In seconds it was over.
Duke set his hat back on his head and turned to Dannie. “You paint that picture? That lady on the bed?”
Dannie nodded.
“I’m a great admirer of art. When can you get me the other book?”
“So we have a deal?” Dannie stuck out her hand.
This time Duke shook it instead of kissing it. “We have a deal. But only because I admire your spirit, Mrs. Treat. You’re a regular filly, you are.”
He motioned one of his goons over. “Cecil. Escort Mrs. Treat wherever she needs to go.”
“That’s not necessary,” Guy said. “I can take her.”
Duke shook his head. “You’re going to stay with me. We need to have a little talk.”
Cecil, a bald, flat-nosed, walking refrigerator of a man, swept an arm toward the stairs, motioning Dannie to walk in front of him. She looked over her shoulder at Guy.
He nodded to her. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”
He sounded as if he might be trying to convince himself as well as her.
Duke’s bodyguard shuffled behind Dannie, past the Derby Dining Room, where spectators discussed what horse they wanted in the third race over plates of pasta and chicken cacciatore.
“Where are we going?” Cecil asked, his soft voice diametrically opposed to his big hard body.
“To the ladies’ room.”
Cecil rolled his eyes, but followed her as she located the same restroom she’d stopped at on the way.
There was a line, of course. She waited, letting a few other women cut the line, until the same stall opened up that she’d used before, on her way to see Jimmy Duke.
Inside the stall she removed the small plastic bag from the trash receptacle that was screwed onto the steel partition. Beneath it lay a paper bag containing Roger’s second ledger.
“YOU HID THE OTHER BOOK in the ladies’ room?” Guy asked, laughing.
“I just figured if I gave him both of them at once, I wouldn’t have any leverage.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.
She shrugged. “A girl has to have her secrets.”
Guy stopped and kissed her, right in the middle of the parking lot. “Will you tell me some of them?”
She smiled. “If you’re a good boy.”
They walked a little bit more, the late-October sun glinting off car windshields and mirrors, making the lot look as if it were filled with diamonds.
“I have a question for you, now,” she said. “What did Duke say to you while I was gone?”
Guy laughed. “He told me he’d never liked Lisa. He said I should do everything in my power to make you happy, because you’re a keeper.”
“He said that?”
“Yep. He said you have a rare gift for negotiation.”
Dannie laughed, too, giddy with relief and lack of sleep, and the thrill of the deal. She could hardly believe she’d faced down Jimmy Duke and won.
Well, provided that she didn’t end up dead tomorrow.
They reached Guy’s car, and both of them seemed a little bit amazed that they’d gotten out of the place with their limbs intact.
“What now?” Guy asked.
“Let’s go get the kids.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nine months later
Richard and Betsy ran up and down the hall, past Dannie’s paintings that hung on the walls—Woman With Lily, The Bathing Pool, Green Chair on a White Beach.
They were subdued pieces. Tasteful. Perfect for the hallways of Guy’s day spa, Pink.
Or rather their spa, thanks to the money Wiser-Crenshaw had coughed up.
Dannie was mostly a silent partner, providing the artwork for the building and her opinion when Guy asked for it. Guy ran the place, which, although it had opened its doors less than four weeks ago, was booked solid for the first six months of operation.
There was just something about Guy that made women want to put themselves in his hands. Herself included.
Dannie smiled at the thought of the night before. And the night before that, and the night before that…
Turned out Guy was right. A temple could be every bit as much fun as an amusement park.
Dannie snatched up a twin in each arm as they toddled past her. “Richard, come on, honey. We’re going to be late for visiting hour. Betsy, put your shirt back on. What did I tell you?”
Betsy sighed. “A girl has to have her secrets.”
They trooped out to the front of the spa, to the salon area where Guy had just finished coloring a customer’s hair.
Dannie waved to the other stylists, and some of the customers, as Guy followed her out to the parking lot.
“Are you going to see Roger?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Though he had escaped Judy Finch’s clutches in Cuatro Blanco, Roger had been nailed by Customs when he’d tried to use Lyle’s passport to get out of the country. He now awaited trial for insurance fraud at the county lockup. His bail had been set at half a million dollars cash because he was considered a flight risk.
His lawyer was convinced Roger would serve only a couple of months if they could arrange a deal for him to testify against Jimmy Duke, who had been arrested for passing counterfeit money in an FBI sting operation. The investigation had prompted an audit of Duke’s finances, which had led to the arrest of a dozen employees of Wiser-Crenshaw, including Ben Wiser himself.
Guy folded Dannie into his arms and squeezed her tight, her cheek pressing against the soft pocket of his pink silk T-shirt. “Guess what? My lawyer called today. Lisa finally signed the divorce papers.”
Dannie sighed with relief. Her own divorce had gone through a couple of months ago, with little protest from Roger. He’d said it was the least he could do.
But Lisa had clung to the misguided notion that Guy would welcome her back with open arms. She’d come home broke, unable to find a job in Cuatro Blanco, and was living with Rose.
“We should celebrate,” Dannie said, thinking about the negligee she’d bought that afternoon at the lingerie place next to the Wee Ones Art Studio.
