Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “I just wanted to check in, see how you think the fam is doing after that fiasco with Stosh last weekend.”

  “That mess.” Cassie pressed a palm to her forehead and groaned. It was the real reason Cassie had come home this weekend; she had been concerned about picking up the pieces. “I’m fine, but Trev and Maisy are still a little rattled. I’m so glad I missed that ordeal.”

  “You and me both,” Rachel agreed. “More the merrier is definitely not true at a domestic dispute.”

  A domestic dispute . . . that was what Mom had called it when she’d dropped that bomb over the phone last Sunday while Cassie had been trying to finish a paper in the university library. Apparently, the cops had been called to the house Saturday night when Mom and her boyfriend, Stosh, had gotten in a fight. So embarrassing. Stosh—actually Nick Anastasio—was Mom’s latest boyfriend, a Hollywood producer who’d been making big promises of revitalizing Mom’s television career. Years ago, before Cassie had been born, Ariel had been the star of Wicked Voice, in which she played a witch who used her voice to charm people into doing what she wanted. It was a pretty lame show, though Cassie and her sibs sometimes enjoyed watching episodes in syndication, grinning as a younger version of their mother sang her boss out of a grumpy funk or calmed two football rivals into forgetting a grudge.

  The kids never dreamed that anyone would want to see more of Wicked Voice, especially not with a singing witch pushing forty. But Stosh had a way of working himself into a dreamy frenzy when he talked about pitching a remake of the witch series. Cassie never quite believed a grown man could have that much enthusiasm for a TV show like Wicked Voice. More likely, Stosh had pretended interest to hook up with Ariel. Cassie didn’t like to think about that stuff, but in the years since Oliver had died, Cassie had become aware of her mother’s power over men. She had seen more than a few men stumble in the presence of Ariel’s sexual charms. So gross. Even though the master bedroom was off in its own wing above the studio, it was no secret what Mom and Stosh were up to.

  Being away at school most of the time, Cassie wouldn’t have cared if it weren’t for the younger kids. Trevor was eleven and Maisy was only eight, and they needed a mother who wasn’t so distracted all the time. Besides, it could be really damaging to have strange men coming and going at home. Cassie knew that; she had studied child development in a psych course.

  Rachel’s voice pulled Cassie back to the present. “Oh, honey, you don’t look so good.” There was an awkward moment until Rachel slipped an arm over Cassie’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “I was just thinking that Mom has never really gotten over Oliver,” Cassie said softly. “I guess none of us have.” Oliver Ward had been Trevor and Maisy’s real father, but he’d treated all the kids like his own. When he died four years ago, Ariel fell to pieces. Cassie had held things together for the family, stamping down her own grief over the loss of the only father in her life. But now and then, the pain slipped out. She would hear his laugh in the halls at school, smell his aftershave in the checkout lines at the store. She’d shiver a little when someone said, “No worries,” his favorite expression. Every time she came home from school, she expected to hear his low, rumbly voice greet her.

  “Oliver was a stand-up guy.” Rachel patted her shoulder. “Every man your mother has dated since is just a shadow of Oliver Ward. But then those are big shoes to fill.”

  Cassie leaned in to hug the older woman, soaked up comfort, then stepped back with a sigh. “Stosh would have never lasted,” she said. “I’m glad he’s gone, but I wish the end wasn’t so ugly. I can’t believe the police came to the house.”

  “The cops always respond in cases of domestic violence. I understand Stosh and your mom were throwing things. The candlesticks were flying.”

  “I know, I heard, that’s what Remy said. It sounded awful.”

  Rachel’s brown eyes grew wide with concern. “I’m just glad that the cops came before anyone was hurt.”

  Cassie nodded, not wanting to contradict Rachel to point out that the kids had been hurt. Trevor’s eyes had been shiny with gathering tears when he told Cassie about the incident, and Maisy, obviously scared, kept asking about Stosh. Questions like, “Are you sure he’s not coming back?” and “Why was he so mad?” Ariel didn’t answer her questions; she just told her to calm down and everything would be fine.

