Balancing Act

by Fern Michaels

  Mr. Cho will retire officially the day of our marriage. The nuptial agreement has many little clauses and tacky little promises that I have no intention of honoring. I’m contributing seventy-five thousand dollars to the marriage. If Mr. Cho’s eyes weren’t almond-shaped, I think they would have widened in surprise. He considers that amount equal to being a millionaire. Aren’t you proud of me? I never give all of everything except my body. Mr. Cho loves my wigs. He’ s now trying to figure out a way to keep them from slipping off my head. He loves to run his fingers through them. (Is that kinky or is that kinky?) On my arrival we both got blitzed, me on his rice wine and he on my Scotch. It was memorable.

  I plan to take up residence in his house in Aberdeen. I’ll have cards made up and send you one. Actually, the house is a shack. One of these days when I’m not too busy I may fix it up. Hong Kong is magnificent, and I do my shopping in Kowloon. Mr. Cho barters and haggles for me so no one loses face.

  Under separate cover I’m sending you all the materials Mr. Cho requires for a mold of both your feet. Rush it back to me. I don’t want him to get too lazy. Devotion is the name of the game, and if I’m paying for it, I want “our” money’s worth.

  I’d write more but Mr. Cho is suffering his third relapse and I want to make him some rum tea. These Orientals have no stamina. I can’t even begin to tell you the trouble I had when I tried to explain the word ‘performance’ to him. Now he understands. That’s why he’s working on his third relapse. Just last night I had to tell him my bankers weren’t going to be too happy if he kept caving in on a regular basis. Poor darling, every time I say, “up, up and away,” he turns green.

  Dory, dear child, I hope all is well with you and that you have made decisions of your own. I’m sending this letter to the magazine. I didn’t want your mother getting hold of it. I can just see and hear her clucking her tongue and saying “that damn fool, he married her for her money.” I know it’s true and you know it’s true, but your mother doesn’t need to know. I can live with my decisions because for the first time in thirty years I’m happy doing what I want when I want. Amazing that I had to come halfway around the world to do it. Well almost, I do have to consider Mr. Cho and his . . . ah . . . slight deficiency. See if you can’t get me one of those sex manuals that deals with staying power. Rush it airmail in a plain brown wrapper.

  One last thing, Dory. After my seventy-five thousand dollar withdrawal, I signed my power of attorney over to you. I don’t want those articulate bankers on my tail. Do whatever you have to do where my affairs are concerned. Take care, Dory, and please, be happy for me.

  All my love and good wishes,

  Aunt Pixie

  Tears burned Dory’s eyes as she folded the crackly letter. “Right on, Pix,” she said softly. “Right on.” There were many kinds of happiness, she told herself as she slid the letter into the desk drawer. Coming back was her kind.

  How many times had she thought about Griff today, yesterday, the day before that? Hundreds? Thousands? At least. Why not call him? They’d had so much. She couldn’t just cut it off. Why not call him and ask how he was doing? Why hadn’t he called to ask her how she was doing? Because he was a man and a man didn’t do things like that. Besides, she was the one who walked out. Before she could change her mind she dialed the number at the town house. Griff answered on the third ring.

  His voice was just as she remembered and it did the same things to her it had always done. Her heart fluttered a little and her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Hi,” she said brightly.

  “Hi yourself. I was just thinking of you.”

  “Oh, how’s that?”

  “Because I just got done eating a casserole you had frozen. It was delicious. You left enough food to last me a month.”

  “I’m glad you’re eating properly.”

  “So am I. How’s things in New York?”

  “Pretty good. I’m busy as hell but I love it. I got a letter from Pixie today. There’s no way I can tell you what all she had to say. I could make a copy and send it on if you’d like to read it.”

  “I’d like that. Please, send me a copy. Jesus, are you listening to the both of us. We sound so polite, so bland, so . . . so . . .”

  “Like two nerds,” Dory laughed.

  “Yeah. I was going to call you but then I told myself you needed the time to get back into the swing of things. I want you to believe that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You never lied to me, Griff. I think of you constantly. On the hour at least.”

