Читать книгу Suburban Secrets - Donna Birdsell - Страница 11

Friday, 7:12 p.m.

Oh, Mother!

As she drove toward her childhood home in Ambler, Grace felt younger and younger until, by the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she was eight again.

In her mind she could hear the sprinklers whirring, and smell the newly cut grass of her youth. She looked across the street, half expecting to see her best friend, Sherri Rasmussen, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

“Okay, guys, everybody out of the car. Callie, don’t forget your flute.”

As the kids dragged their crap up the sidewalk, the door opened and Grace’s mother stuck her head out. “My babies are here! Andrew, the children are here! Come help them with their things.”

“Hi, Mom.” Grace herded the kids into the house and bussed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for taking them this weekend.”

“Well, your father and I can imagine how difficult things must be for you, with the—” she stuck her head out the door and scanned the neighborhood for spies “—divorce.”

Divorce was one of the words in Grace’s mother’s vocabulary fit only for whispering.

“You can say it out loud, Mom. It’s not a dirty word.”

Her mother pulled a face. “Come on in.”

“Actually, I was kind of in a hurry.”

“So you don’t have time for a soda? Come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”

Grace sighed. She knew once she got sucked over the threshold, it would be at least a half an hour before she got out of there.

The kids thumped up the stairs, already arguing about who’d get to play her father’s Nintendo first. Grace followed her mother to the kitchen and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chairs. They were the same chairs she’d sat on as a child, once sadly out of style but suddenly retro chic.

“Look what I made in craft class,” her mother said. She held out a tissue box cover constructed of yarn-covered plastic mesh. God Bless You was cross-stitched into the side in block letters.

“Nice.”

“Here, take it. I made it for you. And you know, you can come with me next week. We’re making birds out of Styrofoam.”

“That’s nice, but I can’t.”

Her mother took a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Why not? Now that Tom is gone, what are you doing with your time?”

Grace got up to get a glass from the cupboard. “I’ve got plenty to do, Mom.”

“Like what?”

“Well, tonight I’m meeting some of my old high school friends for a drink downtown.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath her heavily hair-sprayed bangs. “Really? Do I know them?”

Déjà vu. How many times had Grace seen that look growing up? She felt inexplicably guilty, and she hadn’t even lied about anything. Yet.

“Roseanna Janosik’s going to be there. I ran into her today at Beruglia’s.”

Her mother sat down at the table. “Roseanna Janosik. Isn’t that the girl who got caught smoking at cheerleading camp?” She pulled a face.

“That was Cecilia Stavros. And Jesus, Mom. That was a hundred years ago.”

“You’re right, of course. People change. Look at you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her mother shrugged. “So who was Roseanna Janosik?” She tapped her chin. “I remember! She was the one who was crazy about that band and followed them everywhere.”

“Right. Mullet.”

“What? What’s a mullet?”

“A bad haircut. And the name of the band Roseanna followed.” Grace chugged her soda. “C’mon, tell me. What did you mean I’ve changed?”

Her mother got up from the table and took Grace’s empty glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grace, I didn’t mean anything by it. Is that what you’re wearing?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” Grace tugged the hem of her black skirt, but it refused to budge. She buttoned the red Chinese silk jacket Tom had given her the Valentine’s Day before last. It had been the only thing in her closet remotely resembling club attire.

Her mother raised her eyebrows again. “Well, have fun. Tell Roseanna I said hello.”

“Right.”

Grace stalked to the bottom of the stairs. “Megan, Callie, Kevin. I’m leaving now!”

Megan and Kevin shouted a muffled goodbye. Callie stuck her head over the second-floor railing. “Bye, Mom. Have fun without us.”

Grace tamped down a sudden attack of guilt. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Can we make brownies when I come home?” Callie could sense Grace’s subtle vibrations of guilt like a fine-tuned seismograph.

“Sure.”

“Grace, are you still here?” her mother called from the kitchen.

If she didn’t get out of there soon, her mother would be dragging her up to the guest bathroom to show her the decorative fertility mask she’d made out of half of a bleach bottle.

Grace wiggled her fingers at Callie and slipped out the front door.

Friday, 8:08 p.m.

Killing Me Softly

Grace sped down the Blue Route in the eight-year-old BMW that used to be Tom’s but was now hers. He’d insisted on getting a manual transmission, and now she was stuck with it—a real pain in the butt while she was trying to wipe noses and juggle juice boxes.

She much preferred the minivan, but she’d be damned if she was going to pull into a club driving the family taxi.

She fiddled with the radio. Why were all the stations in her car set to soft rock? When, exactly, had her eardrums surrendered?

She searched the dial for the station that played all eighties, all the time. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” came on and she smiled. It took her back to when she and her girlfriends would cruise the back roads in an old Dodge Dart looking for keg parties, blasting this song and singing at the top of their lungs.

How sad. Somehow she’d gone from AC/DC to Celine Dion. From keg parties to the occasional glass of chardonnay. Was that what her mother meant? Was that how she’d changed?

She knew it was that, and a whole lot more. She used to have spirit. She used to take risks.

But when she’d married Tom, somehow it had been easy to accept the security and stability he provided in exchange for a few little changes. Higher necklines. Lower hemlines. The Junior League instead of her bowling league.

She drove around for almost an hour, reprogramming the buttons on her radio and thinking about all the crazy things she used to do, forcing herself not to worry that she was going to be late.

Eventually, she pulled into the parking lot of the club. She squinted up at the sign.

Caligula?

She checked the address in her Day-Timer. Sure enough, it was right.

She almost backed out of the lot, but images of her closet filled with navy poly-blend slacks and V-neck sweaters bolstered her nerve.

She could be every bit as crazy as her teenage alter ego. She could.

She got out of the car and tugged her skirt down as far as she could.

