Читать книгу The Girls Of Mischief Bay - Susan Mallery, Susan Mallery - Страница 10
ОглавлениеNicole turned on the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter to wait for it to work its magic. It was early still. Quiet. The time of day she liked best—except when she was exhausted, which was most of the time.
She told herself that eventually the situation would get better. That she would figure out a schedule that worked, that Tyler would get older and need her less, that Eric would get a real job and start helping support the family again.
The last thought made her feel both guilty and angry. Not a happy combination. Because as much as she loved her husband, there were times when she didn’t like him very much.
No, she thought. She didn’t like what he’d done. There was a difference.
Back before he’d quit his well-paying, very steady software development job to write a screenplay, things had seemed more balanced. She’d been comfortable in their roles. But lately…not so much.
She told herself she had to be fair. That he had the right to follow his dream. Only it wasn’t the dream she minded as much as the fact that he hadn’t asked her first. Instead, he’d announced what he was doing. And that announcement had come two days after he’d already resigned.
She closed her eyes against the memory, but it crowded into the kitchen, anyway. It had been a Friday morning. She’d been standing in the kitchen, just like she was now. Eric had walked in to the room, wearing shorts and T-shirt.
“Don’t you have to get dressed for work?” she’d asked.
He’d taken her hand. “I have to tell you something. I’ve quit my job. I’m going to write a screenplay.”
There had been more talk. She was sure of it. But she hadn’t heard anything beyond the keen screaming of fear that had filled her head.
Quit? How could he quit? They had a mortgage and she was still paying back her old boss for buying out the exercise studio. They had a four-year-old and college to save for and nearly no savings. They’d put off having a second kid because they couldn’t afford it.
The coffee flowed into the mug Nicole had left in place. She waited until it was nearly full, then expertly shifted the mug out of the way and the carafe into its spot without missing a drop. She inhaled the perfect earthy scent before taking her first sip of the day.
“Mommy?”
She took another quick sip, then turned as Tyler walked into the kitchen. He was tousled and still half-asleep. One hand held his battered, red stuffed toy, Brad the Dragon. The well-loved plush dragon was based on the popular series of children’s books. The author must make a mint from all the merchandising, she thought as she put her mug on the counter, then bent down to scoop up her son.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. He settled his around her neck, while hanging on with his legs. She pretended to stagger as she lifted him.
“You grew!”
He giggled at the familiar comment. “I can’t grow every night,” he told her.
“I think you can.”
She kissed his cheek and breathed in the scent of his skin. Whatever else went wrong in her day, Tyler was always right.
“How did you sleep?”
“Good.” He snuggled close. “Brad had bad dreams, but I said he was safe with me.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’m sure he appreciated having you to protect him.”
She carried Tyler over to the table. He released her to stand on his chair. With a quick, graceful movement, he settled into a sitting position.
Based on how athletic he was and how well he did in preschool, Tyler seemed to have inherited the best from her and Eric. Nicole could only hope. She’d wanted to enroll him in a dance class, but Eric had nixed the idea. For a while he’d wanted his son to attend a computer camp. But that interest had faded when he’d started writing his screenplay last year. She supposed they could agree on drama camp or something. Assuming Eric didn’t stop writing his screenplay to follow another surprise dream.
She walked over to the pantry. “Oatmeal and berries?” she asked.
Tyler looked at Brad the Dragon, then nodded. “We like that.”
Because Brad was consulted on most decisions.
Nicole would have been worried about her son’s constant companion, except Brad stayed home when Tyler went to preschool or day care and from everything she’d read, his attachment was completely normal. She was sure having a couple more siblings would ease his dependence on the stuffed toy, but there was no way that was happening anytime soon. She was barely able to keep them financially afloat as it was. If she got pregnant… She didn’t want to think about it.
Not that it was much of an issue. She barely saw Eric these days. They passed in the hall and their brief discussions were generally about logistics regarding Tyler. Sex wasn’t happening.
As she measured out the oatmeal, she mentally paused to wonder if Eric was cheating on her. He was by himself every day. She didn’t know how much time he spent writing. She wasn’t here to see for herself and he didn’t volunteer the information. Once he was done surfing for the day, he could be seeing anyone.
