by Claire Cook
I hummed that old Mister Rogers song about it being such a beautiful day in the neighborhood as I plugged in the GPS and rolled backward down the long driveway. Shannon and Luke had loved that show, and I was sure Mister Rogers was a nice guy and all that, but something about the way he took that cardigan of his out of the closet always gave me the creeps. Sesame Street felt safer to me somehow, but who knew what twisted things went on behind closed puppet doors at that show either.
“The world’s a tough place,” I said out loud.
The GPS squawked awake. “Turn left onto Interstate 85.”
“Not even close,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”
Why should I have to be the one to tell Denise her boyfriend was a two-timer, a snake in the grass, a sleaze bucket? In the code of female friendship, were you always honor bound to let your best friend know when you saw her significant other, or even her insignificant other, kissing another woman? And what if Denise already knew that this idiot saw other women? What if she accepted that as part of the dues of dating a cute, rich, hot, younger man? Maybe I should try to get an answer to that question before I jumped into the fray. So, I could say, how’s the weather up there? Oh, by the way, do you and Josh see other people? Just curious. Not that I’m prying or anything.
No, wait. I’d make Josh tell Denise. That’s what I’d do. It was only fair. And if he wouldn’t tell her what a slimeball he was, I’d quit. And then I’d tell him exactly where he could put his stupid hotel. And then I’d . . . what? Go home? Put on that Stepford Wives apron and rustle up some grits for Chance? Tell Denise, so we could shoot Josh and run away together? Bali? Paris?
“You have reached your final destination,” the GPS said.
Amazingly, we were in front of the hotel. “Right on the money,” I said. “Good job.”
I figured there must be some hotel parking around here somewhere, but I certainly couldn’t find it. I should have thought to ask, but, I mean, the least Josh could have done was to let me in on something like that.
We pulled into a small lot down the street. I started to lock the GPS in the glove compartment but decided it would be safer to take her, I mean, it with me.
I stopped in at Starbucks for a nonfat latte. I wasn’t really stalling. I just wanted to make sure I was sufficiently caffeinated for confrontation.
As much as I loved Shannon’s lush suburban neighborhood, I could see myself living here in the city, too, in a town house or a midrise condo with a nice view of the Atlanta skyline. I wouldn’t even bother to buy pots and pans. I’d just wander the streets and graze. There were plenty of interesting restaurants, and I was pretty sure I’d passed a Trader Joe’s.
I’d find a gym and take some more Zumba classes. I reached up and felt my forehead. There was just a small knot where the swelling had been. Next time I’d be more careful on those turns. Maybe I’d even bring the GPS with me for navigational backup. In eight beats, please turn right. At your first opportunity, reverse direction and execute a legal booty shake.
A homeless woman was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall with a black garbage bag for a pillow and a handle-less ceramic mug with a pittance of change inside. I averted my eyes, but not before I saw that the mug said WORLD’S BEST MOM.
I kept walking. She might not even have any kids. She might even use the money she panhandled to buy drugs. I’d seen an episode like that on Addicted. Or maybe it was Intervention. If I gave her money, I’d probably just be enabling her.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care. My problem was that once I started caring I didn’t know how to turn it off. There was so much pain and suffering in the world that sometimes it felt like if I stopped to let it in, the floodgates would open, and I’d be swept out to sea. I was the kind of person who couldn’t just write a check to a disaster relief fund without wanting to jump on a plane and save the whole country. We’d adopted our family pets from animal shelters, and yet I could still see the faces of the ones we didn’t take home with us.
It wasn’t my job to mother the whole world. Every crying baby wasn’t really calling out to me, and every homeless woman sitting on the sidewalk didn’t have my name on her forehead. I’d paid my dues. It was my time now.
I’d given. I gave at the office, and I gave on the home front. I was always giving. Give, give, give. I’d spent the last two decades at it. I mean, did anyone in my family ever have a need I didn’t meet? Was there ever a car pool I didn’t drive, a committee I didn’t serve on, a crisis I didn’t try to solve?
