Читать книгу Madam Of The House - Donna Birdsell - Страница 12

Everything is negotiable.

As soon as she said it, she regretted it.

Here she was, complaining to Dannie of all people. Dannie, a widow with four kids, who never had enough of anything.

“Cece, let me help you,” Dannie said. “I can lend you some money.”

Cecilia shook her head. “No, I’m going to get out of this somehow.” She didn’t want to tell Dannie that whatever she could lend her wouldn’t pay the charge-card bill for Ben’s golf shirts.

Dannie looked as if she were going to say something, but stopped.

Cecilia sighed. She supposed getting everything off her chest couldn’t hurt. It was a night for truths as well as dares, wasn’t it? “The truth is, Ben never even tried to find a job after he was laid off. He started day-trading instead. In the beginning he made some money, but mostly he’s been losing. A fortune. My fortune.”

“But your job…” Dannie said.

Cecilia shook her head. “The real estate market is tanking. I can’t sell a house to save my life. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to start doing open houses again.” She felt the dreaded sting behind her eyes again.

Dannie gave her a sympathetic look. “Anything I can do, let me know. Okay?”

Cecilia nodded. She sucked down a glass of water and chewed on the ice as she and Dannie sat there together, lost in their own thoughts.

The first few notes of Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” blared over the speaker system. Tom Cruise slid through Cecilia’s mind in his underwear, and she smiled. “Oh, screw it. Let’s just have a good time.”

She and Dannie sang along with the song and reminisced about the night they’d sneaked into a movie theater to see Risky Business. They’d only been fourteen, not legally allowed into an R-rated flick, but a friend who worked at the Cineplex let them in.

Years later, Cecilia realized that most of the movie had gone right over her head, but the image of Tom Cruise in his tighty whities had certainly stuck.

“Hey, I know,” Dannie yelled over the music. “You could do what Joel did in Risky Business.”

“What? Hire a hooker?”

Dannie laughed. “No. You know, have a party. Round up some call girls and show some rich boys a good time.”

“Right.” Cecilia laughed, trying to picture herself arranging a “good time” for her friends’ teenage sons. Yuck.

Roseanna raised her head. “Party?”

Cecilia stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah, there’s a kegger out on Creek Road. Wanna go?”

Dannie laughed at the mention of their favorite high school hangout. “Come on. Let’s get Rosie out of here.”

“Okay, just let me check on Grace first.”

Cecilia pushed her way through the crowd to the other side of the bar, where Grace was still sucking face with the leather-clad hottie.

“You okay?” she asked.

Grace nodded.

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll call a cab.”

“Okay.” Cecilia winked at the guy. “Nice to meet you.”

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

Cecilia felt a flash of envy for her friend. She still remembered that feeling—that out-of-body high—that always accompanied brand-new kisses.

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.

“Come on, gorgeous. Let’s try to get you home before you lose your cookies.”

A DULL PAIN throbbed behind Cecilia’s eyes as she brewed a pot of coffee the following morning. Her breath smelled like a burned-out distillery, and her fingertips were yellow from nicotine.

She had to stop drinking. She had to stop smoking. Today. Now.

She took the pack of cigarettes from her handbag and emptied them into the sink, firing up the garbage disposal. The sound bore into her brain like a jackhammer.

Oh, man. This might not be the best day to quit smoking.

Her malaise eased a bit when she realized that in just a few hours she’d be on her way to pick up Brian at the Catalina School.

She hummed “Old Time Rock and Roll” as she flipped through a shoe catalog, planning her afternoon with her son until an annoying beeping sound coming from the street disturbed her thoughts.

It sounded like a trash truck, but it wasn’t trash day.

Coffee mug in hand, she wandered through the dining room and into the formal living room, to the bowed window overlooking the driveway. A green-and-yellow truck was backing into the drive. Sunlight glinted off the shiny silver flat bed, which seemed to be falling off the truck.

No, it wasn’t falling. It was tilting.

She squinted, unable to see too clearly without her contact lenses. What…?

“Shit!” She bolted for the front door, spilling coffee down the front of her robe and onto the white wool carpet.

She reached the steps that led down to the drive just as a large man with an obscene amount of butt-crack showing hooked the rear axle of her Cayenne to a winch.

