by Joy Fielding
He recognizes the start of the old John Denver song. “Some days are stones,” he says, completing the lyric.
“I take it this one’s a stone,” she says. “Maybe I can make it better. My name’s Brandi.”
Of course it is, he thinks, estimating her age as late thirties, maybe early forties. Attractive in a slightly sullied kind of way, sexy the way a cheap perfume can sometimes be. You don’t always want champagne, he acknowledges, as Brandi signals for the bartender. Sometimes you just want a beer.
“Gin and tonic,” she says.
The bartender’s glance shifts from Brandi to Sean.
What the hell, Sean thinks, tapping his empty glass. “Guess I’ll have another one of these.”
“You haven’t told me your name,” Brandi says as the bartender departs.
“Sean.”
“Sean,” she repeats. “That’s such a nice name.”
“Is it?”
“What—you don’t even like your name? You really had a shitty day.”
He laughs.
“That’s better. So, Sean, what about your day was so miserable? You get fired or something?”
“Or something.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
“Sure, I do,” she says, as the bartender returns with their drinks.
“You a therapist or something?”
“Or something,” she says, and they both chuckle. “That’s better,” she says again. “So, Sean, tell me all about your miserable day. I guarantee I can make you feel better.” Her hand falls to his thigh.
What the hell? he thinks. Why not? Sometimes you want a therapist. Sometimes a cheap hooker will do. “Well, let’s see. Where to start? I’m unemployed, broke, been lying to my wife about a job I don’t have, and she’ll probably leave me when she finds out. I’ll be lucky if I ever see my kids again. I have violent fantasies that scare the crap out of me. My drinking’s gotten way out of hand, I’m angry all the goddamn time, and when I’m not angry, I’m so depressed I want to shoot myself. But I can’t even do that because I can’t afford a goddamn gun!”
“You’re broke?” Brandi says, her hand quickly returning to her side.
Sean laughs out loud. “That’s what you took from that?”
“Hey,” Brandi says. “I’m a working girl. I can’t afford to waste my time. Seriously—you’re broke?”
“I am so seriously broke that I can’t even afford to pay for your drink.”
“Shit,” Brandi says, sliding off the bench, guarding the drink in her hand, as if she’s afraid he’s going to snatch it from her.
“Wait—what about your guarantee?” Sean calls after her.
The response he gets is a raised middle finger.
“Thank you. Feeling much better now.”
Brandi approaches the long mirrored bar and whispers something to the bartender. The young man, whose man-bun is at odds with his impressive biceps, leaves his post to approach Sean. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“I don’t know. What kind of problem were you thinking?”
“Suppose you just pay up and go home.”
“Sure thing.” Sean downs his drink in one long gulp. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see. Two vodka rocks and one gin and tonic…”
Sean is about to object, then thinks better of it.
“Thirty bucks,” the bartender says.
Sean fishes inside his pocket, pulls out two ten-dollar bills. “Take it or leave it.”
The bartender snatches the bills from Sean’s fingers. “Get the fuck out of my bar, and don’t come back.”
Sean scrambles to his feet. One more place he can’t come back to.
* * *
—
Sean pulls into the cul-de-sac just as Julia’s son is pulling out. He rolls down his window. “Nice-looking car,” Sean tells him. “I’ve been thinking of getting one myself.”
“Can’t recommend it highly enough,” Norman says.
Sean ignores the skeptical look on the other man’s face, the look that tells Sean he couldn’t possibly afford one of these babies, so who’s he trying to kid? “What kind of mileage do you get?”
“Couldn’t say. Haven’t really kept track.”
Of course you haven’t, Sean thinks. Pompous ass. “How’s your mom? Everything all right?”
“She’s fine. Thanks for asking.” Norman pauses. “We’re actually planning on putting the house up for sale, so if you should hear of anyone who’s looking…”
“I’ll be sure to tell them.” Like I don’t have anything better to do with my time, Sean thinks, then laughs, because he doesn’t.
He waits till the Tesla has disappeared down the main road, then parks his car in the garage, happy to see that Olivia isn’t home yet. He has time for another drink, time to conjure up one of those stupid little vignettes about his job that Olivia loves to hear.
So, he thinks, it looks as if two houses on their small cul-de-sac will soon be on the market. Not that Sean knows for sure that the Wilsons will be moving, but he couldn’t help noticing the real estate agent’s car that was parked in their driveway the other day. He wonders idly whose house will sell first and how much they’ll get.
Maybe he and Olivia should consider selling. That way, at least, he could get his hands on some much-needed cash. He’s pretty sure he could talk Olivia into renting an apartment and investing whatever profit remained after the mortgage is paid off. By that time, surely to God, he’ll have a job.
“Yeah, right,” he says, extricating his phone from his back pocket as he enters the kitchen. He presses in the number he still knows by heart, even though it’s been a while since he used it.
“Fiona Geller,” the woman answers.