  “I know, I do the same thing,” Griff said gruffly.

  “Look, what are you doing two weeks from Friday? I thought I’d come up and we could do the town or whatever you want. I could bring your things back then too. Lily said she would pack everything up this week.”

  “I’d like that, Griff, I really would.”

  “Okay, it’s a date then unless Starfire foals that day. Can we leave it on that basis?”

  “Sure. How’s things at the clinic?”

  “Great. We have more business than we can handle. Thinking of taking on a fourth partner. John fired Ginny today for no reason. Just out and out sacked her. Since he’s the senior partner there wasn’t much either Rick or I could do. For some reason it bothered Rick. By the way, Rick tells me Lily thinks she’s pregnant again. He seems delighted and Lily of course is bubbling over with happiness.”

  Dory swallowed hard. “That . . . that’s wonderful. What are you going to do about the town house?”

  “I don’t need this much room. It’s pretty expensive. Lily said she’d get me an efficiency apartment so I kind of left it up to her. I can’t stay here,” Griff groaned. “There are too many memories. It’s the wise thing to do.”

  “Yes.” She hated to ask it but she had to know. “Are you . . . are you seeing anyone?”

  “The only lady in my life right now is Starfire. How about you?”

  “No. I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “I’ve missed you. You wouldn’t believe the condition of the bathroom. You’d kill me if you saw it.”

  Dory laughed. “I wish I was there to see it.”

  “I know you do. This . . . this conversation isn’t helping either of us, I guess you know that,” Griff said hoarsely.

  “You’re right. I’ll look forward to seeing you in two weeks. And Griff, if Starfire foals, there will be other weekends.”

  “See you, Dory.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Dory said as she hung up the phone. A smile tugged at her mouth as she circled the date with a red pencil. Next to it she wrote in large letters: GRIFF.

  If you enjoyed BALANCING ACT, be sure not to miss Fern Michaels’s new novel

  THE BLOSSOM SISTERS.

  In a richly rewarding story filled with unforgettable

  characters, #1 New York Times best-selling author

  Fern Michaels explores the enduring bonds of family

  as one man loses everything—only to find the free-

  dom to create a bold new life . . .

  Gus Hollister owes all his success to his feisty grandmother, Rose, and he knows it. It was Rose and her sisters, Iris and Violet, who raised Gus, sent him to the best schools, and helped him start his own accounting business. Rose even bought the house Gus lives in with his wife, Elaine.

  But now, Gus stands to lose everything—his home, his car, and his business. Worse, he’s alienated his beloved grandma, who tried to warn him about Elaine’s greedy, gold-digging ways. Gus, blinded by infatuation, refused to listen, and now Elaine has locked him out of the house he was foolish enough to put in her name.

  Heartsick and remorseful, Gus returns to Rose’s Virginia farmhouse seeking shelter. But it won’t be easy to make amends. Despite their pretty floral names, there’s nothing delicate about the Blossom sisters. Unbeknownst to Gus, they’ve also been running a very lucrative business from home and don’t want interference. Yet family and forgiveness go hand in hand, and Gus isn’t g
iving up.

  With the help of close friends, new associates, and some very sprightly ladies, Gus begins to repair the damage he’s done and help the residents of Blossom Farm begin the next phase of their business. He might even be finding the courage to love again. Because no matter how daunting starting over can be, the results can surpass your wildest expectations—especially when the Blossom sisters are in your corner . . .

  A Kensington trade paperback on sale

  in May 2013!

  Read on for a special excerpt.

  Gus Hollister couldn’t remember when he’d been so tired as he closed and locked the doors of his CPA firm. Well, yes, actually he could remember. It was last year at exactly the same time, April 16, the last day of this year’s tax season. Not that it was totally over; he still had tons of stuff to do, extensions to file, but he’d made his deadline, all clients had their records, and he was going home. If only it were to a home-cooked meal and several glasses of good wine. Like that was really going to happen. But he was simply too tired to care whether he ate or not.

