Mandy nodded but her face went serious, red hair flopping over one eye. She looked around the darkened room. “Look, did my dad leave?”
Jackie’s heart sank. “I thought your mother had a conversation with you about that.”
Mandy pursed her lips, just like Doris always did. “Mom’s been avoiding me. I haven’t gotten any real answers out of her in weeks.”
Jackie felt a little thrill, hearing Mandy form such an adult sentence. She could still remember when Mandy was waddling around this house in diapers, red hair sticking up all over her head. She loved to hunt for electrical outlets, reaching her chubby hands toward childproofed plugs and muttering, “Touch.”
Now, the grown-up version persisted, “So, he left?”
Jackie held up a hand, listening. She could hear water running in Doris’s bathroom.
“Je ne sais pas. He’s just . . . finding himself again.”
There was silence and then a jingling sound. Mandy was rhythmically thumbing a silver charm that hung from her bracelet. “Huh,” she said.
“You okay?” Jackie tried to catch the teen’s eye.
Mandy shrugged. “I mean . . . it’s not like it wasn’t a matter of time or whatever. My mom’s crazy.”
“Do not talk about your mother that way,” Jackie said sharply. Mandy’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, baby,” Jackie said, immediately feeling bad. “I’m sorry, but your mother’s going through a hard time right now . . .”
“What about me?” Mandy cried.
“I know,” Jackie assured her, pulling her in for a hug. “But arguing with her over every little thing will just make things worse. Darling, I could’ve told you years ago that your father would have some midlife crisis and take off. They got married so young. He just needs a little time, then he’ll come back.”
Mandy sniffled. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Jackie lied. “Now, let’s talk about you. Why are you having a hard time?” Jackie asked, wiping away the young girl’s tears.
Mandy hesitated. “Mom’s in bed, right?” When Jackie nodded, Mandy said, “I thought I was pregnant.”
“No,” Jackie cried. Déjà vu all over again. Lowering her voice, she said, “But . . . you’re not, right?”
“No. That was a while ago. A month or two,” Mandy said in a rush. “I was scared. Mom doesn’t even know I have a boyfriend. She’d flip her shit.”
True. Doris wouldn’t want Mandy to make the same mistakes she had, but Jackie doubted Mandy even knew about that mistake. It was hardly something her parents would advertise.
“How did this happen?” Jackie said. “What were you using?”
“Condoms.”
“Yikes,” Jackie cringed. “Not super reliable. Is that what you’re using now?”
Mandy studied her jeans. “We stopped doing it. Since then. But it’s so hard.”
“Why don’t you get on the pill?” Jackie said. “I mean, you’ll have to use a condom, too, but . . .”
Mandy looked at her like she had nine heads. “How? I need permission.”
“I’ll give you permission,” Jackie said. Before she knew what was happening, Mandy had her arms back around her and was sobbing again. “Oh, honey,” Jackie said, patting her back in confusion. “I don’t understand. What’s the matter now?”
“I’m just . . . It’s so easy with you. You don’t judge me,” Mandy told her. “Mom is just so . . . we fight all the time . . .”
“I know, but she’s your mother,” Jackie said, patting her back. The young girl was heaving with sobs and Jackie was reminded of how important everything is at that age. So much emotion. The slightest trouble felt like the end of the world. “It’s her job.”
“She just doesn’t understand,” Mandy hiccuped. “I really wish she did.”
Jackie reached her hand forward. “I bet she would. Give your mother time,” Jackie suggested. “I can talk to her.”
“Not about this!” Mandy panicked, drawing back.
“No, no, no,” Jackie promised. “But you need to be nicer to her and she . . . she probably needs to be a bit nicer to you.” They sat in silence for a minute. “Should we listen to music again?” she tried.
Mandy leaned back against the couch cushions and nodded. Handing one ear bud to Jackie, she stuck the other in her ear. The two friends listened to the pounding music in silence, sitting side by side.
