Suburban Secrets
Donna Birdsell
Grace Becker needed to get a life…And thanks to '80s night, one too many Flaming Togas and a game of Truth or Dare with her girlfriends, this woman who has let her Day-Timer rule her life has found excitement in spades. Rather than reveal the truth–she's done time for forgery–Grace opts for the Dare: giving her undies to a total stranger. A smoking-hot, almost-half her-age stranger who's been making eye contact with her all night.Can life get any more peculiar? Well, it does when the hot stranger slips her his room key–along with a computer memory key linked to identity theft. And when she's taken into custody by a sexy Secret Service agent. And when her knowledge of Eastern Bloc cuisine lands her an undercover assignment cooking for a Russian mob boss….Suddenly her old life as a suburban soccer mom is looking like heaven!
“Nick, I have a confession.”
Grace decided that since this was a game of Truth or Dare she’d just tell him the truth. “Do you see those women over there?” She pointed to her friends. They all stared back as if they were watching a bad reality-TV show. “They dared me to come over here and give you something.”
Nick grinned. “Like what?”
“Like my underwear.”
He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised. She guessed women offered him their underwear on a pretty regular basis. She sidled closer, dangling her panties in front of him so the girls could see.
Nick gave her panties an appraising look. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Wanna give your friends something better to watch?”
Oh, my.
The DJ was playing The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and the beat reverberated through the bar beneath her elbow. Nick’s lips were mere inches away.
What was it the Romans used to say?
Oh, yeah. Carpe diem.
Donna Birdsell
Donna Birdsell lives near Philadelphia, where she absolutely doesn’t get any of her ideas from her perfectly normal family, friends and neighbors.
She’s addicted to reality television and chocolate, loves a good snowstorm and cooks to relax.
She spent many years writing press releases, newsletters and marketing brochures until a pregnancy complication kept her home from the office. She needed something to keep her busy, so she started her very first novel.
Five years later her dream of becoming a published fiction author came true when The Painted Rose, her first historical romance, was released.
She is excited about this, her first book for Harlequin NEXT.
You can reach Donna through her Web site at www.DonnaBirdsell.com.
Suburban Secrets
Donna Birdsell
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all the girls who kept my secrets.
We sure had some good times, didn’t we?
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 1.5
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2.5
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 3.5
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4.5
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 5.5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 6.5
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 7.5
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 8.5
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 9.5
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 10.5
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 11.5
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 12.5
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 13.5
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 14.5
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 15.5
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 16.5
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 17.5
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 18.5
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 19.5
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 20.5
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 21.5
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 1
Friday, 7:17 a.m.
Weird Eggs
“Kevin, let’s move! It’s 7:17.”
From the bottom of the stairs, Grace Becker heard the telltale thump of a body rolling out of bed. Jesus. They had thirteen minutes. She’d better find something he could eat on the way to school.
Megan and Callie were already in the kitchen, poking the food around on their plates.
“Finish your eggs,” Grace said.
Callie stuck out her tongue. “What’s in them?”
“Camembert and shallots,” said Grace. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“What’s wrong?” said Megan.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” Grace grabbed a Pop-Tart from the pantry and stuck it in the toaster.
“You always cook weird stuff when you’re upset,” Megan said. “So, what’s wrong?”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to say?
Well, girls, I’m upset because your father left me for his older, less attractive assistant; he’s been a complete dirtbag about the divorce; we’re probably going to lose our house; and the closest thing Mommy’s had to a date in the last ten months was drinking a Dixie cup of warm Gatorade with your field hockey coach, Ludmilla?
She sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. Eat your breakfast.”
“Mom, nobody eats breakfast. And I mean nobody.” Megan, at twelve, had some sort of detailed list in her head about what everyone did or did not do, which she checked with agonizing frequency.
“They especially don’t eat eggs for breakfast,” Callie added.
“Yeah?” said Grace. “When I was your age, I would have killed to have eggs for breakfast. But it was cold cereal and a vitamin pill everyday for me. Grandma actually had a job.”
“You could get a job,” Callie suggested.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Grace tried to draw a deep breath, but it got stuck halfway down.
She was going to have to get a job. But where? She hadn’t held a position outside her yoga class in thirteen years.
Everything in her life had revolved around Tom, his career and their kids. His bosses had loved her, his coworkers’ wives had envied her, and his clients had jockeyed for invitations to Becker parties. She’d been the events coordinator, secretary, moral support beam, taxi service and butt kisser extraordinaire, all without ever drawing a paycheck.
But it was time to face facts. Tom was gone. He was making a new life, with a new woman who would be all those things.
So who would she be now?
She forced a smile. “If I get a job, who’ll take care of you guys?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Please, Mom. I’m almost thirteen. I think I can get my own breakfast.”
“What? A handful of grapes and a Diet Coke? I don’t think so. You’re going to have a decent breakfast if I have to give it to you through an IV. You’re not going to end up looking like Lara Flynn Boyle.”
“Who?” said Callie.
“The walking corpse on Twin Peaks.”
“Twin what?”
“Never mind. Eat your eggs.”
“I’m with Callie. I think you should get a job,” said Megan. “You need a change. Don’t you want some excitement?”
“There’s plenty of excitement around here,” Grace said. “Just yesterday while I was folding towels in the laundry room, I saw Mrs. Pollack’s dog bite the mailman in the crotch.”
“Mother!” Megan jerked her head in Callie’s direction. “Was that really an appropriate thing to say in front of the child?”
“Who are you calling a child?” Callie shouted. “I’m almost nine!”
The Pop-Tart started smoking in the toaster just as Kevin flew into the kitchen and slid across the floor in his socks. “Four minutes!” he said, breathlessly.
“Wow, you can hardly tell,” Megan said.
Grace examined her son. His hair stuck out from his head like he’d spent the night in electroshock therapy. His shirt was wrinkled, and she was pretty sure he’d taken the jeans he was wearing out of the hamper.
“No way. Get up there and do it right,” she said. “Meet us at the car in—” she checked her watch “—three minutes. I’ll have your breakfast with me.”
“Why can’t I have a Pop-Tart, too?” Callie whined. “You only get something good around here if you’re late.”
“Is Dad coming to my game this afternoon?” Megan asked.
“I’m sure he is, but I’ll ask him when I see him.”
She’d be seeing him this morning. Damned Tom and his damned lawyer. Big Prick and Bigger Prick, as she liked to think of them.
They’d scheduled the fifth meeting in two weeks to discuss the settlement. This divorce was such a joke, all they needed to get it onto network TV was a laugh track.
Grace plucked the molten hot Pop-Tart from the toaster and wrapped it in a paper towel. “Okay, let’s roll. We have seven minutes to get you to school.”
The girls happily dumped the rest of their eggs down the garbage disposal and grabbed their backpacks from the hooks by the door.
Friday, 8:25 a.m.
Foot Powder and the Mouth
The Grocery King piped a Muzak version of U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” into the aisles. Grace was just the age to find this both entertaining and disturbing.
She checked her list.
Salmon. Fresh dill. New potatoes. She was going to make herself something special tomorrow night to celebrate her freedom. Her parents were taking the kids for the Columbus Day long weekend and solemnly swore to get them to all extracurricular activities on time and dressed in the correct uniforms.
Maybe it would be good to have a relaxing weekend alone. Completely alone. She could think about what she was going to do with her life when she was the ex–Mrs. Thomas Becker.
The thought made her break into hives.
