“Thanks.”
“And remember,” he says, his hand on the doorknob. “No concocting crazy theories about your husband’s secretary. Don’t borr—”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t borrow trouble.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Doc.”
“You said yourself a few sessions back you have no real reason to mistrust Andrew. You said your friend said there was nothing going on.”
“Got it.” I gesture to the door, ready to scram yesterday.
“All right.” He opens the door. “I’ll call in the prescription later this afternoon. Have a good weekend, Jackie.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dr. Pierce gave me the most brilliant idea! I can’t believe it’s taken me nearly the entire day to figure it out.
As soon as therapy ended, I drove back home to Emily’s apartment and counted the cash she’d left for me. Minus the thirty-odd bucks in change, I had eight crisp one-hundred dollar bills. In terms of spare change, that’s a hefty amount, but when it comes to redecorating an apartment…
I was immediately discouraged when I realized just how pitiful the sum was, so I tucked the cash back inside the mason jar and decided my decorating therapy would have to wait. Instead I popped in an old Cary Grant DVD that Emily still had lying around for me, and after a few tries the old machine sprang to life and I was happily taken back to a merrier age.
It was halfway through the film when it dawned on me: Dr. Pierce’s brilliant idea about mutual friends and proving infidelity.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier!” I exclaim to Bella, who’s recently discovered just how comfy Emily’s Euro-style loveseat is.
I leap from my spot on the sofa, the bed portion of it still out, blankets and sheets in a heap of a mess. I rush into the kitchen and pull my cell phone free from my handbag.
“So can’t believe I didn’t think of this before, honey,” I say spiritedly to Bella.
“Lara?” I say as her voice comes across the line. “You out of work yet? You free to chat?”
***
Lara said I was insane, but she could commiserate with me. She’d been cheated on. She knew the road all too well. She knew it from both sides, in fact, not something she’s particularly proud of, but something she always says she’s growing from.
I really can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner—what a grand idea! Lara’s new boyfriend, Worth, works at Jennings & Voigt with Andrew. If anyone could have the closest interaction with Andrew and Nikki and all that went on in that office, it’d be him. The two don’t exactly work in the same department, but Worth sees Andrew a hell of a lot more often than I do these days. He probably also sees or talks to Nikki on occasion. He must have the scoop on those two!
So when I went to Lara with the request that she ask Worth about what he’d observed between the two on an average, daily basis, she, on the one hand, thought I was insane (and probably rightfully so), and on the other couldn’t blame me. She agreed, though rather reluctantly, to ask Worth if anything seemed peculiar between Andrew and Nikki.
“I don’t know, Jackie,” Lara says after fifteen minutes’ worth of discussing the issue at her place early this Friday evening. She pulls an IZZE from her refrigerator, sets it on the counter, then pulls out another one, silently asking me with a questioning face if I want one.
I nod, telling her to go on and open one for me.
“I’ll totally find out for you,” she says, “but I can’t just come outright and ask Worth if he thinks his coworker is having an affair. I mean, Worth and I haven’t been dating that long. It’d be way weird.”
“Do it for me. For your best friend,” I plead.
She pops open the beverages and hands one to me. “I said I’d do it.” She takes a quick swig. “I just have to be a little clandestine about it, that’s all.”
“Well, whatever,” I say, taking a drink. “Whatever info you can get from him, I’d totally appreciate it.”
Lara raises high one brow. “I suppose…”
“It isn’t that big a deal, asking him. Just kind of hint at it, ask what mood Andrew’s in. If he’s all happy and stuff, then he’s totally banging the whore. If he’s miserable, then…” I can’t hide my growing, lopsided grin. “Then that’s kind of good, you know?”
“Have you heard anything from him? Not even any lawyers?” Lara scrunches her face in entreaty.
“Nope.” I take a long pull of the bubbly, fruity drink. “It’s better this way…for now at least. Give me time to figure things out. Get shit straight.”