  Bullshit, Cassie thought. She hated it when Mom treated them like idiots.

  “Have you talked to Mom about him?” Cassie asked.

  “We had a heart-to-heart Saturday night, after everyone piled into my place and the kids went to sleep. Your mom was sure it was over.”

  “I think he’s gone for good,” Cassie said. “When I got home Thursday, while Mom was giving a lesson, I sneaked into her room and the master bathroom. No sign of his stuff anymore, and I looked through all the drawers. I think she really did kick him out this time.”

  “I sure hope so.” Rachel adjusted the loop of the apron around her neck. “I used to like Stosh, but he and your mom are a toxic combination.”

  “Yeah.” Cassie had a feeling that everyone her mom dated from here on was going to be a problem for the kids. “I know you have to get back,” she said as Rachel opened the kitchen door. “Thanks for the loan.”

  “Anytime.” Rachel paused in the doorway. “When are you heading back to school?”

  “Tomorrow.” Right now Cassie’s separate life at school was her escape from the highs and lows of life with Ariel Alexander, the freakin’ singing witch. “How’s KJ liking Green State?”

  “He likes it just fine. I can’t believe Remy and Jared are heading off in the fall.”

  They talked about college choices for a minute, and then Cassie made her exit. “Tell the guys I said hi,” she said, heading out.

  Cassie pushed out through the door and escaped the buzz of hairdryers and conversation. Outside she broke into a jog as childhood memories of KJ and Jared floated through her head. Those boys had tortured Remy and her with water guns, lizards, and skateboard challenges, but they were all grown up now. The guys were like brothers, Rachel like a second mother.

  Well, with a mother like Ariel, Cassie and her sibs could use a second mother.

  Back inside the bridal shop, she found Remy sitting with an elderly Asian woman who gingerly fingered the torn fabric of the dress.

  “I got the money,” Cassie said, pleased with herself.

  “And Mrs. Seng says the repair won’t cost much.”

  “For you, five dollars,” said the elderly woman. “It’s a slow time for me.”

  And no doubt Remy was getting the Miss Congeniality discount.

  “Plus she’s going to take it in at the waist.”

  “Just a little bit,” the seamstress said. “Such a pretty dress for a pretty girl.”

  “You are so sweet,” Remy told the older woman. “Thank you so much.”

  As Mrs. Seng took Remy’s measurements, Cassie paid for the dress, giving simple yes and no answers when Shanna tried to make small talk. Cassie wasn’t falling for that fake friendship crap. With Rachel’s loan, Cassie was able to pocket fifteen bucks after she paid Mrs. Seng the five dollars. She smiled at the thought of the groceries she could buy: eggs and cheese and fresh fruit. Things were taking a turn for the better.

  “Yup, that’s one of my adopted daughters,” Rachel joked when someone asked about the dark-haired girl who had dropped in.

  “That’s so nice.” Hilda stood in the next station, blowing out Becca Handwerger’s copper bob. “You have an extended family.”

  “Yup. Three daughters and another son, too.” Rachel smiled as she cut layers into the back of Tootsie’s hair. If she could draw Tootsie into the group conversation, maybe she wouldn’t find the woman so irritating.

  “And her sister is dating my Cooper,” Tootsie said. “She’s coming to Europe with us this summer.”

  Rachel refrained
from telling Tootsie that they’d already had this conversation.

  “Europe?” Hilda perked up. “I grew up in Austria. Are you going there?”

  “Well, let me see. I have the itinerary here.”

  As Tootsie searched her cell phone for the information, Rachel focused on the haircut and the conversation around her. One customer confided in her stylist, Sondra, that she recently had ended a bad relationship, while another talked about her sister needing a hysterectomy. People did that all the time: spilling their guts in the salon about awesome recipes and breast cancer, bad husbands and the kinky sex that someone else was having, evil teachers and online scams. If she ever had the money to go to grad school, Rachel figured she’d be a perfect candidate for a degree in psychology. Hell, she’d had years of experience as a counselor.

