Maxine sat to her left, texting on her iPhone with the neon green cover. When she looked up, it was with a smile of encouragement. “Admit it. You feel better.”
“I feel cleaner. That’s all I’m willing to cop to.”
Gail snorted. “You sure smell better,” she teased, plunking down a yellowish-brown ceramic mug filled with steaming coffee. The cup brought a familiar ache to Frankie’s chest, making her heart constrict. Her mother once had cups just like those.
Cupping the mug with her icy hands, she sniffed the liquid out of habit. A bad one. One Mitch had instilled in her. He used to say if she could smell the chicory, then she’d made an acceptable enough brew.
Gail nudged her arm with a grunt before dropping a plate of Danish in the center of the table and sitting to Frankie’s right. “Not like the highfalutin stuff you’re used to. I’d bet my pressure socks on that. It’s just plain old Chock Full o’Nuts.”
Frankie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Aunt Gail. That wasn’t why I smelled it. It’s an old… Just a habit.” She bit her lip before swallowing a gulp of the steaming liquid that burned her tongue and made her stomach roil.
“A Mitch habit,” Maxine, all-knowing, all-seeing, said.
Her eyes rolled upward. Yes. Mitch, Mitch, Mitch.
Maxine sipped her coffee before saying, “It’s time to break all those old habits, Frankie. If you’ll just let me help, I promise you’ll be asking yourself, ‘Who the hell is Mitch Bennett?’ before long.”
Frankie looked down into her coffee, unable to meet Maxine’s eyes. Just hearing his name spoken out loud was like a small stab wound to her gut. This forgetting who the hell Mitch was could be done much more effectively under some covers. Asleep.
“What is it exactly that you do, uh, Maxine? Are you a divorce coach or something?”
Maxine laughed, her bright face crinkling with a smile. “Uh, no. Though, that is a service we offer. We have a support group run by a retired therapist who once specialized in family counseling. I’m not a therapist. I have no official degree—”
“Yet,” Gail interrupted with a grin, reaching over to stroke Kiki’s back. “Maxie here’s come a long way since she got the big D. She’s going to college to get her business degree.”
The pride in her aunt’s eyes for Maxine made Frankie slink farther down in the chair. There’d once been the possibility of a degree in her future. Until she’d met Mitch, and he’d given her the perfect excuse to bail.
Maxine winked. “Right. What your aunt says is true. Though, that didn’t happen overnight. It took me a long time to get my act together enough to take courses. So it’s like I said, I’ve been where you are.”
Divorced. Right. So what? “I don’t want to be rude, Maxine, Aunt Gail, but if you’re just here to talk me off the ledge with your ex-trophy wife divorce story, I’m good. I like the ledge. In fact, I’m considering pitching a tent here.”
Maxine’s laughter, light and airy, once again filled the small dining area. “Bitter. Now that you’re awake, and we’ve forced you out of your cave, you’re pissed. That’s a good sign. It means you still have life in you.”
“Let’s cut to the chase and stop beating around the proverbial bush. Just tell me why you’re here, and then I can go back to bed.”
Maxine and Gail gave each other sidelong glances.
“What?” Frankie fought a yelp in her frustration and decided making a joke was the answer versus screaming. “Hold on. Is Maxine some kind of hit woman? I know you hated Mitch, Aunt Gail, but we can’t afford bail,” she half-heartedly joked.
Gail barked a laugh. “I’d figure it out. I bet everyone in the village’d chip in. That Mitch deserves a good slap in the kisser and some cee-ment shoes.”
Because all the seniors , while they ate their tuna casserole from TV trays, had been witness to Gail Lumley’s pathetic niece and her freak out on television.
God.
Bu Maxine only pat her hand and smiled. “I’m not a hit woman, Frankie. I own an employment agency, one specifically geared to help women just like you.”
“You mean ones who’ve aired their dirty laundry on a live cooking show?”
Maxine’s expression turned pained. She blew out a breath of air, making her cheeks puff outward. “That was a lot.”