“Hey!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”

He stood up. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re trying to steal my car.”

He guffawed. “That’s a good one.”

“No, really. What are you doing?”

The guy grinned. “I’m repossessing your vehicle.”

“What!”

“Look.” He waddled over and handed her a clipboard with a blue form containing her name and address, a description of the Cayenne, the VIN number and the license plate number.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the lawn. “You ain’t made your payments, lady. I’m taking the car.”

“Oh, no. No no no.” She read the name in the blue oval above his shirt pocket. “Ed, you can’t take my car. I need my car.”

“Sorry. I guess you shoulda thought about that when you weren’t writing those checks.” He walked to the back of the truck and threw a lever. The Cayenne slowly began to move up onto the tilted flatbed.

“Stop! You’re not listening to me. I—”

Oh, God. What was she going to do?

“I have an emergency. I’m supposed to donate a kidney this afternoon.”

Ed snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“I’m delivering toys for underprivileged children?”

Ed shook his head.

She exhaled through pursed lips. “Hang on, please. Wait here one minute.”

She ran into the house and found her purse, digging out her wallet. Damn it! Empty!

She’d given that waiter every penny she had for the lap dance.

She ran for the door, stopping briefly at the hall mirror to smooth down her sleep-rumpled hair. Discarding her coffee-stained robe, she ran back outside in nothing but her baby doll pajamas.

Ed’s eyes bugged.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m begging you. You can’t take my car.”

Ed’s eyes gravitated to her chest, as if they were magnets and her breasts were little refrigerators.

“If I had any money I’d give it to you, I swear. But I spent it all on a lap dance last night.”

She could see Ed working the image through his head, and she realized it was probably a much different scenario than the one that had actually occurred.

She wasn’t about to bust his bubble.

Tiny beads of sweat formed on Ed’s upper lip. He shook his head. “I can’t. I have a repo contract with the bank.”

“It was a great lap dance,” she said, pooching out her lower lip and thrusting a hip toward him.

“Lady—”

“Please, Ed.” She reached out and touched the collar of his blue work shirt lightly. Beseechingly. “I’m having a really, really bad week.”

Dear God, I’ll see you in confession on Sunday. I swear. Until then, just one more little favor?

Ed’s face softened. Was it possible he’d been influenced by the Supreme Being? Or was he just hypnotized by her breasts?

“I promise I’ll take care of this next week,” she said in a whispery voice.

Ed shook his head, but ripped the work order off the clipboard. “I guess I could misplace the paperwork for a little while. But if the bank doesn’t cancel the order, I’ll be back.”

“Of course. Oh, wow. Thank you so much.”

“Right.”

He bent down to unhook the winch, giving Cecilia an eyeful of that special cleavage only overweight service men seemed to possess.

That reminded her. She had a rump roast in the freezer she wanted to thaw.

CECILIA SQUEEZED ONTO a bench in the sauna at the Boxwood Country Club Fitness Center, hoping to sweat out the remnants of alcohol and nicotine from the night before.

The place was filled to busting with women attempting to fight the ravages of age by any means possible. Physical, chemical, surgical—anything to stave off the dreaded sags and bags of middle age.

She stretched out her legs, exhausted from almost an hour on the treadmill, which reminded her of her life right now. Lots of effort to get absolutely nowhere.

The door to the sauna opened and an aerobicized woman with short, bottle-blond hair entered, wrapped in one of the blue-and-white-striped club towels.

“Hey, Marjorie.”

Marjorie Almswhite, one of the wealthier women who frequented the club, was a widow with a wicked sense of humor and an eye for young men.

“Hey, Cecilia. Were you spinning?”

“No, just the treadmill today.”

“Too bad. Kevin was teaching the spinning class.”

The heat seemed to go up a few degrees in the sauna, as all the women audibly sighed.

Kevin Trawler, one of the fitness instructors at the club, wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome. But he had a certain naive charm and the tightest butt Cecilia had ever seen. He was also about half the age of most of the women who frequented his classes.

“I know,” Cecilia said. “I couldn’t get in. The class was filled.”

“Early bird gets the worm,” said Gretchen Stevens in a smug, singsong voice.

“Are you?” Marjorie asked.

“Am I what?”