“Bring on the Romans,” she said to the dark.

Friday, 9:13 p.m.

Flaming Togas

“ID, please.”

The guy at the door wore baggy jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of a snarling bulldog. His fingers worked the buttons of a Game Boy with lightning speed.

The B-52’s “Love Shack” blasted out through the open door of the club.

Grace leaned in so the bouncer could hear her over the noise. “You’re kidding me, right? Have you even looked at me? I was twenty-one when this song actually came out.”

He shined a flashlight in her face. “Sorry ’bout that. Five bucks.”

He stepped aside, and she walked straight into ancient Rome. Or a Hollywood-meets-Las Vegas version of it, anyway.

Buff, gorgeous, toga-clad waiters and waitresses wandered the faux-marble floor carrying trays of colorful drinks. Buff, gorgeous, denim-clad patrons sipped them while leaning against faux-marble columns. They were all so young. Well, most of them, anyway.

Grace had no trouble spotting her old high school friends. They were the only ones not trying to look bored.

Roseanna must have had one eye on the door, because she waved to Grace as soon as she walked in.

“Oh. My. God. It’s Grace Poleiski,” somebody shrieked.

Grace smiled. “Hi, everybody.”

The women at the table jumped up and swarmed around her. She exchanged a quick hug with each of them, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably formed in her eyes.

“Sit,” commanded Roseanna. “We just ordered a round of Flaming Togas.”

Grace hooked her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down, taking in all the changes in her friends. “Cecilia, you look great. You lost weight?”

“Forty pounds. Ephedra, until they took it off the market. If I hadn’t started smoking again to compensate, I’d probably look like the Michelin Man already. Hey, you’re looking good, too, Grace.”

“Yeah? I guess you could say I lost some weight, too. About two hundred pounds.”

“What! How’d you do that?”

“It just walked away.”

It took the girls a minute to figure out what she was talking about.

“Your husband,” Roseanna said.

Grace nodded.

Cecilia shook her head. “No shit. When did that happen?”

“January second. Screwing me over was his New Year’s resolution, I guess.”

A waiter arrived with a tray of pale orange shots and set one in front of each woman. He pulled a pack of matches out of the folds of his toga and lit the shots. Low blue flames danced on the surface of the liquor.

“Don’t forget to blow ’em out before you drink ’em,” he said. “We’ve had a couple of mishaps.”

Roseanna smiled. “Remember when Dannie accidentally lit her hair on fire while she was smoking a cigarette in the girls’ bathroom?”

“What did she expect?” said Cecilia. “She used so much hair spray, her hair wouldn’t have moved in a hurricane.”

“Come on,” Dannie said. “My hair wasn’t any worse than anyone else’s. In fact, I remember Grace getting hers tangled in the volleyball net in gym class. It had to be at least a foot high.”

They all laughed.

Grace ordered a margarita and another round of shots.

The waiter walked away, his tight little butt all but peeking out from under the toga.

Dannie propped her chin up on her hand. “Those look like my sheets he’s wearing.”

“You wish,” Cecilia said.

Grace pulled a bunch of pictures out of her purse and passed them to Roseanna.

She’d found them in a shoebox along with the dance card and tiny pencil from her prom, a football homecoming program and the hunk of yarn she’d used to wrap around her high school boyfriend’s class ring.

“Oh, God. I remember this skirt,” Roseanna said. “I couldn’t get one thigh in there, now.”

“Sure you could,” Dannie said. “It would be a little tight, though.”

“Ha-ha.” Roseanna passed the pictures to Cecilia. “Hey, remember when we used to play truth or dare in study hall?”

“Yeah. I think Mr. Montrose almost had a heart attack,” said Cecilia. “You’d always dare me to lean over his desk to ask him a question.”

“He couldn’t stand up for the rest of the class.”

“To Mr. Montrose,” said Grace, raising the shot the waiter had just delivered. They all toasted Mr. Montrose and blew out their Flaming Togas.

“Let’s play,” said Roseanna.

“Play what?”

“Truth or dare.”

“Here?” Grace said. “You’re crazy.”

“It’ll be fun,” said Dannie.

“Why not?” said Cecilia.

Music thumped in the background. Mötley Crüe belted out “Girls, Girls, Girls.”

“What the hell,” Grace said.

Saturday, 11:44 p.m.

Gracie’s Secret

Grace was drunk.

Not merely drunk but what they once affectionately called shit faced.

Roseanna’s head rested on the table, surrounded by empty shot glasses. Dannie balanced a straw on her nose. Cecilia puffed on a cigarette, making tiny smoke rings by tapping on her cheek.

Grace had quit smoking soon after she’d married Tom. He disapproved of the habit. Said it made her look cheap. Unlike Marlene, who looked so classy covered in grape jelly.

“Gimme one of those,” Grace said.

Cecilia rolled a cigarette across the table. “Okay. Grace’s turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? And high school shenanigans don’t count.”

Grace shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve never done anything remotely bad.”

“Oh, come on,” Dannie said, taking the straw off her nose. “We know you better than that.”

“Seriously. I’m the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect daughter. The worst thing I’ve ever done is wear this skirt, which is definitely too short for me. Gimme a light.”

“Dare it is, then,” Roseanna said, dragging herself to a sitting position.

“What? I told you—”

“No way. You’re lying,” said Cecilia. “But that’s okay, because I have the perfect dare for you.”

Grace raised her eyebrows.

“Go over there and give your underwear—” Cecilia pointed toward the bar “—to him.”

Grace sucked in her cheeks.

The guy looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. Black turtleneck. Black leather jacket. Dark, brooding eyes. He sat in a pool of light shining down from the ceiling as if he were some sort of fallen angel. The most gorgeous in-the-flesh man she’d ever seen.

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.”