“How about we take the kids to Pizza Pete’s?”
Dannie was about to protest, but the thought of cheese-laden pizza and greasy fries made her change her mind. Living with Guy had forced her to cut way down on her junk-food fixes, so she had to take them however she could get them.
“Deal,” she said.
ON HER WAY HOME from visiting Roger, Dannie’s cell phone rang.
“Hey, Dano!”
“Lyle?”
“God, it’s great to hear your voice! Listen, you probably know Roger stole my passport and all of my ID, and of course the embassy here is dragging their feet getting me a new one. I can’t get out of this country. It’s driving me crazy, Dano. You gotta help me.”
Amazing. It was as if he couldn’t remember holding a gun to her head.
“Gee, Lyle. I don’t know…”
In the background she could hear him shouting, “Come on. Don’t tell me it’s siesta time again!”
Panting, he came back on the line with her. “Dano, you’ve got to send me my birth certificate. You have a key to my house. Just go over there and get it—”
“Listen, Lyle. You’re breaking up. But I hope you’re having a great time down there—”
“No! Dannie, don’t hang up! I need your help.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she said. “And Lyle?”
“What?”
“Take it easy, amigo!”
Suburban Secrets
To all the girls who kept my secrets.
We sure had some good times, didn’t we?
Chapter 1
Friday, 7:17 a.m.
Weird Eggs
“Kevin, let’s move! It’s 7:17.”
From the bottom of the stairs, Grace Becker heard the telltale thump of a body rolling out of bed. Jesus. They had thirteen minutes. She’d better find something he could eat
on the way to school.
Megan and Callie were already in the kitchen, poking the food around on their plates.
“Finish your eggs,” Grace said.
Callie stuck out her tongue. “What’s in them?”
“Camembert and shallots,” said Grace. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“What’s wrong?” said Megan.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” Grace grabbed a Pop-Tart from the pantry and stuck it in the toaster.
“You always cook weird stuff when you’re upset,” Megan said. “So, what’s wrong?”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to say?
Well, girls, I’m upset because your father left me for his older, less attractive assistant; he’s been a complete dirtbag about the divorce; we’re probably going to lose our house; and the closest thing Mommy’s had to a date in the last ten months was drinking a Dixie cup of warm Gatorade with your field hockey coach, Ludmilla?
She sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. Eat your breakfast.”
“Mom, nobody eats breakfast. And I mean nobody.” Megan, at twelve, had some sort of detailed list in her head about what everyone did or did not do, which she checked with agonizing frequency.
“They especially don’t eat eggs for breakfast,” Callie added.
“Yeah?” said Grace. “When I was your age, I would have killed to have eggs for breakfast. But it was cold cereal and a vitamin pill every day for me. Grandma actually had a job.”
“You could get a job,” Callie suggested.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Grace tried to draw a deep breath, but it got stuck halfway down.
She was going to have to get a job. But where? She hadn’t held a position outside her yoga class in thirteen years.
Everything in her life had revolved around Tom, his career and their kids. His bosses had loved her, his coworkers’ wives had envied her, and his clients had jockeyed for invitations to Becker parties. She’d been the events coordinator, secretary, moral support beam, taxi service and butt kisser extraordinaire, all without ever drawing a paycheck.
But it was time to face facts. Tom was gone. He was making a new life, with a new woman who would be all those things.
So who would she be now?
She forced a smile. “If I get a job, who’ll take care of you guys?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Please, Mom. I’m almost thirteen. I think I can get my own breakfast.”
“What? A handful of grapes and a Diet Coke? I don’t think so. You’re going to have a decent breakfast if I have to give it to you through an IV. You’re not going to end up looking like Lara Flynn Boyle.”
“Who?” said Callie.
“The walking corpse on Twin Peaks.”
“Twin what?”
“Never mind. Eat your eggs.”
“I’m with Callie. I think you should get a job,” said Megan. “You need a change. Don’t you want some excitement?”
“There’s plenty of excitement around here,” Grace said. “Just yesterday while I was folding towels in the laundry room, I saw Mrs. Pollack’s dog bite the mailman in the crotch.”
“Mother!” Megan jerked her head in Callie’s direction. “Was that really an appropriate thing to say in front of the child?”
“Who are you calling a child?” Callie shouted. “I’m almost nine!”
The Pop-Tart started smoking in the toaster just as Kevin flew into the kitchen and slid across the floor in his socks. “Four minutes!” he said, breathlessly.
“Wow, you can hardly tell,” Megan said.
Grace examined her son. His hair stuck out from his head like he’d spent the night in electroshock therapy. His shirt was wrinkled, and she was pretty sure he’d taken the jeans he was wearing out of the hamper.
“No way. Get up there and do it right,” she said. “Meet us at the car in—” she checked her watch “—three minutes. I’ll have your breakfast with me.”
“Why can’t I have a Pop-Tart, too?” Callie whined. “You only get something good around here if you’re late.”
“Is Dad coming to my game this afternoon?” Megan asked.
“I’m sure he is, but I’ll ask him when I see him.”