She hung a left into the pharmacy aisle and threw things into her cart.
She stopped in front of the Dr. Scholl’s display. A lump crept up her throat, and before she could stop them, the tears came. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t had to buy foot powder in ten months.
Tom had notoriously damp feet. And it wasn’t as though she missed his feet—they really were gross—but she’d loved him so much, she’d been able to overlook the grossness. Would she ever feel that way about someone’s feet again?
As she fished through her purse for a tissue, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Lorraine Dobbs, otherwise known as the Mouth of South Whitpain.
“Grace? Are you alright?”
Grace nodded. Her blouse, now soaked with tears, stuck to her chest. “I think I’m allergic to foot powder.”
Lorraine gave her a funny look. “O-kay, then. Are you going to Misty’s later?”
Grace nodded again.
“Alrighty. See you there.” Lorraine hurried off, one of the wheels on her cart shuddering in time with the Muzak version of “Rock the Casbah.”
Grace checked her watch. Already nine minutes over her scheduled grocery shopping time.
Friday, 9:33 a.m.
Poster Girl
“We were about to send out the National Guard,” said Tammy Lynn. “You’re three minutes late.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” Grace threw her coat and purse on a hook in the closet and rushed over to the chair at Tammy Lynn’s station at Beautific, the salon where Grace had been getting her hair done for the past ten years.
“Grace, I’m only kidding,” Tammy Lynn said, laughing, as she fastened the black polyester cape around Grace’s neck.
“Right.” Grace laughed with her.
But the thing was, she didn’t really think it was funny. Punctuality was important. A minute here, two minutes there. They all added up. When you had three kids you learned how to manage your time, or else dinner was chronically late, homework time was chronically late, and you ended up cleaning the bathroom at ten-thirty at night instead of watching the rerun of Murphy Brown on Lifetime you’d been looking forward to all day.
Her shoulder muscles bunched painfully. She had to relax. Maybe she could squeeze a few minutes of meditation in before lunch.
“Cover the gray and trim the ends?” Tammy Lynn asked, plucking the barrette from Grace’s shoulder-length, brown hair.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Tammy Lynn spun the chair around to face a poster of a slender, sophisticated woman with a soft, blond, bouncy cut that looked like at least twenty minutes worth of work every morning.
“Wait,” Grace said. “I want that.”
Tammy Lynn stopped the color bottle in midair. “What? The do on the poster?”
Grace nodded.
“Really? You sure? You gotta blow it out with a brush and curl it. You can’t just put it back in a barrette.”
Grace studied the poster again.
It wouldn’t be a completely off-the-wall thing to do. She’d been blond once, a long, long time ago. Before Tom had hinted it wasn’t quite sophisticated. Not quite who he thought she should be.
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe she needed to shake up her life a little. Hell, she could get up a few minutes earlier.
“Do it,” she said.
Friday, 10:58 a.m.
Big and Bigger
As Grace waited for the elevator in the four-story, brick-and-tinted-window building that served as suburban Philadelphia’s answer to the high-rise, she raked the wispy hairs at her neck with her fingernails.
What had she been thinking? She felt naked without her ponytail. And the last thing she wanted to feel around the man who was almost her ex-husband was naked.
She hadn’t actually wanted to be naked around him, either, for a long time.
She supposed she had a sixth sense that he’d been cheating on her, which was probably why she’d skipped the meeting with the decorator that day and gone straight home, only to find Tom stretched out on their bed, covered with peanut butter. His assistant, Marlene, was on top of him, wearing nothing but a Smucker’s negligee. A nauseating sight, considering that on her best day, wearing her best Donna Karan power suit, Marlene looked a lot like a broomstick in a red wig.
Grace had been angry as hell. In retrospect, she realized it was mostly because they’d ruined a pair of really good sheets, but also a little bit because she’d been married to Tom for thirteen years and they’d never made a PB&J sandwich together. The most creative thing they’d ever done in bed was fill out their taxes.
She supposed part of it was her own fault. Tom knew she lived and died by her Day-Timer, and if the Day-Timer said she’d be at the decorator’s at two o’clock, then that’s where she’d be.
If she’d been a tad more unpredictable, maybe they’d have had “lunch” at Marlene’s place instead, and ruined her good sheets.
Grace stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor at Kemper Ivy Kemper, where Tom’s lawyer, aka Bigger Prick, practiced. The receptionist directed her to the conference room, where Big Prick, Bigger Prick and Grace’s own lawyer, Debra Coyle, waited.
Tom raked his long fingers through salt-and-pepper hair. She could see the tension in his squared jaw. His bone structure was impeccable, really. He would undoubtedly age like Sean Connery, remaining breathtakingly handsome well into his retirement days.
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Big Prick’s eyes bugged. “You cut your hair. And it’s blond.”
Bigger Prick flashed his client a look.
Grace felt a moment of grateful relief before she considered where the compliment had come from. She gave Tom a bitchy look. “I’m getting the kids’ hair cut, too. I figure we’ll save money on shampoo.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Grace. You know the children will be well taken care of, and—”
“Just hold on, Tom,” his lawyer interrupted. “Debra, will you keep your client quiet for a few minutes?”
“I think she has every right to be pissed, David. Don’t you?” Debra motioned to the chair next to hers, and Grace took a seat. “How many times are we going to rehash this pathetic settlement?”
“She signed a prenup, Debra.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“My client just wants to be fair. He wants to do what’s right.”
Grace snorted. “He should have thought of that before he decided to audition for the role of mascot for Skippy’s porn division.”
Tom pushed away from the table and stormed out the door.
Grace rubbed her temples. “Can we just get this over with?”
Bigger Prick slid the latest draft of the divorce settlement across the wide conference room table.
“Will you leave us alone for a few minutes?” Debra asked Bigger.
The other lawyer nodded and followed Tom from the room. Grace could see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting just outside the door.
Upon closer inspection, Tom didn’t look well. The bags under his eyes matched the gray suit he was wearing. Maybe the strain of the divorce was catching up to him, too.
Yeah, right. More likely he and Marlene had been dressing up in condiments all night.
A vision of Marlene’s bony ass, covered in ketchup, flashed in Grace’s mind. Blech.
“Grace, I don’t think we’re going to do much better than this,” Debra said. “The terms are shitty, but you did sign a prenup. He gets all property and monies generated by his inheritance, including the house. You get half of what you’ve both made since you got married.”
“You mean half of what he’s made. He wouldn’t let me work, Debra. God, I was so stupid.”
Debra reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “The child support is good. Some would argue that he’s being generous.”
“Generous? Listen, I don’t give a crap about the money. Well, okay, maybe a small crap. But I’m going to lose the house. My kids are going to lose their house.”
“Maybe you could offer to buy him out.”
“How? The house is worth three-quarters of a million dollars.”
Debra thought for a minute. “Can you borrow it from your parents?”
Grace shook her head. “They don’t have that kind of money.”
“Do you have anything you can sell? What about stocks? Jewelry?”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be enough to buy him out.” For the second time that day, tears threatened.
She’d worked so hard to make that house a home for Tom and the kids. It was a gorgeous, historic colonial manor house, once owned by William Penn’s sous-chef or something. When they’d moved in, it was hardly more than an old pile of bricks. She’d restored it, room by room, over the years, finding authentic fixtures at flea markets and on the Internet. She loved that house, and now she’d never even be able to afford the taxes. But there were more important things than houses.
