Justine and the Ugly Truth: A Novel

By Nancy Franklin Gates

JUSTINE AND THE UGLY TRUTH carries the reader through six months of the life of Antiguan-born, North Carolina journalist, Justine Ambrose. As she nears her fiftieth birthday, she realizes the need for greater spiritual growth and emotional stability.

Written in first person, using wit, intellect, and a sprinkle of patois, Justine shares the story of her struggle with the seven deadly sins; lust, pride and jealousy taking center stage. Single life, weight issues, fear, and low self-esteem all feed into her daily battle, as she also tries to make sense of racism, homosexuality, gender inequality, and other social concerns.

Justine stumbles her way toward personal maturity, rationalizing her weaknesses, and explaining away her faults with sugarcoated confession, finally coming to grips with the hard facts about her sins and her stubborn ways. Although painfully difficult, she reaches a place of full disclosure, understanding that in order to be hopeful about her future, she must be truthful about her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jan 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973649595

Nancy Franklin Gates

Justine and the Ugly Truth is Nancy’s first work of fiction. Her candid, humorous, and thought-provoking manner of storytelling captures the reader’s attention immediately, inviting them into the fictional surroundings of the novel. Her personal interests, which include interior design, parties, fashion, and travel, have been woven creatively into the narrative. She is a graduate of Indiana Wesleyan University, and CEO of Nancy Gates, Inc., the Christian resource company she founded in 2011. She resides with her family in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

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Copyright © 2019 Nancy Franklin Gates.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture references are from the King James Version and the New International Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover Photograph by Jason Gaskins Photography

Cover design by Nancy Franklin Gates

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4960-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4961-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4959-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914945

WestBow Press rev. date: 01/09/2019

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Opening Up

Chapter 2 Listening

Chapter 3 Tabula Rasa

Chapter 4 Photo. Shoot.

Chapter 5 Green is Not Your Color

Chapter 6 Fake Victory

Chapter 7 Chin Up

Chapter 8 Glitz, Glamour and Grace

Chapter 9 The Secret Sauce

Chapter 10 Goosebumps

Chapter 11 Hellos and Goodbyes

Chapter 12 Dead Flowers

Chapter 13 Let it Go

Chapter 14 Metamorphosis

Chapter 15 Earthstrong

The Ugly Truth

To

Mom - Your genuine interest in this book made it so much more fun to write. I’m sorry you’ll never have the chance to read it, but I thank you from my heart for your input, and for helping me to shape the character of Justine. I love and miss you so much!

Lambert, Sr., Lambert, Jr., and Cameron - Thank you for your love and loyalty through all that I do. Family is everything. I love you guys!

Teagan - I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter granddaughter. Mimi adores your little heart!

Teresa, Anita and Kathleen - Thank you for your editorial eyes and unvarnished opinions of Justine and the Ugly Truth. I love and appreciate all three of you. Sisters are the best!

Michelle Hunter - Thanks a million for your assistance in this work, and in everything else that you do!

Fanchon Stinger and the Fox 59 Studio - Thank you for allowing us to bogart your space, and for sharing your professional journalistic insights.

And to Jesus Christ, the Light of my life, and the Star of my show!

The Ugly Truth

thēˈəɡlē/ tro͞oTH/ adj./n.

An unfortunate reality that one must face and accept.

Chapter 1

Opening Up

L EGEND HAS IT that it was just before sunrise that I came screaming into earth sporting a lovely hue of purplish red, and a few strands of wiry hair. On my left shoulder was my free tattoo, a shape that could have resembled a rooster. One might assume from a couple of these trivial notes that I’m a morning person, an early riser, a member of the coffee club. Bodily I am because of the demands of my job, but my mind insists I’m still in bed, and puts up a fight until about mid-morning.

The sun wasn’t even up yet, and I couldn’t slow down my brain. Revolving thoughts of the newsroom, what to have for breakfast, and what needed to be done around the house competed aggressively for my attention. At 6:17 a.m., breakfast was winning. I love breakfast. If I wanted to enjoy a good one though, I would need to plant my feet on the floor within the next few minutes, or it would be drive-thru again.

