Kiss Her Goodbye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Christ, Stella, what kind of thing is that to say?” Kurt’s brown eyes are not amused. He looks over one suit-clad shoulder and then the other, as if he half-expects to find one of the bank’s board members eavesdropping.

  Embarrassed, Stella sips her wine and fights the urge to glance again at her reflection in the mirrored pillar beside them. She knows her cocktail dress won’t be a size bigger and her hips won’t be a size smaller than the last time she checked. Black is supposed to be slimming, and she skipped lunch so that she’d be able to get the zipper up without straining. But she can’t stave off a self-conscious awareness that her dress is too snug, not to mention too dated. The other women in the banquet room—some of them bankers’ and doctors’ and lawyers’ wives; many of them bankers, doctors, lawyers themselves—seem infinitely more slender and fashionable.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” Kurt says. “I’ll be right back.”

  She refrains from telling him to go easy on the whiskey. He’s already striding toward the bar.

  But he has to drive them home. She can’t see well enough in the dark to drive on the highway. Night blindness, Daddy used to call it.

  Kurt calls it bullshit. He says that if she wears her glasses, she should be able to see just fine.

  Stella sips her wine, silently cursing her husband, missing her father. It’s been almost a year since Daddy’s heart attack, but she still forgets sometimes that he’s gone. Every moment that she remembers is a moment when she feels newly robbed. There is one less person in the world who loves her unconditionally.

  But you still have Mom. And the girls. And . . . Kurt.

  But Kurt doesn’t love her unconditionally. Sometimes she wonders if Kurt still loves her at all.

  She sips more wine, her eyes searching the three-deep crowd in front of the bar. Kurt is waiting for his drink, chatting animatedly with an older couple. His pale hair is receding at the temples and he, too, has put on a few pounds in the past few years, but he’s still handsome. Back when she met him, she thought he looked like a Nordic ski instructor: tall, blond, gorgeous.

  The same flattering adjectives could have described Stella, back then.

  And they still do. You’re still tall, still blond, still . . .

  No. She’s not gorgeous by any stretch of the imagination. These days, other adjectives crop up whenever she glimpses her reflection. Less flattering adjectives: dumpy, flabby, faded, weary.

  No wonder Kurt doesn’t want to get her tipsy and have his way with her. No wonder she caught him eyeing their beautiful teenaged babysitter tonight with more interest than he’s shown his wife in years.

  Caught up in her lousy self-image, it takes Stella a moment to realize that the faint sound of a ringing cell phone is coming from her black beaded evening bag. She hurriedly snaps the purse open, fumbling inside. The cap has come off the lipstick she tucked in earlier, and the hand that emerges with the cell phone is streaked in red. Lovely.

  “Hello?” She must have dropped her cocktail napkin. Damn. There’s no place to wipe her hand.

  “Mrs. Gattinski?”

  It’s Jen. The connection is underscored by static, but the sitter’s voice is unmistakable, higher-pitched than usual. It sends a ripple of alarm through Stella.

  “Jen? Is everything okay?”

  The line goes dead.

  “Want extra celery, too?” Matt asks, poking his head back into the family room, cordless phone in hand.

  Kathleen nods. “And extra blue cheese, too.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “Did I tell you to get mild this time? The mediums were too hot.”

  “No, but I will. Anything else I can do for you, your highness?”

  Kathleen grins. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

  He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Really. Don’t look so surprised.”

  “Well, it’s been a long time.”

  “Something tells me we’re not talking about wings anymore,” she says with a laugh.

  “Pretty sharp there, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I try.”

  Yes, and she also tries not to fall into bed too exhausted for anything but sleep every night. Not that he seems to mind that their once torrid love life has cooled to an occasional, fleeting fifteen minutes in each other’s arms. It’s not as though he’s pulling out all stops to seduce her, either.

  We’re becoming middle aged and boring, she frequently wants to tell him. But if she acknowledges it, she—or he—will probably feel compelled to do something about it. And frankly, most of the time she’s just too tired to care.