  It was amazing how a woman would share her secrets when you had her hair in your hands.

  Of course, not every bit of information shared by the gals in the shop was suitable for public consumption. Rachel had a mind for remembering women’s personal stories, but she wasn’t one to spread gossip. Hell, most women put their own shit out there on Facebook or Twitter or whatever, which was fine, but Rachel didn’t want to be the one broadcasting personal bits.

  And then there were the secrets she shared with Ariel, another category altogether. “Lock that up tight and throw away the key,” she used to tell her friend. Over the years they had taken turns leaning on each other, helping each other through the gnarly spots.

  Last Saturday night, it had been Rachel’s turn to help. She flashed back to the late-night call from Remy, the feeling of panic as she’d hurried over to the Alexander house at three in the morning, nightgown ruffling under her jacket. The cops insisted that Ariel and Stosh be separated, but Stosh was drunk and standing his ground.

  “So Ariel will go to my house,” Rachel had told the cop, a good-looking one someone had called Boss. His wife must have been pissed about him working a Saturday night. Rachel had gathered her friend’s brood like a mother duck, hustling Ariel, Remy, Maisy, and Trevor into her car, driving them the few blocks to her house.

  At the time, it would have been selfish to admit it, considering the circumstances, but Rachel had enjoyed having Ariel’s crew under her roof. Remy and Maisy had shared the double bed in KJ’s old room, Trev had unrolled a sleeping bag on Jared’s floor, and Ariel had shared Rachel’s big king-sized bed. Their two families fit together so well.

  “I am so sorry.” Ariel’s voice had been a low drawl. “Way to ruin your Saturday night.”

  “Are you kidding me? This house hasn’t seen this much action on a Saturday night since KJ threw himself a graduation party.”

  “I remember that,” Ariel said. “It was a whopper. Another time when the cops were called.”

  “Nothing like flashing lights and sirens to get the blood going,” Rachel said as she punched a pillow and propped it behind her back. “Talk about an adrenaline rush.”

  “Too much drama.” Ariel stared off as if trying to make out a distant sign. “It’s time to let him go. It’s over.”

  “Are you sure?” Rachel asked, testing her friend’s resolve. It wasn’t the first time Ariel claimed to be done with Stosh.

  “I am so done with him. Do you know what he wanted me to do?” Ariel told of the witch costume Stosh had brought this weekend, hoping that Ariel would reprise her role as the singing witch and give him a private performance.

  Rachel wiggled against her pillow, not wanting to hear the rest of this. “And did you?”

  “Hell no. That was twenty years ago and I’m done with that shit. And when I told him that, he kept needling me and . . .”

  Rachel found her mind wandering back to the scenario of her friend dressed in a witch’s costume. Had Stosh wanted her to perform the song as a striptease? Or was Rachel reading into it? Sometimes, hearing about Ariel’s escapades, Rachel felt like a dried-up old prune. In the two years since she’d lost Jackson, she had been completely focused on her shop and her sons; there hadn’t been time to think about dating, much less the desire. And even if she were looking, it would be hard to find a man to follow Jackson Simmons. A former marine, he’d been a good provider, a good man who’d died far too young. Cirrhosis. Yes, he’d always hit the beer hard, but he was never a nasty drunk. Never mean, the way Stosh was with Ariel, but then Rachel had gotten a full serving of cruelty.

  “Alcohol turns men into crazy bastards,” Rachel said. “I should have learned that back in the day with Gage.” Rachel had seen the withering effects of alcohol on her first husband, Gage Whalen, who had gone from being a teen heartthrob to a menacing, bloodshot, philandering fool in a matter of years. For a while she had tried to ignore his late nights at the bar and make their marriage work for the sake of the boys. Then, one night when he brought home a tart from the local saloon and she confronted him, he slapped her so hard that all fear flew out of her. One swing of his arm and she saw the only path: If she wanted to survive and save her kids, she had to cut him loose. That was when she knew it was over. The next morning she loaded his clothes into his sexy little Mazda and sent him packing, warning him to stay away from her and the boys. To her surprise, Gage disappeared, cutting the kids off without a birthday card or a penny of child support. Last she heard, he had headed down to Arizona to get in on the building boom down there.