  Instead of taking the elevator, Gus trudged down the three flights of stairs and out to the small parking lot. Exercise these days was wherever he could find it. He winced at the lemon yellow Volkswagen Beetle that was his transportation for the day. His wife had taken his Porsche, and he was stuck with this tin can. If only he were a contortionist, which he wasn’t. Gus clicked the remote and opened the door. After tossing his heavy briefcase on the passenger-side seat, he struggled to get his six-foot-four-inch frame into the small car. He hated this car. Really hated it. He inserted the key in the ignition, then lowered the windows and stared out at the dark night, an anxiousness settling between his shoulders that had nothing to do with taxes and the long days and nights he’d been putting in.

  For some reason he didn’t think it would be so dark, but then he remembered that they had turned the clocks ahead a few weeks back. Regardless, it wasn’t supposed to be dark at nine thirty at night, was it? But he couldn’t bring himself to care about that either.

  He was almost too tired to turn the key in the ignition, so he just sat for a moment, looking out across the small parking lot to the building his grandmother had helped him buy. A really good investment, she’d said, and she was right. He rented out the two top floors to other businessmen, and the rent money he received covered the mortgage and gave him a few hundred dollars toward his cash flow every month. He owed everything he had in life to his feisty grandmother, Rose. Everything. And they were estranged at this point in time because of his wife, Elaine. He wanted to cry at the turn his life had taken in the last year. He banged the steering wheel just to vent before he started the Beetle, put it in gear, and roared out of the parking lot at forty miles an hour.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Gus untangled all six-foot-four of himself from the lemon yellow Beetle, a feat requiring extraordinary concentration and agility. Then he danced around, trying to work the kinks out of his body. The Beetle belonged to his wife. She looked good in it. He looked stupid and out of place sitting behind the wheel. Today, Elaine had been out job hunting, and she wanted to make an impression, so she’d asked him if she could borrow his Porsche. Every bone and nerve in his body had screamed out, no, no, no, but in the end, he had handed her the keys. It was just too hard to say no to Elaine because he loved her so much. Especially when she kissed him so hard he was sure she’d sucked the tonsils right out of his throat. When that happened, he could deny her nothing, not even his beloved Porsche.

  Elaine had passed the bar exam six months earlier and was looking for gainful employment. Or so she said. For six months now, she’d been looking for a job. Citing the economy, she told him that all the law firms wanted were slaves, not a qualified lawyer who had graduated at the top of her class. That was the reason she hadn’t been hired. Or so she said. She hadn’t even been called back for a second interview by any of the firms. Or so she said.

  Sometimes he doubted her and instantly hated himself for his uncharitable thoughts, uncharitable thoughts that had been coming more and more frequently as of late. His gut was telling him that something was wrong; he just couldn’t put his finger on what that something was.

  Gus reached across the seat for his briefcase, then closed and locked the Beetle. God, I’m tired. No one in the whole world could or would be happier than he when today, April 16, turned into April 17. He was a CPA, a damn good one if he did say so himself, and he had been working round the clock since January 1 to meet his clients’ needs. He’d made a lot of them happy and a few of them sad when he pointed to the bottom line that said REFUND or PAY THIS AMOUNT!

  Gus walked across the driveway, wondering where Elaine was. It was 9:55, and she wasn’t home. The jittery feeling between his shoulder blades kicked in again when he saw no sign of his car. He frowned as he walked toward the back entrance of his house, the house his grandmother had bought for him. It was a beautiful four-thousand-square-foot Tudor. He shivered when he thought about what she would say when she found out he’d added Elaine’s name to the deed in one of those tonsil-kissing moments. For months, he’d been trying to find the courage . . . no, the guts, to tell his grandmother what he’d done. He knew she’d go ballistic, as would his two aunts. None of them liked Elaine. No, that wasn’t right either. They hated Elaine, they could not stand her. And Elaine hated them right back.

  Elaine said his grandmother and the aunts were jealous of her because she was young and beautiful and had stolen his love away from them. He’d never quite been able to wrap his mind around that, but back then, if Elaine said it, he tended to believe it. With very few reservations. His grandmother and the aunts had been a little more blunt and succinct, saying straight out that Elaine was a gold digger. End of discussion.

