A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets

by Donna Birdsell

  Gorgeous, and young.

  “Nun-uh. He’s a baby,” Grace said.

  “All you gotta do is give him your undies, Grace. It’s not like you’ve never given a guy your undies before, right?” Dannie’s smile was evil. Evil and smug.

  Grace wobbled to her feet. Damn. He might be young, but she wasn’t that old. She still had decent legs and a not-so-bad ass. “Fine. Consider it done.”

  She marched to the ladies’ room, only to find a line a mile long. While she waited, she had plenty of time to reconsider her decision. There was something slightly sinister about that man.

  She could always go back to the table and make up a story for the “truth” portion of the game. Surely she could come up with something suitably shocking.

  Grace looked over at her friends, who watched her with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. No. She couldn’t lie to them. Way back when, they’d all sworn on their posters of Jon Bon Jovi. No lying at truth or dare. It was a matter of honor.

  But there’s no way I’m telling them the truth.

  Her own parents didn’t know about her arrest, and she intended to keep it that way. It had been a youthful indiscretion, and now that she was a hair past youthful, there was absolutely no need to be indiscreet. Especially since she just did it again—and this time, she definitely knew better.

  So?

  So she’d take the dare and go give GQ her underpants.

  She slipped into the bathroom and balanced against the toilet paper holder as she stripped off her underpants, happy that she’d worn a decent pair without holes. Sometimes following motherly advice paid off at the oddest moments.

  Stuffing the panties deep into her pocket, she fought her way out of the bathroom and through the crowd that had suddenly grown up around the bar. She tried not to look obvious as she slid in next to the Roman god, elbowing a pouty waif off of the bar stool beside him. The girl attempted a threatening look.

  Grace laughed. “Please. I’ve shaved parmesan thicker than you. Get going.”

  The girl slinked away to a group of equally emaciated friends.

  Grace ordered a margarita from the bartender, took the cigarette Cecilia had given her out of her pocket and stuck it between her lips.

  “Excuse me, do you have a light?”

  Adonis smiled, his teeth shining like Chiclets in the bluish light. “Sure.”

  He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and sparked it, holding the flame out in front of her. “How you doin’, sweetheart?” He pronounced it “sweethawt,” in a perfect South Philly accent.

  She leaned in and sucked the flames into the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep in her lungs. It wasn’t at all as pleasant as she remembered.

  “Just a minute,” she rasped, holding up a finger while she hacked into her palm. And into her sleeve. And into the hair of the girl next to her.

  GQ handed her the margarita and she sucked down half of it.

  “Grace.”

  “What?” he said. He looked confused.

  “My name. It’s Grace.”

  “Yeah. I’m Nick. Nick Balboa.” He affected a slur and shadowboxed the air. “Youse know, like Rocky?”

  “Right. Were you even born when that movie came out?”

  “Almost.”

  She grinned, aware that she probably looked incredibly dopey but for some reason was unable to stop.

  Now what?

  She decided that since this was a game of truth or dare, she’d just tell him the truth.

  “Nick.”

  “Yeah?”

  Damn, he was good-looking. The dimple on his chin momentarily distracted her.

  “Nick, I have a confession. Do you see those women over there?” She pointed to her friends. They all stared back like they were watching a bad reality TV show. All except Roseanna, whose head was back on the table.

  Nick nodded.

  “They dared me to come over here and give you something.”

  Nick grinned. “Like what?”

  “Like my underwear.”

  He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised. She guessed women offered him their underwear on a pretty regular basis, much as they did Tom Jones.

  “I have to give you my underwear,” she continued, “in order to satisfy some sick need they have to humiliate me.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  She sidled closer, and dangled her panties in front of him so the girls could see.

  Nick gave her panties an appraising look. He crumpled them up and stuck them in his pocket. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Wanna give your friends something better to watch?”

  Oh, my.

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.” He leaned in close, and she shut her eyes. He smelled of leather, Aramis and tequila—three of her favorite things. She knew what was coming, but she was afraid if she looked she’d chicken out. And she really didn’t want to chicken out.

  The DJ was playing the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and the beat reverberated through the bar beneath her elbow. Nick’s lips were mere inches away.

  What was it the Romans used to say?

  Oh, yeah. Carpe diem.

  Saturday, 12:17 a.m.

  Goodbye Girls

  When they finally came up for air—about thirteen minutes later—Cecilia was standing behind them.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Grace nodded.

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  “Okay.” Cecilia winked at Nick. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said. Rose Frost lipstick smeared his lips.

  Cecilia returned to the table and waved to Grace. She made a fist and held it to her cheek like a telephone receiver, mouthing the words, “Call me.” Then she and Dannie slung their arms around Roseanna and dragged her through the crowd toward the door.

  “Your friends leaving?” Nick asked.

  “Apparently.”

  For a split second Grace thought maybe she should leave with them, but when she tried to stand up, the room spun.

  Nick kissed her again, stroking her arms with his palms. It was like kissing Vinnie Barbarino, Scott Baio and Rob Lowe, all rolled into one. Just a teeny bit surreal.

