Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  Detective Ramone: In your opinion, how angry was Kate Cross?

  Allison Feeney: I mean, does the scale go up to one hundred? Because she was a million. She was really upset, but then again, who wouldn’t be? Her ex said the worst things you can say to a woman. I think they were trying for children or something, and it must not have worked for them.

  Detective Ramone: Thank you for your time, Ms. Feeney.

  Allison Feeney: Oh, it’s not a problem. And I should warn you, my friend Ashley is hoping you’ll interview her next. She’s super single and happens to love a man in a uniform. Would you be interested in grabbing a drink with her once this is all over?

  Ten

  “Did you see that perfect little baby in the lobby?” Ginger murmured to Frank, loud enough for the children to hear. “So sweet, so innocent, so well-behaved. Thank God it wasn’t Emily’s. It couldn’t have been Emily’s, right?”

  Frank sighed. “Why are you so concerned with Emily? I thought you two had let the past go.”

  Ginger’s shoulders went rigid, but she didn’t actually want to discuss this with Frank, seeing as he’d been at the center of Ginger and Emily’s feud in college. To Frank, all had worked out hunky-dory. He and Ginger had gotten married, they’d had three children, and Emily had gone trotting along with her life far, far away in Chicago. Why worry about the past when their lives had all turned out just peachy?

  The elevator doors dinged open, and Frank, looking worn and harried, finally seemed to be feeling human tiredness. A day of traveling cross-country with three kids in tow would do that to a man. Or maybe the debacle with Elsie on the plane had pushed him over the edge. Ginger supposed the fact that they’d had to struggle for an hour to find a taxi that could fit their family of five at the airport hadn’t helped matters either. Ginger had given Frank one job: book transport to and from the resort. But Frank had figured the family would “play it by ear” when it came to taxis and shuttles.

  The wait for a taxi hadn’t gone well. Poppy had been starving, the battery on Tom’s tablet had died (the equivalent of the apocalypse), and Elsie had played the sullen teenager role to the max. It’d been a disaster.

  The car ride to the resort had been just as chaotic as the wait. Ginger had “accidentally” loosed one of Poppy’s ponytails, and the ensuing tears had been impressive. Poppy absolutely, positively couldn’t live with eight ponies instead of nine on her head. Tom had pinched her to stop crying, and Elsie had elbowed Tom. It got bad enough that Ginger had asked the cabbie to pull over on the side of the road to allow her a speech. Everyone get along or we’re skipping vacation. Even the cabbie had shut up for the rest of the ride.

  You will have fun if it kills you!

  Well, it was just about killing them.

  They made it to the room and opened the door with a gasp of relief. It was as if they’d returned from war and were getting a full meal, some rest, and a shower for the first time in years. Decades. It sure felt like they’d been deployed a long time.

  “Mom, I’m dying!” Poppy screeched. “My stomach is eating itself. Look!” Poppy pulled her shirt up to her neck and squeezed her baby fat together to show a perfectly pudgy little stomach. “It’s disappearing!” Then she collapsed on a bed and dissolved into tears.

  Tom scowled across the room at her. “I don’t want to share a bed with the girls. Where am I sleeping?”

  “There’s a pullout couch, bud,” Frank said. “We’ll get you set up there like a man.”

  “Why do I have to share the bed with a baby?” Elsie moaned. “Poppy kicks in her sleep.”

  “I do not! I kick you when I’m awake.” As if to prove her (morally ambiguous) point, Poppy lined up a punt in Elsie’s direction and, despite Ginger’s warning, sent a wayward toe toward her sister.

  It wouldn’t have disturbed a fly, but Elsie bent in half as if she were dying. “God, Mom! Do something about her.”

  “Watch your language,” Frank said desperately, as if he knew he needed to contribute but couldn’t figure out exactly what to say. He glanced over at Tom, who had stripped down to his undies and flopped onto the second bed, trying to claim it for himself. “Tom, buddy, keep your pants on. The ladies are present.”