Her stomach tightened at the thought, then she turned her attention back to getting breakfast for her son. She had to get Tyler fed and dressed with one eye on the clock. Once she got him to preschool, she had a full day of classes to teach, payroll to run for her two part-time instructors, groceries to buy and life to deal with. Worrying about Eric’s possible affairs was way down on her list.
As she carried the oatmeal over to Tyler, she thought maybe her lack of concern was the biggest problem of all. The question was: What, if anything, did she do about it?
* * *
Pam wrapped her towel around her body and reached for the tube of body lotion. While she stuck to a fairly faithful regimen for her face, when it came to body products, she liked to mix things up. Right now she was enjoying Philosophy’s Fresh Cream—a vanilla-based scent that made her feel like she should have chocolate-dipped strawberries for breakfast.
But for once the thick lotion didn’t make her smile. Probably because she was fully aware that while she was applying it, she was doing her best not to look in the mirror.
The shock of Jen’s impending ten-year high school reunion hadn’t gone away. It had faded, only to return. Telling herself age was a number and she was a lucky, happy woman wasn’t helping, either. It seemed as if every time she turned around, there was yet another reminder that her days of being a hot thirtysomething were long over.
She put down the tube, braced herself for the horror and tossed the towel over the tub. Then she stared at her naked self in the very wide, very unforgiving mirror in the master bath.
She wasn’t fat, she told herself. She’d gained the most weight with Jen when she’d thought pregnancy meant a license to eat. And she had. Yes, her daughter had been a robust eight pounds and the rest of the associated goo had some weight and volume, but it didn’t excuse the seventy-five pounds she’d packed on.
Losing them had been a bitch, so with her next two pregnancies, she’d only gained a reasonable thirty. Still, her body bore the battle wounds—including stretch marks and a definite doughlike puddle where her once-flat tummy had been.
Her breasts were worse. More tube socks than mammary-shaped. She got by with a good, supportive bra. Of course at night, when she just had on a sleep shirt, they eased back into her armpits. On the plus side, getting a mammogram wasn’t a problem. Her breasts oozed into place on the tray. Still, there’d been a time when they’d been full and round and damned sexy.
There were a handful of spider veins on her legs, a distinct lack of firmness to her jaw and—
“Kill me now,” Pam muttered out loud, then reached for her panties. What was the point in all that self-assessment? It wasn’t as if she was going to get any kind of plastic surgery. She worked out three days a week at Nicole’s studio and walked on the treadmill at least two other days. She was fifty. She’d better get used to not being anything special. She had a feeling it was only downhill from here.
She finished dressing, then combed her hair off her face. At least it was still thick and had a nice wave. She kept the length just past her shoulders and layered, to take advantage of the waves. Color and a few highlights in summer meant no one had to know about the encroaching gray.
The thing was, she thought as she applied her anti-aging serum—the one that didn’t seem to be doing its job as well as it had a couple of years ago—there wasn’t any warning. Sure, everyone knew that old age was inevitable. It was that or death and she was willing to admit she was pretty happy to be alive.
But what about the rest of it? AARP had been chasing her for the past six or eight months. In addition to their chronic invitations to join, they should send a heartfelt letter that told the truth. Something along the lines of “enjoy it now—in ten years, you’re going to look in the mirror and see your grandmother staring back at you.”
Perhaps not the most effective marketing campaign, but at least it would be honest.
She patted the eye cream into place, then used her fingertips to pull at her skin. What about a face-lift?
She studied the results, liking how pulling her skin up and back gave her a nice taut look. She didn’t want to be scary—one of those women who almost seemed plastic. But maybe a little nip and tuck wouldn’t hurt.
She dropped her arms to her sides and watched her face return to its normal position. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t ever going to have a face-lift. Surgery on her face for vanity? No way. She wasn’t some megarich celebrity. She was a normal woman freaking out about the unkindness of time and gravity.
She leaned closer to the mirror. Although maybe she could get some kind of injection. A filler or BOTOX. Didn’t everyone do BOTOX these days?