At least she’d won custody of the kids. Probably because—unlike the house—Marlene didn’t want them.
“Screw it,” she said. “Give me the papers.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” She signed the papers, and Debra waved Tom and his lawyer back into the room.
“You did the right thing, Grace,” Bigger Prick said. “The sooner we end this hostility, the sooner you and Tom can get on with your lives.”
Right. Only now, hers would be almost unrecognizable.
Grace rose. “Good luck with Marlene.”
Bigger Prick stuck out his hand. Grace ignored it.
She made it to the door before Tom said, “Wait, Grace. I want to talk to you. Alone.”
Both lawyers looked stricken. But Grace nodded, and Tom held the door open for her as they left.
“What?” she said. “You want to thank me for signing that piece of shit agreement?”
He came closer. “No. I want to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?” She laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
Tom closed the distance between them and guided her to an alcove in the lobby. “I need you to do something for me. In return, maybe we could work something out with the house.”
She looked into his eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I need you to sign some papers.”
“What kind of papers?”
“Work-related stuff.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you want me to sign work-related papers?”
He reached out, almost touching her hand before pulling back. He whispered, “Not your name.”
Her insides went liquid. “No-oh. No way. Forget it.”
Now he grabbed her hand. His voice was low and quick. Persuasive. His sales voice. “Come on, Gracie. You’re the only one I know who can do this for me. You’re the best.”
“Are you crazy?” Her voice rose, and she made a concerted effort to quiet herself. “Are you nuts? Do you want to send me back to jail?”
“You won’t get caught. I promise. It’s a one-time deal.”
She pulled her hand from his.
“Think about it, Gracie. Five minutes of your time and the house is yours.”
“What about Marlene? I thought she wanted the house.”
“Yeah, well. She’ll just have to live without it.”
He must have known how tempting this all would sound to her. He’d always been a great salesman, finding just the right carrot for the mules.
He’d found hers, alright. But it wasn’t a big enough carrot.
“I’d want the ’Vette, too,” she said. Tom’s white 1976 Corvette was basically a fifteen-foot extension of his penis.
He frowned. “Grace—”
“Okay, then.” She started walking toward the elevator, and he grabbed her arm.
“Wait. Alright. The ’Vette, too.”
She realized then that he was really, truly desperate.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast, okay? I need this done quickly.”
She nodded.
Before she could figure out what his intentions were, he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll call you.”
She got almost to the elevator before she remembered to ask him about Megan’s field hockey game.
“Hey,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You know Megan has a game today?”
“Of course. I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Grace walked out of the building and into the sunshine. She’d made a decision.
She didn’t need meditation. She needed a margarita.
CHAPTER 1.5
Friday, 11:45 a.m.
Wild Card
Pete Slade popped another Tums and stared out the window of the Melrose Diner in South Philly. He had a bad feeling.
Hell, he’d had a bad feeling since this whole mess began. And the fact that he now had to rely on a sharp-looking kid with a hundred-dollar haircut and a different girl for every night of the week didn’t help matters.
Nick Balboa wasn’t what you’d call reliable. Not even a little bit. He was a low-level thug with big plans.
A wild card.
And he was gonna screw everything up.
Pete chugged his coffee and threw a couple bucks down on the table for the waitress.
Out on the street, he flipped open his cell phone and called Lou.
“Hey. I got a funny feeling.”
“Yeah?” said Lou.
“Yeah. I’m gonna swing by the airport, maybe watch Balboa’s car.”
He imagined Lou rolling his eyes. But Pete had been doing this long enough to know when to follow his gut. Even when it was rebelling against him.
“Anything you want me to do?” Lou asked.
“Just sit tight. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Pete disconnected the call and popped another Tums.
Jesus, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 11:56 a.m.
Grazing
Beruglia’s was packed, as usual. Businessmen in athletic-cut suits lined the bar, hunched over low-carb beers and plates of South Beach–acceptable protein. Groups of women crowded around tables, grazing on giant bowls of lettuce and sipping water with lemon wedges.
The hostess led Grace to a table against the window. It had taken her awhile to get used to eating alone in restaurants, but as long as she didn’t see anyone she knew, it was okay.
She unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.
“Grace?”
Damn. So much for that.
One of the grazers at the table beside hers was leaning so far back in her chair Grace was afraid she’d topple over backward. Motherhood had made her hypersensitive to behaviors apt to result in head injury.
“Grace Poleiski?” the woman said.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Roseanna Janosik, from Chesterfield High.”
“Roseanna! Wow, how long has it been?”
“Since the last reunion, I guess. What, eight, nine years?” Roseanna squeezed out of her chair and came to sit at Grace’s table. “You look great! What’s going on with you?”
“Eh, you know. It’s always something.”
“I hear that. Hey, what’re you doing tonight? Some of the girls are getting together at a club downtown. They’d die if you walked in.”
Grace thought about the salmon and new potatoes in her fridge. “All the way to Philly? I don’t know…”
“Come on. It’s fifteen miles, not the other end of the Earth. Live a little. Leave the kids home with your husband and come out and play. The club is supposed to be a riot. There’s a DJ playing all eighties music. It’ll be just like high school.”
Grace had a sudden flashback to high school. The sausage-curl hair, giant belts, parachute pants. Smoking in the girls’ room. Making lip gloss in science lab. She smiled.
She and Roseanna had been good friends. In fact, she’d had a lot of good friends.
Grace’s mother had always told her those were the best days of her life, but she’d never believed it.
How was that possible when one strategically placed blemish could put you on the pariah list for a week? When the wrong look from the right guy could annihilate your confidence for a month? When there was no bigger horror than having your period on gym day and having to take a shower in front of twenty other girls?
God, she missed those days.
It was hard to admit, but her mother had been right.
Roseanna squeezed her hand. “So, what do you say? Wanna come?”
“Why not?” Grace said. “Sounds like fun.”
“Great.” Roseanna scribbled on a napkin. “Here’s the address of the club. Meet us there around nine.”
Grace pulled her Day-Timer out of her bag and penciled it in and then ordered a salad.
And a margarita. Rocks. No salt.
Friday, 1:30 p.m.
Slow Brenda
“Look at y-o-o-o-u.” Misty Hinkle grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her into a living room the size of a hockey rink, and almost as cold. Six card tables were huddled together in the center of the room. Probably for warmth.
“Look at Gra-a-a-a-ace everybody. Doesn’t she look fa-a-a-abulous?” The women sitting around the tables tore themselves away from the snacks long enough to glance at her.
“Oh, stop it, Misty,” Grace said. “It’s just a haircut.”
“It’s not just a haircut. You went blond.” There was an accusatory note in Lorraine’s voice.
“I needed a change. What can I say?” Grace caught the knowing glances ricocheting around the room and wondered how long these ladies of modest society would continue to invite her to their functions.
There was currently only one divorced woman in the group, and Grace had a feeling they only kept her around to talk about her behind her back. All the rest of the unfortunately uncoupled had been drummed out of the pack within weeks of their divorces being finalized.
Face it. No one wanted a suddenly single woman running around at one of their holiday parties, talking about how hard it was to get a date when your boobs sagged and your thighs jiggled. Why invite the ghost of Christmas Future?
“I, for one, liked the ponytail,” said Brenda McNaull. She pointed to the chair across from hers and motioned for Grace to sit down. “We’re partners today.”
“Great,” Grace said. She should have had a couple more margaritas at lunch. Brenda was the most maddeningly slow card player in the world.