  While Tom yanked up his pants and Elsie sobbed from an imaginary bruise and Poppy disappeared from starvation (she’d had a bag of chips on the car ride to the resort, mind you), Ginger gave a deep sigh and surveyed her family.

  Nobody had told Ginger Adler that having children would be her own personal war. While there were glorious victories thrown in the mix (Poppy’s first smile, Tom’s little giggles, Elsie’s sweet toddler hugs), there were many, many failures.

  This evening, Ginger felt like one gigantic failure. Why was it the days meant to be so important, so noteworthy and fun and relaxing, were always the most stressful? Birthdays, holidays, vacations—she couldn’t escape the drama. It was as if the holiday gods had conspired to make all children antsy on special occasions, throwing an added wrench into the already complicated labyrinth of parenthood.

  Ginger turned to Frank, her voice soft enough that the kids couldn’t hear. “I can’t do this.”

  The look in her eyes must have triggered her other half into acting. One of the long-lasting reasons Ginger loved Frank—despite, or because of, his flaws—was because he truly was her other half.

  He might screw up, lose his head in the clouds, and hate to discipline the kids, but he always knew the moment Ginger snapped. The moment her life force drained out of her, and she was ready to give up. When the exhaustion reached new levels of an all-consuming high that had her ready to break, to flutter off into the wind like a dried-up, crusty stalk of corn. Despite her frustrations with her husband, she never went a day thinking she could do this without him.

  “Kids,” Frank said with his rare use of authority. “We’re going to grab something to eat. Your mother is going to rest and shower and crack open the bottle of wine in that basket, and then she’s going to find a cozy space in the lobby and read a magazine. Alone. You’re not to talk to your mother, ask your mother anything, or otherwise dissolve into tears around her for the rest of the night.”

  “But what if I miss Mommy?” Poppy asked, her lip quivering. “Where’s she going?”

  “You can say nice things to her,” Frank said. “You can hug her and kiss her, and you may tell her what a good mommy she is, but from here on out, any complaints go to Dad.”

  “So tomorrow morning,” Tom puzzled out, “I can complain to Mom again?”

  “We’ll discuss that downstairs, buddy,” Frank said. “Come on, grab your things. There’s a restaurant I want to try that looks yum.”

  “Mommy,” Poppy said, adopting her sweet, innocent little voice as she scurried over to Ginger’s knees. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s fine. It’s nothing you did, Mommy’s just really tired,” Ginger said, feeling a twinge of remorse already as she remembered her fleeting thoughts about handing her family off to someone else, even if only for a day. “I’m going to shower, and then I’ll be right as rain, okay, sweetie? Have fun wandering around with Daddy.”

  “Can we look at the water?” Tom asked. “Mom said there are seven pools. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  “She doesn’t,” Frank said. “Move it, gang. Five-second countdown.”

  “I wouldn’t mind walking around the pools,” Ginger said with a look at her kids, feeling the infamous mom guilt manifesting itself as a red flush around her neck. “Maybe I can rinse off quickly and join—”

  “You’re not lifting a finger for the rest of the night,” Frank said. “I insist.”

  Ginger’s gaze landed on her eldest daughter, who had inched over toward the television and was examining the contents of a welcome basket left by the resort staff, no doubt courtesy of Whitney and Arthur. Elsie had retrieved the bottle of w
ine from it, her eyes fixed on the label. Ginger’s knee-jerk reaction was anger. First, condoms—now underage drinking?

  However, beneath the scowl on Elsie’s face was a look that Ginger couldn’t quite place. Confusion maybe, or frustration. And Ginger knew that despite the emotional overload she herself was feeling, it was probably worse for her daughter. Teenage hormones, peer pressure from boys and girls alike, coupled with the rest of the complicated package that came with being a brand-new young woman—it all added up to a lot to handle. And Elsie didn’t have a partner to share in the load.

  “I’d like to talk to Elsie for a minute,” Ginger said, making a snap decision. “I’ll walk her down afterward.”

  “Honey, it might be better if you take a rest first,” Frank said. “Have a shower, a glass of wine. We’re on vacation.”

