Читать книгу The Girls Of Mischief Bay - Susan Mallery, Susan Mallery - Страница 11

Four

“And hold,” Nicole said, her tone encouraging. “Five seconds more.”

Pam stayed in the plank position. Every muscle in her body trembled with the effort, but she was determined to make it the entire minute. The image of her naked self still haunted her. The least she could do was give her all in exercise class.

“Time,” Nicole called. “And you’re done, ladies.”

Pam collapsed onto the mat for a second to catch her breath. Her stomach muscles were still quivering. She would be sore well into tomorrow, which was kind of depressing considering she did three classes a week.

She rose and staggered over to the shelf that held the cleaner spray and the towels, and wiped down her mat and the equipment she’d used. The other students did the same. She kept her eye on Shannon, wanting to make sure they had a chance to talk. She figured of all the women she knew, Shannon was the one most likely to have a referral. Or at least be able to get one.

“She’s trying to kill us,” Pam said, moving next to the annoyingly firm redhead.

“I think that, too.”

They collected their personal belongings from the cubbies by the waiting area. Lulu stood and stretched. Pam stuffed the blanket Lulu had been on into her tote, then walked toward the door. Lulu walked along with her.

When they were outside and heading for their cars, Pam scooped up the dog and wondered how exactly she was supposed to bring up such a personal topic.

“Do you have a second?” she asked.

Shannon stopped and faced her. “Sure. What’s up?”

Pam took a second to admire the other woman’s smooth face. No saggy jawline for her. And her skin was really bright. Pam had noticed a couple of dark spots on her cheek and forehead. All that time in the sun when she’d been a teenager was coming back to haunt her. Day by day her complexion was moving from human to dalmatian.

“I don’t mean to imply anything,” Pam began, wishing she’d planned this better. “Or be insulting. It’s just…I don’t know who else to ask.”

Shannon’s mouth curved into a smile. “I suddenly feel like you’re going to ask me if I’ve had a sex change operation. The answer is no.”

Pam tried to smile. “It’s not that. I was thinking about maybe getting some BOTOX and wondered if you knew anyone who ever had or something.”

“Oh, sure. That’s easy. Of course I can give you a name. I have a person.”

Pam frowned. “A person who does it?”

“Sure.”

“Because you get it?”

“I have for about five years.”

Pam’s frown deepened as she studied her friend. “But your face is so smooth and natural looking.”

“Which is kind of the point,” Shannon told her. “I’ve been using it to prevent wrinkles.”

“They can do that?”

“They can.” Shannon moved her hair off her forehead. “I’m trying to scowl. Any movement?”

“Not much.”

“So it works. I’ll email the contact info for the place where I go. They’re very good. The shots hurt—I won’t lie. But after it’s done, it’s no big deal. Then about a week later, you have fewer wrinkles.”

“That sounds easy,” Pam murmured, even as she wondered if she’d left it too long. She was years past preventative care.

“I love it,” Shannon told her. “But I will warn you, it’s a slick road to more work. I’m flirting with the idea of injectable. Maybe a little filler in my lips, that kind of thing.”

“Filler?” Pam’s stomach got a little queasy. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“So start with BOTOX. The rest will be waiting.”

“Thanks.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, then headed to their cars. As Pam strapped in Lulu, she sighed.

“I was kind of hoping she would tell me I didn’t need anything done,” she admitted.

Lulu wagged her tail.

“Be grateful,” she told the dog. “You’ll always be a natural beauty.”

* * *

Nicole walked into the house at 6:28 p.m. Not a personal best, but pretty darned good, she thought. She ignored the ache in her back and her legs and how all she wanted to do was sleep for the next twenty-four hours. At least tonight was one of her early nights. Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked until eight.

“Mommy’s home! Mommy’s home!”

Tyler’s happy voice and the clatter of his feet as he raced toward her made her smile. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she didn’t get to see him in the morning. Her first class started at six, which meant she was up and out by five thirty.

She dropped her bag on the floor and held out her arms. Tyler raced around the corner and flung himself at her. She caught him and pulled him close.

“How’s my best boy?”

“Good. I missed you. I practiced my reading today and Daddy made sketty for dinner.”

“Spaghetti, huh? Sounds yummy.”

“It was.” He kissed her on the lips, then leaned his head against her cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, little man.”

She lowered him to the floor. Tyler headed back to the living room and she walked into the kitchen. There were dishes everywhere. The plastic container that had contained the “sketty” Tyler had enjoyed, along with everything from breakfast and lunch.

