by Lisa Jackson
Though she’d called to warn Court that they had company for dinner, he’d come home in a dark mood, turning down offers of all the food and sipping his gin and tonic with a tight, angry look on his face. After the Hofstetters had left, Elizabeth had braced herself for a lecture, but Court simply said he wanted more notice next time and had gone to the bedroom and shut the door while she cleaned the kitchen. As bad as things had been between them, Elizabeth figured she’d gotten off easy.
No, she thought, sipping her wine in Vivian’s grand kitchen, I really don’t miss my husband, at least not his bad moods and sharp comments.
As Bibi zipped upstairs to join the other girls, Dave greeted Elizabeth with a hug, too. “I wish there was something I could do.” A gym rat, he had a compact, athletic body, kind face, and hair that was turning prematurely gray.
“I’m fine, really. It’s . . . hard, but . . .”
Try to pretend that you care....
She did care. She cared that Court was gone. She cared that he’d been lying to her. She cared that she’d wished him dead. Any sadness she felt was for a love lost, promises broken, a dream shattered, all which had occurred before her husband’s death.
“Are you good with that?” Dave asked, inclining his head to the barely touched glass of wine she held in her hand. In the kitchen spotlights, his crown glimmered with strands of silver.
Court had displayed the beginnings of gray hair, too, but he’d been death on admitting it and woe to anyone who had the bad form to make a comment about it.
Elizabeth took a sip of her merlot and gave Dave a thumbs-up. He was tall, like Court and Bill and had a strong chest and muscular arms. She wouldn’t have had to be told he was into working out; it was stamped all over him.
That reminded her that she should cancel her membership to Fitness Now! Oh, God, there were so many things to do, so many loose ends to tie up, so many reminders of Court.
Vivian rounded up all the kids and got them situated on the covered patio with juice boxes and slices of pizza on paper plates. The temperature was pleasant enough that coats and sweaters had been shed.
“If anyone’s ready for dinner, pull off the plastic wrap.” She signaled to Bill to do just that as she stuffed her hands into oversized mitts, then bent to the oven and pulled out a broiler pan with two large flank steaks sizzling away. “Five, ten minutes and we’ll be ready to serve.”
“I’m liking the hors d’oeuvres,” Les said, spreading brie and fig jam on a cracker.
“You’re like Kurt,” Nadia said. “He loves the appetizers.”
“Who doesn’t?” Deirdre piped up as she replicated her husband’s choices.
They slowly moved to the dining room table and seated themselves. Vivian directed Elizabeth to sit at one end and Bill to sit at the other while she took a seat to her left, which gave her ease to get up and down to the kitchen.
Throughout the meal, the conversation stayed with small talk, nothing serious discussed until talk inevitably strayed to the memorial service. The kids had already rushed back inside and ran like a herd up the stairs, the boys joining the girls. Elizabeth had finally made it to the bottom of her wineglass and Bill, who’d gotten up to bring the bottle to the table, was quick to give her a refill before she could demur.
“I invited Jade, but she’s just feeling too pregnant,” Vivian said, cutting off a bite of steak and popping it into her mouth.
“When’s she due again?” Nadia asked. She was on Elizabeth’s right and when Bill lifted his brows in query she held up her wineglass for him to top off as well.
Her question reminded Elizabeth of Nadia’s inability to conceive and it seemed to catch Vivian up, too, as she hesitated before saying, “Ummm . . . six weeks or maybe eight?”
Nadia looked straight at Elizabeth. Her eyes were the same shade of blue as Chloe’s and had the same piercing quality. A line drew between her brows. “Are we having a baby shower for her?”
“Nah.” Deirdre shook her head. Her honey-blond hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
Blond woman with a messy bun . . .
The wayward thought slid through Elizabeth’s mind like a snake and for a second she felt her stomach clench. She had purposely worn her hair down tonight and clipped away from her face.