  The memory still swelled her throat; sometimes the past was a bitter pill to swallow. “The beer destroyed Gage,” she told Ariel. “And though Jackson was never that nasty, it was alcohol that killed him, too. I wish they would make it illegal.”

  “I don’t,” Ariel said sternly, “and it killed my daddy, too. But I like to enjoy a glass of wine now and again, and so do you. And Stosh isn’t really an alcoholic. He’s got control issues.”

  “Right.” Rachel lifted her head from the pillow and nailed her friend with an uncompromising look. “Stosh loses control when he drinks. Same thing, honey.”

  “I’m too tired to argue with you.” Ariel stretched out on the bed, her complexion smooth as a whipped latte, her hair falling back in curly tendrils, despite the ordeal she had been through that night. “All I can say is that it’s over with Stosh. Really. I swear.”

  “Good.” Rachel had closed her eyes, vowing to remind Ariel of her resolution. Stosh was a lightweight in Hollywood and in life. A producer on a crappy little show, the man had been clueless when it came to Ariel’s kids. Callous toward Trevor and downright cruel to eight-year-old Maisy, who didn’t have a bad bone in her little body. The man was an ogre.

  Rachel had been glad to come to Ariel’s rescue last Saturday, especially if it helped Ariel slam the door on Stosh. The next morning, Rachel had been up at six to make pancakes, bacon, and eggs—a labor of love for her full house. How she adored feeding the little ones. She could sit at the table and chat with them for hours. Ariel and Jared had rolled their eyes at Rachel’s doting, but the situation had been a novelty, and it had driven home the point that she would be an empty nester soon. After twentysome years of parenting, the prospect of having an empty house rattled through her with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

  Tootsie’s Brazilian blowout took additional time, and suddenly Rachel found herself running late. No breaks for her this afternoon, but then that was a typical Saturday at the salon. She thanked God for Tootsie’s skimpy ten percent tip—better than five, which she had once tried—and directed the woman over to Allegra’s station for a mani-pedi, breathing a sigh of relief to have Tootsie’s negative karma a few yards away.

  With one customer after another, Rachel couldn’t allow herself to think too much about the problem with KJ. Sure, she found herself calculating numbers while the blow dryer ran: If she cashed in Jackson’s IRAs, and subtracted the taxes, what would that leave her? It might work, but money wasn’t the only problem here; KJ was being pushed to give up his passion, and that was a dilemma that no amount of money could fix for her son.

  After a quick tri
m for a teenage girl, she touched up the color for a fiftyish woman who thought she was channeling seventies Cher. One of these days, Rachel would convince Madeleine to ease up on the jet-black color and give up the waist-length hair.

  She was just cleaning up after Madeleine when Jared opened the door, a patient smile on his face as the other stylists cooed over him. Rachel couldn’t help the flash of motherly pride that filled her.

  “You got so tall!” Sondra said. “I barely recognized you.”

  Hilda reached up for a hug, and Shanna offered him some cookies from the tray. The backpack slung over one shoulder reminded Rachel that he was here to do a short sales pitch for her customers. Jared had begun selling Flashco knives last year, with a modicum of success. The freelance job was perfect because it forced him to step out of his shell and he could squeeze it in around his AP classes, Gleetime rehearsals, performances, and competitions. And Jared, old soul that he was, clicked with older adults, unlike KJ, who was respectful but horrified at the prospect of spending time with “old people.”

  “You can’t be here for a haircut. Your mama keeps you well clipped, I see.” Hilda reached up to run her hand over Jared’s hair, the stubbles on the sides where it had been buzzed. These days he wore it trim on the sides and thicker on top, a look that emphasized his wide brown eyes and bold dark brows, which Rachel longed to shape a bit.