  Yes, Ginger wanted to say, a vacation where I must size up every eligible man on the premises the second he looks at my daughter because she carries condoms and she’s only fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds were still children. Ginger was stupid at fifteen. So stupid. Reckless and dangerous and a half-formed individual.

  It’s lucky I found Frank when I did, she thought fondly, glancing at her high school sweetheart. Otherwise, she might have gotten in trouble. But men like Frank didn’t come around often, and the more likely scenario was that Elsie would fall in love with the wrong boy and end up hurt. And Ginger couldn’t bear to watch that happen to her daughter. Not if she could help it.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Elsie said, her mouth curling into a frown. “You’re so embarrassing.”

  “Yes, you are,” Ginger said. If she took a deep breath, remained calm, she could help Elsie. She was her mother, above all. “Go on, Frank. I’ll bring her down in a bit.”

  Poppy and Tom must have sensed something wrong in the air, because Tom moved out of the resort room as if his bottom was on fire, and Poppy tiptoed, quite literally, into the hallway. Frank shot his wife an apologetic grin, and it softened Ginger’s harried heart. She pecked him on the cheek before she shut the door behind him and faced her eldest daughter.

  Elsie smartly put the bottle of wine back before turning to glare at her mother with fury and trepidation, as if Ginger was the crooked lawyer that’d put her on death row. Why couldn’t Elsie see that Ginger only wanted the best for her daughter? Why was that so difficult for teenagers to understand? As Ginger watched, Elsie kicked back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Ginger crossed the room and sat on the bed next to her daughter. Elsie scooted away.

  “Once upon a time, you used to sit in my lap,” Ginger said with a laugh. “Bet you don’t remember that.”

  Elsie had no comment on whether she remembered or not. Ginger had said the wrong thing already. Note to self: Reminiscing on fond memories is a no-go.

  “Honey, I just want to talk,” Ginger began, folding her hands together as she eased farther onto the bed. Elsie didn’t move away, but she rolled over so her back faced her mother. “I’m not judging you. I’m not even mad.”

  “Yes, you are,” Elsie said.

  “I was surprised. That’s different from being mad.”

  “You sure seemed mad. Everyone on the plane thought you were mad.”

  “Okay, I admit that was not the place or time to discuss things,” Ginger said. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but the thing is that I care about you so much.”

  Elsie grunted in neither approval nor dismay.

  “I didn’t stop to think about the fact that it was an inappropriate time for me to react like I did.” Ginger pointed across the room as if envisioning an audience sitting on the opposite bed. “I would do whatever it took to keep you safe, and I didn’t care who was watching or listening.”

  “Screaming at me about carrying…” Elsie shuddered. “Screaming at me doesn’t keep me safe.”

  “I didn’t scream.”

  “You’re raising your voice right now.”

  “I’m trying to get a point across, Elsie.” Ginger rested a hand across her forehead as if she were feeling faint. “You know what? Forget it.”

  She took a much-needed deep breath and surveyed the room and its fixings to stall. Ginger had thought she’d calmed herself down enough to have this conversation, but she was already having her doubts. Her nerves were frayed, her daughter was tipping over the edge of hating her, and the stupid walls of their room seemed to be closing in on her. The space might be nice enough for a romantic weekend away, but to fit five people in here was a challenge in and of itself.

  Sure, it was luxurious and all. There was a Jacuzzi in one corner and fancy salts sitting on one side. Ginger made a mental note to grab those bath salts—she’d need a good soak at home once this godforsaken trip was all over. The minibar was stocked with the finest treats and beverages, and someone had left fancy little cakes—petit fours, maybe?—on the bed.

  But luxury didn’t help a family of five. There were only two treats, which would mean they had to be cut in halves. The Jacuzzi took up precious space that wouldn’t be used for anything romantic. Either Tommy would end up sleeping in the tub, or Poppy would want to play hide-and-seek in there. At best, Poppy would use it as a Barbie fort.