Breakfast on the go had become my habit, and had become costly for me in more ways than one. It’s easy and delicious, but so bad for me. I’m not the lucky girl with speedy metabolism and normal, evenly distributed weight. I have a thick middle and wide hips compliments of my Mama, an ample but respectable rear end, large knees, legs shaped like upside down traffic cones, and small ankles for a woman of my size and height. But I have body goals. Some of these unwanted features will be impossible to change, I know that. I’ll never be model thin, and honestly don’t care to be. I’m thick and proud. But a little less of me in the right areas, and I’d be awfully cute! My face is full and round and pretty, and my skin, flawless. In six months or so, with grit and determination, I’ll reach those goals, and women might actually envy me. A girl can dream.

I slipped on my well-loved robe, and walked the few feet from my bedroom to my small but efficient kitchen to prepare something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, so the size of this particular space in my nineteen-nineties condo wasn’t at the top of the list when I’d bought it five years ago. Dining space was of higher priority. I needed enough room to accommodate a round table, small enough for just me, but big enough for six of my loudest, most obnoxious friends. Sometimes it gets rowdy, but I adore my friends, and I love to entertain.

Setting the gas stove on low, I placed two eggs in a pot, leaving them to boil while I showered. I took more time than I had planned, and unfortunately the eggs were lost. After the daily struggle of squeezing into my slacks, I was out of breath and short on time. I grabbed a bag of pre-sliced apples out of the fridge, opened it, and lobbed a spoonful of peanut butter into it for a bit of protein. I wrapped a toasted english muffin in a paper towel, and stuffed my whole breakfast carelessly into an oversized tote. Still out of breath, I jumped into my dusty black SUV, and headed to Wisher, the WSHR Channel 9 newsroom, my bread and butter for almost ten years. As I drove heavy-footed through morning Charlotte, North Carolina traffic, it dawned on me that I was eating breakfast on the go again. It hadn’t hit my wallet this time, and it certainly wasn’t the most unhealthy meal, but somehow my body felt drained and out of tune. Apparently I need to adjust my goals list to include allowing myself enough time to eat breakfast at my nice table instead of inhaling it behind the steering wheel of my car.

I walked briskly toward my office to get myself settled in and have a cup of coffee before opening the Daybook, a daily ledger of news and events. Hey Justine, I heard my assistant call. Marisol Fidalgo is her name. I like Marisol, but she irritates me a little. I try to get to the station and open my office before she comes in at eight o’clock, but she’d beat me there again, and was already sorting through my stuff. Treating her kindly doesn’t come easy, so it’s important I do a spirit check before I greet her in the morning.

Marisol is a cute little Hispanic girl that I inherited from Sales when Leslie, my former assistant, got married and moved to Phoenix. She wasn’t my first choice as a replacement, but I’ve learned to live with it. She has a handful of good qualities, and she’s a decent assistant, but if I may be petty, she pops her gum incessantly, woofs like a lion when she yawns, and says yill instead of you. Thank yill. I love yill. This is for yill. She also has a lazy habit of saying whatever whatever when she’s at a loss for words. She can never say it just once, always a very annoying twice. And who taught her to greet her superiors with hey, and not hi? Frankly, I find it disrespectful. Call me old school, but as a higher up here at Channel 9, I believe I’ve earned the right to be addressed in a more professional manner. At forty-nine and a half, I’m a little more than twice her age. So a little show of respect wouldn’t hurt. I have yet to broach the subject, though. Far be it from Justine Ambrose to be called anybody’s elder!

Good morning Marisol, how are you? Good, you want some coffee? she offered, looking directly at the Wisher coffee mug in my hand. No dear, I—have some already, thank you, I replied, pointing my cup in her direction. My spirit had not been checked.