It wasn’t just our immediate family I’d mothered. I’d collected food for the local food pantry, shopped and wrapped for the Christmas toy drive, driven into Boston to drop off donations at Rosie’s Place and Dress for Success, dragged two eye-rolling teenagers and one husband who would have rather been playing tennis to help build a Habitat for Humanity house.
Back when Luke was in elementary school, not one but two of his friends had spent a long string of overnights with us while their mothers had chemo. We’d registered and paid for one of Shannon’s friends to take the SATs and helped her apply to colleges because her parents were embroiled in the first stages of a bitter divorce and refused to take responsibility for anything.
Done. Finished. Over it. If there were a pill for selfishness, I’d totally take it. I wanted to be one of those women who spent the whole day thinking me, me, me. I’d fill my days with massages, manicures, shopping, maybe even some minor plastic surgery.
I finished my latte and lobbed the cup into a barrel. I walked back to Starbucks and ordered a bacon, gouda cheese, and egg white frittata on an artisan roll, and a Grande Caffè Mocha.
When I handed the homeless woman the bag and the take-out coffee cup, I couldn’t quite look at her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She put the hot cup on the ground and kept one hand on the bag, as if I might change my mind and try to take it back.
“You’re welcome,” I said as I walked away.
I wasn’t going to think about her anymore.
CHAPTER 24
I REVERSED DIRECTION and walked past the hotel. I picked up my pace and started swinging my arms as I practiced reading Josh the riot act in my head. Then I made a U-turn and marched straight to the hotel.
I turned the key in the lock and karate kicked the door open.
The lobby was empty.
Somehow I thought Josh would be standing there, that I’d catch him red-handed with the other woman in his arms.
Maybe they were still in bed. I pictured myself going from room to room, kicking open each door until I found them naked and quivering in fear. But I didn’t know where the guest room keys were, and even at a glance I could tell the doors were too high quality to kick in on my own.
I perused the immediate area, looking for clues. Two snifters still perched on the bar, one dotted with sticky brown Kahlúa residue, and the other with about an inch of liquid in the bottom. Judging by the make of the glasses and their position on the bar, they appeared to be Josh’s and mine from Friday.
But perhaps this was simply the spot where Josh lured all his women: Hey, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? Can I buy you a drink, baby? What sign are you? Would you like to come upstairs and see my etchings?
I held the glass that may or may not have been mine up to what little light there was in the dark bar. I wasn’t sure what telltale signs I was looking for. A shade of lipstick that only a home-wrecking, boyfriend-stealing slut would wear? That wasn’t fair. The poor woman probably thought he was unattached. I mean, Tiger Woods, Jesse James, or Josh, who’s really at fault here? So what if the women aren’t perfect—porn stars can be victims, too.
I shifted the snifter so the light would catch it, but I still came up clueless. Why hadn’t I kept reading mysteries after I graduated from Nancy Drew?
“A little early, isn’t it?” Josh’s voice said behind me.
The snifter in my hand hit the concrete bar and shattered instantly, stale Kah
lúa spattering my favorite denim jacket and white T-shirt like a zillion little freckles. As hip as they are, never ever put in concrete counters if you’re the least bit attached to your glasses and dishes. They’re simply unforgiving.
I started picking up the glass and then decided that, given the circumstances, my outfit was more important.
“Clean cloth and soda water,” I said.
“Aye-aye,” Josh said. He found a cloth behind the bar. When he pushed the button on the soda nozzle, it let out a blast of air. “Shall I try the Sprite?”
“Water,” I said. “Unless that thing has Oxiclean on tap.”
Josh laughed, which I thought was unfair, since I hadn’t intended to be funny. I made sure his fingers didn’t graze mine when he handed me the dampened cloth. I couldn’t even look at him, but out of the corner of my eye I could see he was wearing jeans and a Woodstock T-shirt. I mean, give me a break, he was probably too young to have even been born at Woodstock.