“Nobody wants to go to a shower for a second one,” Deirdre went on. “We should just have a kind of open house after the baby’s here.” She waved a hand over the table. “Wine, appetizers, small sandwiches . . . this kind of thing.”
“Good idea,” Tara said. Her hair had been recently bleached again, but she’d battled its dryness with a lot of product and it lay smooth and stiff at an angle to her chin.
Vivian’s poof of hair was corralled into a tight bun this evening, and for once she’d given up her workout gear for a blue shift that showed off her tanned arms and legs.
Blondes. We’re all blondes. Elizabeth’s throat tightened. Funny, she’d never noticed that fact before.
Because it doesn’t matter. Don’t go all psycho just because your friends are comfortable with L’Oreal.
Elizabeth forced down what she could of the meal and once everyone was finished and had complimented Vivian a dozen times over on the food, Vivian got up and went to the freezer, pulling out a mud pie. “I can’t take credit for this,” she said, slicing up the dessert and putting it onto small plates.
Elizabeth’s stomach was still in knots and she begged off, though everyone else had a piece, the women sighing as if the dessert was somewhat orgasmic. Elizabeth just wanted out.
At last, they pushed away from the table and walked onto the patio to drink coffee with or without Baileys, Elizabeth followed, wondering how to escape.
Vivian clinked her cup with Elizabeth’s, then said sheepishly, “I got a chance to get my aggressions out after I left the grave site today.” She leaned back in her patio chair and cradled her cup. “Some damned asshole cut me off when I was driving home and I just laid on the horn. God, I swear it was a full minute. He was pissed as hell, but it made me feel so great.” She sighed. “Dumb, huh?”
Elizabeth could barely speak for a second, but managed to squeak out a “No.” Deirdre, Tara, and Nadia agreed.
“Sometimes it feels good to just blast someone, you know?” Tara said.
The men were in a group a few feet away, all wrapped up in some story. Dave glanced over his shoulder at Tara, but whether he heard her or not Elizabeth couldn’t say.
“So many idiots on the road.” It was Nadia, this time.
Elizabeth was nodding. “I had an incident like that today, too,” Elizabeth admitted, lowering her voice so the men couldn’t hear.
“You?” Nadia sounded disbelieving.
“Yeah, me. It’s kind of embarrassing.” She went on to tell them about her run-in. “I was so mad that I actually chased him for a while. Easy to follow. His license plate said GoodGuy. Like, what did I think I was doing? I’m a single mother now, and I’m not a moron, at least most of the time. It was . . . kind of unreal.” She let out a long breath. “No, very unreal. I can’t believe I did that.”
“GoodGuy.” Nadia shook her head. “My Kurt really is a good guy, but he’d never have a license plate that said so.”
Deirdre snorted. “Nobody would, if they had any sense.”
“Guys with vanity plates, right?” Tara muttered, rolling her eyes.
“Court had one for a while,” Elizabeth said. “The number four plus words the law. But he felt it was too noticeable so he got rid of it. He liked being under the radar.”
There was silence to that. Everyone knew what Court was like, about the secret life he’d been leading with Whitney Bellhard, and, Elizabeth thought, perhaps others. Whitney could have just been the latest in a string of lovers . . . but she wouldn’t go there, not tonight.
Vivian straightened in her chair. “GoodGuy?” she repeated. “I know I’d seen that license plate, but I couldn’t remember where. But . . . I think, no, I’m pretty sure I saw it i
n the parking lot of Fitness Now! Maybe he’s a member!”
“Oh, no,” Elizabeth said.
“You’re a member there, right?” Nadia asked.
“Yes. But I was thinking of dropping. Now I know I will,” Elizabeth said to a chorus of “No,” “Don’t,” and “That’s the last thing you should do.”
Embarrassed, she said, “I think I don’t have much of a choice, anyway.” She explained a little about her finances, finishing with, “Apparently Court was just turning a blind eye to the state of our financial affairs.”
“Don’t give up your membership yet,” Vivian insisted. “We’ll figure something out.”
“But now that you know where he is, you should leave a note on his car or something,” Tara said.
