Bigger Things
Also by Ev Bishop
River's Sigh B & B
Wedding Bands
Hooked
Spoons
Hook, Line & Sinker
Silver Bells
Reeling
New Year's Resolution: One To Keep
Standalone
Bigger Things
Ev Bishop
BIGGER THINGS
BIGGER THINGS
Copyright © 2014 Ev Bishop
EPUB Edition
Published by Winding Path Books
ISBN 978-0-9937617-0-6
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, the reproduction or use of this work in whole or in part in any form, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Winding Path Books, PO Box 82, Terrace, British Columbia, V8G 4A2 Canada.
Bigger Things is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
To all my sisters –
those by blood,
those by friendship,
those by shared experience
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Autumn
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
October
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Winter
Chapter 12
December
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
January
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Spring
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
April
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Summer
Chapter 28
June
Chapter 29
July
Chapter 30
August
Chapter 31
Author’s Note
AUTUMN
September
B5 – Mainstream; Your Entertainment & Lifestyle Weekly
DEAR FAT GIRL: I’m Desperate.
Questions, Dreams, Raves,
Rants and Fantasies?
Express them and have them
responded to by our experts!
ASK MAINSTREAM
Dear Fat Girl,
I’ve tried every diet there is: Slimfast, the all liquid diet, high carb, low carb, the Zone, Cabbage Soup, the New Beverly Hills Diet, the Eat, Cheat & Melt Fat Diet, Sugar Busters, the Paleotech Diet, the Warrior Diet, the No Time to Diet diet, the Fat Flush Diet, a vegan diet, Richard Simmons—just to name a few. I’ve even tried God’s diet!
You name it, I’ve tried it, but I just can’t seem to lose weight. My mother says that I shouldn’t starve myself, that it’ll backfire and hurt my metabolism . . . but what if I just don’t eat until the weight comes off, then slowly re-introduce food until my system adjusts? Would that work?
I work out for at least an hour a day, carry a full course load at UBC, and have a part-time job. I know I’m burning calories, but the scale won’t go below 124. I’m desperate!
Thanks in advance for any help you can give me.
Yours sincerely,
Desperate to Lose!
Dear Desperate, (I cringe calling you that.)
I was taking your dilemma, your urgency, seriously. Being overweight and seemingly unable to change is a health problem.
Then I read your weight. You don’t need a diet; you need a head doctor! Unless you’re under 4’5, you’re not even remotely fat.
Get a life. Go have fun. Drink Crystal Lite or whatever it is that skinny people do and stop wasting my time.
Don’t know if I helped, but you’re welcome.
Sincerely,
Fat Girl
P.S. Readers, I’m tired of being swamped with letters from skinny girls who think they’re fat. I am FAT GIRL. Get it?
If you’re skinny and like to write, contact Mainstream. Maybe you could be a new columnist, “Skinny Girl with Body Dysmorphic Disorder.” What do you think? Any takers?
1
Jen clicked through dozens of beautiful faces matched to enthusiastic texts praising Soul Mates, an online dating service.
“Everyone gets a happily ever after, yeah right,” she muttered.
Finally she came to what she was looking for: a personal ad with the heading, “Trapped in Tiny Town.” She clicked to read more. “I’m a widowed, thirty-six-year-old white male. Current career and love of the outdoors keep me living in a small town.”
Jen skimmed over his interests; books and cooking were the only ones they seemed to share. “I’m looking for someone who’s able to see into the heart.” Corny weirdo, Jen thought. “Someone who knows herself, her strengths and weaknesses and isn’t afraid to say what she wants. Picture not necessary.” Jen reread the last line three times.
“They were right. That is interesting,” she said aloud. She took a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and hesitated over the “contact me” link, then shook her head slightly and clicked X. Tiny Town man disappeared.
They. Kyra Thomas and Chelsea Hamilton. Her friends. They were always hounding her about the great possibilities of Internet dating. Jen glanced toward a picture on the bookshelf beside her. A girl with long cinnamon-colored hair smiled from her perch on a huge driftwood stump. She had a pretty face—small nose, full lips, nice teeth and large gray-green eyes that matched the ocean behind her. The girl was tired of hearing about her face, Jen knew. She smiled wistfully at the photo. It was pretty though. Great cheek bones, in spite of the fact that the girl weighed almost three hundred pounds. It was a cruel prompt for people who wanted the “best” for her, reminding them to nag, “You’d be so beautiful if you just lost weight. Look at your face.”
In the past, Jen always managed to steer Kyra and Chelsea away from their favorite activity of trying to find her a man. Probably because they didn’t have faith, even with their infamous matchmaking abilities, that they could find somebody who’d see past her girth. But now that fat Jenni Robertson had transformed into slim and slender Jen? Now it was a whole new game, and nothing Jen said convinced them of the truth: she didn’t want to date right now.
Jen reached out and touched the girl in the photo. The glass was cold to her touch and the girl behind it kept smiling, unmoved.