“Is that your mother’s T-shirt?” slipped out of my mouth, possibly a result of overcaffeination.
Josh stopped picking up the shards of glass. “Excuse me?”
I looked him right in the eye. “I saw you. I saw you kissing a woman on the street.”
Josh didn’t look away. “And you’re asking me if it was my mother?”
“Ick.” This guy really was a sicko. “I’m not asking you anything. I’m telling you that I drove by over the weekend and saw you kissing another woman. In broad daylight. On the street. Between two Bradford pear trees.”
He smiled. I wanted to kill him. Or at least ground him.
“They were flowering,” I said randomly, as if this would prove that I’d been there and maybe even wipe that smirk off his face.
“You should have stopped,” Josh said. “That was Melissa. We’ve been friends since college. We wandered around and then picked up pizza for her husband. And three kids.”
I looked for signs of lying, perhaps a small twitch or a higher pitch to his voice. I’d read somewhere that women often lie to make others look good, while men are more likely to lie to make themselves look good. I’d also read that women think they look much worse than they actually do, and men think they look substantially better. I thought these two tidbits might be related, to each other and to this situation, and when I had the time to sit down and meditate about them at length, I hoped to come to some profound conclusion.
In the meantime I’d focus on the most important thing. “You didn’t cheat on Denise with her?”
“Hardly.” Josh took out his cell and flipped open the lid. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Melissa yourself.”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly.
We looked at each other.
I looked away first. I bunched up the damp cloth and started wiping down the bar. “Don’t tell Denise, okay?” I said. “She’ll kill me.”
Josh smiled. “Don’t give it another thought. She’s lucky to have you for a friend.”
The phone in his hand let out the first few tinny notes of “Stairway to Heaven.”
Josh pushed the Off button.
If you’re ever trying to figure out if someone is lying to you, watch carefully. Are the answers to your questions delayed? Does the face become stiffer, the lips tighter? Are the palms balled into fists? Are the shoulders hunched? Is the potential liar pale? Breathing heavily?
I simply couldn’t tell. But I was watching him.
I’D MET DAN THE HANDYMAN on the highway on Zebra Day. He showed up on time with a big truck and a couple of beefy sidekicks and got right to work. Josh and I figured out what would stay and what would go, marking the trash with big Xs made from a roll of orange plastic tape we’d found. When we finished, Josh headed out for sandwiches and coffee while I unpacked the sample paint colors I’d picked up over the weekend.
Chocolate walls were a no-brainer if we were going to call the hotel Hot Chocolate. They’d also give the hotel the feeling of relaxed sophistication I was going for. But it went beyond that. I’d once read that a blind person entering a red room actually feels warmer than when entering a white room. I wanted sightless and sighted visitors alike to feel the warm, decadent, comforting kiss of chocolate when they stayed in this hotel.
For a chocolate lover, there are four basic food groups: dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, and chocolate martinis. My design plan was to hit them all.
I’d use the richest, deepest chocolate for the main public spaces and lighter flavors in the adjacent areas. Benjamin Moore Chocolate Fondue was a real contender, but my gut was that Behr Iced Espresso was going to edge it out. Iced Espresso was a rich, sophisticated chocolate brown with black undertones. Back in the day, you might find a shade like this in a smoking room or a man’s study. Repurposing a traditionally manly color had the added bonus of giving it kind of an illicit feel, the way women must have felt when they first traded in their whalebone corsets and petticoats for the comfort of pantaloons.
I painted large swatches of each color on several walls. I’d let them cure and deepen, and in forty-eight hours I’d know for sure.