The pain in her legs moved up to her back. Frustration joined weariness. She walked into the bedroom and saw the laundry she’d sorted at five that morning still in piles. Hadn’t he done anything?

Eric walked into the kitchen and smiled at her. “Hey, hon. How was your day?” As he spoke, he stepped close and kissed her. “I know you’re going to say fine and that you’re tired, but I gotta tell you, you look hot in workout clothes.”

The compliment defused her annoyance for a second. “Thank you and my day was fine. Long, but good. How was yours?”

“Excellent. I rewrote a scene three times but now I have it right. At least I hope so. I’ll find out at my critique group on Saturday. In the meantime, I have class tonight, so I’ll see you later.”

She stared at the man she’d married. He was so similar to the guy she remembered and yet so totally different. He still wore his hair a little too long and had hideous taste in loud Hawaiian shirts. But the old Eric had taken care of the details of their life, while this guy didn’t seem to notice anything beyond his screenplay.

She told herself to breathe. That yelling never accomplished anything.

“I’d love to read the new scene,” she told him.

“You will. When it’s perfect.”

The same answer she always received. Because he’d yet to let her read a word of his work. Which sometimes left her wondering if he was writing anything at all. Which made her feel guilty, which led to her wanting to bang her head against the wall in frustration.

“I gotta run.” He kissed her again, then straightened. “Well, shit. I forgot to do the dishes. Leave them. I’ll do them when I get home. Or in the morning. I promise.”

“Okay,” she murmured, knowing she would do them herself. Something inside of her made it impossible to relax with a sink full of dishes sitting around. “Any chance you got to the sheets today?”

His expression turned blank. “Did I say I would?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate that, but Eric, we need to talk about this. You’re excited about your screenplay and that’s great, but lately it seems you’re doing less and less around here.”

“I’m not. I do the grocery shopping and take care of Tyler when he’s not in day care. I forgot the dishes, but I’ll do them. And the laundry.” His expression tightened. “You have to understand. It’s all about the writing for me. I’ve got to focus. That’s my job. I know it’s not paying anything right now, but it will. When I’m working, I’m as committed as you are at your job. I need you to respect my time.”

“I do.” Sort of, she thought grimly. “I need to be able to depend on you.”

“You can. Trust me.” He glanced at his watch. After picking up his backpack, he headed for the door. “Tomorrow. I swear. I’ll get it all done. Gotta go. Bye.”

And he was gone.

She stood alone in the kitchen and let various emotions wash over her. Annoyance, confusion, exhaustion, regret. They churned and heated until they formed a large knot in her belly.

Respect his time writing while she busted her ass to support them all? She closed her eyes. No, she told herself. That wasn’t fair. He was working. At least she hoped he was.

The changes in her relationship with her husband had started so quietly, in such tiny increments, that she’d barely noticed. Excluding his decision to quit, of course.

At first he’d taken care of stuff around the house. The laundry, the grocery shopping. But over time, that had changed. He forgot to get everything on the list. He put clothes in the washer, but not the dryer. He didn’t pick up Tyler at day care. Now he wasn’t cleaning up the kitchen as he’d promised.

She thought about going after him to talk about what was happening, then shook her head. He would be focused on getting to class. Soon, she promised herself. She would sit down with him and talk about what was wrong. She didn’t want to have a roommate, she wanted a husband. Someone who was invested in their family, and not totally focused on his own dream.

Did he really think he was going to sell a screenplay? The odds against that were what? A billion to one? Talk about ridiculous. And yet there was a part of her that wondered if he would make it happen.

The knot in her stomach didn’t ease. But that wasn’t important right now. She picked up the empty laundry basket. Prioritize, she told herself. She could probably stay awake through two loads, so which were the most important?

Five minutes later their old washer was chugging away. She turned the radio on to an oldies station and danced with Tyler as they worked together to tidy the kitchen. Or rather she worked and he shimmied while “Help Me, Rhonda” played. By seven the dishes were in the dishwasher and the food put away. Tyler had had his bath the previous night so they had a whole hour before his bedtime.

She sank onto the floor in front of her son and smiled at him. “What would you like to do? We could play a game, or watch a show.” She didn’t offer to read a story, because that went without saying. Except for the two nights she worked late, she always read him a story. Usually some adventure about wily Brad the Dragon.

“A movie!”

“There’s only an hour.”

“Okay.”