  Nick slid his hand down to hers and linked her fingers in his and—

  Stopped.

  He stopped kissing her.

  He brought her left hand up between them and looked at her fingers.

  The diamond band Tom had given her for their tenth anniversary refracted the spotlight above them like a disco ball.

  “Nice ring. You married?” Nick asked.

  Damn. Why had she worn it?

  Oh, yeah. To discourage this very thing. After all, she was a sensible lady. A mother. A woman who wasn’t quite divorced. She shouldn’t be picking up strange men in bars.

  The momentary wave of guilt she felt was quickly replaced by drunken defiance.

  She slid the ring off her finger and dropped it into Nick’s drink. “Not anymore. Now kiss me.”

  Chapter 3.5

  Saturday, 12:49 a.m.

  Lady in Red

  Who was the babe?

  Pete watched Balboa with the blonde in the red jacket for almost twenty minutes. He’d never seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. Balboa always had a roll of cash in his pocket and a girl on his arm. Often, both appeared from nowhere.

  Problem was, this one didn’t quite look like Balboa’s type. His recipe for the perfect woman was forty-five percent silicone, forty-five percent collagen and ten percent ink.

  This one, while the clothes she wore weren’t exactly conservative, they didn’t come close to some of the anti-apparel he’d seen before. Her breasts actually looked real, too, and she didn’t have one visible tattoo.

  Something was up.

  As time went on, the crowd at the bar began to thin. Pete moved to a spot behind Balboa and the female. The woman stood to flag down the bartender, a
nd Pete watched as Balboa’s hand cupped her rather spectacular ass.

  Life could be so unfair.

  Pete ordered another club soda from the waitress and leaned against a column.

  If he had to guess, he’d say that Balboa had the memory key on him. According to Pete’s sources, Balboa had come straight here after meeting with the Russian’s competition, Johnny Iatesta, in Trenton. The asshole. Two years of wheeling and dealing, and the guy was going to screw him? No way.

  All Pete had to do was stick close until the horny couple left the club.

  He yawned. When in the hell were these two going to get a room?

  Just then Balboa slipped something into the pocket of the woman’s red jacket. Drugs? Money?

  The memory key.

  Balboa whispered something in her ear, and they sucked face for another five minutes before she broke away.

  She headed straight for Pete, brushing his arm with her breasts as she squeezed by him on her way to the can. She smelled fantastic. He thought she might have a pretty face, too, but it was dark and he’d been distracted by the rest of her.

  He watched the ladies’ room, looking forward to her return trip.

  She emerged from the bathroom, but instead of coming back toward him, she headed for the door.

  Pete hustled after her, pushing through the ranks of ultrahip boys and girls pretending not to notice each other. He’d almost reached the door when a guy resembling a woolly mammoth in a tuxedo plowed in.

  “’Scuse me.”

  “No problem.” Pete tried to get around him, only to discover six more just like him pouring through the door. Seven equally large women in ruffled bridesmaid gowns followed close behind the men.

  Pete got caught in the undertow and was pulled back into the club, surfing a wave of Aqua Velva and powder-blue taffeta. Somehow he managed to squeeze through the wedding party and reached the door just in time to see a cab pull away from the curb.

  Pete smacked the door with the palm of his hand.

  Now what?

  He turned and went back into the club. No way was he going to let Balboa disappear.

  But by the time he fought his way back into the bar, the only thing left sitting at Balboa’s bar stool was a lipstick-smudged margarita glass and an ashtray full of butts.

  “Shit,” Pete muttered.

  It really wasn’t his day.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, 7:54 a.m.

  Turning Japanese

  Someone was sticking needles into her eyes. Not sewing needles, but long, thick hypodermics.

  Wait. What was that? The smoke detector? The kids!

  Grace leaped out of bed and ran for the door, slipping on the silk jacket that lay on the floor, smacking her head on the ceramic cat at the end of the bed.

  She lay on her back, staring up at the frosted glass light fixture on the ceiling.

  That noise wasn’t the smoke detector going off. It was her alarm clock.

  “Crap.” She winced at the sound of her own voice.

  She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto all fours. Just the thought of standing left her weak with nausea.

  She crawled into the bathroom on her hands and knees and laid her cheek on the cool Japanese porcelain tile floor. Her tongue felt like one of Kevin’s gym socks and, she imagined, smelled like it, too.

  What have I done to myself?

  Her hand bore an ugly blue ink blot—the stamp for the club. And on her palm she’d written a number—1767.

  1767? What the hell was that?

  A high, wavering voice echoed in her head. “In 1767, the Townshend Acts were implemented by the British on the American colonies…” It was Mrs. Dietz, her ninth-grade American-history teacher.

  Grace squinted at the numbers again. Why in the hell would she have written the date of the Townshend Acts on her hand?

  She debated taking a shower but imagined the water would probably feel like Niagara Falls beating down on her head. She managed to pull on a sweat suit and comb her new pain-in-the-ass haircut without throwing up.

  She took three aspirins and staggered downstairs to check her Day-Timer.

  Meals on Wheels, the Goodwill drop and then Tom’s.