  Footsteps pound overhead. “Mommy!” Riley bellows from the upstairs hallway. “He shoved me in the closet again.”

  Kathleen eyes Matt. “How about if I call for the wings and you handle that?”

  “Too late. I already dialed.” He holds up the phone, retreating toward the kitchen.

  “Liar. You don’t even know the number off the top of your head.” She sticks out her tongue at him.

  There’s a thud overhead, followed by another shrieked “Mommy!”

  “I’m coming.” She starts up the stairs with a sigh, stepping around the heaping basket of folded laundry at the bottom. She’ll put it away later; she’s had it with housework today.

  She’s halfway to the second floor when the phone rings.

  Kathleen rolls her eyes and grins, muttering, “I knew you were a liar . . .”

  “Mom!” Curran is grunting from somewhere above. “Get him off of me!”

  Moments later, she’s on her knees prying her scuffling sons apart when she hears Matt’s hurried footsteps and keys jangling below. He calls something up to her, his voice sounding oddly urgent.

  “Shh!” Kathleen admonishes the boys. “Matt! I didn’t hear you. What?”

  Too late. Downstairs, the front door slams.

  Kathleen’s heart begins to pound. “Curran—Riley—did either of you hear Daddy?”

  Her youngest shakes his head, still intent on poking his brother.

  Squirming, Curran says, “Cut it out, Riley!” then, to her, “I think he said something about Jen.”

  Kathleen leaves the boys and hurries to the window in the front bedroom, just in time to see her husband take off down the street. Where on earth would Matt be going on foot?

  The Gattinskis’ house on the next block.

  That was Jen on the phone.

  Something is wrong over there.

  Each piece of the puzzle seems to fall into place with a heavy thud, stirring billows of worry within. Her eyes fastened to her husband’s retreating figure out the window, Kathleen attempts to quell the uneasiness.

  Maybe the toilet is overflowing, or . . . or . . .

  Maybe Jen can’t get a jar of peanut butter open, or—

  Matt is running now. Sprinting, as if his life—or God help her, Jen’s—depends on it.

  The trouble with events like this, Maeve decides, sipping her pleasantly chilled Pinot Grigio, is that she’s bound to run into Gregory. As a prominent local dentist, her ex is always invited to these Chamber of Commerce affairs.

  In the old days, Maeve reluctantly accompanied him, knowing they’d both drink too much, flirt too much, and wind up in a shrill argument on the way home.

  “How is your wine?”

  “It’s wonderful.” She smiles absently at her escort—Mo, as he likes to be called. His full name is Mohammed and she can’t begin to pronounce his last name, but that isn’t important. What matters, in Maeve’s opinion, is the M.D. that comes after it. And that the exotically handsome Mo is better looking, and wealthier, than Gregory.

  As Mo carries on a boring conversation with a couple of boring businessmen, Maeve expertly feigns interest while scanning the crowded banquet room for her ex. Either Gregory isn’t here yet, or he’s not coming at all.

  There are, however, several recognizable faces in the well-heeled throng: a few couples from the neighb
orhood, and one or two women she’s seen at Pilates classes at the gym.

  Maeve’s eyes narrow in fascination as she spots Kurt and Stella Gattinski. She’s met them once or twice since they moved into the development. The husband is charming; the wife could stand to lose a few pounds. At the moment, they appear to be in the midst of an argument. He seems irked and is obviously conscious of the spectacle they’re making; she looks distraught and clearly doesn’t give a damn who sees or hears them.

  After a moment, Stella Gattinski spins away from her husband and strides toward the coat room.

  Maeve watches Kurt shrug and turn back to the bar.

  Trouble in paradise, hmm?

  So what else is new? Is anybody happily married anymore?

  Okay, Katie—er, Kathleen—and Matt seem to be, she admits to herself, while nodding in blind agreement with whatever the hell Mo is saying.

  She finds herself wondering what her old friend did right . . . and how on earth she managed to land Matt Carmody. There was a time when Maeve would have sworn that Kathleen was destined to wind up homeless—or dead. In fact, during the years when they lost touch, she was certain Kathleen had fallen off the face of the earth.