“Fiona,” Sean says, grabbing a beer left over from Saturday night’s festivities, and carrying it into the living room, plopping down on the brown corduroy couch. “It’s Sean Grant,” he says when the woman fails to recognize his voice.
“Sean. How are you?”
“Still unemployed,” he tells her.
“I know. And what can I say? I’ve been talking to firms from Orlando to Miami. What can I say?” she says again. “There’s just not much out there right now, especially for a man with your qualifications and experience.”
“Look. Just get me an interview. Anywhere. At this point, I’ll take anything.”
“I know that. But you know what it’s like in the summer, especially in Florida. Nobody does much hiring. They all wait till the fall. I’m certain something will come up in September.”
“That’s what you said last summer,” Sean reminds the headhunter.
“What can I say?” she says yet again. “I know it’s hard, but try to be patient. We’ll find you something. It’s important to stay positive.”
“Right you are,” Sean says, hearing Olivia’s car pull into the garage.
“I promise I’ll call you as soon as I hear of anything. Hang in there.”
“Hanging by a thread,” Sean whispers as the call disconnects.
“Sean?” Olivia calls as she enters the house. “Sean, where are you?”
“In the living room.” He’s returning the phone to his pocket when she reaches the doorway. “How was your day?” he asks, trying to sound interested. Much as it pains him to admit, it hurts that his wife is succeeding in an industry that no longer wants him.
She stares at him, an inscrutable look on her face. “Interesting. How was yours?”
Sean does a quick mental run-through of the stories he’s spent hours dreaming up, the charming anecdotes he’s memorized, the fresh lies hovering on the tip of his tongue.
Except he has no more strength for lies, no stamina for further deceit.
Slowly, Sean lowers his bottle of beer to the floor and looks his wife straight in the eye. “I need help,” he says.
Chapter Forty-nine
It’s closing in on six o’clock and Maggie is doing a final check of the day’s receipts when she hears footsteps behind her and feels Nadine at her back. “Busy day,” Nadine remarks. “I’m pooped.”
“When you’re good, word gets around,” Maggie says with a smile, recalling one of the first things Nadine ever said to her.
They watch Jerome cleaning up his station and preparing to leave. “You like working here?” Nadine asks Maggie.
“I do.”
“But you’re not going to stay.” Nadine says this without anger or recrimination. “At least not for long.”
Maggie is about to protest when Nadine stops her.
“It’s okay. I knew when I hired you that you wouldn’t be here more than six months, tops. That’s the problem with hiring smart people. They catch on quick, do a great job, get bored, then leave. And you are by far the smartest receptionist I’ve ever had, so I knew from the start that it was only a matter of time.”
“Well, I’m not leaving yet,” Maggie says.
“Thank God for that. But when you do, I just ask that you give me a little notice. Don’t you go eloping on me.”
Maggie laughs. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”
“You never know. You’re smart and you’re beautiful. And not all men are as stupid as your husband.”
“Craig’s not stupid.”
“He is if he lets you get away.”
“Okay, I’m out of here,” Jerome says. “See you tomorrow. Have a good night, everyone.”
“You, too,” Maggie says as Nadine waves him out the door.
“So, what are your plans for the evening?” Nadine asks.
“Well, it’s Wednesday, so Craig’s taking the kids for dinner, and I signed up for this stupid gym membership, so maybe I’ll take a class….”
“Ooh. Be still, my heart.”
Maggie grabs her purse from behind the reception counter and slings it across her shoulder, something that’s much easier to do now that it’s no longer weighted down by her gun. “See you tomorrow.”
“Don’t strain anything.”
“I’ll try not to,” Maggie says, deciding to stop at Starbucks for something sweet before heading home.
She sees Richard Atwood even before she reaches the door. He’s sitting at a table near the window talking to a young woman with waist-length brown hair. She watches as the woman throws her head back to laugh at something the handsome accountant has said and sees her hand reach across the table to cover his.
“You go, girl,” Maggie says, doing a quick turnaround and heading directly to her car. She pulls out her phone and punches in Dani Wilson’s number.
Dani answers on the second ring. “Maggie?” she whispers, having obviously glanced at her caller ID. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem. Why are you whispering?”
“Didn’t realize I was,” Dani says, although her voice remains barely audible.
“I was thinking of going to the gym, and I know you said it wasn’t exactly your thing, but I thought I’d ask anyway….”
“Well, bless your heart. That’s real sweet of you, but…”
“Is that call for me?” Maggie hears Nick ask.
“No. It’s for me.”
“Who is it?”
“Just a patient with a problem.”
“Why’d you tell him that?” Maggie asks.
Dani’s voice descends even lower. “Look. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just fixin’ to get dinner on the table.”
“Dani, for God’s sake,” she hears Nick say. “Tell them to call you at the office.”
“I gotta go.”
“We have to talk,” Maggie tells her. But the line is already dead.
