Burning Down the Spouse

by Dakota Cassidy

  Nikos rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek in thought, forgetting Cosmos’s rude comments. “Hook me up with some meatloaf and gravy, would ya?”

  Cosmos grunted. “You got it.” He gave Nikos a shove to his shoulder. “Quit staring. She’ll have holes in the back of her sweater. She can’t afford less insulation on her scrawny body, or she’ll freeze to death.”

  Nikos ignored Cosmos and headed toward the stool next to Frankie, brushing against her when he sat with an unceremonious flop. His shoulder brushed hers, making her jolt a little. He motioned to her to take her earphones out. “So do you hate me yet?” Her red-gold hair, pulled back in a mussed ponytail, reeked of onions and garlic.

  Frankie’s red-rimmed, amber eyes gave him a thoughtful glance before returning to the magazine she was reading. “Well, I wasn’t in love with you after onion ten or so, but the garlic really was uncalled for. So while ‘hate’ is a strong word, I wouldn’t one hundred percent rule it out.” She wrinkled her pert nose to show her distaste for the dozens of garlic cloves she’d peeled and mashed for him to use in a marinade.

  Nikos folded his hands on top of the flecked countertop and smiled. “So I guess I should wait on my marriage proposal?”

  He managed to elicit a small smile from her when she turned up one corner of her full, strawberry-colored lips, unadorned by gloss. Admittedly, it pleased him to garner that kind of reaction from someone so deadpan most of the time. “Uh, yeah. At least until I get the smell of onions out of my hair.”

  “Damn. And I was already booking the doves and fireworks.”

  “Birds are messy, and fireworks are sort of pretentious.”

  “Hah! You don’t know my family. Doves and fireworks aren’t even the half of it.”

  “Speaking of family . . . your dad . . .”

  “He’s crotchety and feeling displaced.”

  Her head bobbed in agreement as she set the magazine down. “By me. Thanks for that. Between bouts with Ellen DeGeneres, he’s poked his head into the kitchen at last count eight times to scoff at my chopping skills—openly and with vigor.”

  “Don’t let him get to you. My father isn’t one to keep his feelings on the inside. He’s not angry with you. He’s angry with me for finally putting my foot down and making him let go of his duty to the diner when he had a bout with colon cancer.”

  “I noticed he’s not afraid to express an opinion.”

  Nikos grinned at her “That particular gene runs in the family.”

  Frankie sighed. “Are there more of you who’re unafraid to express their opinions? Because if so, I think we should just have one Frankie Bennett viewing and get all the ‘she’s too skeeny—Mitch is a letch’ comments over at once. It works toward good time-management skills.”

  His glance in her direction revealed she was teasing, and Nikos found he’d been holding his breath while she spoke. “Speaking of skeeny,” he said as Cos placed a plate in front of her, “eat. No one goes without a meal here.”

  “For the lady,” Cosmos said, pushing a fork and knife in her direction before winking lasciviously at his brother.

  “Oh, I’m not hungry,” she protested, letting her head fall to her chest in her now familiar gesture of withdrawal. “But thank you.” She flipped back through the magazine with distracted turns of the page.

  Nikos pushed the side of the fork through the slab of meatloaf on the plate and used his other hand to tilt her chin up, holding the utensil to her mouth. Her skin was so soft he had to fight to keep from tracing his thumb over it. “Thank me after you taste this, and don’t make me get Mama or you’ll find out just how much drama one little Greek woman can create.” He pressed the fork to her lips in encouragement.

  Frankie’s pretty eyes rolled when she opened her mouth, leaving Nikos fighting to ignore the kind of sensual visual she created. They widened when the flavors of Greek Meets Eat’s famous meatloaf tantalized her taste buds.

  “This is the famous meatloaf my Aunt Gail was talking about, isn’t it?”

  “Beats reading a crocheting magazine, don’t you think?”

  Frankie smirked, a dimple appearing on the left side of her mouth. “I’m trying to find a hobby. Because it seems I’ve never had one. Being married to Mitch . . .” She stopped short, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of red. “Yes. That meatloaf is amazing. It totally beats crotcheting.”