“Pe-e-eople.” Misty clapped her hands. “La-a-adies, ple-e-ease. A couple of announcements before we begin.”
The room quieted. Slightly.
“Tha-a-an-nk you. Once again, Meredith is looking for volunteers for the Herpes Walk—”
“Hirschsprung’s!”
“Sor-r-r-ry—Hirshbaum’s Walk. Kathy needs crafts for the Literacy Fair, and Grace is collecting clothes for the Goodwill again today. Leave your bags by the door. And I don’t mean the ones under your eyes. Haw haw! Oka-a-a-ay, ladies. Let’s play!”
Brenda examined the tiny glass dish of nuts at the corner of the card table. “Can you believe this chintzy spread?” She plucked an almond from the dish between two long, manicured fingernails and popped it into her mouth.
“So what’s the game today?” Grace asked.
“Pinochle,” Brenda said.
The two other women at the table rolled their eyes. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Friday, 4:10 p.m.
Date with Ludmilla
The parking lot at Megan’s school was nearly empty. Field hockey wasn’t exactly a big draw, as witnessed by the fact that the snack bar wasn’t even open.
Grace pulled a couple of grocery bags out of the back of the minivan and looked around. No sign of Tom’s car.
Not yet, anyway. But Grace knew he’d be there. He hadn’t missed one of Meg’s home games since she’d started playing field hockey. Or one of Kevin’s soccer matches, or one of Callie’s band recitals. Grace had to admit, he was a good father. A lousy husband, but a good father.
Grace picked her way to the field, her high heels aerating the grass. She’d forgotten to bring sneakers.
She plunked the grocery bags down on the bench at the sidelines and unloaded the supplies—a giant plastic bag of quartered oranges, homemade chocolate chip cookies, paper cups and two industrial-sized bottles of Gatorade.
Coach Ludmilla, a hairy but not completely unattractive Hungarian woman, winked at her from the center line. Grace waved.
She wondered if theirs could be considered a monogamous relationship. Did Ludmilla wink exclusively at her, or did she wink at every mother who brought cookies and Gatorade? Maybe they were just dating.
Maybe she needed to get a life.
She watched as Megan dribbled the ball down the field and smacked it toward the goal cage. It hit the post and bounced out of bounds. She saw Megan’s gaze search the sidelines. Grace waved, but Megan was looking elsewhere.
Grace looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Tom stood near the risers, alone. He hesitated before heading toward her.
The official blew the whistle to indicate halftime, and Ludmilla trotted over to the bench.
“Sorry I’m late,” Grace said. “My afternoon, uh, appointment ran a little long.” Thank you, Brenda.
“No problem,” Ludmilla said. “Thanks for bringing the snacks again, Grace.”
“Sure. The team’s looking good.”
“You bet.” Ludmilla sidled next to her. “We’re looking for an assistant coach. Someone to carry equipment and keep the stats. You interested?”
“Sorry,” Grace said, handing the coach a cup of Gatorade. “I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Maybe next year.”
Ludmilla looked disappointed. “Sure. Well, I’ve got to get these ladies ready for the second half. Will you pour some drinks for the team?”
“Of course.”
While Grace bent over a row of paper cups, she saw Tom’s three-hundred-dollar shoes approach. Unfortunately, he was in them.
“Grace, how are you?”
She continued pouring. “Same as this morning.”
“Have you thought about what I asked you?”
“You mean how you want me to perform an illegal act that might get me arrested and destroy our children’s lives in order to get what I deserve out of this marriage anyway?”
He sighed. “I’m not trying to screw you.”
“Really?” She straightened. “Well that’s a relief, because I’m pretty sure you got the K-Y in the settlement.”
They both clammed up as the girls filed past the bench, inhaling oranges and cookies and Gatorade. In seconds they were gone, leaving nothing but empty plates and crushed cups in their wake.
Tom stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know what’s going on, Grace. You don’t know what my life is like. I just want—”
“I’m not really interested in what you want, Tom. At this moment, I’m just trying to be here for one of my kids. I hope we can be civil for their sakes, but as far as your wants and needs—well, I guess that’s what you’ve got Marlene for.”
Tom’s jaw twitched.
Grace wondered if he and Marlene were having problems. So, why should she give a damn? She had her own relationships to worry about.
Ludmilla waved to her from across the field.
Okay. So maybe it was time to reconsider her definition of relationship.
She looked over at Megan, chatting with her friends, watching her and Tom out of the corner of her eye. She’d been through so much the past year. They all had.
She didn’t want to put the kids through a move, on top of everything else.
“Alright,” she said, forcing a smile for Megan’s benefit. “I’ll do it.”
“Oh, God. That’s great, Gracie. I knew I could count on you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.
“You brought them with you?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Just in case.”
She looked around nervously, expecting the cops to be waiting for her just outside the fence. But there was no one there.
The game had resumed, and Ludmilla and the team moved to the far end of the field, leaving her and Tom pretty much alone. She spread the papers out on the bench, studying the signature he wanted her to forge.
“Roger Davis,” she read. “Isn’t that your boss?”
He nodded but didn’t offer any more information. And she didn’t ask.
She had the feeling she wasn’t signing an authorization for an extra day of vacation, but she figured the less she knew about all of this, the better.
“I’ll have to practice the signature a few times before I sign them. I’ll get them back to you.”
“When?”
She pulled her Day-Timer out of her purse and flipped through it.
“Will Marlene be home tomorrow morning?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’ll bring them over then.” She shoved the papers back into the envelope and stuck them in her purse. “The kids will be at my Mom’s this weekend if you want to get in touch with them,” she said. “Kevin has a soccer game tomorrow.”
“I know,” Tom said. “I’ll be there.”
“How about if we also meet at the notary office Tuesday morning?” she said. “You can bring the papers for the house, and the title to the ’Vette, too.”
He gave her a sickly smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be relatively painless. We’ll get it all over with at once. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”
He opened his mouth as if he might say something, but he didn’t. He just walked back toward the bleachers, hands in his pockets, his three-hundred-dollar shoes sucking mud.
CHAPTER 2.5
Friday, 5:58 p.m.
Roadkill
The asshole drove right past their meeting place.
According to the plan, as soon as Balboa arrived in Philly, he was supposed to drive straight to the gym and call from a pay phone. Shit. He was gonna screw them.
Pete had followed Balboa’s rented green Taurus all the way from the airport. Balboa’s own car, a cherry 1959 Buick, still sat in the VIP parking lot at the airport.
If Pete hadn’t suspected Balboa was turning on them and staked out the baggage claim, he’d never even have known the guy was back in town a day early.
He flipped open his cell phone. “Lou. He’s back.”
“No shit.”
“I followed him from the airport. He just passed the gym. I need you to go wait at his house. I doubt he’ll show up there, but you never know.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
Pete snapped the phone closed.
In front of him, the Taurus eased into the exit lane. It looked like Balboa was heading for City Avenue.
Pete jockeyed through four lanes of frantic expressway traffic but just missed the exit.
Damn.
When Pete caught up to him, that son of a bitch Nick Balboa was dead meat.
CHAPTER 3
Friday, 7:12 p.m.
Oh, Mother!
As she drove toward her childhood home in Ambler, Grace felt younger and younger until, by the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she was eight again.