She left the bathroom and walked into the bedroom. Her morning chores awaited. John had left for the office nearly an hour before, but there was still plenty to do. Make the bed, throw in some laundry, clean up the kitchen dishes. She had a once-monthly cleaning service come in. Those hardworking women always made her feel guilty, but she still let them scrub her floors.
After preparing the marinade for the chicken pieces they would be barbecuing that night, Pam collected a light jacket for herself and a violet knit shirt for Lulu. She let the dog out for a quick potty break, then picked her up and tucked her under her arm. They had an appointment with the vet.
While Lulu was a sweet, loving, well-behaved little girl, she came with several expected Chinese crested issues. She had skin allergies and soft teeth, luxating patellas and tummy problems. They were lucky in that her eyes were fine. And her moving kneecap didn’t seem to be a problem yet. John said it was because the dog never walked anywhere.
“You’re cute,” Pam told her pet as she carried her to her small SUV. “Of course people want to carry you.”
Lulu was six years old and had a veterinary file so thick, it was broken up into two folders at the vet’s office. Pam had a feeling that a lot of other families wouldn’t have been able to afford her chronic medical costs, but she and John were blessed. For all his complaints that Lulu cost as much as sending any one of their kids to college, the truth was, he adored her.
Now Pam climbed into the driver’s seat of her SUV. Lulu scrambled into her doggie car seat. Pam put her in her harness and made sure it was attached to the restraining leash, then confirmed the air bag was off.
“Ready to see Dr. Ingersoll?” she asked.
Lulu wagged her tail in agreement.
The drive was only about ten minutes. Come summer, it would take three times that long. Tourists loved Mischief Bay. Despite the fact that it was often warm and sunny all winter long, most visitors didn’t bother their little community until Memorial Day weekend. Which made it nice for locals.
Pam drove along T Street and then turned right into the parking lot of Bayside Veterinary. Lulu whined until she was released from her harness, then jumped into Pam’s arms for the short carry inside.
“Hi, everyone,” Pam said as they walked into the foyer.
The two receptionists smiled at her. “Good to see you, Pam. How’s our favorite girl?”
“Doing well on the new cream.”
Pam set Lulu on the ground. The slightly pink dog with the dark patches raced behind the counter and greeted the two women.
There was much skittering of nails on linoleum and yips of excitement as she was given her soft cookie. When Lulu finished munching, she returned to Pam and waited to be picked up.
Heidi, one of the techs in the office, appeared with Lulu’s file. “He’s just finishing up with another patient. Let’s get her weighed and in a room.”
Pam carried Lulu to the scale in the hallway. Lulu sat obligingly until she was told she could move.
“Exactly ten pounds,” Heidi said, making a note. “Same as always. I wish I could maintain my weight as well.”
“Me, too,” Pam admitted.
“We’re in room two.”
Lulu jumped off the scale and led the way through the open doorway. Pam picked her up and put her on the examination table while Heidi went through the usual visit stats. Seconds later she left Pam alone and a few minutes after that, Dr. Fraser Ingersoll walked in.
“How’s my best girl?” he asked with a smile.
Pam knew he was asking the question of Lulu, but every now and then she pretended it was addressed to her.
Dr. Ingersoll, a tall, slim, dark-haired man in his early forties, radiated sex appeal. Pam couldn’t explain it, nor did she want to. It was one of those things best left undefined.
She was sure half his female pet parents had a mad crush on him, and she was comfortable adding herself to the ranks of the swooning. Vivid blue eyes stared out from behind adorable glasses. He always had an easy smile ready, along with a quick touch of reassurance. Sometimes, it seemed to her, that touch lingered.
While she loved John and would never do anything to screw up her marriage, every now and then she allowed herself a little daydream. One involved a request from Dr. Ingersoll to meet for coffee. She would reluctantly agree, he would suggest a place outside of Mischief Bay and she would pretend not to know why. Over lattes and muffins, he would confess his attraction to her and while she would be genuinely tempted, in the end, she would let him down as gently as she could. After all, she was a married woman. She might not have been a virgin on her wedding day, but John was the only man she’d ever been with. She wanted to fantasize about Dr. Ingersoll, not actually sleep with him.