Tyler took off running toward the family room. His shows and movies were on a lower shelf where he could browse on his own. She walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. Nothing much inspired her, although she knew she had to eat. She picked a blueberry yogurt and an apple.

“This one,” Tyler told her, holding out a familiar and battered DVD case.

Nicole studied the grainy picture on the front. It was sixteen years old. She’d been all of fourteen and this was a copy of her audition performance for The School of American Ballet in New York. For their summer session.

Not the actual audition. No one was allowed to watch, let alone record that. But she’d re-created the dance for her mother. On the same DVD were a half dozen other performances.

“Honey, you’ve seen that so many times,” she reminded her son. “Don’t you want to watch something else?”

He thrust out the DVD—his small face set in a stubborn expression she recognized.

“Okay, then. Dancing it is.”

She put in the DVD, then settled on the sofa. Tyler cuddled up next to her. She offered him some of her yogurt, but he shook his head. On the TV, the picture flickered, then familiar music filled the room.

Nicole watched her much younger self perform. She was all legs, she thought, without the usual gangliness of adolescence. Probably because she’d been studying dance since she’d been Tyler’s age.

She’d made it into the summer program only to be told at the end that she didn’t have what it took to make it professionally in ballet. At the time she’d been both heartbroken and secretly relieved. Because her being a famous ballerina had been her mother’s dream for her.

Nicole’s mother had cried for two days, then come up with a new plan. There were many kinds of dance, she’d informed her only child. Nicole was going to conquer them all. There had also been acting classes and voice lessons. She’d barely managed to get the grades to graduate from high school because she was always attending some coaching session or another.

On the screen, the scene shifted to yet another performance. Nicole figured she’d been about seventeen. It was the year her mother had started complaining of headaches. By the time Nicole had received word of a full dance scholarship at Arizona State University, her mother had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. The funeral had been the Saturday before Labor Day. Nicole had already started at ASU.

So many choices made that weren’t really choices at all, she thought, pleased she’d reached the point of only sadness. For a long time she’d tasted bitterness, too, when she’d thought about her past. Maybe watching the DVDs with Tyler helped. He only saw the beauty of the dance. There weren’t any emotional judgments. No history fogged his vision.

Nicole hadn’t been so lucky. Her mother had wanted her to be a star. The origin of the dream wasn’t clear. Something from her own childhood perhaps. But they hadn’t talked about that. Instead, their most intimate conversations had been about how Nicole could do better, be better. Always strive for more, her mother had told her. How disappointed she would be today.

Sometimes Nicole wondered if she was disappointed, too. How different things would have been if she’d been just a bit better. A hair more talented. Not that regrets helped, she reminded herself. They only wasted time and energy because regrets didn’t change anything.

She stared at the screen and watched her younger self dance with a grace and confidence that seemed to be lacking these days. While she didn’t regret not being famous, she knew that somewhere along the way she’d lost something important. All the elements of a happy life were there—a growing small business, a husband, a wonderful son, friends—but somehow they didn’t come together the way they should. She accepted the exhaustion. That came with the territory. It was everything else—the sense of never having quite found what made her happy, the wondering if she’d made a mistake somewhere along the way. That was what kept her up nights.

* * *

Sunday morning Pam double-checked the contents of her refrigerator. The whole family was coming over for dinner later that afternoon and she needed to make sure she had all she needed.

Sunday dinners were an Eiland family tradition. When the kids had been younger, they were all required to be home by four, regardless of whatever fun they might be having somewhere else. Exceptions were made for travel, of course, and now, vacations. But otherwise, Sunday dinners were required.

During the summer, they were casual affairs, mostly outside with barbecued whatever as the entrée. Come September, there was usually a football game playing and when favorite rivalries were on the line, dinner became a buffet in the family room.

For today Pam had decided on prime rib. She’d ordered a large one so she and John could have plenty of leftovers. The rest of the menu was simple. Mashed potatoes and green beans. Steven, their middle child, had requested her jalapeño-corn biscuits. She’d made pies yesterday. Custard and chocolate. She liked to do as much in advance as possible so that when her kids arrived, she didn’t have to spend all her time in the kitchen.

She wandered into the dining room and walked to the built-in hutch along the far wall. She opened the cabinet doors and studied the stacked dishes. There were three sets of them, all inherited from grandmothers. One was only used for special occasions. She looked at the other two and picked up a side plate with blue-and-green swirls. She put it on the table, along with a tablecloth and a stack of napkins. John would set the table later, using what she’d set out.