I believed in keeping life and color palettes streamlined and simple. Since the life part was a little rocky right now, I’d redeem myself in the color department by sticking to the tried-and-true 60:30:10 rule. I’d use 60 percent of the deepest color, either Chocolate Fondue or Iced Espresso, then 30 percent of a lighter color like Behr’s Cliff Rock or Sherwin-Williams Nomadic Desert on the ceilings and an occasional wall. The 10 percent would be our accent color, maybe a pop of fun turquoise or deep teal or even a spicy red. A warm white chocolate trim would bring it all together if I went with the red or teal. If I went with the turquoise, I’d go with a shade closer to whipped cream or the marshmallows you’d put in hot chocolate.
All these paint names were actually making my stomach growl. Oddly enough, I didn’t really feel hungry. Maybe surrounding guests in the color of chocolate would make them feel as satisfied as actually eating it, the way flipping through an occasional cookbook satisfied any residual urge I still had to cook.
Josh kicked the front door open. He put a big white paper bag on the bar and began pulling out sandwiches and coffee.
He handed me a chocolate rose.
I kept my hands at my sides. “What’s that?”
He laughed. “I just thought we should mark the occasion.” He put the rose in the empty snifter on the bar. “Never mind, I got peanut M&M’s, too—all this chocolate talk is killing me.”
I took a quick bite of a turkey sandwich and went back to painting.
“Soup’s on,” Josh yelled to Dan and his posse the next time they passed through.
I kept painting.
“Okay, well,” Josh said. “I’ve got some work to catch up on, so if you don’t need me for anything. . . .”
“Just a check,” I said. I nodded at the three guys inhaling their sandwiches. “And I’ll need a deposit for the electrician and the plumber, too.”
Josh finished chewing a bite of sandwich. “How long do you think the whole thing will take?”
“Not a minute longer than it has to,” I said.
He pointed to a paint sample. “I like that one.”
He had a good eye. He’d picked the perfect contemporary accent for the chocolate walls and white chocolate trim.
“That’s Million Dollar Red,” I said.
“I like the sound of that.” Josh popped a handful of M&M’s in his mouth and held out the bag.
I tried to resist, but somehow I took the bag from him anyway. “Everybody does,” I said. “I think we should use it on the front door, too. It’s good feng shui.”
Josh nodded. “So, what’s next for you?”
My eyes teared up. “I have absolutely no idea.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized he meant the job. I looked up at the ceiling so my tears would drain back into my eyes.
“Paint fumes,” I said, even though we
were using zero-VOC paint so there really weren’t any.
He didn’t say anything.
I popped an M&M into my mouth. “Shopping. Shopping’s next. What I meant was I’m not sure which store to start with, but I’ll make a quick loop to see what’s out there before the electrician and plumber get here.”
I carefully counted out three more M&M’s and handed the bag back to Josh.
“Want some company?” he said.
“I thought you had work to do.”
“I can do it later.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’m driving.”
Before we left I wrapped up the remaining half of my turkey sandwich and grabbed the chocolate rose off the bar.
Josh wrinkled his forehead. “I think there’s still a bag of chips left.”
I found them at the bottom of the big white bag.
“Is your daughter not feeding you?” Josh asked.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I said. I jogged the half block and dropped off lunch for the homeless woman. Her eyes were closed, so I just put the rose on her lap and the sandwich beside her.
I thought I heard her say thank you, but I was jogging away too quickly to be sure.
The hotel and restaurant surplus outlet was a huge flat-roofed mint green building in what appeared to be a sketchy part of the city.
“I don’t know about this,” Josh said. “I’m not sure we should even get out of the car here.”
“Relax,” I said. “I haven’t lost a client yet.”
“By the way,” Josh said. “You’re allowed to park in the hotel parking lot.”
I took the keys out of the ignition. “As soon as I find it, I’m planning to.”
The minute we got inside, I was in bargain-hunter’s heaven. I found the padded and tufted chocolate Ultrasuede headboards first.
“I don’t know,” Josh said. “Are you sure they’re even new?”
“At that price, of course they’re not new,” I said. “They’re rejects from a five-star hotel somewhere. But what do we care? They’re in great shape, and they’ll take up most of the wall and make a huge statement.”