A lot? A. Lot? She let her head sink into her hands. To say what she’d done was “a lot” was like calling the Titanic’s sinking a little mishap at the public pool.
“Look, Frankie, you’re going to be recognized. That’s a fact.”
No siree. Not if she didn’t ever leave her aunt’s retirement village ranch, she wouldn’t.
“Deal with it. Head-on. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Who wouldn’t threaten to, and I’ll paraphrase, ‘mash her husband’s testicles if—’”
“Cubes,” Gail said with a firm nod. “Frankie said ‘cubes.’”
Maxine nodded back. “Right—her husband’s cubes with a potato masher after finding out he was unfaithful? I can think of ten women offhand who’d give their eyeteeth to do it on national television. I’d bet there are a million women all over the nation still smiling over that particular broadcast of Mitch in the Kitchen. But it’s over. You can’t hide from it. And before you say it, you have to leave the village sometime.”
Wasn’t it funny all the things she had to do? Where was this universal rule book that had all these requirements located anyway?
“Not only do you have to leave the village, but your checking account says you have to work,” Maxine reminded her.
Frankie’s cheeks stained red, a hazard of her fair skin. “Doing what? I have no skills other than being someone’s lackey.”
She was quick to cast an apologetic glance in her aunt’s direction for her language, but it was the truth. She prepped food for a television show, and the only reason she’d been given the job in the first place was due to her nagging Mitch. She’d wanted to be more involved—to be more productive.
Whoever the hell said idle hands were the devil’s playground was full of horse puckey.
“My employment agency helps train women just like you. Trophy and even some non-trophy wives who’ve been sedentary in the workplace for long periods of time, and you do have a skill or two, Frankie. You just don’t know it yet.”
Yeah. She could work the hell out of a Magic Bullet. Definitely employers all over the globe would trip over themselves to hire her because of that unprecedented skill.
Yet Maxine’s smile was infuriatingly serene. “Tell me what you did when you worked for the Bon Appetit Channel.”
“I did the food prep for Mitch’s show. I chopped and organized, made sure everything was at his disposal. I’m good with color, size, and texture for a camera, and that’s it. Seeing as I pitched a nationwide fit, I don’t think there’s a television station from here to the remotest regions of Siberia that would hire me. I guess my camera-worthy food prep days are over. Now McDonald’s might find me appealing, but I don’t suppose I can earn a living there as head Big Mac maker.”
And she didn’t want a job anyway. She just wanted to go back to bed because that whole slew of sentences had taken way more energy and focus than she had to give.
“But you probably learned a lot about cooking because you were exposed to so much of it, right?”
Oh, she’d learned. In fact, she was responsible for many of the recipes Mitch featured on his show. But she’d also learned early on—shortly before Mitch proposed to her—she hated to cook. Like really hated it. Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I know enough.”
“Those are valuable skills, Frankie. How could you not see that?”
Gail waved a cheese Danish at her. “Tell her where you went to school, Frankie,” her aunt prompted, a hint of the pride she’d earlier shown for Maxine in her words.
Her voice lowered in more ugly shame. If this kept up, she’d have to hyphenate her name with the word. “I dropped out of the Culinary Institute of America.”
&n
bsp; “Because of Mitch?” Maxine asked, folding her hands on the table, staring directly at her.
Her eyes began to feel heavy, every word an effort. “Not just because of him, no. He made for a good excuse, though. The truth is I really hated cooking school. It wasn’t nearly the fun my mother made it while I was growing up.”
“Frannie was a good cook. The best of the best, my sister was,” Gail chirped, her eyes glassy from unshed tears.
Yes. Her mother, the woman she’d been named after, had been the best of the best. Frankie would give up a major organ just to be able to talk to her right now.