DORIS WAS LYING awake in her bed, fighting off panic attacks. She had run out of the living room because she didn’t want to witness Mandy drooling all over Jackie. Plus, Mandy would press her with more questions about Doug. She hadn’t wanted to lie to her daughter but Doris didn’t know what response to give. She didn’t know if and when Doug was coming home. Claiming he was on a business trip was just going to have to do for the time being. The idea that Doug might never come home repeated itself in her mind. Another wave of panic washed over her, as excruciating as childbirth.
Doris fixated on the ceiling, intent, taking measured breaths. She really wished Jackie hadn’t taken it upon herself to throw out the Xanax. That morning, she had fumbled around for it everywhere but it was nowhere to be found. When she finally went into the guest bedroom, hands on hips and sweating, Jackie had looked up from the book she was reading and said, “The Xanax? Yeah. Flushed it,” and Doris had slammed out of the room.
In the morning, Doris would call her doctor and get a refill. Doris hated to imagine the silence that would meet her request. It would certainly raise some eyebrows, considering the most recent bottle had been prescribed last week, but Doris didn’t care. She would tell him the truth and if that didn’t work, she’d figure out a way to get another bottle somehow. At this point, Doris would do anything to stop the images inside of her head—the movie frames of Katherine on the back of her husband’s motorcycle, Katherine touching his body, Katherine undressing him with those overly made-up eyes . . . If the doctor could see all that, he’d probably prescribe her a truckload of Xanax, no questions asked.
Lying in bed, something new dawned on Doris. For the first time, she wondered if Doug had been lying about going on a road trip. She hadn’t called his office to see if he’d cashed in all that vacation time he’d saved up. Maybe the road trip was an alibi and in truth, her husband was living at Katherine Rigney’s right now, having the time of his life. Maybe they were both laughing at poor, stupid Doris for ever believing her straightlaced husband would actually go on a cross-country trip. Maybe they were sitting on that motorcycle, peeling off layer after layer of trashy lingerie . . .
Doris shot straight up in bed. She shook the images from her head. It was time to stop whining and take some action. She was going to find out what had happened to her marriage. Either way, Katherine Rigney was going to pay.
Chapter Sixteen
THE VIBRATION OF CHERYL’S CURSED BLACKBERRY JOLTED HER out of a half-sleep. She cracked open her eyes, looking around the den in confusion. She hadn’t even made it to her pint of ice cream, simply dozed off on the couch three pages into Hillary Clinton’s biography.
Hopefully, Cheryl glanced at her phone—maybe the offer on Millstines had gone through. She hoped so. Cheryl was desperate to get to work on something. Lying around her house all the time just wasn’t cutting it. “This is Cheryl,” she said.
“This is Andy,” a deep voice echoed.
Cheryl yanked the phone away from her ear and stared at it as though it were a snake.
“Hello?” he spoke into her silence. “Did I lose you?”
“Hello, Andy,” she said, voice like a glacier. “What can I do for you?”
Cheryl had no problem being rude to Andy. She felt an unreasonable flood of anger at this guy she barely knew because: 1. He had infiltrated her health club, worn distracting gym shorts, and ultimately, thrown her off her game enough to get hit in the head with a racquetball.
2. He had allowed Stan to steal her BlackBerry, had not stolen it back, and had basically abetted Stan in seeing the files that had caused
her to get fired.
3. He had not bothered to call and apologize for setting into motion the chain of events that, ultimately, he was completely responsible for—thanks to those stupid, distracting gym shorts.
Completely oblivious to her rage, Andy’s voice came out smooth as sugar. “I was calling to see how you’re feeling.”
The Hillary biography fell off her lap with a loud thud. “Thank you so much,” Cheryl said, matching his tone. “Do you mean my feelings about getting fired? Something that happened well over a week ago?”
“Look, what happened at TurnKey was wrong,” Andy said. “I’d like to take you out to dinner and talk about it.”
Cheryl glared at the receiver. “Not interested,” she told him. “But thanks so much for calling.” Deliberately, she pressed End and tossed her phone to the other end of the couch. She eyed the screen, challenging it to light up with a call-back. It didn’t. That was the end of that. Fired or not, Cheryl was still in control.
Ding-Dong.
