All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  Joan didn’t bother correcting her.

  “And always lovely to see you…”

  “Paige,” Paige offered.

  “Of course.” Jennifer smiled. “Don’t bother walking me to the door,” she told Chloe. “And feel free to call me anytime.”

  The women waited until they heard the front door close.

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Joan said, “but I could use a drink.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How about some weed instead?” Chloe suggested.

  “Seriously?” Paige asked. “I remind you that this woman standing next to me is my mother.”

  “Your mother who smoked more than a few joints in her youth,” Joan told them. “Oh, darling. Don’t look so shocked. I’m a child of the sixties after all. Or seventies. Whatever. We were too stoned back then to keep track.” She giggled, eyes sparkling.

  “Seriously?” Paige said again.

  “Although I haven’t touched the stuff in forever,” Joan admitted. “Your father wouldn’t allow it in the house. He was a bit of a square in that regard.”

  Chloe couldn’t help laughing at the expression on her friend’s face.

  “Who are you?” Paige asked Joan as they walked toward the living room. “And what have you done with my mother?”

  They waited until the kids were asleep before lighting up. “This might be a bit stronger than what you’re used to,” Chloe warned Joan, watching the older woman take a deep inhale.

  “Lovely,” Joan said, holding the smoke in her lungs as long as she could before releasing it, then passing the joint to her daughter.

  “I don’t know,” Paige said. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “Nonsense, darling. We’re bonding. Now take a drag and pass it along.”

  “How come I didn’t know this about you?”

  “You never asked,” Joan said.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Paige took a drag, as directed, before passing the hand-rolled cigarette back to Chloe.

  “Like what?”

  “Like…I don’t know…did you do any other drugs?”

  “A little hash,” Joan said as the joint was returned to her waiting fingers. “Oh, and I tried LSD once, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Paige said.

  “Oh, and maybe some cocaine and a wee bit of heroin,” Joan continued before dissolving into raucous laughter. “Sorry, girls. Just teasing about the cocaine and the heroin. Ah, this is delightful,” she said, taking another drag before passing the joint back to her daughter.

  The women sat for several long minutes in silence, passing the joint around until it had all but disappeared. Chloe felt the tensions of the day gradually lifting from her shoulders. So what if Matt was making vague threats to take her to court for custody of their children? He’d never go through with it. So what if the five-thousand-dollar retainer required to hire Pamela Lang would render her effectively broke? She could take out a loan. Or ask her mother.

  The thought sent Chloe into more spasms of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Paige asked.

  “My mother told my children how babies are made,” Chloe wailed, laughing even harder as Paige and Joan joined in.

  “Speaking of sex,” Paige said.

  Had they been? Chloe wondered.

  “Did I ever tell you about Marie and her daughter?”

  “Who’s Marie?” Chloe and Joan asked together, causing another round of giggles.

  “A woman from my work. From where I used to work,” Paige qualified, pushing the unpleasant reality aside and sliding down the sofa to sit on the floor. “Marie’s daughter is twelve, and she came home from school one day and told her mother that in health class that afternoon they’d learned to put condoms on bananas.”

  “They teach that in school?” Joan asked.

  “It’s part of the new sex ed curriculum.”

  “Wish we’d had that when I was in school,” Joan said.

  “Yes, well,” Paige said, her eyes widening, then blinking closed. “What was I talking about?”

  “Putting condoms on bananas,” Chloe told her.

  “Right. Well, Marie was trying to be this cool mom, you know, trying not to look too shocked, when her daughter explains that they use condoms to keep the C-word inside.”

  “The C-word?” Joan and Chloe asked in unison, causing another fit of laughter.

  “Marie doesn’t know what her daughter’s talking about. Then she realizes the kid means semen. And Marie’s still trying to play it cool, so she says, ‘That’s really interesting, honey. But you know, it’s spelled with an S.’ And the kid says, ‘ “Cock” is spelled with an S?!’ ”

  All three women were now doubled over, laughing. “Oh, God. Oh, God,” Joan said, holding her stomach. “I think I just wet my pants.”

  A cellphone rang from somewhere beside them.

  “What’s that?” Paige asked.

  “I believe it’s your phone,” her mother told her.

  “Nobody knows I’m here,” Paige said.

  “Your cellphone,” Chloe reminded her.

  “I think she’s stoned,” Joan confided, as Paige stretched for her purse on the floor next to the ottoman.

  “It’s Sam,” Paige whispered, staring at the caller ID.

  “Who’s Sam?” Chloe asked.

  “This man she met online,” Joan answered.

  “The one you were supposed to see tonight?”

  “No,” Paige said. “Another one.”

  “She’s very popular,” Joan said.

  “Apparently,” Chloe acknowledged, feeling even more guilty. She’d been so wrapped up in her own life, she’d barely given a thought to anyone else’s.

  “He’s a dentist,” Joan said. “Answer it before he hangs up.”

  Paige struggled to her feet. “Hello? Yes, hi, Sam. Just a sec while I go into another room.”

  “Aw, you’re no fun,” her mother called after her.

  “So,” Chloe said after Paige was gone, “a dentist, huh?”

  “They went out the other night.”