“Getting the worm?”

They all laughed.

“As a matter of fact,” Gretchen said defensively, “I caught Kevin looking at my boobs today during class.”

“Really?” said Marjorie. “Are you sure he wasn’t looking at your belly button? They’re in the same general area these days.”

Gretchen pulled her towel tight around her and huffed out of the sauna, slamming the door behind her.

Some of the women snickered.

Cecilia shook her head. “Getting the worm…”

Marjorie sighed. “Honey, it’s been so long since I got a worm like that, I wouldn’t remember what to do with it.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to get a worm like that,” said Betsy Gardner, the club’s resident airhead.

“At the bait shop,” Marjorie returned.

“Don’t you mean the jail-bait shop?” said Cecilia.

“What? You don’t approve?” Marjorie said.

Cecilia shrugged. “Far be it from me to ruin your fishing fantasies. I just think I’d prefer someone a little more…mature.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire, her mind whispered, as the memory of Jake Eamon’s hands on her shoulders pulsed like a subliminal message through her brain.

She shifted uncomfortably. It was getting way too hot in that sauna.

“Who wants an old worm when you can have a nice young one?” Marjorie said.

Betsy leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. “I hate to break it to you Marjie, but the only way you’re getting a nice young one is if you pay for it.”

Marjorie shrugged. “Hey, if I knew of a good bait shop around here, I’d shell out in a second.”

By the silence in the sauna, Cecilia suspected they were all thinking the same thing.

Too bad it wasn’t that easy.

“Let’s face it,” Betsy said gloomily. “None of us is going fishing anytime soon.”

CECILIA MADE a quick stop at the Shop ’n Bag on her way to the turnpike. She’d run out of a couple of things, including ibuprofen, which she desperately needed at the moment, both for her hangover and a raging case of cramps. She also wanted to pick up some of Brian’s favorite snacks for the car ride.

She trudged through the store, studiously avoiding the customer service counter and the cigarettes, loading her basket with over-the-counter products she hoped would stave off the symptoms of various ailments she’d been cultivating. Tension headaches from work. Corns from the absurd high heels she’d become addicted to. Pulled muscles from the gym. Heartburn from Ben.

She picked up a bag of salted pumpkin seeds and some granola bars for Brian, and snagged a giant bag of M&M’s for herself. Chocolate had powerful healing properties.

At the checkout, she plunked her basket on the conveyor belt and dug through her purse for her VIP card. She held it out to the checker, a young, all-American-type guy with a mop of blond hair, who completely failed to notice she was there.

That never would have happened five years ago.

Okay, maybe it would have happened five years ago. But definitely not ten years ago.

“So what’re you gonna do?” said the checker to the bagger, another frat-boy type. Both wore Temple University sweatshirts.

“I don’t know,” said the bagger. “I can just about afford beer with what I make here. Tuition? Forget it. I’m going to have to take next semester off.”

“Excuse me…” Cecilia waved her card at the checker.

Ignored again.

“But you’re supposed to graduate in May, dude,” the checker said.

The bagger shrugged. “What can I do? I already have so many loans out, I’m gonna be freakin’ forty by the time I pay them off.”

“Hey!” Cecilia said.

The boys finally looked at her.

“Forty isn’t that old.”

The checker’s ears turned red. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am,’” she muttered under her breath.

The checker unloaded the stuff from her basket and ran it over the scanner.

“Gimme those,” she said, grabbing the M&M’s out of the bagger’s hand and opening them with her teeth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma—” He clammed up.

The checker scanned the box of tampons she’d picked up, and a knowing look passed between the two guys.

She pointed at the bagger. “Oh, you think I’m just a hormonal old lady, huh? I’ll have you know, we old ladies work hard to maintain ourselves. Do you know how many pints of Ben & Jerry’s I’ve passed up for my butt’s sake? Do you know how many miles I’ve logged on the treadmill?”

The bagger shook his head. “No, uh…miss?”

She gave them both a scathing look. “You owe me for that hard work. You, and every other man on the planet. So you better not ever call anyone under eighty ‘ma’am’ again.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And one more thing.” They looked at her the way men should always look at women—both fearful and expectant. She leaned in. “You better have the decency to watch my ass when I’m walking away.”