  Then she heard that her old friend was back in town—more specifically, in Maeve’s upscale suburb, as opposed to the blue-collar enclave a few miles away, where they’d both grown up. She was stunned to discover that Kathleen had a charming husband and three beautiful children in tow: the proverbial Phoenix risen from the ashes of a traumatic life.

  There was no hint of the moody recluse Kathleen became in those years after high school. No, these days, she sounds like the same old Katie—aside from a few oddly skittish moments. She certainly isn’t fond of discussing what happened to her before—and after—she left town.

  Or rather, disappeared.

  For that’s how Maeve has always thought of her friend’s departure from the sheltered world where they grew up.

  One moment, Kathleen was there—on the fringes of Maeve’s world, and running around with a crowd of losers, but there—and the next, she was, quite simply, gone.

  Maeve knows why. She’d have figured it out even if she hadn’t heard through the grapevine that people had seen Kathleen and she was obviously pregnant. Their daughters are about the same age: Erin a mere six months older than Jen. But Maeve was married to her high school sweetheart when she had Erin. Hastily married, yes—too hastily, and too young, and not permanently—but married, just the same.

  Kathleen wasn’t at the wedding. Though they had grown apart, Maeve sent an invitation to her father’s address. Kathleen never RSVP’d. When she returned from her honeymoon, Maeve heard that Kathleen was pregnant and her father had sent her away when he found out. That wasn’t surprising. Drew Gallagher was stern, old-fashioned, extremely religious. The last thing he’d endure was having a pregnant, unmarried daughter under his roof.

  Maeve’s parents weren’t thrilled, either. But Gregory was almost finished with dental school at the time. He had an engagement ring on her finger before they told a soul she was expecting.

  She’s always wondered about the circumstances of Jen’s birth. She assumes Kathleen met Matt while she was visiting her Aunt Maggie in Chicago as she did every Christmas; that she had gone back to the Midwest when her father sent her away. Presumably, Matt married her before the baby was born.

  But she isn’t sure about any of it. Nice Catholic girls like Maeve and Kathleen didn’t talk about things like that back then. She doubts she’d have known the whole story even if their friendship hadn’t drifted.

  Still, you’d think Kathleen would be over it now. You’d think she’d be willing to talk about what happened to her back then with her newly discovered best friend.

  Well, she doesn’t. Every time Maeve tries to bring it up, Kathleen changes the subject.

  Then again, does Maeve really need to know the details? She has other concerns.

  Like whether Mo will want to sleep with her tonight when he drives her home. Erin is spending the night at Rachel’s, so Maeve can’t use her daughter’s presence as an excuse.

  It’s not that she isn’t attracted to Mo. It’s just that he’s old. Past fifty, if she had to guess. A far cry from the twenty-something personal trainer she was sleeping with last month. The trouble with younger men is cash flow; the problem with older men is . . . well, they’re old.

  Maeve again finds herself envying Kathleen’s marriage. Matt Carmody is the perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect man. If he weren’t spoken for, Maeve would have no qualms about going after him herself.

  Actually, if his wife were anyone other than Kathleen, she might consider it anyway.

  Then again, back in the old days at Saint Brigid’s, when Gregory was attending the all boys’ brother school, she seems to recall Kathleen acting awfully flirtatious around him at times, and vice versa. At one point, Maeve actually confronted him and demanded to know whether he was fooling around with her best friend behind her back. Of course he denied it.

  She didn’t even bother to ask Kathleen, who had the sweet, innocent act perfected back then. Maeve figured she wouldn’t admit to ever feeling a flicker of lust for the opposite sex, let alone for Maeve’s boyfriend.

  But now that they’re all grown up, Maeve won’t deny—at least, not to herself—that she occasionally feels more than a flicker of lust for Kathleen’s husband. Hell, there are times when she sees Matt Carmody and a whole roaring inferno seems to ignite inside of her.