In her mind she could hear the sprinklers whirring, and smell the newly cut grass of her youth. She looked across the street, half expecting to see her best friend, Sherri Rasmussen, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
“Okay, guys, everybody out of the car. Callie, don’t forget your flute.”
As the kids dragged their crap up the sidewalk, the door opened and Grace’s mother stuck her head out. “My babies are here! Andrew, the children are here! Come help them with their things.”
“Hi, Mom.” Grace herded the kids into the house and bussed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for taking them this weekend.”
“Well, your father and I can imagine how difficult things must be for you, with the—” she stuck her head out the door and scanned the neighborhood for spies “—divorce.”
Divorce was one of the words in Grace’s mother’s vocabulary fit only for whispering.
“You can say it out loud, Mom. It’s not a dirty word.”
Her mother pulled a face. “Come on in.”
“Actually, I was kind of in a hurry.”
“So you don’t have time for a soda? Come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”
Grace sighed. She knew once she got sucked over the threshold, it would be at least a half an hour before she got out of there.
The kids thumped up the stairs, already arguing about who’d get to play her father’s Nintendo first. Grace followed her mother to the kitchen and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chairs. They were the same chairs she’d sat on as a child, once sadly out of style but suddenly retro chic.
“Look what I made in craft class,” her mother said. She held out a tissue box cover constructed of yarn-covered plastic mesh. God Bless You was cross-stitched into the side in block letters.
“Nice.”
“Here, take it. I made it for you. And you know, you can come with me next week. We’re making birds out of Styrofoam.”
“That’s nice, but I can’t.”
Her mother took a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Why not? Now that Tom is gone, what are you doing with your time?”
Grace got up to get a glass from the cupboard. “I’ve got plenty to do, Mom.”
“Like what?”
“Well, tonight I’m meeting some of my old high school friends for a drink downtown.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath her heavily hair-sprayed bangs. “Really? Do I know them?”
Déjà vu. How many times had Grace seen that look growing up? She felt inexplicably guilty, and she hadn’t even lied about anything. Yet.
“Roseanna Janosik’s going to be there. I ran into her today at Beruglia’s.”
Her mother sat down at the table. “Roseanna Janosik. Isn’t that the girl who got caught smoking at cheerleading camp?” She pulled a face.
“That was Cecilia Stavros. And Jesus, Mom. That was a hundred years ago.”
“You’re right, of course. People change. Look at you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her mother shrugged. “So who was Roseanna Janosik?” She tapped her chin. “I remember! She was the one who was crazy about that band and followed them everywhere.”
“Right. Mullet.”
“What? What’s a mullet?”
“A bad haircut. And the name of the band Roseanna followed.” Grace chugged her soda. “C’mon, tell me. What did you mean I’ve changed?”
Her mother got up from the table and took Grace’s empty glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grace, I didn’t mean anything by it. Is that what you’re wearing?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” Grace tugged the hem of her black skirt, but it refused to budge. She buttoned the red Chinese silk jacket Tom had given her the Valentine’s Day before last. It had been the only thing in her closet remotely resembling club attire.
Her mother raised her eyebrows again. “Well, have fun. Tell Roseanna I said hello.”
“Right.”
Grace stalked to the bottom of the stairs. “Megan, Callie, Kevin. I’m leaving now!”
Megan and Kevin shouted a muffled goodbye. Callie stuck her head over the second-floor railing. “Bye, Mom. Have fun without us.”
Grace tamped down a sudden attack of guilt. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Can we make brownies when I come home?” Callie could sense Grace’s subtle vibrations of guilt like a fine-tuned seismograph.
“Sure.”
“Grace, are you still here?” her mother called from the kitchen.
If she didn’t get out of there soon, her mother would be dragging her up to the guest bathroom to show her the decorative fertility mask she’d made out of half of a bleach bottle.
Grace wiggled her fingers at Callie and slipped out the front door.
Friday, 8:08 p.m.
Killing Me Softly
Grace sped down the Blue Route in the eight-year-old BMW that used to be Tom’s but was now hers. He’d insisted on getting a manual transmission, and now she was stuck with it—a real pain in the butt while she was trying to wipe noses and juggle juice boxes.
She much preferred the minivan, but she’d be damned if she was going to pull into a club driving the family taxi.
She fiddled with the radio. Why were all the stations in her car set to soft rock? When, exactly, had her eardrums surrendered?
She searched the dial for the station that played all eighties, all the time. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” came on and she smiled. It took her back to when she and her girlfriends would cruise the back roads in an old Dodge Dart looking for keg parties, blasting this song and singing at the top of their lungs.
How sad. Somehow she’d gone from AC/DC to Celine Dion. From keg parties to the occasional glass of chardonnay. Was that what her mother meant? Was that how she’d changed?
She knew it was that, and a whole lot more. She used to have spirit. She used to take risks.
But when she’d married Tom, somehow it had been easy to accept the security and stability he provided in exchange for a few little changes. Higher necklines. Lower hemlines. The Junior League instead of her bowling league.
She drove around for almost an hour, reprogramming the buttons on her radio and thinking about all the crazy things she used to do, forcing herself not to worry that she was going to be late.
Eventually, she pulled into the parking lot of the club. She squinted up at the sign.
Caligula?
She checked the address in her Day-Timer. Sure enough, it was right.
She almost backed out of the lot, but images of her closet filled with navy poly-blend slacks and V-neck sweaters bolstered her nerve.
She could be every bit as crazy as her teenage alter ego. She could.
She got out of the car and tugged her skirt down as far as she could.
“Bring on the Romans,” she said to the dark.
Friday, 9:13 p.m.
Flaming Togas
“ID, please.”
The guy at the door wore baggy jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of a snarling bulldog. His fingers worked the buttons of a Game Boy with lightning speed.
The B-52’s “Love Shack” blasted out through the open door of the club.
Grace leaned in so the bouncer could hear her over the noise. “You’re kidding me, right? Have you even looked at me? I was twenty-one when this song actually came out.”
He shined a flashlight in her face. “Sorry ’bout that. Five bucks.”
He stepped aside, and she walked straight into ancient Rome. Or a Hollywood-meets-Las Vegas version of it, anyway.
Buff, gorgeous, toga-clad waiters and waitresses wandered the faux-marble floor carrying trays of colorful drinks. Buff, gorgeous, denim-clad patrons sipped them while leaning against faux-marble columns. They were all so young. Well, most of them, anyway.
Grace had no trouble spotting her old high school friends. They were the only ones not trying to look bored.
Roseanna must have had one eye on the door, because she waved to Grace as soon as she walked in.
“Oh. My. God. It’s Grace Poleiski,” somebody shrieked.
Grace smiled. “Hi, everybody.”
The women at the table jumped up and swarmed around her. She exchanged a quick hug with each of them, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably formed in her eyes.
“Sit,” commanded Roseanna. “We just ordered a round of Flaming Togas.”
Grace hooked her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down, taking in all the changes in her friends. “Cecilia, you look great. You lost weight?”
“Forty pounds. Ephedra, until they took it off the market. If I hadn’t started smoking again to compensate, I’d probably look like the Michelin Man already. Hey, you’re looking good, too, Grace.”
“Yeah? I guess you could say I lost some weight, too. About two hundred pounds.”
“What! How’d you do that?”
“It just walked away.”
It took the girls a minute to figure out what she was talking about.
“Your husband,” Roseanna said.
Grace nodded.
Cecilia shook her head. “No shit. When did that happen?”