She sighed and got to her feet. Twelve-thirty. She’d better move it, if she was going to get to her lunch appointment on time.
*
Warm air and the buttery scent of fresh bread greeted Jen as she burst through the door to Yum, an aptly named restaurant from the smell of it. Gale force winds propelled the rain in after her. A bright yellow plastic triangle showed a stick person falling onto his tailbone, and black lettering warned, “Caution, Floors Slippery When Wet.”
You think? Jen thought.
The laminate flooring in front of the door was slick with water, the rust-colored floor mat sodden and useless.
“Brrrrrrrr,” she said with a small shudder.
“Another bright, crisp fall day in Vancouver, eh?” someone said to her left. Jen looked up into the wry smile of a silver-haired woman, who was folding up an umbrella decorated with orange and blue cats.
“Yeah, no one gets liquid sunshine like us,” Jen said. The woman chuckled.
Jen brushed rainwater off her navy coat sleeves, and scanned the blur of chatting customers. Finally, across the room by a foggy multipaned window, she spotted Kyra’s trademark blond head bent close toward Chelsea’s shining chestnut one. Jen waved, but they didn’t look up.
“I’ll have the spinach salad with mandarin oranges, no bread, please,” Jen told the girl at the counter. “And an iced tea, no sugar.”
She handed the girl fifteen dollars. “Have a nice day. Keep the change.”
“You too. Thanks a lot.” The cashier took a frazzled second to smile at Jen.
“Beautiful and generous? There’s a combo a guy could grow to love,” boomed a male voice from behind her. Jen’s cheeks heated as people turned to look at her. She ignored the comment and grabbed cutlery.
“Hey Red, don’t leave. I was talking to you.” The words followed her as she dodged briefcases and terracotta planters of bushy plants to her friends’ table. It wasn’t until she sat down that she glanced back at the counter. The yeller was her age, give or take, and good-looking in an “I know I’m attractive” way that Jen hated. He was still staring. She smiled sweetly and flipped her middle finger, then turned back to her friends.
“And how are you guys?” she asked, setting her food down and easing her heavy backpack off, shoving it under the table.
“You’re so hostile,” Kyra said, laughing. “You’ll never meet a guy if you do that every time one talks to you.”
“He’s obviously a pig. He had it coming,” Chelsea said.
“Yeah, if he’s any indicator of the available guys out there, I’m staying s
ingle,” Jen said.
There was a second’s pause, and they all grinned.
“So what’s new, you guys? I tried to get your attention a zillion times—”
Chelsea shrugged. “Nothing much.” Then, as Jen hung her jacket on a nearby coat tree, she added, “That’s a great sweater, Jen. You should bring in Irish sweaters, Kyra.”
Kyra rolled a bit of the soft wool at Jen’s cuff between her fingers.
“Well, they are warm and snug, but nah, I don’t think so.”
“Not enough cleavage showing?” Jen asked.
Kyra’s green eyes laughed. “You know me well, but, hey, considering you’re dressed like a logger, you look good.”
“Gee, thanks. Not quite the look I was going for, but I thought dressing warmly was weather appropriate. It’s hideous out there. My hair’s drenched. How come you’re not soaked?”
“Just lucky. It was bone-dry when I left the shop, but speaking of hair . . .” Kyra flicked a honey-yellow wave over her shoulder and tilted her chin. “What do you think? Two shades lighter. Does it work?” She gave them the other side of her profile.
“It must. I can’t see a difference. Isn’t blond just blond?”
Chelsea scrutinized Kyra’s sleek tresses. “Don’t be silly, Jen. It’s totally noticeable. It looks great.”
“Well, thank you. I can always count on you. Jimmy and I were just discussing that.”
Jen cringed. Why couldn’t Kyra call him James like he himself did?
“He thinks it’s amazing that I have friends that I’ve had since grade two.”
“It is kind of amazing, and it means I should be used to our coincidences, but I’m not—nice bag.” Chelsea motioned at Kyra’s bag, then at her own tucked beneath the table. The two leather-paneled bags were identical. “Winners. Thirty bucks.”
Kyra sniffed, indicating that she’d paid a lot more for hers somewhere else.
“Thankfully, I was left out of the matching clothes talk show you guys started in high school,” Jen said. “I had my own sitcom, Jen wears what fits, with riveting episodes like, ‘Gray sweatpants month,’ ‘Back in jeans finally week!’ and, the classic, ‘Oh no, I’m wearing a tent dress!’”
“You’re not funny,” Chelsea said, but she and Kyra laughed.
Jen raised an eyebrow. “So I see.” She dug into her food, and Kyra did too, after removing the top bun from her sandwich. Jen reached for the discarded bread, then pulled her hand back before taking it.
Chelsea noticed her restraint and gave a thumbs-up that Jen pretended not to see.
“So what’s keeping you so busy these days?” Jen asked Chelsea once her initial hunger abated.
“Same old, same old. Brianne’s twelve-going-on-fifteen. Dina’s Dina—I don’t know. They just aren’t toddlers anymore.” Chelsea fiddled with her watchband.