  “The evening obviously went well.”

  “I think so. She’s invited him to my brother-in-law’s birthday party.”

  “Wow. Won’t Heather be surprised,” Chloe said, the name lodging in her throat like a piece of hard candy. “Oh,” she added.

  “What is it?”

  “I just realized who called to tell me about Matt,” Chloe said, seeing Heather’s smug face through the lingering haze of the marijuana they’d just smoked.

  “What’s wrong?” Paige asked, reentering the living room. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It was Heather who called Chloe to tell her about Matt,” Joan said.

  Paige sank to the floor. “Why am I not surprised?” She shook her head. “What can I say? She’s a cunt.”

  Chloe gasped, glancing warily toward Paige’s mother.

  “It’s okay, dear,” Joan told her. “Paige is right. Heather is a cunt. Or should I say, a regina?”

  Once again, the room filled with laughter. “So what did the dentist have to say for himself?” Chloe asked.

  “He asked if I wanted to go to a movie Saturday night.”

  “And do you?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Good for you,” Chloe told her. “Maybe something good will actually result from one of these dating sites.”

  “Did Paige tell you I’m on one, too?” Joan asked.

  “What?” Chloe asked.

  “Meet Sunflower,” Paige said.

  “Apparently, nobody uses their real name,” Joan explained. “And since Paige goes by Wildflower, I thought I’d stick with the floral
theme. Paige enrolled me this afternoon. Show her,” Joan said as her daughter clicked onto Autumn Romance. “It’s a dating site for seniors. There’s my picture. What do you think?”

  “I think you look lovely.”

  “No. I have no chin anymore. It’s just kind of disappeared into the wrinkles on my neck.” Joan brought her hand to her jawline, pushing at her flesh.

  “Your chin is fine,” Paige told her.

  “Age seventy, widowed, loves reading and good wine,” Chloe read. “No mention here about good weed.”

  “It was good, wasn’t it? Have I had any…what do you call them…likes?”

  “No responses so far,” Paige said, and Chloe could hear the relief in her friend’s voice even though she tried to hide it. Paige clicked off the site and returned the phone to her purse.

  “Mommy,” a voice called from the hallway. In the next second, Sasha materialized, rubbing her eyes with one hand, clutching a small pink blanket in the other. Chloe ran to the child, scooping her into her arms.

  “Baby, what are you doing up?”

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

  “I dreamed you died.”

  “Well, it was just a dream, sweet pea,” Chloe told her, kissing her cheek. “As you can see, Mommy’s very much alive.”

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  “I’m not going to for a long, long time.”

  “Most people don’t die until they’re very old,” Joan added for good measure.

  Sasha looked over at Joan, her eyes growing wide. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “Well, that sobered me up fast,” Joan said with a laugh. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

  “You smell funny,” Sasha told her mother.

  “Definitely our cue to leave,” Paige said. “Will you be okay?” she asked Chloe.

  “I’ll be fine.” She walked them to the front door, Sasha already asleep in her arms. “Call me tomorrow? I want to hear all about this dentist.”

  “You got it.”

  Chloe watched them climb into Paige’s car and back out of the driveway. “Good night, flowers!” she called after them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He’s doing a walking tour of the city.

  And why not? He’s still something of a tourist after all. He hasn’t been here that long. And he’ll be leaving soon. Another few weeks, maybe a month, and it will be time to head elsewhere. Wouldn’t do to outstay his welcome.

  Too bad, because Boston is a great city. So much to see and do. Art, culture, fine restaurants. Not that he’s interested in any of these things. But Boston also has lots of small, dark bars. And lots of eager women. He’ll be sad to go. What was it his mother used to say? “All good things must come to an end”? Well, she was right about that anyway, if little else.

  Originally, he was considering Atlanta as his next stop, but he’s thinking it’ll still be too hot there even a month from now, and he’s not a huge fan of the heat, having grown up in Gainesville, Florida. So maybe Cincinnati or Cleveland. Cleveland is home to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, so that place might be worth a visit. Not much else there, though, as far as he can tell, so come fall, he might just cross over into Canada. He’s heard autumn is beautiful in Northern Ontario, the ordinary green leaves of summer turning a brilliant variety of red, yellow, and orange. People come from all over the world to see nature’s spectacular display of fall colors, he remembers reading. He finds this fact amusing, as what the changing colors really signify is that the leaves are dying.

  Of course, there is beauty in death. He knows this better than anyone.

  He pictures the girl now lying lifeless on the floor of his apartment, the graceful way her body went limp as he squeezed the final breath from her lungs at the stroke of midnight, the delicate way the light faded from her soft brown eyes, the horror of what was happening to her evaporating like dew in the early morning sun. A soft, milky film has since covered those eyes, and rigor has caused her limbs to stiffen and her flesh to turn an alabaster shade of white, so that she looks more like a statue than a human being. She has become, truly, a work of art.

  Which would make him an artist, he thinks, feeling a surge of pride.

  He was almost tempted to stay with her. Still, he couldn’t very well waste a whole day admiring last night’s handiwork. What’s done is done. Something else his mother was fond of saying, no cliché too insignificant for her to espouse. And it’s a beautiful Saturday morning, the sky an iridescent shade of blue, the temperature hovering in the mid-seventies. All in all, a great day to be alive, he acknowledges, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Too bad Nadia had to miss it.