  And the minibar—don’t get Ginger started on the minibar. She was ready to pull out the duct tape and wrap that sucker shut for good so none of her children could sneakily cram forty-five-dollar Skittles in their sticky little mouths.

  Once the pullout couch had been pulled, there’d be no extra space. Add in their exploding suitcases, and they’d barely have enough oxygen to breathe. (Ginger wasn’t quite sure how, but whenever the kids packed anything, it multiplied inside the suitcase and bred until their stuff took over the room.)

  “I have tried to be your friend, and I have tried to be understanding, and I have tried to speak sternly,” Ginger said, reaching for the tray of petit fours. “And you aren’t receptive to any of it. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “No. I’m your mother before I’m your friend. Sorry.” Ginger never thought she’d see the day she was pulling the mom card on her almost-adult daughter, but that was what she’d saved it for all these years. “Why do you have condoms in your bag?”

  Ginger watched the reflection in the window and found Elsie’s face crinkling in dismay. She used the silence to figure out a solution to the little sharing issue with the petit fours. If Ginger merely ate them both, the kids couldn’t complain. She popped one in her mouth.

  “Mom, stop talking!”

  “Look, if you want to carry around protection, then sit up and be an adult and talk to me about it. Are you having sex?”

  “Mom!” Her eyes turned furious as she flew up in bed. “I don’t want to talk to you about this stuff!”

  “There is nothing embarrassing about discussing safety,” Ginger said, though internally, she cringed. She hadn’t grown up talking about sex with her parents—this was new territory for her too. “If you can’t have an adult conversation about sex, then you shouldn’t be having intercourse. Do I know the boy you’re interested in?”

  Elsie closed her eyes.

  “It’s very important to be safe,” Ginger said, trying to separate her emotional reaction from the logical one. It was normal for teenagers to be interested in the opposite sex, and Frank had a point—at least Elsie was taking precautions. “I’m not upset about the fact that you have protection. In fact, I’m proud that you’d think about it. Maybe they did teach you something in health class. Sex can be very healthy when you’re in a loving, committed relationship. Your father and I—”

  “Mom. Shut. Up!” Elsie flew to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m trying to be understanding—”

  “It’s not like I’m even using them. God.” Elsie shot a hand over her eyes. “Leave me alone! I’m not stupid.”


  “I don’t think you’re stupid, honey.” Ginger hesitated, her mind clicking through Elsie’s last words. “So, you’re still a virgin?”

  “I’m going to find Dad. If you try to talk about sex with me again this trip, I will shoot someone!”

  Elsie stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. Ginger got up to chase after her, but she stopped. What was she going to do? Hold her teenage daughter’s hand and walk her down to Daddy? Elsie would be driving in less than a year. Driving. Working. Living her own life like a little, miniature adult. She’d have full-fledged adult status in a few years. How horrifying.

  Ginger popped the second petit four in her mouth. She was so stressed, she didn’t taste the ridiculously expensive “complimentary” chocolate. She chewed, swallowed, and hunted through the minibar, closing the door with remorse at the thought of how many hours she’d have to work at her much-less-extravagant hotel to pay for a Snickers bar. Not that the hotel where Ginger worked stocked minibars with cute treats, nor did they hand-deliver fancy chocolates pillowside at night. It was probably a good thing they also didn’t offer the nicest of bath salts and lotions, or else Ginger would have been fired for pilfering work supplies into her purse.

  As Ginger scoped out the rest of the room, her mind wandered to dangerous places. Ginger had always thought she’d be excited to see her little birdies grow up and leave the nest, but now the thought of Elsie setting out on her own gave her heart palpitations. Elsie was a smart girl, and usually responsible, but still. She was her innocent baby, or she had been, once upon a time.

  Maybe Ginger did need that glass of wine. She eyed the bottle in the basket but quickly realized she didn’t have a wine opener. So she texted Frank instead, and he confirmed they’d found Elsie and were grabbing a bite to eat. He told Ginger to grab a drink at the bar, relax, pamper herself—he and the kids would occupy themselves for the rest of the night.