  A delicious, forbidden fantasy slips into her mind: Maeve letting herself into Kathleen’s empty house with the spare key her friend gave her, then waiting, naked in the master bedroom for Matt to come home . . .

  But it’s a fantasy, nothing more. She’d never hurt Kathleen, despite whatever may or may not have happened back in high school. And she suspects that Matt wouldn’t hurt her, either.

  The perfect man.

  What on earth, she wonders again, did Kathleen do right?

  Frantic, Kathleen pulls up in front of the Gattinskis’ house, the SUV’s brakes squealing when she jams on brakes.

  “Just like the Batmobile,” Riley says approvingly from the backseat.

  “Stay in the car, both of you.” Kathleen jumps out and hurries toward the two-story Colonial that, aside from the white siding, red trim, shutters, and front door, is a cookie-cutter duplicate of their own.

  The place is lit up, inside and out, but there are no signs of flames or broken-down doors. Reassured, Kathleen tries the front door and finds it locked. The arched window is too high for her to see through.

  “Jen?” she calls, knocking. “Matt?”

  Footsteps tap across the floor inside. She finds herself staring at her husband as the door is thrown open.

  “What’s going on?” They say it in unison.

  Jen appears in the background, holding hands with the miniature Gattinski twins.

  Okay, so everyone’s in one piece. Good. That’s good.

  Breathing more easily than she has since she glimpsed her husband tearing off down the street on foot, Kathleen asks again, “What’s going on, Matt?”

  “Jen called. She said—”

  “Dad . . . shhh!” Jen motions at the children. “Girls, can you go change the Barbies into their dresses for the party? I’ll be right there.”

  “My Barbie isn’t going to wear a dress,” one of the twins protests. “She’s wearing pants.”

  “She can’t wear pants!” her sister challenges. “It’s a fancy party.”

  “They’re fancy pants.”

  “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Kathleen asks for the third time, losing patience.

  “Dad will tell you. I’ll be right back.” Jen hustles the bickering twins out of the room.

  In a low voice, Matt tells Kathleen, “She called me because she thought she saw somebody sneaking around outside the house.”

  “What?”

  “I checked outside and I didn�
�t see anything unusual, but she was really scared.” He shakes his head. “Do we even know these people?”

  “The Gattinskis? I know Stella.”

  “Well, I’ve never met her or her husband. For all we know, he could be in the mob or hooked up into something—”

  “Listen to yourself, Matt. That’s ridiculous.”

  “How do you know? Have you met him?”

  “No,” she admits.

  “So we’ve been letting her spend all this time in a total stranger’s house. Terrific. I knew she was too young to be babysitting.”

  “She’s fourteen, Matt.”

  “Not for a few weeks. She still sleeps with her closet light on, Kathleen. She’s got an active imagination, and—”

  “Maybe there really was somebody sneaking around outside.” She glances through the open front door at the SUV parked at the foot of the driveway, motor running. She had left the boys there without a second thought.

  Seized by a disconcerting vision of the sinister prowler car jacking the Tahoe with the boys in it, she tells Matt, “I’ve got the boys out there waiting. I’ll go get them and—”

  “Don’t do that. Just take them back home. I’ve got everything under control here, Kathleen.”

  “You called the police?”

  “The police? No. I checked—”

  “You didn’t call the police?” She opens her mouth to tell him about the person she thought she had glimpsed on the soccer field today, but Jen is back, alone this time.

  “Did Dad tell you?” she asks Kathleen.

  “He told me. Why were you looking out the windows in the first place, Jen? Did you hear something outside?”

  “No. I had gone into the living room to grab a video for the twins and I didn’t turn the light on. The shades were up. I happened to glance out the window and I thought I saw someone standing by the bushes outside, watching the house.”

  “You thought you saw, or you saw?” Kathleen asks, keeping an anxious eye on the boys in the car.

  Jen is hesitant. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I saw someone. I turned on the light right away—I don’t know why, because when I did that, I couldn’t see out the window anymore. And when I turned it off again, whoever I thought I saw was gone. I didn’t know what to do—I guess I freaked out a little. I started thinking about that girl, April—”