  His nod was smug when she cooed her approval, taking the fork from his fingers. “I know. It’s like ground beef and gravy nirvana, right? Mama’s the only one who ever lays hands on the meatloaf. It’s almost the only dish she won’t let anyone else prepare.”

  Frankie wiped her mouth with the napkin and nodded with a grin. “It’s delicious. I’ve never had meatloaf this spectacular.”

  “There’ve been three food critics and one franchise who’ve wanted to pay Mama for the recipe for that meatloaf, and she’s turned every one of them down. I’d put it to the test against any professional chef’s fig-and-goat-cheese-encrusted whatever.”

  Her head dropped again in a quick change of mood. “I’m not a food snob.”

  Fuck. She was offended. “I didn’t say you were.”

  Pushing away from the counter, Frankie scooped up the plate with one hand and pursed her lips at him in obvious disapproval. “You didn’t have to. Everyone thinks because I was married to a famous chef, I can’t eat anything that isn’t impossible to pronounce, never mind spell, and prepared by the hand of someone trained at Le Cordon Bleu. Yet not one of you have any idea just how many hot dogs and ramen noodles I’ve consumed in this lifetime.”

  Nikos made a face at her to try and lighten her darkening mood. “You eat ramen noodles? How bohemian,” he joked.

  But Frankie clearly wasn’t having it. Not if her stiff posture and narrowed eyes were any indication. “By the buttloads. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave you and your preconceived notions here while I go in the back and finish my break, then get back to mashing a thousand more garlic cloves before my shift’s over and I can go home.”

  She sashayed off in the direction of the kitchen while Nikos stared after her.

  Okay. So she was a little sensitive.

  Reason number nine hundred and ninety-two to stay far away from Frankie Bennett.

  Far.

  “I know it’s wrong, but . . .” the petite brunette named Brandy said from the far corner of the circle the support group had formed.

  “Whatever you’re feeling is never wrong—maybe misguided and sometimes even unwarranted, but your feelings are never wrong, Brandy. As long as you don’t let them eat you up and define you forever, it’ll be okay. So share them with us,” the pro bono therapist—some niece of a Leisure Village resident—prompted, her face kind, her words softly encouraging.

  Frankie struggled to focus on what Brandy could possibly add to the already somber discussion about the struggle to pay your bills with your minimum wage job after years of being accustomed to spending your days shopping and having your highlights retouched. This supposed support group at Trophy Job’s offices was about as uplifting as a day in the pokey.

  Brandy’s lower lip trembled. “You know when you enter a room? Like when you go to a restaurant or maybe a PTA meeting? I miss . . . I miss having his hand at the small of my back to guide me. I miss the security of it. The feeling that I wasn’t so alone,” she said, scraping an angry tear from her cheek. “I miss couple things. But at the same time, I hate that I miss it. He left me for my nanny. My Swedish nanny who was just nineteen! How could I miss anything about him?”

  Words were exchanged, supportive and understanding, in sympathy for Brandy, but Frankie lost her focus because she understood Brandy’s sentiments.

  They gnawed at her with an ache awakened by Maxine’s forceful entry into her cocoon of denial. Maybe it wasn’t as much Mitch’s hand as it was the idea of it she missed. What it represented.

  Couple things. All those small, day-to-day occurrences and routines now lost
to her.

  She was single.

  Woefully single.

  Something she hadn’t been in a very long time—if ever.

  Tonight, she felt more alone than she had in six months.

  Uncomfortable with this new rush of emotions dredged up by hearing these women spill their intestines, Frankie remained in her seat within the circle as everyone broke off into smaller groups.

  The gorgeous, near flawless blonde to her left leaned into her. “Tissue?” She held out a pink Kleenex.

  Frankie blinked, dragging a finger over her eyes to find them wet. Her breath shuddered in and out, taking the tissue from probably the most beautiful blonde Amazon on the face of the planet. “Thank you.”

  Her smile, perfect and warm, acknowledged Frankie. “I’m Jasmine Archway.”

  Of the famous Archway Tires?