“Key it,” Deirdre suggested drily, her eyes flashing.
“Whoa. Let’s not get her arrested,” Tara said, holding up a hand and sending Deirdre an are-you-kidding look.
“I like the note idea,” Nadia said.
“What are you girls talking about?” Les asked, ambling over and placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“Nothing, dear,” Deirdre singsonged back to him.
“I think I’ll just stay away from him,” Elizabeth said, knowing the best thing to do was leave well enough alone.
At that moment, an ear-splitting shriek reverberated down from the stairs.
Elizabeth stood up. “Uh-oh.”
Bibi raced down the stairs, her hair flying, her legs nearly tripping. “Lissa and Chloe are fighting,” she tattled, throwing herself into Tara’s arms.
Finally, it was time to go.
Chapter 11
The silver-blue Mercedes wheeled to a stop in front of Ivy at the Shore on Ocean Avenue, a hot spot Ravinia had learned was frequented by Hollywood stars. Immediately, the car door opened and the woman Rex was following stepped into the street and handed a valet the keys to her convertible. Tucked inside a tight, white dress that showed lots of cleavage and was stretched around one of the roundest butts Ravinia had ever seen, the woman headed into the restaurant.
Ravinia couldn’t help but stare when she thought about the long dresses Aunt Catherine had fashioned for them. High collars, sleeves to the wrist, hems that swept the wooden floor of the lodge. “Some dress. What’s wrong with her?” She continued to stare even as the door closed behind the woman in white.
“What?” Rex asked.
“Her rear end doesn’t fit the rest of her.”
“Probably butt implants,” Rex said.
“That was a choice?” Ravinia couldn’t believe it.
“I guess.” But he really didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the conversation as he drove slowly past the restaurant. “You know, this would be about the last place for a rendezvous,” he muttered, frowning.
Ravinia agreed. The area was crowded with cars lining the street and pedestrians walking past—women with strollers, joggers, joggers with strollers, and skateboarders. “So where’re you gonna park?”
“There isn’t anywhere,” he said as they circled the block again, not a single spot open. “Maybe I’ll valet my car and stick around a while.” But he scowled as if the idea didn’t appeal to him. “Don’t know if it’s worth it.”
“You gonna follow her in?” Again Ravinia eyed the doors where the woman in the white dress had entered.
“I’m not ready to get that close to her. Don’t want her to remember my face.”
“I could go in,” she offered.
He seemed to come out of a fog and gave a hoot of laughter. “You? You look like a skateboarder.” He shook his head. “No. You’re not going into the Ivy. Look, I shouldn’t have taken you on this stakeout in the first place. It was a mistake and so, this is probably a good time for us to separate. There’s a motel up the street. I don’t think it’s too much money. You could rent a room there.”
“I sleep in the park,” she said, a little wounded at being dismissed. They’d circled around to Ocean again, and she pointed toward the area where she’d camped. “Right over there.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, but she could tell he believed her and was slightly horrified at the thought.
“Sure I do.” She reached for the door handle and hitched her chin in the direction of the Ivy. “So, I’ll just go in and take a look around, see who she’s with.”
“Not a chance. Everybody’ll look at you in there, notice you. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb. First order of surveillance? Fit into your surroundings.”
“What’s her name again?” Ravinia asked as he pulled the car as close as he could to the entrance and a valet appeared with a ticket.
“I never said. That was a choice, too.”
As Rex was talking to the valet, Ravinia opened the car door. Backpack slung over her shoulder, she headed for the front door.
“Hey!” Rex called.
“Gotta use the bathroom,” she said over her shoulder, and breezed her way in and found the ladies’ room. She did draw a few long stares, but she acted like she owned the place and no one stopped her. A good thing as she did, in fact, need to use the facilities.
Pushing open the door, she caught a quick glimpse of two women who were freshening up their makeup. A redhead was applying gloss to extremely full lips. Next to her, a tiny Asian woman in impossibly high platform shoes was turning her head this way and that, surveying her image. They barely gave Ravinia a glance as they were in a deep discussion about the audition process.