Okay. I have something to show yill, she replied perkily, bouncing out of my office with youthful morning energy. I noticed once again how nice she looked, neatly put together in a chocolate-brown skirt, a blue button down shirt that fit exactly right at her waistline, and a pair of three-quarter luggage boots hugging her strong, shapely legs. Her heart shaped face is perfect for a chic, but messy knot on top of her head, or a chignon at the nape of her neck, the style she’d chosen more often recently. As she made her way to her desk, I watched as long as I could without getting caught doing the jealous girl stare. The trick is to look at her out of the corners of my eyes, while my head is turned slightly in the opposite direction. That way, once she turns around, all I have to do is shift my eyes away and not the entirety of my head, which could take a while because it’s large. She’ll never know I was watching her. It’s an art form that I’ve studied and practiced for many years. I may be admitting to more jealousy than I care to, but someday women will watch me that way. Watch me.

Well, you know how much I love color, right? she asked with juvenile intensity. I said nothing as I pinched the bridge of my nose, reminded of the many cutesy things that adorn her desk. Welp, she continued with a fresh piece of gum in her mouth, I decided to color code the files for all of your upcoming stories. So blue means local crime stories, green means stories about business and money, and yellow is for feel-good stories, like about animals being rescued, and stuff like that. Marisol isn’t the brightest bulb on the marquee, but she does speak good English. So her use of the words means and stuff made her sound marginally stupid, and it got under my flawless skin! For a brief moment, it was as though I’d been given a fourteen year old as an assistant. I stood up straight with my hand on my hip the entire time to signal that I didn’t have all day to discuss colors. Looking down at the file folders with their neatly handwritten labels, I white lied. This is great, Marisol. I arranged my voice in monotone so that she understood I was not encouraging more of this behavior. Her pretty brown eyes slanted upward, and her dimples became more prominent as she smiled at me with preschool-like pride at this grand accomplishment. She headed back to her desk to start on the day’s work. Through the interior window of my office, I watched her. Not so much to stare at her cuteness this time, but to keep an eye out for any additional colorful systems she might decide to contrive.

________________

AROUND TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, I left the building to meet my girlfriend Leslie for lunch. Not Leslie who had been my assistant, but the girl who’s been my bestie for the past twelve years, Leslie Ann Rogers. Leslie is the kind of friend who will drop everything and drive seven miles just to come over and help me squeeze into my special occasion girdle, or into my blue jeans that somehow shrunk. She’s always up for fun, and it doesn’t get more fun than that! She’s tall and big-boned like me, although not as fluffy. Eating for us is much more than nourishment. It’s freedom and fellowship because we basically eat alike. She’s loads of fun to hang with, but those loads sometimes carry big, scary price tags.

So what’s up, Ladybug? Leslie asked as we slid into booth number twenty-two at Carlton’s. Carlton’s had become one of our favorite spots for lunch and dinner. The handsome host, Awesome, knew automatically to seat us there because we’re regulars. I suspect he recognizes my face from television, but I try my best to act like the celebrity that I’m not, and he seems to respect that. Number twenty-two is our table, and yes, Awesome is his actual name.

I’m pretty good, but I could be better, I complained. I need to get this body together, I complained further. I looked over the menu to see what I could eat that was completely antithetical to a better body. I wasn’t feeling the lite menu, and I doubted Leslie was either. I ordered Carlton’s super saucy double burger, with their signature mile high fries. The diet drink I ordered with it almost seemed like a joke, but I’d heard it said that you shouldn’t drink your calories, so I didn’t. I was admittedly disappointed when Leslie ordered the turkey club. It just seemed so healthy. To honor my better body goals, we agreed to share the fries. A half mile each. It was a greasy, fried start, but a start nonetheless.

Ever since Marisol became my assistant, I’ve become so aware of this—this figure of mine, I said with disgust, brushing both hands vertically down my body. You’ve seen her haven’t you? She is just too cute! I know I can never look like her, I conceded, hoping somehow Leslie would disagree. But something tells me I could be looking better. I chuckled a little at my words to ease the internal pain. My weight had become a real battle. Yeah, I’ve seen her, Leslie replied. The Hispanic girl, right? Mmm hmm, I replied casually. I’d come close to blurting out my true feelings about Marisol. Leslie knows me well, and knows most of what goes on in my secret heart, but I decided to keep