There would be six of them today. Jen and her husband, Kirk, Steven and Brandon. Steven used to be allowed to bring a date but he went through women like most people went through chewing gum. Pam had grown tired of liking girl after girl only to have them disappear. It was discouraging. Now Steven was under a very strict rule. No girlfriends allowed at family functions until they’d been together for at least six months. Which meant they hadn’t met anyone he’d dated in the past three years.

She told herself he would grow out of it. He was only twenty-six. Which seemed young. How funny. John had only been twenty-two when they’d gotten married. But times were different now. People were different.

The doorbell rang and Lulu took off toward it, barking excitedly.

Pam followed her. “You know, I can hear it, too.”

Lulu was unimpressed by the information and continued to bark until Pam scooped her up and opened the door.

Hayley Batchelor held out a plate of cookies. “Hi. I haven’t seen you in forever. Is this a good time?”

“Sure.”

Pam stepped back to let in her neighbor and John’s secretary. Hayley set down the plate of cookies and held out her arms. Lulu made an easy jump from one cuddler to the other.

“How’s my favorite girl?” Hayley asked.

Lulu snuggled close and gave a quick chin kiss.

“So sweet,” Hayley murmured. “Why did your mom get you fixed? There could have been more Lulus in the world.”

“Given her health issues, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Pam told her. “Come on. I have herbal tea in the kitchen.”

“John told you,” Hayley said.

“He did. Congratulations. You must be excited.”

“I am. It’s going to be different this time. It has to be.”

Pam admired her determination and belief. Hayley had suffered a series of miscarriages in her quest to get pregnant. She’d been probed and tested and there didn’t seem to be any specific reason for the problem. She wasn’t allergic to her husband’s sperm—or so she’d shared with Pam a year ago. Pam hadn’t known such a thing could happen. Allergic to sperm? What were their bodies thinking?

The plumbing all worked and was in the right place, the hormone levels were good, she wasn’t lacking in any vitamins or minerals. But Hayley was unable to carry a baby past twelve weeks.

With the last pregnancy, she’d gone straight to bed rest the second she’d found out she was pregnant and that hadn’t helped, either.

Now Hayley sat in one of the stools at the bar-level counter while Pam put water on to boil. She pulled out her tea tray and chose her friend’s favorite—a white tea with pear.

“How far along are you?” she asked.

“Seven weeks. Only five more to go.”

“You feeling okay?”

“I feel great.”

Pam nodded. So that wasn’t different. Hayley always felt perfectly healthy right up until she started bleeding.

“I wish I could help,” Pam told her. “Give you something.”

“You offering to be my surrogate?” Hayley asked, her voice teasing.

“God, no.”

Hayley laughed. “I figured.” Her humor faded a little. “I appreciate what you’re saying, though. I’d like some of whatever magic it is that so many other women get to take for granted.”

Pam nodded. She’d been pregnant three times and had three healthy children to show for it. She’d suffered bad morning sickness with Brandon, but otherwise, the pregnancies had been uneventful. She’d never considered how many other women had to deal with so much more.

“How’s Rob doing?” she asked.

Rob, Hayley’s husband, worked two jobs to help pay for the various fertility treatments Hayley wanted them to try. He was a good guy and Pam knew he worried about his wife.

“Good,” Hayley said brightly. “Excited I’m pregnant again.”

Pam nodded without speaking. She would bet Rob was a whole lot more worried than excited. She knew he wanted Hayley to stop trying. To give her body a rest. Not that Hayley listened.

Pam poured boiling water into two mugs and passed one to Hayley, along with the tea bag and spoon. She dropped a bag of Earl Grey into her mug just as John strolled into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said as he walked around to Hayley and gave her a quick hug. “How’s my favorite secretary?”

“Good.”

“I see you brought cookies. I’ve always liked you. Remind me to give you a raise on Monday.”

Hayley grinned. “I will.”

John winked at Pam, took a couple of cookies from the plate and headed for the garage. Lulu, sensing the possibility of a snack, followed her dad.

“John is about the nicest man I know,” Hayley said when the door had closed. “Everybody at work loves him.”

“I was lucky to find him,” Pam said, knowing that nice was more important than exciting and after thirty years anyone—even George Clooney—could seem less thrilling. It was simply how life worked.

Hayley mentioned something about the hotel project the company was working on. Pam mostly listened. The light had shifted and she noticed a subtle glow to her friend’s skin.