“So you’re going to look for that job you and Dr. Pierce talked about?” She leans against her granite kitchen countertop, but not before unbuttoning her suit jacket and removing it, neatly setting it on the counter behind.
“I don’t think so,” I groan out in response, half-regretting having spilled the latest session to Lara. If I knew she’d play the employment card too…
“I talked to Sophie.” She what? “A while ago, really,” she says. “Robin and I both have, actually. Mentioned to Sophie that maybe she could give you some work. Dr. Pierce is right; it’s a golden shot, really.”
“No.” I take my bottle and meander into the dining room. I take a seat at the wooden table, my chair inches away from the treadmill that’s situated in a cramped way in the same room.
Lara follows me, her suit jacket in hand. “Sophie said okay. Only like one or two hours a day a couple days a week to get you started. See how things go.”
“Uh-uh,” I sound through a drink.
“It’s responsibility, yes, but we all think it’d be good for you.”
“I don’t think so.”
She sets her jacket on one arm of the treadmill. “Let’s face it, Jack—you are going to need money. You are going to need do something. You’ve got all this time, no husband to come home to—”
“Thanks!” I say hotly. “Thanks a lot. Rub it in.”
“You know I didn’t mean it to sting.” She takes a seat across from me.
She’s right; I’m just upset with my situation. I’m angry with Andrew. How dare he put me in such a predicament!
“Look, if you’re interested, Sophie said she’d be open to giving you some hours,” Lara says.
“How courteous.” I suppress the strong urge to roll my eyes or say some snide remark.
“I know she’s the obsessive-controlling, Type-A girl and all, and working for her is probably some sort of nightmare for you.”
I nod in agreement.
“But you could give it a shot. Maybe…”
“Maybe,” I finally consent, but mostly just to put the topic to rest.
“Anyway!” I push my bottle into the center of the dining table, then trace the small line of condensation it’s quickly made. “I can still work on Em’s decorating as a project.” Then I add in a mumbling way, “With the pennies I have.”
“Yeeees,” Lara draws out. “But that’s not exactly a job. A hobby, yes!” She smiles broadly. “A good start.”
“It’s something.”
“It is something.” She pats my hand, then gives it a little squeeze. “I’ll talk to Worth for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” My face lights up.
“Yeah, we’ve got a date tomorrow. Going to Bainbridge Island. Some beach time.”
My face falls at the mention of Bainbridge Island, as images of Andrew, sailing, our mostly happy time together, all flash by. “Good for you,” I force myself to say, and in an equally forced tone of pleasure. “That’s nice.”
“Yeah, just a day trip, but a romantic one.” She smiles gaily then takes another pull of her drink.
“So you’ll ask him tomorrow?” I trace the remainder of the condensation line. “That’s really great.” I rub the dampness on my bare leg. “Don’t know what I’m going to do all day and weekend by myself…”
Lara taps the tabletop a couple of times. “You said it yourself: Decorate Em’s place.” She stands and pushes the dining chai
r in. “Or go offer Sophie a helping hand.”
***
I withdraw the second-to-last cigarette in my wrinkled pack of Parliaments and light up. Pioneer Square is comforting in the daytime, the red brick a cheerful color, the green of the trees vibrant, the chatter among friends and rustling of bags as shoppers duck in from antique shop to bookstore to novelty shop a familiar comfort.
At night it’s even more magical. When the moon is large and golden, like tonight, and the sky is clear, the stars twinkle majestically, the brickwork has a warm, rustic charm to it. It’s still very much like an old Hollywood film set, but one that’s peacefully resting for its rote six, seven hours of sleep before the director, cast, and crew come flocking back. Lights, Camera, Action!
The moths and rare lightning bug flit by, ready for their own close-up with the golden, glowing lamps spotted about the square. The slightly misty air sweeps its roundabout way from the waterfront on through Downtown and turns this way and that about the hodgepodge of brick façades and candescent skyscrapers. Very little chatter, if any, can be heard throughout the square—mostly that of shopkeepers shutting down for the night or last-minute shoppers at one of the low-slung yet quaint used bookstores.