“January second. Screwing me over was his New Year’s resolution, I guess.”
A waiter arrived with a tray of pale orange shots and set one in front of each woman. He pulled a pack of matches out of the folds of his toga and lit the shots. Low blue flames danced on the surface of the liquor.
“Don’t forget to blow ’em out before you drink ’em,” he said. “We’ve had a couple of mishaps.”
Roseanna smiled. “Remember when Dannie accidentally lit her hair on fire while she was smoking a cigarette in the girls’ bathroom?”
“What did she expect?” said Cecilia. “She used so much hair spray, her hair wouldn’t have moved in a hurricane.”
“Come on,” Dannie said. “My hair wasn’t any worse than anyone else’s. In fact, I remember Grace getting hers tangled in the volleyball net in gym class. It had to be at least a foot high.”
They all laughed.
Grace ordered a margarita and another round of shots.
The waiter walked away, his tight little butt all but peeking out from under the toga.
Dannie propped her chin up on her hand. “Those look like my sheets he’s wearing.”
“You wish,” Cecilia said.
Grace pulled a bunch of pictures out of her purse and passed them to Roseanna.
She’d found them in a shoebox along with the dance card and tiny pencil from her prom, a football homecoming program and the hunk of yarn she’d used to wrap around her high school boyfriend’s class ring.
“Oh, God. I remember this skirt,” Roseanna said. “I couldn’t get one thigh in there, now.”
“Sure you could,” Dannie said. “It would be a little tight, though.”
“Ha-ha.” Roseanna passed the pictures to Cecilia. “Hey, remember when we used to play truth or dare in study hall?”
“Yeah. I think Mr. Montrose almost had a heart attack,” said Cecilia. “You’d always dare me to lean over his desk to ask him a question.”
“He couldn’t stand up for the rest of the class.”
“To Mr. Montrose,” said Grace, raising the shot the waiter had just delivered. They all toasted Mr. Montrose and blew out their Flaming Togas.
“Let’s play,” said Roseanna.
“Play what?”
“Truth or dare.”
“Here?” Grace said. “You’re crazy.”
“It’ll be fun,” said Dannie.
“Why not?” said Cecilia.
Music thumped in the background. Mötley Crüe belted out “Girls, Girls, Girls.”
“What the hell,” Grace said.
Saturday, 11:44 p.m.
Gracie’s Secret
Grace was drunk.
Not merely drunk but what they once affectionately called shit faced.
Roseanna’s head rested on the table, surrounded by empty shot glasses. Dannie balanced a straw on her nose. Cecilia puffed on a cigarette, making tiny smoke rings by tapping on her cheek.
Grace had quit smoking soon after she’d married Tom. He disapproved of the habit. Said it made her look cheap. Unlike Marlene, who looked so classy covered in grape jelly.
“Gimme one of those,” Grace said.
Cecilia rolled a cigarette across the table. “Okay. Grace’s turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? And high school shenanigans don’t count.”
Grace shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve never done anything remotely bad.”
“Oh, come on,” Dannie said, taking the straw off her nose. “We know you better than that.”
“Seriously. I’m the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect daughter. The worst thing I’ve ever done is wear this skirt, which is definitely too short for me. Gimme a light.”
“Dare it is, then,” Roseanna said, dragging herself to a sitting position.
“What? I told you—”
“No way. You’re lying,” said Cecilia. “But that’s okay, because I have the perfect dare for you.”
Grace raised her eyebrows.
“Go over there and give your underwear—” Cecilia pointed toward the bar “—to him.”
Grace sucked in her cheeks.
The guy looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. Black turtleneck. Black leather jacket. Dark, brooding eyes. He sat in a pool of light shining down from the ceiling as if he were some sort of fallen angel. The most gorgeous in-the-flesh man she’d ever seen.
Gorgeous, and young.
“Nun-uh. He’s a baby,” Grace said.
“All you gotta do is give him your undies, Grace. It’s not like you’ve never given a guy your undies before, right?” Dannie’s smile was evil. Evil and smug.
Grace wobbled to her feet. Damn. He might be young, but she wasn’t that old. She still had decent legs and a not-so-bad ass. “Fine. Consider it done.”
She marched to the ladies’ room, only to find a line a mile long. While she waited, she had plenty of time to reconsider her decision. There was something slightly sinister about that man.
She could always go back to the table and make up a story for the “truth” portion of the game. Surely she could come up with something suitably shocking.
Grace looked over at her friends, who watched her with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. No. She couldn’t lie to them. Way back when, they’d all sworn on their posters of Jon Bon Jovi. No lying at truth or dare. It was a matter of honor.
But there’s no way I’m telling them the truth.
Her own parents didn’t know about her arrest, and she intended to keep it that way. It had been a youthful indiscretion, and now that she was a hair past youthful, there was absolutely no need to be indiscreet. Especially since she just did it again—and this time, she definitely knew better.
So?
So she’d take the dare and go give GQ her underpants.
She slipped into the bathroom and balanced against the toilet paper holder as she stripped off her underpants, happy that she’d worn a decent pair without holes. Sometimes following motherly advice paid off at the oddest moments.
Stuffing the panties deep into her pocket, she fought her way out of the bathroom and through the crowd that had suddenly grown up around the bar. She tried not to look obvious as she slid in next to the Roman god, elbowing a pouty waif off of the bar stool beside him. The girl attempted a threatening look.
Grace laughed. “Please. I’ve shaved parmesan thicker than you. Get going.”
The girl slinked away to a group of equally emaciated friends.
Grace ordered a margarita from the bartender, took the cigarette Cecilia had given her out of her pocket and stuck it between her lips.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
Adonis smiled, his teeth shining like Chiclets in the bluish light. “Sure.”
He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and sparked it, holding the flame out in front of her. “How you doin’, sweetheart?” He pronounced it “sweethawt” in a perfect South Philly accent.
She leaned in and sucked the flames into the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep in her lungs. It wasn’t at all as pleasant as she remembered.
“Just a minute,” she rasped, holding up a finger while she hacked into her palm. And into her sleeve. And into the hair of the girl next to her.
GQ handed her the margarita and she sucked down half of it.
“Grace.”
“What?” he said. He looked confused.
“My name. It’s Grace.”
“Yeah. I’m Nick. Nick Balboa.” He affected a slur and shadowboxed the air. “Youse know, like Rocky?”
“Right. Were you even born when that movie came out?”
“Almost.”
She grinned, aware that she probably looked incredibly dopey but for some reason was unable to stop.
Now what?
She decided that since this was a game of truth or dare, she’d just tell him the truth.
“Nick.”
“Yeah?”
Damn, he was good-looking. The dimple on his chin momentarily distracted her.
“Nick, I have a confession. Do you see those women over there?” She pointed to her friends. They all stared back like they were watching a bad reality TV show. All except Roseanna, whose head was back on the table.
Nick nodded.
“They dared me to come over here and give you something.”
Nick grinned. “Like what?”
“Like my underwear.”
He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised. She guessed women offered him their underwear on a pretty regular basis, much as they did Tom Jones.
“I have to give you my underwear,” she continued, “in order to satisfy some sick need they have to humiliate me.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
She sidled closer, and dangled her panties in front of him so the girls could see.
Nick gave her panties an appraising look. He crumpled them up and stuck them in his pocket. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Wanna give your friends something better to watch?”
Oh, my.
“Like what?”
