had been waiting for a chance to wear it for more than a year.  Looking at it now gave her just the jolt of confidence she needed to face the singles table.  With a pat of her hair and a last backward glance, Vanessa turned on her (admittedly painful) heel and sailed back into the sea of revelers.

She scanned the tables for her number, which, as luck would have it, was 13.  She found it wedged into a corner and occupied by a half moon of fellow unfortunates.  Then a familiar face pulled up a chair.  It was Paul, her mother's accountant.  Vanessa didn't quite have a crush on Paul. Women Vanessa's age didn't get crushes, and anyway, Paul didn't give her butterflies or inspire her to drop by his office unannounced.  He was merely one of those seemingly kind guys just this side of boring who may or may not have been hiding a wicked sense of humor behind his glasses.  Now was Vanessa's chance to find out.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said.  "Friend of the bride's or groom's?"

Paul's face registered faint surprise.  "Groom's. Ned's a family friend."

"Oh."  Vanessa smiled.  "Fran is my cousin."

"Small world!"

Vanessa cringed inwardly at the trajectory of the conversation.  But she willed herself to see the thing through.  After all, she'd been the one to kick things off with "Fancy meeting you here."  If that opener didn't tip the cheese-o-meter, then she didn't know what did.

"Nice dress," Paul said, looking a little too pointedly at her cleavage.  Let it slide, cautioned Vanessa's inner censor, after all, isn't that sort of the point?

"Thanks.  I got it awhile back but never had the chance to wear it.  Tonight seemed perfect."

"Well, you've always got something nice on."  Paul paused to take a swig of his Guinness.  "Do you have lots of dresses that you've never worn?"

"Oh, not that many," Vanessa hedged.

"Because you've got to be careful," said Paul, emboldened by his drink.   "In my line of work I've seen it all.  Women who can't make their car payments because they splurged on a pair of Manolos, skimping on their 401Ks to squeeze a shopping spree out of every paycheck.  It's hard to believe that some people don't want to invest in their future. "

"Indeed," she muttered, choosing to focus on the tablecloth, which featured a lovely pattern of tiaras and scepters, instead of on her lack of rainy day funds.

Paul seemed to take her terse reply as encouragement.  "You should've seen the way my ex-wife blew through money!  But I showed her.  Now that she's on her own, she buys clothes only when her old ones fall apart.  Too many dresses, Maria!, I'd tell her.  If you hadn't bought too many dresses, then maybe you wouldn't have had to sell that kidney."  By now his mild eyes were bulging, and his face was the hue of a radish.

"Sounds like a riot," Vanessa murmured, rising from her seat.  "Will you excuse me for a moment?  I need to visit the ladies' room."

Without waiting for an answer, she walked past the scrumptious and still unsampled buffet tables.  She was halfway to the coat check when she was stopped by a stranger.

"Great dress," he said, smiling.  His eyes were hypnotic and laughing and seemed to drain her head of its doubts.

"It cost $500.00," Vanessa blurted out, "and I haven't even paid it off yet!"

The stranger laughed.  "Yeah? Well, it was worth every penny."  Then he held out his hand as "Moon River" swelled in the background.

Now, Vanessa was no ingénue.  She knew that this guy was probably a player.  But compared to preachy, penny-pinching Paul, this player had panache.  And in Vanessa's (check)book, that made him a prince.

"Thanks, big spender," she winked, and allowed herself to be led back into the ballroom.

The Saturday Story: Nobody's Puppet

I have a love-hate relationship with fiction writing.  Like many writers, I pick up and discard projects only to rediscover them years later, examining and marveling at their long-lost contours and surfaces as if they are forgotten but once-loved pairs of shoes unearthed from the back of a messy closet.  I even experimented with fiction on this blog.  (Remember The Bird Lady?  Probably not; her flight was pretty brief.)  Not too long ago I was lucky enough to connect with blogger, purse designer, and fiction writer Valerie.  She writes the blogs For the Love of Pete and Snapshot Sailors.  I love her vintage-inspired short fiction, and she kindly told me that she got started using writing prompts from sites such as Write on Edge.  The idea inspired me to give fiction another try.  Although I didn't end up using any actual Write on Edge prompts, I channeled their spirit by challenging myself to 1) run with an idea once I get it instead of second-guessing it to death and 2) keep things short and sweet.  So, I've decided to start posting my efforts each Saturday.  Which means that we'll officially say goodbye to Etsy Favorites, which I've neglected in recent weeks anyway.  It was fun while it lasted (and was, interestingly, how I discovered Valerie's shop and blog), and I'll probably post handmade goodies from other Etsians periodically in the future.  In the meantime, I'll see where this new lark takes me.  Here's hoping it's not the way of Michael Scott's "Threat Level Midnight."