Still, those little moments helped when her day was tedious or she was annoyed by always having to take care of everyone.
But now she was less sure of her crush. Did Dr. Ingersoll see her as a sexy, slightly older, vital woman? Or was she simply Lulu’s old and wrinkled pet mom?
“How’s the new skin cream working?” the vet asked. He stroked Lulu as he spoke.
“She’s scratching less.”
“Her skin looks clear.”
Pam watched him pet her dog and noticed that while the backs of his hands were smooth and taut, she’d developed a few age spots on hers. She held in a sigh. She didn’t like this, she admitted to herself. Not the questioning or the concerns. Not the self-absorption. She’d always considered her life to be one that was blessed. She was lucky. Lucky people didn’t get old and wrinkly, did they? Which brought her back to what the AARP really should be doing for their future members—warning them about the coming apocalypse of old age.
* * *
Shannon finished the quarterly reports and hit the send button. She would meet with the CEO later to discuss the actual results, but she wasn’t worried. The numbers looked good.
She’d recently revamped the timetables and discounts in accounts payable. Cash flow was better, which meant the company’s expansion could be funded internally. When interest rates were low, taking out a loan made sense, but she had a feeling they were going to start climbing. Better to keep the money at home.
While a lot of finance people saw the products their companies produced as interchangeable “widgets,” she didn’t agree. Every company was different. The challenges to produce a physical good varied between industries and even within them. Cars were different from furniture and software was nothing like envelopes. Her attitude had been the key reason she’d been hired nearly five years before. Nolan could have hired any one of a dozen applicants, but he’d chosen her. She had a feeling her rant on the fact that manufacturing products shouldn’t be reduced to the pejorative term “widget” was a part of the reason.
She glanced out the big window by her desk. The sun had set a while ago. There was no hint of light coming from the sky—not counting the bright lights from around the office building, of course. She’d been at the office since six thirty and except for taking a class at Mischief in Motion during her lunch break, she’d pretty much been chained to her desk.
She saved her files and began to shut down her computer. She would stop for some Thai food on her way home and spend a quiet evening by herself.
Because she didn’t have a date. Certainly not with Adam, who had yet to call after their single meeting.
She’d been hopeful, she thought as she watched her computer move from saving to shutting down. Hopeful that he was man enough to accept her success, her career demands, to respect them, even. But he hadn’t and that meant he wasn’t for her. But being logical didn’t help the dull ache she’d learned to recognize as loneliness.
Sure there were friends she could call. With Eric so busy with his screenwriting, Nicole was often up for dinner out. Tyler came with her, which was fine with Shannon. She enjoyed hanging out with the charming, happy little boy. Or she could see if Pam and John wanted some company for an after-dinner glass of wine. No doubt there would be delicious leftovers for her to dine on.
But while she loved her friends, she wasn’t lonely because of them. Every now and then, she wanted to find “the one.” That ridiculous concept she’d been unable to shake, no matter how she tried. Sometimes Shannon worried that all the talk about pair bonding in humans just might be true.
She pulled open the bottom desk drawer and removed her handbag. She reached for her cell only to have it buzz with an incoming call.
The screen flashed with the icon she’d linked with the name. A skull and crossbones. Humorous, but also a warning. Because hearing from Quinn was never good.
She considered letting the call go to voice mail. Mostly because that was the safest action. He wouldn’t leave a message. No doubt she wouldn’t hear from him for weeks. But if she did answer…
She grabbed her phone and pushed the talk button.
“Hello?”
“Gorgeous.”
That was all it took. A single word in that low, smoky voice. Her tension eased, her breathing slowed and between her legs she felt the telltale combination of hunger and dampness. She could talk all the successful-career, self-actualized crap she wanted, but at the end of the day, she was little more than Quinn’s bitch.
“Hey,” she murmured, even as she glanced at the clock on the wall and calculated how long it would take her to drive to Malibu at this time of the evening.
“Come over.”