  The strain between him and his beloved, zany grandmother and dippy aunts bothered him. He had hated having to meet them on the sly, then keeping the meeting secret so he wouldn’t have to fight with Elaine and suffer through weeks of tortured silence with no tonsil kissing and absolutely no sex. Elaine held a grudge like no one he knew.

  He owed everything to his grandmother. She’d raised him, sent him to college, helped him by financing his own CPA firm, then helping him again by buying him the beautiful house that he now lived in. With Elaine. And, no pre-nup. His grandmother had never once asked him even to consider paying her back, even when he’d tried.

  He loved her, he really did, and he hated the situation he was in. Tomorrow or the day after, regardless of how it turned out, he was going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with his wife and lay down some new rules. Family was family, and it was time that Elaine realized that.

  Gus opened the gate to the yard, and Wilson came running to him. Wilson was the one thing he’d put his foot down on with Elaine. She said dogs made her itch and sneeze. Well, too bad; Wilson was his dog, and that was it.

  “What are you doing out here, boy?” Gus tussled with the German shepherd a moment before walking up the steps to the deck, which was off the kitchen. The low-wattage back light was on. He didn’t need Wilson’s shrill barking to alert him to the pile of suitcases and duffel bags sitting outside the kitchen door. His suitcases. Six of them. And two duffel bags. All lined up like soldiers. Next to the suitcases was a pink laundry basket with Wilson’s blanket and toys. He knew even before he put the key in the lock that the door wouldn’t open.

  “Son of a bitch!” He looked at the hundred-pound dog, who was barking his head off and dancing around the pink laundry basket. The jittery feeling between his shoulder blades had grown into a full-blown, mind-bending pain.

  The words gold digger flitted through Gus’s mind as he tried to peer in through the kitchen window. The only thing he could see was a faint greenish light coming from the digital clock on the microwave oven. So much for that glass of wine; never mind a home-cooked meal.

  “You should a called me, Wilson,” Gus snarled at the dog. As though what he said was even possible. The big dog barked angril
y, as much as to say, What do you think I’m doing out here.

  “Let’s check the front door.” Wilson nudged Gus’s leg, then slammed himself against the door. The envelope stuck between the door and the jamb fell to the floor of the deck. The dog backed up and sat on his haunches. “Aha!” Gus said dramatically as he ripped at the envelope. He held up a single sheet of computer paper toward the light.

  Gus.

  I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working for me. I don’t want to be married anymore. I’m going to file for divorce. I packed all your things, and they’re on the deck, along with your dog. As you can see, I had the locks changed. I don’t want to see you anymore, so don’t come here, or I will file a restraining order against you. I’m keeping the Porsche to show you I mean business.

  The signature was a scrawled large E.

  “Son of a bitch !” Wilson howled at the tone of his master’s voice. “And she’s keeping my car! My pride and joy! Next to you, that is, Wilson,” he added hastily. “How the hell am I supposed to take all my stuff in that tin can she calls a car? I damn well do not believe this!”

  Wilson’s shrill barking told Gus that he had damn well better believe it.

  Gus sat down on the top step and put his arm around the big dog. His wife didn’t want to be married to him anymore. But she wanted his house and his car. Gold digger! So, his grandmother and the aunts had been right all along. His thoughts were all over the map then as he tried to figure out exactly how and when it had all gone wrong. There must have been signs. Signs that he’d ignored. How far back? The start of tax season? Before? October, maybe? Elaine had been looking for a job for over six months, so that would take it back to October. What happened at that time? He racked his brain. Elaine wanted to go on a cruise, but he’d been too busy to go. She’d pouted for two whole weeks and only gave in when he bought her a diamond bracelet. November was a disaster, and they’d eaten out at Thanksgiving because all Elaine knew how to cook was eggs and pasta. He’d wanted to go to his grandmother’s, but she had refused, so he hadn’t gone either. A real man would have gone.