* * *
—
Maggie gets back from the gym at just before eight-thirty. She’s tired and sweaty and common sense tells her that she should probably use this time before the kids come home to relax her sore muscles in a nice, hot bath. She laughs. When has she ever listened to her common sense?
So instead of stripping off her exercise clothes and submerging her stiff joints in a combination of steaming water and Epsom salt, she finds herself walking up the Wilsons’ front path. “What’s Nick going to do?” she asks the star-filled sky. “Shoot me?”
The front door opens before she’s halfway up the walk. Dani Wilson, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, takes a quick glance over her shoulder and then steps outside, closing the door quietly behind her and plastering a big grin on her face. “Hi,” she says. “I saw you comin’ from the window. How was the gym?”
“Good. Exhausting, but good. I haven’t worked out like that in a long time. And I was definitely the oldest person in the class.”
“I’m sure you did just fine.”
“Well, I tried. That’s all you can do, right?”
“Right.” Dani takes another glance over her shoulder. “Was there somethin’ you needed?”
“Erin tells me you’re thinking of moving.”
“Oh. Yes, that’s right.”
“Seems kind of sudden,” Maggie says. “Mind my asking why?”
Dani’s smile disappears. “It’s not really sudden. Nick’s been thinkin’ about it for a long time. He wants a bigger house, a gated community. You know, somewhere with tennis courts and a golf course, that sort of thing.”
“What do you want?”
A brief pause. “I want my husband to be happy.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Dani,” Maggie says. “I know what’s going on. You don’t have to keep pretending.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I’m not pretendin’ anythin’. There’s nothin’ goin’ on.”
“I’ve seen the bruises.”
“I told you…”
“I know what you told me, and I know it’s not true. I know that Nick is responsible, that he’s been beating you.”
“That’s plumb crazy.”
“Is it?”
A laugh scrapes at Dani’s throat. “You are madder than a wet hen.”
“Am I? All the makeup in the world can’t hide that bruise under your eye, Dani.”
Dani’s hand moves automatically to her face.
“Show me your arms.”
“What?”
“Roll up your sleeves and show me your arms.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I really think you should go now. All that exercise has clearly done a number on your head.” She turns to go back inside, then stops, turns back again. “You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“It’s not always like this,” Dani says, her voice a plea. “Most of the time, Nick’s good and he’s gentle and he’s kind. Just when I get him riled up, when I go shootin’ my mouth off about stuff I know nothin’ about, when I—”
“Listen to me, Dani,” Maggie interrupts. “You are not to blame for your husband’s bad behavior. Nothing you say or do can ever justify his hitting you. And I don’t care if, nine days out of ten, Nick is a fucking saint. The only day that means anything, the day that tells you who he really is, is the day he hits you. You’re fooling yourself if you think otherwise. And you’re fooling yourself if you think anything’s going to change.”
Dani shakes her head, dislodging the tears that have been clinging to her lashes. “Just what are you proposin’ that I do?”
“Call the police, file a formal complaint.”
“And what good will that do?”
“They
’ll arrest Nick, charge him with domestic abuse….”
“He’ll deny it.”
“They’ll believe you.”
“You sure about that?”
Maggie runs a frustrated hand through her hair. Her own experience with the legal system has taught her that you can’t be sure of anything. “You can leave him,” she offers instead.
“Where will I go?” Dani asks. “To a shelter? I can’t go draggin’ my boys to a shelter. And there’s no way I’m leavin’ them with Nick.”
“You have a busy practice, a good income, you can find another place to stay. I’ll help you look….”
“He’ll come after me.”
“He might not,” Maggie says, again thinking of her own experience.
“Now who’s fooling herself? Nick’s never gonna let me leave.”
“What if I call the police?” Maggie asks. “Report my suspicions…”
“Oh, God, no. Please don’t do that. He’ll kill me for sure.”
“He’ll kill you anyway!”
The front door to the Wilson house opens. Nick fills the doorway. “Maggie,” he says, pleasantly. “I didn’t hear you ring the bell.”
“I saw her comin’ up the walk,” Dani says, quickly wiping away her tears. “I came outside before she had the chance.”
“Something on your mind?” Nick asks.
“Not really. I just heard you were thinking of moving….”
“Yeah. It’s time.”
“Just when we were all starting to get to know each other.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “They do say it’s never a good idea to get too chummy with the neighbors.” He looks back inside the house. “The boys are fighting over the damn fish again. I think they could use your help,” he says to his wife.
“ ’Course,” Dani says. “Nice talkin’ to you, Maggie.” She disappears inside the house.
Maggie nods, about to turn around when Nick’s voice stops her.
“Stay away from my wife,” he says, all traces of cordiality gone.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Dani’s too much of a polite Southern belle to say anything, but talking to you upsets her.”
“Talking to me upsets her,” Maggie repeats, her voice a monotone.