Her throat tightened, but she pressed onward, hoping to speed up Maxine’s departure. “There’s a lot of pressure in a professional kitchen versus the one you grew up in where no one flipped if you did something wrong. I just didn’t love the process the way I thought I would. I kept thinking, ‘It’s just food, not the cure for erectile dysfunction.’ I could never buy into the big deal a chef would make if someone screwed up an order, but to them, it’s like an offense of the highest order. Anyway, I was waiting tables and going to school when I met Mitch. At the time, he was the sous chef at the restaurant I waited tables for. He loved food enough for the both of us. I used to really love to watch… to watch him… cook.” Frankie gulped.
Maxine pressed a hand to hers in comfort. It felt strange and reassuring all in one touch. “And then he changed, I take it?”
Had he—or was he always the self-absorbed, callous prick she’d born witness to the night she’d caught Mitch and Bamby? She couldn’t remember if he was always so domineering or if at that time in her life, his dictatorial behavior was the kind of guidance she’d needed rather than resented.
“I don’t know. Maybe I changed…”
Maxine nibbled on a Danish with pretty white teeth. “It’s neither here nor there. All of those things can be worked out later in our group sessions. For right now, you have a job interview. So go get your pretty on, and we’ll go.” She turned her attention back to her coffee, nonchalantly stirring it with the spoon, as though she hadn’t just set off a grenade.
Frankie’s mouth fell open. A job interview? With whom? Who would hire her to do anything but maybe babysit their cave? “I’m not ready—to—I”—she sucked in an anxious breath—“I can’t . . .”
“No, you can, and you will.” Maxine gave her the mom look, brushing crumbs from her hands onto the yellow paper napkins Gail provided. “You have to. You’ve been in bed for six months. Do you have any idea how much time you have to make up for? So no more lollygagging. Go put on something that says ‘hire me,’ and hurry. We have to meet Nikos at five at the diner.”
The diner. The. Diner. Unmoving, Frankie said, “The diner.”
“That’s right. The diner,” Maxine confirmed, her eyes sharp with amusement. “Are you going to give me grief because it’s not a five-star restaurant and insult all the hard work it took to nab you this interview?”
Gail grinned, holding out her hands to Kiki. “Good then, it’s a date. I’ll babysit. Come see your Auntie Gail,” she cooed to a stoic Kiki.
White-knuckled, Frankie’s legs shook, and she wasn’t even standing yet. There was absolutely no way in flippin’ hell she could go on an interview, let alone work in a diner.
Or anywhere.
Well, so much for protests. There was something to be said for whatever brand of vitamins Maxine was taking. She’d pried Frankie’s fingers from the molding around her aunt’s front door with the strength of a sumo wrestler.
Leaning against Maxine’s passenger door, Frankie huddled deeper into her sweater, reluctant and petulant. It was the heaviest piece of outerwear she still owned, but it wasn’t cutting it against the sharp November air. Her teeth chattered and her body shook.
“You’re cold because you haven’t been eating, Frankie.” Maxine’s observation came as she yielded into traffic.
“Thank you, FDA,” she muttered.
Maxine’s tongue clucked in disapproval, but her grip on the steering wheel was relaxed. “If you could put as much effort into preparing for this interview as you did into clinging to the doorway at your aunt’s, you’d be golden.”
“How am I supposed to prepare for something I wasn’t aware of until fifteen minutes ago?” Lord, she sounded so peevish.
“Someone had to throw you into the deep end. It wasn’t going to be Gail. She’s too soft, and she loves you too much to upset you. I, on the other hand, have no compunctions about dragging you from your cave, and I don’t care if it upsets your precarious balance or your beloved pity party.”
She might not have felt a whole lot in the past six months, but today, right this second, she hated Maxine Whatserface for forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do.
“So who are you? The patron saint of divorced, depressed ex-trophy wives? And how did I get the label ex-trophy wife anyway?”
Maxine pulled into the parking lot of a place called Greek Meets Eat Diner, touting a huge banner that read, “Home of the World’s Best Meatloaf,” and laughed.