Cheryl jumped. Was that the doorbell? She wasn’t expecting anybody. Nobody would dare drop in on her except . . . Jackie! Oh, good. Before Cheryl had fallen asleep, she had been thinking about calling Jackie anyway. They could have some wine and make plans for the restaurant and Cheryl would have to give her the dish on the audacity of this Andy character.
Taking the steps up to the living room two at a time, Cheryl turned on the porch light and peeked out the peephole. She drew back, gasping in surprise. He was standing there, wearing a heavy black wool overcoat and clutching a bouquet of . . . she peered again through the door . . . roses?
Ding-Dong.
Damn. She’d turned on the porch light, so pretending she wasn’t home was a useless prospect.
Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. DING DONG.
Was he insane? A serial killer? Cheryl threw open the door, hand firmly planted on her hip. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s freezing outside,” Andy complained, pushing his way into her home.
“I didn’t invite you in,” she cried, but he’d already moved past her, into the living room by her fake fire, rubbing his hands together in earnest. The flowers had been unceremoniously dumped on her leather sofa.
“Freezing,” he repeated, stomping his feet. “This is the coldest October I’ve ever dealt with in all my life.”
Cheryl watched him, dumbfounded. “Stop getting snow on my floor,” was all she could think of to say.
Immediately, Andy looked at the tracks of moisture he’d left and said, “Whoops. Sorry.” He took his shoes off and carried them back to the foyer. There, he set them down, toes pointed neatly at the wall, right next to her high-heeled black boots.
“Andy, not to be rude,” Cheryl said, “not that rudeness is something you’re aware of, considering you’ve just stomped your way into my home . . . but I am going to ask you nicely, before I call the police to have you physically removed, what the hell are you doing here?”
As she spoke, Andy walked through the room, picking up her framed photographs and studying them one at a time. “Ha,” he said, pointing at one. “Your hair is long. Looks good. Listen, it’s freezing out there. Do you have anything warm to drink?”
“No.”
“Bummer,” Andy said, setting down a photograph. “Well, it’s probably best not to drink before getting on the road. I made us a reservation at Blackburn, which we can make . . .” Andy glanced at his watch, “if we leave here in ten minutes. Can you do it?”
For a moment, Cheryl thought he was joking, but at Andy’s earnest expression, she couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “I can’t believe this. You got stood up. That could be the only explanation for you standing here in my house, uninvited, telling me I’m having dinner with you.”
“That’s not true,” Andy said, rushing to the sofa and picking up the roses. “By the way, these are for you.”
“You definitely got stood up.” Cheryl nodded, crossing her arms. She made no move to take the flowers.
“Think what you want,” Andy said, grinning until his dimple showed. “But I really did buy these for you. Not a big deal. These were on sale at the gas station for, like, four bucks. Just a ‘Sorry you got fired’ kinda thing.”
Cheryl recognized the sheer red paper around the stems of the bouquet. The flowers were from Bramble’s, an exclusive greenhouse down the road. The wrapping alone cost more than four dollars.
“I’ll just leave these here,” Andy said, setting them back down on the couch and unbuttoning his coat. He was wearing a black cashmere sweater and tailored slacks. That same woodsy scent she smelled before fainting at the Racquet Club wafted toward her. For a moment, the two stood still, evaluating each other. Then, Andy’s eyes roved over her body. Cheryl was wearing a pair of rose-colored velour sweats.
“I see you’re not dressed for dinner,” he said. “I would have told you to put on something nice , but your phone cut out.”
“It didn’t cut out, I hung up on you,” she said.
Andy grinned. Glancing pointedly at his watch, he said, “Cheryl, we really gotta go.”
Cheryl looked at him in disbelief, turned on her heel, and stalked up the stairs and into her bedroom, slamming the door. There, she took a couple of deep breaths, then ran to the mirror and checked her reflection. In spite of the sweats, she looked good. Eyes bright, skin glowing from a peel she’d given herself the night before . . . maybe her eyebrows were a little too thin . . .
“What am I doing?” she said out loud. “I’m not going to dinner with that little weasel.”