Nobody's Puppet

Beth looked around the sumptuous hotel room and sighed.  Anyone else would count herself lucky to stay there, but the gleaming marble, creamy damask, and fresh-cut flowers struck her as sterile, like an impressive but untouchable museum exhibit.  The only evidence that she lived there at all was the curly green head of her prized puppet Pansy peeking out from behind a plump pillow.  Beth missed her cramped cottage apartment, with its chaos of knickknack-packed shelves and ants and heat (no central air for her, thank you) and strange snack smells set to the soundtrack of blaring reruns.  She loved to curl up in the corner of her hot pink palm tree print couch and lose herself in a novel, the living room illuminated by all the lurid allure of an illicit junk shop.  But Peter hadn't approved of Casa de Crazy, as he called it, and promptly moved her into his penthouse suite until after the wedding when their house would be finished.  Peter, with his starched shirts and close-cropped hair, very much needed for things to be tidy.  And respectable.  That was what he'd said the day he'd first broached the move.  Beth had wanted to protest - epithets wilder than her couch itself were threatening to erupt from her lips - but she'd worked too hard for just such security, and yes, respectability, to cavalierly sacrifice it for the sake of some childish whim.  For her old life was childish.  She saw that now.  She was too old to be waitressing and putting on puppet shows in the park.  And rooting through bargain bins and celebrating Halloween and drinking juice boxes without the buffer of children.  Strong, silent Peter was just the man to rescue her from her juvenile exile.  That was what she'd been thinking when she'd first seen him at the edge of the park that day just before putting on her beloved Pansy's Potluck show, a whimsical tale in which Pansy pooled all manner of unusual eats to serve at her mother's birthday luncheon.  They'd locked eyes.  It was just for a moment, but it was enough.  Later Beth would reflect that even then he was plotting to save her.  

The click of Peter's card key in the front door shook her from her reverie.  Instinctively, she smoothed down her hair and straightened her skirt. 

"Hello, sweetheart," Peter said, his height filling the doorway as he deposited his briefcase onto the floor by an end table.  Beth returned his smile, then moved mechanically into his arms.  "Why don't we go to that new Chinese place tonight?" he asked, absently rifling through the mail that she had so neatly arranged on the end table. 

Beth started to say that that would be fine, that she was starving and loved lo mein.  But then she saw Pansy's curls in all their wild green splendor against the sober silk sofa and screamed, "No! I hate Chinese food! And I hate you too!" 

Peter's face blanched, and he took a step backward.  "What?" he asked feebly.  He looked confused, his natural take-charge demeanor having vanished with the heat of his fiancé's words. 

"That's right!" Beth raged.  She had stalked over to the sofa and was now clutching Pansy to her chest.  "I hate this penthouse and the new house and this stupid, boring diamond and being someone I'm not."  She slipped the ring off her finger, surprised by the quick fluid motion, and plunked it down on the end table.  Then she drew herself up to her full height (which wasn't very tall, at 5'0"), looked Peter in the eye, and said, "I'm going home."  She knew that her landlord had not yet rented out her apartment, and she had just enough cash squirreled away in her secret change purse to return that evening.  "Because I, Peter," she added, clutching Pansy ever more tightly, "am nobody's puppet!" 

She glided past him, savoring the bewildered look that contorted his patrician features.  A flash of remorse came but was quickly gone.  Resolute in her decision, she took the elevator down to the lobby and asked the doorman to hail her a cab.  Then she pressed a generous tip into his palm and slid into the taxi.  As it pulled away she watched the hotel retreat and with it all of the glamour and promise dangling like so many Christmas lights in that slick slice of city.  She pulled Pansy closer, her nose pressed against the glass as a single thought haunted her: he'd never even come after her. 

The next day was sunny and cheerful.  Birds twittered in the bold blue sky, and a light breeze ruffled Beth's blouse as she sat on her porch methodically mending Petunia, a puppet who'd suffered a broken arm during her last show.  That morning she'd called the community center coordinator to ask if she could start up with her shows again, and the coordinator had been delighted.  So Beth was sprucing up her players and silently rehearsing her lines, so intently focused that she was jarred by the creak of footsteps on the sagging porch step.  It was Peter.  If he had been subdued yesterday, then today he was positively cowed.  His face was pale, and when Beth peered at him more closely she noticed that his shoes didn't match.  But more remarkable than all of this was the beautiful, brand-new state-of-the-art puppet show stage gleaming in his hands.  She'd spied it in an exclusive shop window weeks before and had remarked upon how much she loved it.  Peter had scoffed, saying that it was a waste of money, and anyway, what would she need with it now that she'd given all that up? 

"Is this a bad time?" asked Peter. 

"Never," Beth smiled, putting down Petunia and taking the stage from him.  She set it on the porch and waited. 

"It was wrong of me to make you move from here," said Peter. "And wrong of me to call it," he paused, "Casa de Crazy. I'd rather live here with you than in the new house without you at all." 

They were just the romantic comedy rolling credit words that Beth had needed to hear.  She wrapped her arms around Peter and leaned in for a kiss, a real one, not the dry peck they'd exchanged before all the trouble last night.  Everything, she thought, had worked out so perfectly.  In every relationship there was a puppet and a puppet master.  Thanks to last night's performance, she'd made darn sure that the puppet would never be played by her.