  Nadia, he repeats silently. Twenty-seven years old. Originally from Romania. Named after some once-famous gymnast. Recently quit her job as a nanny when the children’s father got a little too hands-on for her liking. No family. No friends. No ties to the community. Looking for work. Looking for love. In all the wrong places, he sings silently, recalling the old song his mother used to hum.

  Looking for Mr. Right.

  Finding Mr. Right Now.

  He laughs out loud, attracting the attention of an elderly woman walking toward him along Hull Street. He tips an imaginary hat in her direction. “Beautiful day,” he says in passing.

  “That it is,” she says.

  He considers complimenting her on her hair—older women are so grateful for even the smallest of compliments, and you don’t see many of them with gray hair these days—but by the time he forms the sentence she is crossing onto Salem Street, and the moment is gone. Once more he ponders choosing an older woman as his next target. It would make for an interesting change of pace, at the very least, a break from all these self-absorbed millennials.

  And he knows exactly whom he would pick: Joan Hamilton.

  Mother of Wildflower.

  He laughs into the palm of his hand, proud of his amateur sleuthing. Not that it was difficult to ferret out the information he sought, what with Facebook, LinkedIn, and Instagram to aid in his search. All those heartwarming pictures Paige has posted on @paigehamilton of her and her mother, #JoanHamilton, #BestMotherInTheWorld, as well as several with a beautiful blonde named Chloe, #BestFriendForever. He’s never been much into blondes, but still, best friend Chloe might make for another interesting change of pace.

  Thank you, social media, he thinks. How did the world manage without you?

  He could start with Paige’s mother. Follow up with her closest friend.

  That would teach Paige to treat him so cavalierly, canceling their date at the last minute, after the expensive steaks were already marinating and the salad chilling in the fridge. The apartment was immaculate. Everything was set to go. He’d had such plans.

  Luckily, he had Nadia waiting in the wings, primed through weeks of subtle online seduction to take Paige’s place. Of course, he’d had to postpone his plans from Wednesday to Friday to accommodate Nadia’s schedule, and the poor girl had borne the brunt of his frustration over the delay, but some things were unavoidable.

  I’m so sorry. Something unexpected has come up and I have to cancel. Can we reschedule?

  He still bristles when he thinks of it.

  After all his careful plotting and meticulous research, the pride he’d taken in determining which approach would work best on her. She’d already demonstrated that mere good looks wouldn’t be enough to win her over, that he’d have to come at her from a different angle. The key, he’d decided, was to appeal to her emotions, to tug at her heartstrings. Hence, the parents married fifty years and the young wife dead of cancer. That, along with the offhand mention of an MBA to appeal to her intellect, as well as the lie that he liked jazz, tossed in at the last second because of a picture she’d posted of herself in a Herbie Hancock T-shirt. Combine those elements wit
h the seeming awkwardness of his approach and he was on his way. Up until the very last minute.

  I’m so sorry. Something unexpected has come up and I have to cancel. Can we reschedule?

  Count on it, he thinks.

  He laughs again, this time drawing unwelcome stares from the long line of noisy tourists clogging the narrow sidewalk in front of the Paul Revere House. He turns down Hanover Street on his way to Union and the marketplace at Faneuil Hall. But Faneuil Hall is even more crowded with weekend visitors than he expected, the café that is his destination already filled to overflowing.

  He sees them almost immediately. They are sitting at a table against the far wall, sipping their coffee, Paige digging into her brunch of bagels and smoked salmon, her mother eagerly attacking her plate of strawberries-and-whipped-cream-smothered waffles. It is no accident he’s here. Thanks again, Instagram, he thinks. Saturday brunch at Faneuil Hall. #BestBrunchInTown. #BestMomInTheWorld.

  He watches them for a while, thinking it might be fun to do the two women together, make one watch while he tortures and defiles the other. Defile, he repeats silently, rolling the word over on his tongue, feeling an immediate lift to his spirits. He loves that they have no idea he is watching them, of the hours he has spent online—thank you, white pages, Boston, Mass., for providing me with Joan Hamilton’s address—that they’re blissfully unaware of the danger they are in, of the cruel fate that awaits them. Still, he can’t very well stand here forever, hoping a table will free up.

  He debates leaving, maybe heading over to the Public Garden across from Boston Common and taking a ride in one of those silly swan boats, the kind you pedal yourself, when he spots an empty seat at a tiny, round table in the back, a table that will allow him a view of Paige and her mother, albeit one that’s partially obstructed. He makes a beeline for it, squeezing between several tables and deliberately stepping on the foot of a young woman whose bare legs are stretched across his path. She cries out, a combination of surprise and pain, and reaches down to grab the injured toes peeking out from the sandal of her right foot. He sees that her toenails are painted bright coral and he notes with satisfaction that he has chipped the polish on her big toe, ruining what was, no doubt, an expensive pedicure. “I’m so sorry,” he says, temporarily abandoning his smile for a look of well-practiced concern.