Hayley was what? Thirty? Thirty-one. She had a firm jaw and no wrinkles at all. Her hands and arms were so smooth. Pam drew in a breath as she realized that except for John, she was nearly always the oldest person in the room. And while she should probably be happy that so many young people wanted to hang out with her, she would rather it was because she was young, too.

She mentally gave herself a firm shake. She had to stop thinking about herself all the time. She was becoming obsessed and tedious.

She tuned back in to Hayley’s conversation and laughed over a comment about a client.

“I should head home,” Hayley said, coming to her feet. “Thanks for the tea and the company.”

“When does Rob come back?” One of Rob’s two jobs involved business travel.

“In a few days.”

“If you need anything or get scared, just grab your pillow and come over,” Pam told her. “You’re always welcome. We have that guest room sitting empty.”

Hayley nodded, then hugged her. “Thanks. It helps to know you’re right across the street.”

“And down two houses. You go across the street, you’ll find yourself at the Logans’ and they have those really mean cats.”

Hayley laughed. “Good point.”

Pam walked her out. When she turned to go back to the kitchen, she saw John and Lulu walking toward her.

“Everything okay with her?” he asked.

“So far.” She drew in a breath. “I don’t want to send a message to the universe or anything, but I have a bad feeling about this. Why can’t the doctors figure out the problem? And when are they going to tell her that all these miscarriages are a bad idea?”

She’d bled a lot with the last one and Pam had ended up insisting she go to emergency.

John put his arm around her. “She really wants a baby.”

“And I want her to have one. Just not like this.”

Her husband squeezed, then released her. “Jen texted me. She and Kirk are coming over an hour early. They want to talk.”

Pam pressed her lips together. “Why didn’t she text me?”

“Probably because she knew you would ask questions.”

“Didn’t you? Is something wrong?” A thousand possibilities, all of them horrible, flashed through her mind. “You don’t think one of them is sick, do you? Or maybe Kirk shot someone and is going to be indicted for murder.” She pressed a hand to her chest as her breathing hitched. “Oh, God. What if they’re getting a divorce?”

Her husband chuckled. “I have to admire your ability to see disaster in every situation. You think they’d tell us that together, before Sunday dinner?”

“Probably not.”

“Then maybe stay calm until we hear what it’s about. For all we know, they want to move in with us to save money.”

Pam rolled her eyes. “Don’t even joke about that.” Her mind stopped swirling with disastrous possibilities and she tried to think of good ones. “I wonder if they’re getting that puppy they’ve been talking about. Jen called me last week to ask about how long it took to house-train Lulu. A puppy would be nice.”

“I’m sure they’re getting a puppy.”

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea. They both work, so they’re gone all day.”

John kissed the top of her head. “You are the queen of finding the cloud in every silver lining.”

She smiled. “Okay. Point taken. I’m going to get the roast ready.”

“Need any help?”

“No, thanks.”

She returned to the kitchen, Lulu walking beside her. The dog curled up in her kitchen bed while Pam set the roast on the counter. She would let it warm up for about an hour before popping it in the oven. In the meantime she could peel the four hundred pounds of potatoes they would be eating tonight. Unlike a lot of their friends, she and John saw their grown kids a lot. They’d stayed close geographically and seemed to like hanging out with their parents.

So far they’d been blessed with their children. Jen, their oldest, had been sweet and funny. Steven had been a typical boy—always getting into trouble. But he had a good heart and lots of friends. Brandon, their youngest, had been more difficult. He’d been moody and attracted to trouble. High school had been hell. He’d skipped class, hung out with horrible kids and discovered he liked to party. The summer he turned seventeen, he’d wrapped his car around a tree.

Angels had been with him, Pam thought, as she peeled her potatoes. The crash should have killed him, yet he’d walked away with nothing more than some bruises and a broken arm.

She and John hadn’t known what to do, so they’d erred on the side of tough love. They’d sent him to rehab for six weeks. Not one of those touchy-feely kinds with meetings where you shared and did crafts, but one with a boot-camp philosophy and lots of lectures from people in recovery. Brandon had quickly realized he was far from the biggest, baddest dog in the pack. He’d come home older, wiser and, most important, sober.

He’d completed his senior year with a 4.0 GPA and had made what had seemed like the impossible decision to be a doctor. But he’d stuck with it and was now in his second year of medical school.

“My son, the doctor,” Pam murmured.

They were all in a good place right now. She would be grateful and not borrow trouble. Although she did think that Jen and Kirk might not be ready for a puppy.