She’d be seeing him this morning. Damned Tom and his damned lawyer. Big Prick and Bigger Prick, as she liked to think of them.
They’d scheduled the fifth meeting in two weeks to discuss the settlement. This divorce was such a joke, all they needed to get it onto network TV was a laugh track.
Grace plucked the molten hot Pop-Tart from the toaster and wrapped it in a paper towel. “Okay, let’s roll. We have seven minutes to get you to school.”
The girls happily dumped the rest of their eggs down the garbage disposal and grabbed their backpacks from the hooks by the door.
Friday, 8:25 a.m.
Foot Powder and the Mouth
The Grocery King piped a Muzak version of U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” into the aisles. Grace was just the age to find this both entertaining and disturbing.
She checked her list.
Salmon. Fresh dill. New potatoes. She was going to make herself something special tomorrow night to celebrate her freedom. Her parents were taking the kids for the Columbus Day long weekend and solemnly swore to get them to all extracurricular activities on time and dressed in the correct uniforms.
Maybe it would be good to have a relaxing weekend alone. Completely alone. She could think about what she was going to do with her life when she was the ex–Mrs. Thomas Becker.
The thought made her break into hives.
She hung a left into the pharmacy aisle and threw things into her cart.
She stopped in front of the Dr. Scholl’s display. A lump crept up her throat, and before she could stop them, the tears came. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t had to buy foot powder in ten months.
Tom had notoriously damp feet. And it wasn’t as though she missed his feet—they really were gross—but she’d loved him so much, she’d been able to overlook the grossness. Would she ever feel that way about someone’s feet again?
As she fished through her purse for a tissue, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Lorraine Dobbs, otherwise known as the Mouth of South Whitpain.
“Grace? Are you all right?”
Grace nodded. Her blouse, now soaked with tears, stuck to her chest. “I think I’m allergic to foot powder.”
Lorraine gave her a funny look. “O-kay, then. Are you going to Misty’s later?”
Grace nodded again.
“Alrighty. See you there.” Lorraine hurried off, one of the wheels on her cart shuddering in time with the Muzak version of “Rock the Casbah.”
Grace checked her watch. Already nine minutes over her scheduled grocery shopping time.
Friday, 9:33 a.m.
Poster Girl
“We were about to send out the National Guard,” said Tammy Lynn. “You’re three minutes late.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” Grace threw her coat and purse on a hook in the closet and rushed over to the chair at Tammy Lynn’s station at Beautific, the salon where Grace had been getting her hair done for the past ten years.
“Grace, I’m only kidding,” Tammy Lynn said, laughing as she fastened the black polyester cape around Grace’s neck.
“Right.” Grace laughed with her.
But the thing was, she didn’t really think it was funny. Punctuality was important. A minute here, two minutes there. They all added up. When you had three kids you learned how to manage your time, or else dinner was chronically late, homework time was chronically late, and you ended up cleaning the bathroom at ten-thirty at night instead of watching the rerun of Murphy Brown on Lifetime you’d been looking forward to all day.
Her shoulder muscles bunched painfully. She had to relax. Maybe she could squeeze a few minutes of meditation in before lunch.
“Cover the gray and trim the ends?” Tammy Lynn asked, plucking the barrette from Grace’s shoulder-length brow
n hair.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Tammy Lynn spun the chair around to face a poster of a slender, sophisticated woman with a soft, blond, bouncy cut that looked like at least twenty minutes worth of work every morning.
“Wait,” Grace said. “I want that.”
Tammy Lynn stopped the color bottle in midair. “What? The do on the poster?”
Grace nodded.
“Really? You sure? You gotta blow it out with a brush and curl it. You can’t just put it back in a barrette.”
Grace studied the poster again.
It wouldn’t be a completely off-the-wall thing to do. She’d been blonde once, a long, long time ago. Before Tom had hinted it wasn’t quite sophisticated. Not quite who he thought she should be.
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe she needed to shake up her life a little. Hell, she could get up a few minutes earlier.
“Do it,” she said.
Friday, 10:58 a.m.
Big and Bigger
As Grace waited for the elevator in the four-story, brick-and-tinted-window building that served as suburban Philadelphia’s answer to the high-rise, she raked the wispy hairs at her neck with her fingernails.
What had she been thinking? She felt naked without her ponytail. And the last thing she wanted to feel around the man who was almost her ex-husband was naked.
She hadn’t actually wanted to be naked around him, either, for a long time.
She supposed she had a sixth sense that he’d been cheating on her, which was probably why she’d skipped the meeting with the decorator that day and gone straight home, only to find Tom stretched out on their bed, covered with peanut butter. His assistant, Marlene, was on top of him, wearing nothing but a Smucker’s negligee. A nauseating sight, considering that on her best day, wearing her best Donna Karan power suit, Marlene looked a lot like a broomstick in a red wig.
Grace had been angry as hell. In retrospect, she realized it was mostly because they’d ruined a pair of really good sheets, but also a little bit because she’d been married to Tom for thirteen years and they’d never made a PB and J sandwich together. The most creative thing they’d ever done in bed was fill out their taxes.
A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets Page 18