“I actually saw Frank Milo and said hi to him!” the redhead said importantly.
“No fucking way. What was the producer doing there?” her friend demanded.
“One of the casting people is his daughter, Natalie.”
“No!”
“Yeah, who knew, right? She’s about my age. Looks way too natural, though. Birkenstocks.”
“Oh.”
“She’d be kinda pretty if she actually did anything with herself, but you know . . . it looks like she’s making a statement.”
“One of those.”
Redhead added, “She was nice enough, though. She even thanked me.”
“But they all do. That’s just a way to get you to move along.”
Click. Sounded like a compact or clutch purse closing.
“I know. But I think this might have been different.” There was a pause, then the redhead added, “If I could just get on a hit show like Dragonworld, my God . . .”
Their voices faded away as they left the restroom, the door opening and closing.
Ravinia flushed the toilet, then washed her hands. Nothing like a good clean bathroom. She glanced at her own reflection, plain and dreary compared to the other women who couldn’t have been much older than she. Not that she wanted to be anything like them. Still . . . she saw the smudge on her chin and scrubbed it off, irritated that Rex hadn’t said anything. Then she turned on the hot water and washed her entire face. With a glance at her clothes, she frowned. A few stains, but mainly just wrinkled. Tucking a few wayward wisps of hair into her braid, she admitted to herself that she might need to find that motel Rex had mentioned, after all.
But first she had a job to do—to prove herself, if nothing more.
She slipped out of the restroom and wandered back into the main part of the restaurant where she observed the two women she’d overheard join a table with two guys, twentysomethings in slacks and polo shirts, both on cell phones. They barely acknowledged their dates.
Figured.
Her gaze swung around the room. She didn’t immediately see the woman in white, so she moved into a second room. Bingo! The woman they’d been following was sitting by herself. She, too, was talking rapidly into a cell phone.
Ravinia narrowed her eyes, thinking about her next move. When she flicked a look toward the maître d’s stand, she caught a glimpse of Rex who was apparently asking about a table. Jaw set, he caught her eye and shook his head slowly, warning her off.
She could tell he was pissed.
Ignoring him, she wended her way through the tables, slowing her steps when she was directly behind the woman in white and making a point of looking around the room as if searching for someone.
“Not that simple,” the woman was saying. “I have a life, you know.” A pause, while a tinny voice spoke, then, “You think I haven’t been thinking about you? One more week. I promise. That’s all or I’ll go crazy. I just have to make sure. I’m meeting him now and we’re just talking. He wants the split to look like it’s both of us. Gotta save face, you know. I’ll see you Tuesday, and we’ll work it all out. Casa del Mar. Be patient.”
“May I help you?” a waiter asked, sneaking up behind Ravinia.
She turned sharply and gave him a look. His hair was medium brown with blond tips and he had dark eyes filled with suspicion. A sneer threatened his lips.
“Just trying to find my father,” she said breezily. “Frank Milo? You know him?”
Still suspicious, he looked her up and down, a line forming between his brows. “I don’t believe I do.”
“You should.” She leaned in and whispered with meaning, “The producer . . .” Straightening before people at other tables keyed into their conversation too closely, she added, “I don’t see him, but if he shows, tell him Natalie was here.”
“Well . . .” he said uncertainly.
Why Natalie might be carrying a backpack and looking like she’d been camping for two weeks was a question Ravinia didn’t want him asking, so she beat feet back to the front door. Rex was nowhere to be seen, so she gave the maître d’ a smile and sailed back outside.
She was debating on what to do next when Rex suddenly reappeared from a side exit.
His lips were compressed as he approached.
Uh-oh.
Grabbing her by the arm, he propelled her away from the front door and kept his voice low. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Investigating,” she said, then quickly added, “She’s here to meet her husband and try to work things out. She said he just wants the split to look like it’s from the two of them. To save face.”