Clapping a hand over her mouth, Cheryl looked toward the door and wondered if Andy could hear what she had said all the way from the living room. She half hoped he had. It was the perfect description. Andy was a weasel. He’d weaseled his way into her company and stolen her job. Now, he had weaseled into her home and was trying to force her to go to dinner. What did he really want?
“Who cares?” she finally said out loud, remembering her favorite mantra. “What do you want?”
Suddenly, an idea popped into her head. Cheryl stood stock-still, then burst out laughing. She had thought of just the thing to wipe that cocky grin right off Andy’s face.
Throwing open her closet door, Cheryl started digging for a pair of red stilettos and her most scandalous dress.
Chapter Seventeen
DORIS SNEAKED OUT OF THE HOUSE THE MOMENT SHE HEARD THE guest bedroom door shut. Jackie was going to bed. Doris was going for revenge.
Waiting patiently had not been easy. Once Doris had come up with her idea and gotten dressed in black from head to toe, she had waited by her bedroom door, breathing heavily. After what felt like two hours, Jackie and Mandy said their good nights and headed off to bed.
The second the doors clicked shut, Doris shot out of the bedroom and scampered down the stairs. Stealthily, she grabbed supplies from the refrigerator and the storage cabinet. Taking one last look around, she darted into the garage.
There, she piled everything into the trunk of her car and pulled a stocking cap onto her head. As she backed her Lexus out of the garage, Doris glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. She looked like a criminal but it was necessary. If things got harried, she could just pull the mask over her face like a bank robber. And if she actually did get caught . . . well, it wasn’t like Jackie couldn’t afford to post bail.
The arsenal of revenge supplies crashed against each other in the cargo area as she drove toward Katherine Rigney’s. Doris decided that it was the five cans of shaving cream that were so loud. She was grateful she had thought to wrap the carton of eggs in bubble wrap and settle the package in between the six rolls of toilet paper. The last time Doris was at Sam’s Club, she’d debated about keeping her membership. Now she was a firm believer.
Doris’s heart pounded as she navigated the evening streets. Maybe she should have asked for Jackie’s help with the prank, but Jackie would probably consider this particular felony a little beyond fun and games
. As she drove, Doris noticed that most houses around town were dark; she pictured married couples safely asleep in their beds. Another flash of Katherine and Doug plowed through her mind and Doris hit the gas.
When she got to Katherine Rigney’s neighborhood, Doris realized it was in a sketchy part of town. This did not surprise her. No one waltzed around with her chest out that far if she wasn’t looking for something better. Driving past the beat-up vehicles parked on the side of the street, Doris suddenly realized the Lexus was a tactical error. In this neighborhood, it was about as discreet as a twenty-four-foot Ryder truck.
The address she’d scratched into her notepad matched the plain brick house to her left. Doris sank low into the front seat and slowed the car to a crawl and stared. A chartreuse Camaro sat idle in the garage. Its pink, fluffy mirror dice seemed to be advertising for Katherine like something out of Amsterdam’s red-light district. Doug’s motorcycle was nowhere in sight but that didn’t mean anything. It could be parked on the street, hidden behind the house, or even left behind at a bar somewhere, for all she knew. There was still a chance he was there, and for that, Katherine Rigney was going to pay.
Several hundred feet down the block, Doris eased to a halt. She parked under a weeping willow tree that half-concealed her vehicle. Getting out, she furtively looked around. There was no sound. Everyone seemed to be asleep. The only sign of life was the distant barking of a dog. The snow had stopped falling a day or two ago and had it been daylight, Doris could have seen the warning signs of additional neighborhood dogs in the yellowed and burnished snow. But it was pitch-black, so she went straight into her mission without a fair assessment of What Could Go Wrong.
Doris grabbed supplies from the cargo area, breathing heavily. Everything seemed louder in these heightened circumstances—the hatch clicked like a gunshot, her boots crunched across Katherine’s driveway like it was made of broken glass, and her heart pounded louder than a car outfitted with ghetto-bass. Doris stopped suddenly, wondering if Katherine might be watching her from the window or if she was in bed with Doug, chomping gum and moaning into his ear.
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