Quinn didn’t ask. He instructed. He took charge. It was the same in bed, where he decided what they were going to do and who came first. She should have resented it, but she didn’t. There was something to be said for a man who took charge. She relaxed around him because there was no point in fighting the tide.
“I can’t stay,” she said—a feeble attempt to take control. But she’d learned the hard truth. Better to get what she wanted and escape than spend the night.
“No problem.”
There was a soft click. She knew the call had been disconnected.
She dropped her cell into her handbag, then crossed to the private bathroom that came with her C level title. After using the bathroom, she freshened her makeup and brushed her teeth. Then she left and headed for her car.
The drive to Malibu was simple. Head north on Pacific Coast Highway, which became Sepulveda and a half dozen other streets through Marina del Rey and Venice. She picked it up again in Santa Monica, then followed the road until she reached Malibu.
When people thought of that town they pictured beachfront mansions and star sightings. Both were plentiful, but much of the community was also old and a little worn around the edges. Tiny restaurants favored by locals nestled against the larger, more famous attractions, like Gladstone’s.
Shannon turned onto a small street. In one of those weird L.A. ironies, the most beautiful homes often had completely deceptive entrances. There was a garage, a secured gate and what looked like the beginning of a modest thousand-square-foot bungalow. All of which concealed eight or ten million dollars’ worth of luxury living and incredible views.
Quinn’s house was similar, although his gate kept anyone from pulling into the driveway. Shannon punched in the code. In that split second before the heavy iron gate swung open, she wondered if it would. Because she knew there would come a day when her code would no longer work. She often told herself that would be a good thing. Some days she even believed herself.
But it wasn’t tonight, she thought as she drove into the open garage and parked next to his Maserati.
She got out and walked inside.
Quinn’s house was built on the side of a cliff. The tri-level home was probably about five or six thousand square feet with an unobstructed view of the ocean from all three levels. During the day, the rooms were filled with light. At night, electric blinds protected the privacy from those who would try to capture a glimpse of how the beautiful people lived.
Shannon left her shoes in the foyer by the garage door and walked barefoot through the living room. Music played. She didn’t recognize the man singing, but she was sure he was one of Quinn’s latest finds.
A couple of lamps had been left on to guide her, but she could have found her way blindfolded. She ignored the elegant furniture, the expensive artwork, the too casually arranged throw pillows and headed for the stairs.
Down a floor was the kitchen and another living room. This was where Quinn spent most of his time. The upper floor was for entertaining. A dumb waiter allowed whatever catering service he was using to deliver food quickly and easily.
Instead of elegance, this level was all about comfort. Oversize leather furniture and a giant TV on the wall dominated the room. The electronic equipment could probably intimidate a NASA scientist. Being a successful music producer paid well.
Shannon circled to the final staircase and took it down a floor. She passed a small guest room and walked into the master.
The glass doors were open. Cool night air and the sound of the ocean mingled with the scent of wood burning in the fireplace. There was a large, custom bed, a couple of chairs and a man. Her attention zeroed in on the latter.
Quinn had been reading. He put down his e-reader and rose as she approached. His blond hair was too long, his blue eyes slightly hooded. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted and he looked the part. Despite the loose cotton shirt and chinos, he was dangerous. Like a beautiful, yet venomous snake—the more appealing the appearance, the more you had to beware.
She dropped her bag onto the carpet. He removed his shirt by simply pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. His pants followed. Being Quinn, he didn’t bother with underwear.
Shannon studied the honed lines of his body. Defined muscles swooped and hollowed. The man was pushing forty and yet could have easily been hired as a butt double for stars half his age.
He was already aroused.
She hesitated. Just for a second. It was like being in the first week of a diet when cravings were insistent and tempers ran high, and someone offered you a brownie. Did you accept it and promise to start again tomorrow, or did you do the right thing, take the empowering step and walk away?
She knew she’d already made her decision. Answering the call had been the equivalent of picking up that brownie. Now all she had to do was take that first bite.
She walked over to him. Quinn drew her close and kissed her. With the stroke of his tongue, she surrendered to the inevitable and promised herself she would do better tomorrow.