“Like this.” He leaned in close, and she shut her eyes. He smelled of leather, Aramis and tequila, three of her favorite things. She knew what was coming, but she was afraid if she looked she’d chicken out. And she really didn’t want to chicken out.
The DJ was playing the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and the beat reverberated through the bar beneath her elbow. Nick’s lips were mere inches away.
What was it the Romans used to say?
Oh, yeah. Carpe diem.
Saturday, 12:17 a.m.
Goodbye Girls
When they finally came up for air—about thirteen minutes later—Cecilia was standing behind them.
“You okay?” she asked.
Grace nodded.
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“Okay.” Cecilia winked at Nick. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he said. Rose Frost lipstick smeared his lips.
Cecilia returned to the table and waved to Grace. She made a fist and held it to her cheek like a telephone receiver, mouthing the words, “Call me.” Then she and Dannie slung their arms around Roseanna and dragged her through the crowd toward the door.
“Your friends leaving?” Nick asked.
“Apparently.”
For a split second Grace thought maybe she should leave with them, but when she tried to stand up, the room spun.
Nick kissed her again, stroking her arms with his palms. It was like kissing Vinnie Barbarino, Scott Baio and Rob Lowe, all rolled into one. Just a teeny bit surreal.
Nick slid his hand down to hers and linked her fingers in his and—
Stopped.
He stopped kissing her.
He brought her left hand up between them and looked at her fingers.
The diamond band Tom had given her for their tenth anniversary refracted the spotlight above them like a disco ball.
“Nice ring. You married?” Nick asked.
Damn. Why had she worn it?
Oh, yeah. To discourage this very thing. After all, she was a sensible lady. A mother. A woman who wasn’t quite divorced. She shouldn’t be picking up strange men in bars.
The momentary wave of guilt she felt was quickly replaced by drunken defiance.
She slid the ring off her finger and dropped it into Nick’s drink. “Not anymore. Now kiss me.”
CHAPTER 3.5
Saturday, 12:49 a.m.
Lady in Red
Who was the babe?
Pete watched Balboa with the blonde in the red jacket for almost twenty minutes. He’d never seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. Balboa always had a roll of cash in his pocket and a girl on his arm. Often, both appeared from nowhere.
Problem was, this one didn’t quite look like Balboa’s type. His recipe for the perfect woman was forty-five percent silicone, forty-five percent collagen and ten percent ink.
This one, while the clothes she wore weren’t exactly conservative, they didn’t come close to some of the anti-apparel he’d seen before. Her breasts actually looked real, too, and she didn’t have one visible tattoo.
Something was up.
As time went on, the crowd at the bar began to thin. Pete moved to a spot behind Balboa and the female. The woman stood to flag down the bartender, and Pete watched as Balboa’s hand cupped her rather spectacular ass.
Life could be so unfair.
Pete ordered another club soda from the waitress and leaned against a column.
If he had to guess, he’d say that Balboa had the memory key on him. According to Pete’s sources, Balboa had come straight here after meeting with the Russian’s competition, Johnny Iatesta, in Trenton. The asshole. Two years of wheeling and dealing, and the guy was going to screw him? No way.
All Pete had to do was stick close until the horny couple left the club.
He yawned. When in the hell were these two going to get a room?
Just then Balboa slipped something into the pocket of the woman’s red jacket. Drugs? Money?
The memory key.
Balboa whispered something in her ear, and they sucked face for another five minutes before she broke away.
She headed straight for Pete, brushing his arm with her breasts as she squeezed by him on her way to the can. She smelled fantastic. He thought she might have a pretty face, too, but it was dark and he’d been distracted by the rest of her.
He watched the ladies’ room, looking forward to her return trip.
She emerged from the bathroom, but instead of coming back toward him she headed for the door.
Pete hustled after her, pushing through the ranks of ultrahip boys and girls pretending not to notice each other. He’d almost reached the door when a guy resembling a woolly mammoth in a tuxedo plowed in.
“’Scuse me.”
“No problem.” Pete tried to get around him, only to discover six more just like him pouring through the door. Seven equally large women in ruffled bridesmaid gowns followed close behind the men.
Pete got caught in the undertow and was pulled back into the club, surfing a wave of Aqua Velva and powder-blue taffeta. Somehow he managed to squeeze through the wedding party and reached the door just in time to see a cab pull away from the curb.
Pete smacked the door with the palm of his hand.
Now what?
He turned and went back into the club. No way was he going to let Balboa disappear.
But by the time he fought his way back into the bar, the only thing left sitting at Balboa’s bar stool was a lipstick-smudged margarita glass and an ashtray full of butts.
“Shit,” Pete muttered.
It really wasn’t his day.
CHAPTER 4
Saturday, 7:54 a.m.
Turning Japanese
Someone was sticking needles into her eyes. Not sewing needles, but long, thick hypodermics.
Wait. What was that? The smoke detector? The kids!
Grace leaped out of bed and ran for the door, slipping on the silk jacket that lay on the floor, smacking her head on the ceramic cat at the end of the bed.
She lay on her back, staring up at the frosted glass light fixture on the ceiling.
That noise wasn’t the smoke detector going off. It was her alarm clock.
“Crap.” She winced at the sound of her own voice.
She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto all fours. Just the thought of standing left her weak with nausea.
She crawled into the bathroom on her hands and knees and laid her cheek on the cool Japanese porcelain tile floor. Her tongue felt like one of Kevin’s gym socks and, she imagined, smelled like it, too.
What have I done to myself?
Her hand bore an ugly blue ink blot—the stamp for the club. And on her palm she’d written a number—1767. 1767? What the hell was that?
A high, wavering voice echoed in her head. “In 1767, the Townshend Acts were implemented by the British on the American colonies…” It was Mrs. Dietz, her ninth-grade American History teacher.
Grace squinted at the numbers again. Why in the hell would she have written the date of the Townshend Acts on her hand?
She debated taking a shower but imagined the water would probably feel like Niagara Falls beating down on her head. She managed to pull on a sweat suit and comb her new pain-in-the-ass haircut without throwing up.
She took three aspirins and staggered downstairs to check her Day-Timer.
Meals on Wheels, the Goodwill drop and then Tom’s.
She’d signed the papers he’d given her. No, she’d forged the papers (why not call a spade a spade?), and she just wanted to get rid of them and get on with her life.
Crap.
She dragged a giant green trash bag full of clothes from her closet. In a moment of pique over the bump on her head and her prick of an ex-husband, she stuffed the red silk jacket into the bag.
Saturday, 9:11 a.m.
Mrs. Beeber and Mr. Pickles
“Who is it?” Mrs. Beeber peered at Grace through the smeary film coating the window of the storm door. Her head resembled a small dried apple nestled atop the collar of her purple turtleneck.
“Meals on Wheels, Mrs. Beeber.”
“I didn’t think you were coming today. You’re late.”
“I’m not late, Mrs. Beeber. Will you open the door?”
Mrs. Beeber squinted at her watch, and shook her head. “You’re eleven minutes late.”
One cup of instant coffee—made with hot tap water and consumed while standing over the sink—had not prepared Grace for this day. She took three calming breaths. Nadi shodhana. Her yoga instructor would be proud.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Beeber. I couldn’t find my car keys.”
In fact, she hadn’t been able to find her purse. She’d scoured the whole house, with no luck. She must have left it at the club.