The movement caught Jen’s eye and made her smile. A watch on her wrist, a ladybug pendant around her neck that revealed a clock face if you opened its shining silver wings. Chelsea and her watch fetish. She probably had an alarm clock in her purse. Jen smiled broader and was about to make a joke, when something in Chelsea’s face stopped her.
“And my mom and Richard—” Chelsea interrupted herself. “No, never mind, it’s boring.” She stabbed a piece of tomato.
“Are you okay?” Jen asked.
Chelsea started to shake her head, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just my crazy mother’s stressing me out, as usual. And things are hectic for Ted. He’s pouring every bit of himself into the business right now. I’ve actually told him he needs to start being there for me and the girls, or we won’t be around for him.”
“You said that?” Jen looked at Kyra’s uneaten bread. She really should’ve ordered bread.
“I did.” There was something like pride mingled with surprise in Chelsea’s voice. “Not that it helped much. It’s really not his fault that everyone and their dog is moving to the suburbs and building a house. I may razz you about being single, but honestly, sometimes I think I’m the lonelier one.”
Jen frowned. “Yikes, Chels. Things are that bad?”
Chelsea started to reply, but Kyra interrupted.
“Oh, come on. Ted’s a doll. He totally dotes on you. Men are different than us. They need more space.”
“Well, I’m not interested in being the maid. And if it’s space he wants, it can be arranged.” Chelsea continued to rub her pendant’s chain back and forth between her finger and thumb, and something in Jen’s stomach clenched. She shot Kyra a look, but Kyra seemed oblivious.
“You don’t mean it. You guys are great together. And speaking of Ted, he’s that busy? Rats. I want to renovate again, and was hoping if I got quotes, he’d tell me if guys are trying to rip me off.”
“Chels, is that a tear? Are you crying?” Jen asked.
“No,” Chelsea said, rubbing a finger along the lower lid of her left eye with impatient speed. “Don’t be silly. My eye’s just irritated by an eyelash. And you’re totally right, Kyra. Ted is great. The kids are great. We’re great. I’m sure he’ll give you feedback, no problem.”
Which is real? wondered Jen. The bitter side she rarely saw in Chelsea or this cheery optimism about her and her prince? Maybe both, she decided.
“It’s normal to have rough patches once in awhile. Ted’s a good guy, but you’ve been together forever. It only makes sense that you have to work things out occasionally,” Jen said.
Chelsea nodded and relaxed her grip on her necklace.
“And how are you and James?” Jen asked, emphasizing James.
“Oh, great. But you know how the beginnings of relationships are. All romance and wine.” Kyra took a big mouthful of grilled pepper salad. “Mmmmm, this stuff’s to die for. Try?” She waved a forkful, offering. Jen and Chelsea shook their heads, and Kyra continued. “Actually, I think he’s the one.”
Jen and Chelsea laughed.
“At least one of us believes that all romantic love is not in vain, that true love lingers just around the corner,” Jen said.
“And that men are worthy of our love,” Chelsea finished.
“Of course it does. Of course they are.” Kyra’s mouth tightened and her eyebrows knit together for a moment, but then, just as quickly, she seemed mollified by a new thought. “Hey, speaking of true love just around the corner, did you look up the Tiny Town man? Doesn’t he sound great?”
Truth or lie? “Right, speaking of that. Thanks for signing me up without my consent.”
Kyra and Chelsea didn’t even bother to feign remorse.
“But yes . . . I checked out his ad just before coming here.”
“And?” asked Kyra.
“But?” asked Chelsea.
“And? And he sounds better than most of the idiots you think would suit me, I guess. His last line is intriguing, if he means it. But . . .” Jen smiled at Chelsea for knowing her so well. “But it’s probably just a ploy to make women think ‘Ah, finally. A sensitive male free from our society’s body and beauty myths—’” Jen crossed her eyes.
“Does that mean you’re going to contact him?”
“Or not?”
“Definitely not,” Jen said.
“Come on, what do you have to lose?”
“Gee, I don’t know. My time? My sanity? Who knows?” Jen propped her elbows on the table, and grinned at Kyra’s exasperated exhale.
“He could be the one.”
“I don’t believe in ‘the one’ anymore.”
“Of course there’s a one.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. You’ve had a new ‘the one’ every year or two since we were fifteen. By my count, you’ve had at least ten soul mates.”
Kyra’s green eyes narrowed to slits. “At least I try. At least I don’t hide behind a bunch of flab and resent it when men don’t like me, then lose weight and resent it when they do.”
“Kyra, stop . . .” Chelsea’s soft reprimand was ignored. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger and watched her friends.
“Maybe I don’t have to have a man every minute of the day.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was saying, that you need a man every minute of the day—once in five years might be nice though. Seriously, a man can’t even say hello to you. Like that guy—” Kyra glanced around the restaurant until she laid her gaze on Jen’s admirer. “He seemed nice enough, and he was cute.”