As I near the end of my cigarette, I catch sight of two people busily working inside one of the antique shops—the same antique shop, in fact, that had the darling hat box I had once admired. One of them looks to be on a ladder, the other holding something large and round above his head. The lighting from the shop spills out plentifully into the square, almost coaxing me to come in.
I rub out my cigarette and lightly jog over to the lively little shop.
“Hi, there,” the middle-aged man holding up what turns out to be a large papier mâché globe says as soon as I enter. “Can we help you?”
“Are you still open?” I ask, looking behind me at the door, searching for a sign that might answer my question. I can’t spot one.
“For a pretty lady like you, we’re open a while more.” He smiles and lowers the globe.
“We’re still technically open for ten more minutes,” the older man on the ladder says in a huffy way. “Have a look around, and if you see anything you like and can’t reach,” he gives one quick stomp to the ladder’s step he’s perched on, “now’s the greatest time to ask.” He chuckles at his sense of humor, and I thank them both, wandering around the cramped and dusty yet sweet-smelling shop.
When I left Lara’s I hadn’t intended on doing anything worthy. I thought I’d wander on home, try to tune in to something on the cable-less television, or maybe crack open one of Emily’s few bottles of wine she has in her wine cabinet, maybe call it a night early. It’s not like I’m swimming in cash to go out and hit the clubs or anything.
But instead I found myself in Pioneer Square, sitting on a bench all by my lonesome, enjoying the subtle summer evening—contemplating life, love, all the squeaks and troubles it’s been causing me lately.
Sure, I’ve been meaning to get around to shopping for Emily’s place, but her minimal budget isn’t exactly inviting.
Then, when I thought I’d never get around to the project, I caught sight of Pioneer Square Antiques.
I finger a stack of green, leather bound books. Gulliver’s Travels, one spine reads in gold. I twist my head to see the others: Into the Looking Glass, Keats: Poetry and Prose, and To the Lighthouse.
My eyes are averted to a Tiffany glass lamp in tangerine and forest green. The base looks tarnished by time, but nothing a quick polish couldn’t fix up to a high gloss.
This place is such a treasure trove. I’ve stopped by on rare occasion in the past, but usually I just gawk through the windows. Like I’ve said, Andrew wouldn’t dream of me hauling this “crap” into our modern home. It’s just pretty stuff from a past and beautiful time, meant to be looked at, meant to be stored, peered at through glass, and simply admired from afar.
My eyes survey the room. I’m hungrily taking everything in, a feast for the eyes, and I stop at a large, wooden rocking horse. His mane was probably once the color of caramel, but now a thick layer of dust and the passing of time have turned it to a khaki hue. I touch the smooth, red seat—made to look just like a saddle. I run my hand up to the tail, also probably once vibrant but now colored by time, perhaps neglect.
“That’s all hand-carved there,” the middle-aged man says. He sticks his fingers, save for his thumbs, in his front pockets. “Dates back to the 1950s. Quality, sturdy piece, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, running my fingers back over the saddle.
“You have a little one? A son?”
I give a small laugh and say, “No. No, not me.”
“Little brother, maybe?” He looks at me with a silly grin.
“No.” I look back at the stack of books, shift upwards along the shelf stacked with China, knickknacks, sconces, and doilies, antique dolls, and lace curtains.
“It’s a genuine find, and at just one-fifty.”
“One-fifty?” I chuckle. “As in one hundred and fifty? A bit above my price range, but thanks.” I glance about the room. Probably can’t afford anything, in all honesty…
“Lend me a hand here, will ya?” the man on the ladder calls out to his coworker, and the middle-aged man rushes over and assists with the globe. “Dang thing just won’t stay put.”
I look up at the two men struggling with the delicate globe the size of a large beach ball, and an idea comes to mind. “Hey, uh, excuse me.”
The middle-aged man looks to me.
