Chapter 7
Erin sat on the edge of her unmade bed in her dimly lit bedroom, her fingers gliding over the cracked screen of her phone
as she scrolled through her ex-husband’s Facebook page. His new bride was blonde. Tucking her short, stark black hair behind
her pierced ears, she thought, I knew Phillip always had a thing for blondes. Erin carefully examined a selfie of Phillip, his gorgeous wife, and her two young children posing against the postcard backdrop
of Tybee Island’s sandy beaches—a tight-knit family enjoying the warmth of the late-summer sun and each other.
As Erin continued to snoop through his profile, the next set of photos revealed the interior of Phillip and his platinum-headed
bride’s new home. It appeared that Phillip had purchased the brick house at the beginning of the construction phase, allowing
Sister Golden Hair to choose her favorite paint colors, tile, and cabinetry. How fascinating.
Erin had never owned a new home, much less built one.
She had always lived in poverty, raised in a holler in the Blue Ridge Mountains by parents who had various health issues and struggled financially.
In his early twenties, Phillip was working on the railroad in her small North Carolina town when he noticed her, only eighteen at the time, at the diner where she had worked since she was thirteen to help her parents make ends meet.
He took her away from that awful place and brought her down to Savannah, where she basked in his affection and provision.
However, after three or four blissful months of marriage, Phillip changed.
It was as if a storm had rolled in unexpectedly and wreaked havoc on everything in its path.
After twelve years of storm damage, Erin finally walked away, but not unscathed.
Erin’s pride and joy—the only good thing she had ever received from Phillip Pepperell—was PJ.
It made Erin angry to think about Phillip and his wife enjoying a comfortable life in their lovely new home in a Savannah
suburb while she and Phillip Jr. lived in a run-down apartment on the outskirts of town, where gunshots sometimes rang out
and the flickering streetlights cast shadows across the cracked pavement. It made Erin angry to think the blonde Mrs. Pepperell
was afforded the luxury of being a stay-at-home mother while Erin worked tirelessly at two jobs: as a clerk at a convenience
store that had been robbed several times over the years and as a housekeeper on Allyson Island. It made her angry to think
of Phillip being a good father to his stepchildren when he had no relationship with his own son.
Erin couldn’t bear to think about Phillip any longer, so she irritably tossed her phone onto the bed while the image of her ex-husband’s smiling, bearded face pressed into his wife’s fair hair was still visible on the screen.
She shuffled into the bathroom and looked at her tired reflection in the mirror.
She was only thirty-eight, but the abuse she endured at Phillip’s hands, combined with constant worry, multiple jobs, and lack of sleep, had taken a toll on her once-youthful appearance.
Crow’s-feet had formed around her dark eyes, and her once shiny and thick black hair appeared dull and thin.
Each day that she went to work for Moira, she felt intimidated by her boss’s flawless and seemingly timeless beauty, even though she was twelve years older than Erin.
As she splashed cool water on her face, Erin thought she would rather be paid to work at Moira’s party than attend as a guest.
While a weekend of pampering would be lovely, massages and Italian pastries wouldn’t cover her rent and electric bill. The
hatchback had recently started making a funny noise, and it wouldn’t be long until it needed repairs. Where would that money
come from?
Next, she put a dollop of moisturizer on her weary face that resembled her long-dead mother’s because of the creases, dark
circles, and overall fatigue of her skin. She continued to dwell on the anxiety of being at the party among Savannah’s elite.
What would she wear? Her clothes came from the clearance racks of the same store where she bought milk and bread. Her beat-up
hatchback would stick out like a sore thumb parked next to European sedans. She would feel safer on a shift at the convenience
store, behind the bars on the windows, than she would in a house full of socialites who would surely judge her from behind
their long-stemmed crystal wineglasses.
She turned off the bathroom light and walked into the small kitchen, where the invitation sat on the chipped plastic counter.
With an exasperated sigh, she tossed it into the garbage can, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. Erin then returned
to her small bedroom, pulling the phone from the top of her thin beige comforter.
“Hey, Moira, I just found out I need to work at the Family Pantry during your birthday party weekend. The schedule just came out,” she said, her voice laced with reluctance as she delivered her lie.
“Oh, I’m really disappointed to hear that,” Mo replied. “I was looking forward to spending some quality time with you—completely
off the clock, you know? You’ve been such a big help to me around here. I know you’re—you are,” Moira stammered, “juggling
your other job and taking care of your son, so I wanted to find a way to show my appreciation to you. Did you check the itinerary
on the back of the invitation? We’ll be getting massages, Erin. Don’t tell me you couldn’t use a massage!” Moira squealed
with childlike delight.
Well, of course worn-out and stressed Erin could use a massage. And she could use some good sleep, in a safe place far from
drug deals on the corner and dangers of the night. The thought of a weekend away felt almost as intoxicating as what Moira
was feeling at that moment—an opportunity to forget the mounting bills and even the cockroaches she spotted scuttling across
her bedroom baseboard while she listened to Moira’s drunken pleading. It would be a blessing to be too distracted to think
of Phillip and Blondie laughing joyfully together on sun-soaked beaches. And it would be nice to pretend she was part of the
privileged for once, even if she drove a sputtering jalopy and wore bargain-basement clothing. Moira persisted, painting vivid
pictures of laughter and relaxation, and Erin finally relented.
After all, she deserved it.