  She’d signed the papers he’d given her. No, she’d forged the papers (why not call a spade a spade?), and she just wanted to get rid of them and get on with her life.

  Crap.

  She dragged a giant green trash bag full of clothes from her closet. In a moment of pique over the bump on her head and her prick of an ex-husband, she stuffed the red silk jacket into the bag.

  Saturday, 9:11 a.m.

  Mrs. Beeber and Mr. Pickles

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Beeber peered at Grace through the smeary film coating the window of the storm door. Her head resembled a small dried apple nestled atop the collar of her purple turtleneck.

  “Meals on Wheels, Mrs. Beeber.”

  “I didn’t think you were coming today. You’re late.”

  “I’m not late, Mrs. Beeber. Will you open the door?”

  Mrs. Beeber squinted at her watch, and shook her head. “You’re eleven minutes late.”

  One cup of instant coffee—made with hot tap water and consumed while standing over the sink—had not prepared Grace for this day. She took three calming breaths. Nadi shodhana. Her yoga instructor would be proud.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Beeber. I couldn’t find my car keys.”

  In fact, she hadn’t been able to find her purse. She’d scoured the whole house, with no luck. She must have left it at the club.

  She’d allowed herself a few minutes of heart-thumping panic. Her cell phone was in there, along with her car keys and house keys (which explained why the panty hose she’d worn last night had been covered with mulch, and the spare key she hid under a rock in the flower bed was now on the table near the back door).

  But, worst of all, the papers she was supposed to return to Tom that morning were in that purse.

  When she went out to the garage, she realized she had to go back to Caligula anyway, to pick up her car. Surely her purse would be there, safe and snug in the arms of the Game Boy–playing bouncer.

  She’d chosen to ignore all logic to the contrary. Her stomach just couldn’t take it.

  So she’d snagged her spare keys from the hook by the door, and took the minivan for her morning appointments.

  “Helloooo?” Mrs. Beeber called her back to Earth, and made a sour face. “Are you coming in with that?”

  She held the screen door open and Grace entered, bearing a white tray covered with plastic wrap she’d picked up on her way there.

  Mrs. Beeber squinted at the tray. “Is it a kosher meal?”

  Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “You aren’t Jewish, Mrs. Beeber.”

  “Yeah, but they give you more with them kosher meals.”

  Grace set the tray on Mrs. Beeber’s mutton-gray Formica countertop. “I’m pretty sure everyone gets the same amount, whether it’s kosher or not. Is everything okay with you?”

  “As a matter of fact, my sciatica’s a bitch and my son never calls me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “And I got the runs from that ham casserole you brought the other day.”

  “I didn’t bring you a ham casserole.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Beeber scratched her chin. “Now wait, I remember. It wasn’t you. It was my neighbor Peggy. I should know better than to eat anything she gives me. One time, oh, I guess it was nineteen seventy-eight or nine…I remember I was watching Dallas…she brought me this disgusting meat loaf—”

  “Mrs. Beeber, I really have to get going. I have three more meals to deliver.”

  “Oh. Well. Can you help me with something before you leave?”

  “You know I’m not supposed to…”

  “But it isn’t for me. It’s for Mr. Pickles.”

  Mr. Pickles was Mrs. Beeber’s cat, a giant old Persian
with male pattern baldness and a lazy eye, who’d hissed at Grace on more than one occasion. Not a huge motivator.

  “Please?” Mrs. Beeber’s wizened face sank deeper into the turtleneck sweater.

  Grace sighed. “Okay. What do you need?”

  Saturday, 10:41 a.m.

  Shake It Up

  “Rough night, eh?”

  “Will you just help me, please?” Grace struggled under the weight of the bag filled with clothes, her arms weak from hefting a fifty-pound bag of cat food up forty stairs from Mrs. Beeber’s cellar.

  Grace doubted Mr. Pickles would live long enough to see the food at the bottom of that bag.

  Martha Moradjiewski, the clerk at the Goodwill, grabbed one side of the garbage bag and helped Grace drag it across the floor to the counter.

  “You look hungover,” the clerk said.

  “Just a little.”

  “Try a vanilla milk shake. They always help me.”

  Grace imagined Martha drank a lot of milk shakes, what with having a couple of sons who spent the day sniffing nail polish, a live-in mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s and a husband who considered pot a major food group.

  Grace slid her sunglasses on. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Six minutes later she pulled out of McDonald’s, shake in hand, heading for home. She took a sip, her eyeballs nearly imploding from the suction necessary to draw a mouthful of the stuff.

  “Ugh.”

  She stuck the shake in a cup holder and rolled down the window, trying to clear her head. What happened last night?

  There were togas, of course. And cigarettes. And primo butts.

  She remembered shots. Lots of shots. And lots of margaritas, too.

  She remembered talking about movies and music and high school haircuts. And boys. And men.

  Beyond that, nothing.

  She pulled into her driveway, not too sick to admire the bright red Japanese maple near the front door. She couldn’t imagine not seeing that maple every day.

  What she’d done in order to keep it crept back into her consciousness. One small act of forgery, and the landscaping was forever hers.