“How much is that globe there?” I ask. “That’s papier mâché, isn’t it?”
“Yup.” The middle-aged man takes the globe in his hands and brings it over to me. “Has a couple holes here.” He turns it around gingerly, then gestures to Africa, turns again and points to the South Pole, and turns it a bit more, gesturing finally to a spot somewhere in Canada. “Couple of holes, like I said. But it sure has some charm, doesn’t it?”
“I think the holes give it charm. How much?”
He looks up to the older man, who replies, “Twenty.”
“Twenty bucks?” I ask.
“Twenty,” he repeats.
The middle-aged man looks at me, a gleam in his eye. “Fifteen for the pretty lady.”
“Aw, if we’re always going to knock off a few for every pretty lady that comes on in, then—”
“Then we’d be doing the right nice thing, wouldn’t we?” The man holds the globe out for me.
“Another steal of a deal today…” The older man’s voice is deep and drawn out.
“Come on. It’s an old globe.”
“With holes,” I point out.
“Which add the charm,” the older man says smartly.
“Here. Fifteen. You can get this beautiful globe, and we can close up shop and call it a night.”
“Deal,” I say, handing him the twenty dollar bill Lara gave me tonight, telling me to fill the refrigerator with some substantial food. “This is too perfect for my friend; I just can’t pass it up.”
And with just five bucks to my name and a ratty old papier mâché globe high on charm carefully tucked under my arm, I’m happy as a lark as I bounce out of the shop and pass under the low awning of the storefronts along the square.
I’m just about out of the square when I notice the used bookstore at the corner. The lights are all off, save for a low window lamp shedding light on the front display, and there’s a small sign posted in the corner. It reads, Help Wanted, Part-Time, Inquire Inside.
“Hmm,” I say with a sniff, then continue my peppy walk out of the square to my awaiting car.
Maybe I will offer Sophie some help, I think. Maybe some part-time work will be helpful.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Come on, pick up, pick up.” I cross my fingers on one hand and eagerly grip my cell phone with the other. “Pick up, pick up.” I consider disconnecting the call and just driving on over to Lara’s place, but the needle of my gasoline gauge tha
t’s dangerously hovering over the ‘E’ warns me that it’s best I stay put. “Dammit, Lara. Pick up!”
“Hello?” a groggy-sounding Lara answers.
“Finally! You do realize it’s nearly noon?”
Even groggier now: “Jackie?”
“Who else?” Then, after glancing at my watch once more and considering her muzzy tone, I say, “Where were you last night?” I titter. “Having a gooood time?” I swing open the back patio door.
It’s mid-July, and Seattle’s having quite a hot summer. I love the season’s welcoming sunshine and never want to miss a chance to don cute bikinis, wear chic sandals, and flash pretty pedicures, but sometimes too much summer sun is too much, especially when your bikinis are all at your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s home and you haven’t had a pedicure in several weeks.
I slip on my aviators and step outside, eager to enjoy the sun anyhow. The scorching heat of the patio pavement instantly begins to burn my soles. “Ow, ow!” I high-step it back inside to grab a pair of sandals from Paris.
“Jack,” Lara grumbles into the phone. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s hot outside.” I reemerge on the patio, this time better equipped. “But such a beautiful day, really. What are you still doing in bed? It’s gorge out. Super bad hangover or something?” I laugh some more at my teasing.
“No.” Her voice is a raspy whisper now. “For your information, I had a date last night.”
“Yes, and that’s why I’m calling.”
“Well, the date’s not over yet.”
“Ooooh.”
“Jack, if nothing’s on fire and you’ve got nothing to report but the weather, I’m going back to bed.”
“No!” I lay an old and washed-out U Dub beach towel on one of the plastic lounge chairs Emily has on her patio. “I want the scoop. What did Worth say about Andrew?”
“Not right now. Let me wake up and get my day started and—”
“Just tell me quickly.” I stretch out my legs, making sure I’m maxing out my sun space.
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 28