  Her smile, red and glossed, was knowing, too. “Yep, that’s the one. Performance tires, truck tires, radials. Tires, tires, tires. Isn’t it funny when the last name Archway is mentioned, Archway Tires is the first place people’s minds go? Especially here at Trophy Jobs where everyone’s jacked up. I bet the name wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at the Stop & Shop. Anyway, I’m Ashton Archway’s ex-plaything. Ex and now broke plaything, that is.”

  An ex-plaything named Jasmine . . . poles, showers of dollar bills, and thong-tha-thong-thong-thongs came to mind.

  She chuckled, reading Frankie’s thoughts again. “And no. I wasn’t a stripper. My mother was a botanist. Jasmine was her favorite flower.”

  Frankie dropped her head to her chest, swiping at errant tears while hiding her shame for judging Jasmine.

  She gave Frankie a nudge with her equally perfect round shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. Looking the way I do, the stripper-slash-escort thing comes with the territory. I own it. All the labels a blonde like me conjures up—I own every one of ’em. I know I’m hot. I worked hard to maintain the gifts God gave me. Look where that got me, huh?” She looked down at the front of her tight ruby red sweater, catching Frankie staring with a question in her eyes. “And yes, this is my rack. Not the job of some fancy plastic surgeon. Though,” she said on a wistful sigh, “I wish I’d reconsidered when Ashton said I could have a lift if I wanted it. These days, they’re finding it harder and harder to breathe through all this underwire and steel.”

  Frankie burst out laughing, putting a hand over her mouth. “It’s obvious I don’t have the same problem. But on the upside—no boob sweat.”

  “Ah, but we have many other things in common. You’re Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife, Francis.”

  There was just no hiding—even looking like a mere shadow of her former self didn’t help. Frankie averted her eyes, fighting the rising swell of panic in her chest. She fought an uncomfortable fidget, forcing herself to stay seated instead of running out of the room as though it were on fire.

  Jasmine placed a hand on her arm, her frosted white nails flicking at Frankie’s wrist. “It’s not like everyone doesn’t know, Francis.”

  “Frankie.” She cleared her throat. “It’s Frankie.”

  “Okay, it’s not like everyone doesn’t know, Frankie. You did lose your mind on national TV.”

  There really was something to be said for phrases like “not in polite company” and “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Her words were bitter in response. “Yep. That was me.”

  Jasmine shrugged her slender shoulders. “So own it. Your husband’s off screwing a chick named after a deer in a Disney movie. He did something shitty, and you let him have it for most of the world to see. Is there any shame in calling someone on their craptacular behavior?”

  “I think it’s frowned upon in national television settings.”

  She let her blonde head fall back on her shoulders with a chuckle, throaty and rich and so open, Frankie envied her freedom. “Tough shit for Mitch. Maybe he should have been smarter and banged the maid instead. It certainly would’ve been less global and far more discreet.”

  Somehow, Jasmine, with her outspoken acceptance and brash observations, made Frankie feel a little less like a social pariah. “And maybe not quite as painful.”

  “Maybe. But here’s how I look at it. You got out in the nick of time. Mitch isn’t getting any younger. In fact, he’s getting wrinklier by the day. Not that you’re getting any younger either, but you’re still a ways behind old Mitch. On the bright side, you’re still young and pretty, though you’ve let yourself go these days because you figure why get your gorgeous on when you won’t ever have Mitch’s seal of approval again. You’ll learn that was all bullshit when you find yourself again.”

  All wise words, except for one little problem. “Where exactly do I go to find myself anyway? I keep hearing that phrase bandied about like a tennis ball. Is there a place of business for it? Like the Find Yourself store?”

  “If only it were that easy. We’d all be lined up. It takes time to figure out who you are when you’re a scorned trained seal.”

  Frankie’s smile was ironic. What a spot-on way to describe their former lives. She spread her arms wide. “Has any of this helped you? I mean Maxine’s guides and pep talks and support meetings?”

  Jasmine’s head bobbed with enthusiasm. “I know it sounds hokey-guru-ish, all the crazy euphemisms she’s got and pamphlets on how to adjust to being poor—which in and of itself is just pathetic, isn’t it? Nobody forced me to become candy for some rich man’s sweet tooth. I let that happen and, in the process, I became complacent. I didn’t have to end up poor. That’s on me. So yes, I’ve learned a lot since I found Maxine and Trophy Jobs. If it weren’t for her, I’d be in the nearest homeless shelter. Instead, I have my own little studio apartment and a cat named Gary.”