She’d allowed herself a few minutes of heart-thumping panic. Her cell phone was in there, along with her car keys and house keys (which explained why the panty hose she’d worn last night had been covered with mulch, and the spare key she hid under a rock in the flower bed was now on the table near the back door).
But, worst of all, the papers she was supposed to return to Tom that morning were in that purse.
When she went out to the garage, she realized she had to go back to Caligula anyway, to pick up her car. Surely her purse would be there, safe and snug in the arms of the Game Boy–playing bouncer.
She’d chosen to ignore all logic to the contrary. Her stomach just couldn’t take it.
So she’d snagged her spare keys from the hook by the door, and took the minivan for her morning appointments.
“Helloooo?” Mrs. Beeber called her back to Earth, and made a sour face. “Are you coming in with that?”
She held the screen door open and Grace entered, bearing a white tray covered with plastic wrap she’d picked up on her way there.
Mrs. Beeber squinted at the tray. “Is it a kosher meal?”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “You aren’t Jewish, Mrs. Beeber.”
“Yeah, but they give you more with them kosher meals.”
Grace set the tray on Mrs. Beeber’s mutton-gray Formica countertop. “I’m pretty sure everyone gets the same amount, whether it’s kosher or not. Is everything okay with you?”
“As a matter of fact, my sciatica’s a bitch and my son never calls me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I got the runs from that ham casserole you brought the other day.”
“I didn’t bring you a ham casserole.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Mrs. Beeber scratched her chin. “Now wait, I remember. It wasn’t you. It was my neighbor, Peggy. I should know better than to eat anything she gives me. One time, oh, I guess it was nineteen-seventy-eight or nine…I remember I was watching Dallas…she brought me this disgusting meat loaf—”
“Mrs. Beeber, I really have to get going. I have three more meals to deliver.”
“Oh. Well. Can you help me with something before you leave?”
“You know I’m not supposed to…”
“But it isn’t for me. It’s for Mr. Pickles.”
Mr. Pickles was Mrs. Beeber’s cat, a giant old Persian with male pattern baldness and a lazy eye, who’d hissed at Grace on more than one occasion. Not a huge motivator.
“Please?” Mrs. Beeber’s wizened face sank deeper into the turtleneck sweater.
Grace sighed. “Okay. What do you need?”
Saturday, 10:41 a.m.
Shake It Up
“Rough night, eh?”
“Will you just help me, please?” Grace struggled under the weight of the bag filled with clothes, her arms weak from hefting a fifty-pound bag of cat food up forty stairs from Mrs. Beeber’s cellar.
Grace doubted Mr. Pickles would live long enough to see the food at the bottom of that bag.
Martha Moradjiewski, the clerk at the Goodwill, grabbed one side of the garbage bag and helped Grace drag it across the floor to the counter.
“You look hungover,” the clerk said.
“Just a little.”
“Try a vanilla milkshake. They always help me.”
Grace imagined Martha drank a lot of milkshakes, what with having a couple of sons who spent the day sniffing nail polish, a live-in mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s and a husband who considered pot a major food group.
Grace slid her sunglasses on. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Six minutes later she pulled out of McDonald’s, shake in hand, heading for home. She took a sip, her eyeballs nearly imploding from the suction necessary to draw a mouthful of the stuff.
“Ugh.”
She stuck the shake in a cup holder and rolled down the window, trying to clear her head. What happened last night?
There were togas, of course. And cigarettes. And primo butts.
She remembered shots. Lots of shots. And lots of margaritas, too.
She remembered talking about movies and music and high school haircuts. And boys. And men.
Beyond that, nothing.
She pulled into her driveway, not too sick to admire the bright red Japanese maple near the front door. She couldn’t imagine not seeing that maple every day.
What she’d done in order to keep it crept back into her consciousness. One small act of forgery, and the landscaping was forever hers.
She gagged and shoved a fist into her mouth to keep from barfing into the bushes.
Hey, at least they were her bushes. Right?
Saturday, 11:39 a.m.
Lord of the Ring
After the needles in her eyes had been replaced by tiny straight pins and there was absolutely nothing left in her stomach to puke up, Grace made a pot of coffee and braved the thirty seconds of blinding sunlight to fetch the paper from the lawn.
She needed a few minutes to get herself together before she called a cab and went back down to the city for her car.
She sat down with her World’s Best Mom mug and opened the obituaries, half expecting to see her own name, when she stopped short.
Her anniversary band.
The twenty-thousand-dollar diamond and sapphire Tiffany anniversary band.
It wasn’t shooting spectacular prisms of light across the kitchen ceiling. Nor was it catching on the edge of the paper like it always did or digging uncomfortably into the sides of her fingers.
It wasn’t there.
She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the persistent sensation that her head was going to explode.
The crystal dish on her dresser where she usually kept the ring was empty. Beside it lay a red credit card.
No, not a credit card. A hotel room key.
“Jesus.” She clutched her head between her palms. The previous night played in her head like a Fellini film.
The last time she had seen her ring, it was lighting up that gorgeous guy’s smile. He’d chugged the drink she’d put it in, and caught it in his teeth, like a frat boy playing quarters.
Her stomach churned. Oh, God. What was his name? Nick something. Barlow? Bartlett?
No, something more ethnic.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Balboa. Like Rocky. Yo, Adrian. That was it!
It all came back to her in a rush. He was staying at the Baccus, a swanky hotel in Center City. He’d invited her back there. But she’d chickened out. Took a powder. Scrammed. Punked out.
Why is the voice in my head talking like Sam Spade?
She took a moment to hyperventilate before she grabbed the room key from the dresser.
Okay. Alright.
Just what were the odds a young, gorgeous godlike stud would still be there, waiting for her to show up, with a twenty-thousand-dollar ring between his teeth?
She ran into the bathroom and ralphed in the sink.
CHAPTER 4.5
Saturday, 11:53 a.m.
Over Easy
It had taken Pete all night, but he’d finally tracked Balboa down at the Baccus. Dumb shit had checked in using a fake name but his own credit card.
Pete stepped into the elevator and flipped open his cell phone.
“Lou. I’m at the Baccus. Any movement from the Russian?”
“Nah. Everything’s quiet here. Just the girlfriend coming and going. You shoulda seen what she was wearing last night.” Lou whistled into the phone.
“Glad to hear you’re having a good time.”
“Hey, a man’s gotta entertain himself.”
“Just make sure you’re not ‘entertaining’ yourself when the Russian makes a move.”
Lou laughed, and Pete flipped the phone closed.
The elevator arrived on the seventeenth floor, and Pete unbuttoned his coat, to give himself easy access to the weapon in his shoulder holster. He didn’t think he would need it. Balboa was a lover, not a fighter. But you never knew.
He walked quickly to Balboa’s door and waited there, listening. He didn’t hear anything, but that wasn’t surprising. Balboa typically slept until noon.
He pounded on the door, watching the peephole for light or movement. Still, nothing.
After a cursory look up and down the hall, he pulled a key card from his pocket. The card had been doctored with copper tape, to which he’d attached a wire with a toggle switch hooked to a nine-volt battery. He slid the card into the lock and flipped the switch, holding his breath.
The lock popped, and he pushed the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains still drawn. He flipped the light switch, half expecting to see Balboa snoring in the king-size bed, but he wasn’t.
The room was empty.
“Shit.”
Pete gave a thorough search through the drawers and the pockets of the clothes hanging in the closet.
He found a pair of pink ladies’ underwear and a black handbag which, a search revealed, belonged to one Grace Becker.
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