“You’re snarky. I like that, and no, I’m no saint, but as I already told you, I do know where you are. I know how hard it is to even consider surviving, let alone summon up the will to want to survive when you’ve been dumped in such a public way. I know what it’s like to have nothing. Absolutely nothing. So I started an employment agency for women just like you and me. Which leads me to the definition of an ex-trophy wife. Typically we’re pretty young things who marry a much older, rich man who likes to display his eye candy in the way of nubile. When we’re not so young and nubile anymore, we’re downgraded, and many times we lose everything because we were stupid enough to sign prenups. Hence, we’re not so trophy anymore.”
Frankie grunted. Thank God she knew who she was. The wife formerly known as trophy. Labels were good.
Still, she didn’t get it. If Maxine was back in the black, why did she give even a small hoot about women in a predicament she was no longer in? “And so you bought an employment agency to help ex-rich girls out? With what? Your new rich husband’s money?”
Maxine’s smile was glib when she put her car in park, but she didn’t rise to Frankie’s bait. “You know what, someday, when you get past behaving like a spiteful three-year-old who’s been forced to potty-train and give up her sippy cup all in one day, I might tell you exactly how I came upon the money to open my own employment agency and why I did it. Until then, let me just be really clear. I’m not the enemy. You’re your own worst enemy. I want to help. But you have to help me help you. Financially, you’re in dire straits right now. You might not care because you’re all caught up in the ‘bury your head in the sand’ stage of divorce recovery, but the time will come when you will care, and it’ll be too late, Frankie Bennett. Your aunt asked me to help because she was at her wits’ end with worry over you, and she didn’t know where to turn. I’ve never seen her as upset as she was yesterday at my mother’s. She was good to me at a time when good was hard to come by. I never forget that kind of good.”
Remorseful tears stung Frankie’s eyes again. One minute she was railing in defensive rebellion for being dragged from her hibernation, the next, she was weepy and repentant. No matter how depressed, she’d never intentionally hurt Gail.
Entwining her fingers together, she let her head hang low. “I’m sorry. I know my aunt is trying to help. I don’t want to hurt her.”
Maxine cocked her head, turning in her seat to capture Frankie’s gaze. She reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. It brought curious warmth to the pervading chill her body couldn’t shake.
“I know what you’re doing isn’t intentional, Frankie. You just want to be left alone. Sometimes, during something so life altering, so painful, you withdraw because hiding’s easier than getting back in the game. You’re lethargic and disinterested in everything. It’s depression.”
Frankie gave her a blank stare.
“Wow, I sound like one of those commer
cials where everything’s gray and dreary until you take a Xanax or, in this case, a Maxine, whatever it is, and poof, it magically makes your world go all bright with shiny colors again. Well, except for those nagging side effects like the anal weeping and eyeball leakage. Maxine chuckled, then sobered. “The thing is you are like one of those people, Frankie. The only difference is you haven’t been clinically diagnosed. But we could change that, if you’d like. I’d be happy to take you to the doctor,” she offered with her irritatingly pleasant tone.
Frankie sobered, too. She didn’t need a pill. She needed a bed with a blanket.
“Look, while you mope, the people around you, who love you, suffer, too. That’s why you have to get up off your ass and do something about it—even though you know it’ll suck. So here’s the score—get over yourself long enough to at least give this a try.”
Frankie lowered her eyes to her ice-cold hand in her lap. “And suck it up, princess, right?” Such a dumb expression.
Maxine chuckled again, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s exactly right. It’s my life mantra. Now c’mon. You’ll like Nikos and his family. They all have a hand in the diner in one way or another. They’re a big, loud Greek family who’ll fatten you up in no time flat. Not to mention, they’ll provide you with a distraction while you heal.”
Heal. Like she had the flu.
Her stomach began to revolt by rumbling while waves of anxious panic swept over her. She couldn’t possibly convince anyone to give her a job in this state. She hadn’t been out of her aunt’s house but maybe ten times in six months. She’d forgotten what kind of common courtesies and communication were involved in meeting new people.
How in all that was presentable could she possibly meet and impress a possible employer?
Frankie’s fingers went to the handle on the door, gripping it for all she was worth. “I don’t think I can do this, Maxine. I—”
Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2) Page 3