  Nothing said enticing like a cat and a studio apartment.

  Jasmine gazed at her, her hazel eyes, deep and alluringly seductive, capturing Frankie’s. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but to me it’s everything. I have more pride than I ever did as Ashton’s wife, and I’m content. I can’t say I was ever really content when I was married to him. My life is a whole lot simpler now, but I don’t miss the privileges much. Okay, maybe I miss the weekly manicures and my masseuse, but there’s something to be said for knowing you can take care of yourself, learning how to budget, making a living that’s all yours.”

  Who knew Maxine Barker was such a goddess? “And Maxine did all of that for you?”

  “Nope. She was just my port in the storm. She taught me to suck it up, but I did all the sucking,” Jasmine said on a throaty giggle.

  Suddenly, this was all too much information for her. It was a bit like attending an Amway convention with tips and advice for pitiful divorcees.

  Jasmine patted her arm in consolation. “You’re not there yet. You’re still too resentful Maxine interfered, and sometimes these meetings can be overwhelming. All those sad stories of one-time rich women dumped on their saggy asses for younger, hotter babes. I wonder sometimes what someone on the outside would say about all this vapidness in just one room.”

  Frankie’s eyebrow rose. “You mean the dreaded middle class?”

  Jasmine barked a husky laugh. “Yeah. Looking back now, hearing some of the new girls and their stories, I have to remind myself I was once like them.”

  “You make this adventure sound like you’re Cinderella, only in reverse.”

  “Trust me when I tell you that once Cindy was done running off with the prince, I’d bet my still perky ass she was bored to tears living in that castle with nothing to do but wait for Prince Whatever to come home on his white steed.”

  Frankie laughed again. Huh. For the second time tonight. Like real, honest to God laughter.

  Jasmine rose, leaving Frankie strangely regretful she was planning to make her exit. “Some of us are going to Greek Meets Eat for coffee. You wanna come with?”

  Oh, hell to the no. She’d had enough of the diner and hot-pants Nikos and his assumptions for one day. Frankie gla
nced at her watch. “I can’t. I have an early day tomorrow. Maybe another time?” She found she meant that, too. Jasmine’s approach to her very public divorce was to live out loud, and it piqued Frankie’s curiosity.

  Jasmine wrapped her equally red scarf around her neck and buttoned her jacket. “I’ll hold you to that. It’s good to get out, and coffee’s cheap. Plus, the refills are free. Now give me your phone. I’ll put my number in it. Call me if you ever need to talk, okay? Otherwise, I’ll see you next week.”

  Frankie obliged by handing Jasmine her aunt’s cell phone. “It’s my Aunt Gail’s phone. I don’t . . . well, I can’t . . .”

  “Afford one of your own yet.” Jasmine clucked her tongue between pearly white teeth. “You will. Soon enough. When you can, I’ll show you how to bargain hunt for the cheapest, yet most efficient cell plan.” She punched in her number and smiled when she handed it back. “Oh, and while you’re hunting for a hobby,” Jasmine said, looking down at the woodworking magazine she’d grabbed after deciding crocheting just wasn’t for her, “try decoupage. It’s cheap and you can use fun, inexpensive things like holiday napkins on sale for half off to do it. You should see the fabulous President’s Day mirror I have in my bathroom. Anyway, see you next week, Frankie.”

  Decoupage. “Next week,” she mumbled, watching the sassy sway of Jasmine’s confident ass leave the conference room.

  “I see you met Jasmine?” Maxine asked her from behind.

  “In all her outspokenness.”

  Maxine’s laughter filled her ear. “She’s really something, and just an FYI, she’s come a long way since I first met her.”

  “Because of you.”

  Maxine shook her head, the soft curls of her hair brushing her shoulders. “Nope. I had nothing to do with it. Okay, I had a little to do with it, but very little. I only helped her maximize skills she didn’t know she had and use them in the workplace. She did the rest.”

  Curious, Frankie asked, “What does she do?”

  “She’s a bookkeeper.”

  “Where?”