Who cared what her ass looked like?
* * * *
Maxine Barker smiled her perky, meant to inspire motivation smile at Mel as she made her way across the tiled floor of Trophy Jobs Inc.
“Mel! I’m so glad you came. I love that color on you.” She pointed to the deep turquoise of Mel’s sadly pilling sweater. “It’s starting to get chilly enough for a sweater. Can you believe it’s this cool on the last day of August?”
Mel contemplated Maxine, trying to remember her father was her biggest fan, but was hesitant to show anything in the way of enthusiasm for fear Maxine would take it as a sign she was an all-systems-after-divorce-therapy go.
“It’s definitely cooling off.”
Max hitched her jaw to the left, putting a relaxed hand in the pocket of her tailored taupe slacks. “Let’s go talk in my office.”
Without waiting for an answer, she took confident strides toward a door along a white hallway strung with pictures of seniors from the Village who donated their time to Trophy.
One plaque in particular made Mel pause momentarily to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. It had a cracked tiara on it and read “Suck it up, Princess.”
Max ushered Mel in, waving her hand at a pair of leather chairs.
One was filled by a woman with wavy auburn hair and a chubby baby in blue overalls slung over her shoulder. On the couch positioned at the other side of the room sat the most perfect female Mel had ever seen—and coming from L. A., she’d seen.
“Mel? This is Frankie Antonakas, her baby Nikos Junior, and Jasmine Jones. Both Trophy Jobs success stories.”
Well and fuck. This was one of those ambush interventions, and she’d walked right into it like someone had told her there was a case of Suzy Q’s in Maxine’s office.
Mel didn’t know what to do. Because she loved her father, she didn’t want to be rude to these women. She also didn’t want to be harpooned by the divorce spear and left to bleed out on the shore while they chanted their speeches of empowerment and danced around her fat ass in a circle.
“You want me to block the door while you run interference, Frankie?” the beautifully surreal creature named Jasmine asked.
“She doesn’t look like the kind who’d take out a woman with a baby, but you never can tell.” Her bright red lips, the perfect color to compliment her creamy features, curved into an amused smile.
Frankie tipped her head full of gorgeous auburn hair back and laughed, stirring the baby who stuck a thumb in his mouth and nuzzled against her neck. “Come sit down, Mel. What you suspect is right. We’re here to help. All you have to do is listen. If you don’t like what you hear, you can go back to sulking and pouting. We’ve all done it. It was all kinds of awesome. Well, except for the smell. I thank God every day Max made me finally shower.” The women all giggled together while Mel frowned, perplexed by her comment.
Maxine sat behind her desk and motioned for Mel to sit, too. The clink of Maxine’s bangle bracelets sang in the air that had become suddenly oppressive. “Sit down, Mel, and relax. I know you’re reluctant to participate in anything, much less listen to a bunch of women who you think want to advise you on how to Krazy Glue your life back together, but that’s not the only reason I asked you to come.”
Mel slid into her chair, her glance at Max wary. Maxine was her boss. She didn’t have much of a choice but to sit and listen if she hoped to buy Weezer more food. Saint Bernard’s ate buttloads of food.
“Does it have to do with the Village and the rec center?”
“It’s better,” Max declared, flashing Mel another brilliant smile and folding her hands on top of the files on her desk.
Well, what could be better than herding seniors with attitude on a part-time basis? “Okay…”
Frankie rolled her eyes while laughter slid from her lips. “Quit looking like we just invited you to join our coven. Sit down and at least listen. If you don’t like what you hear, then you can go home to Joe and be honest when you tell him you at least heard our shtick, okay?”
“But the catch is, you absolutely have to listen,” Jasmine added, uncrossing her graceful legs and straightening the multicolored scarf she had draped elegantly over her shoulder.
“What exactly am I listening to?”
“The speech I give all ex-trophy wives before I hook them up with potential employers,” Max said.
Her spine stiffened. “I hate that label. Ex-trophy wife,” Mel muttered.
It implied she’d married Stan for all the wrong reasons—like money reasons. Absolutely untrue.
Had she been blown away by his interest in her? Definitely. Had she fallen madly in love with her Svengali-like mentor? Unequivocally. Had she devoted her every waking moment to him? Yes. Had he asked her to? She couldn’t remember. It had just happened. Still, the term made her squirm in her chair.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Jasmine interjected with a drawl, pushing her long blond hair from her face. “But that’s what you are. A beautiful woman who married her much older, very rich husband at a tender age and got ditched when her goodies got stale. Own it.”
“I didn’t marry Stan for his money.”
She said that a lot lately—in defensive mode. She’d said it to the seniors, the pet store manager, and the drive-thru cashier at Wendy’s when she was getting a chocolate Frosty with the change she’d found in her father’s couch cushions.
Jasmine waved a hand with perfectly polished nails in the air.
“Whatever. Most of us truly fell in love. Doesn’t change what society calls you. Though, now I’m an ex-trophy wife slash cougar. Again, own it.” Jasmine’s smile held no malice—she was simply a straight shooter. For someone who hadn’t been able to scream her rage at Stan while she hunted him down with her sledgehammer and night-vision goggles, Mel admired that trait.
Max waved a finger of admonishment at Jasmine, her hair catching the light from the window when she shook her head. “Easy on the newb until we break her in. Anyway, it’s like I said. I have a speech I give before I hook you up with a potential employer, and tag, you’re it.”
Mel was remiss in hearing the part about potential employers and instead focused on the speech. “The speech?”
“Yes. The one where I give you a packet with all sorts of information in it that you’ll make faces about behind my back before you consider pitching it in the garbage. The packet includes, among other things, a divorce journal—typical and cliché, but believe it or not, a way to really vent instead of letting things build up. It’s also the speech about not letting this disgusting piece of shit you were married to own the rest of your life by suppressing your reasons to live.”
Mel’s eyes widened at Max. Now, ex-husband bashing she could probably get on board with. Maybe these were the women to trust with the Hefty bags and bleach after she killed Stan in the most heinous manner she could concoct.
Max winked a lovely green, perfectly coal-lined eye in response.
“Yes. I called him a disgusting piece of shit. It’s unprofessional and only allowed once in the ‘speech’ conversation. After that, we go all adult on you and tell you not to hold grudges because they’re unhealthy.”
“I love the ‘piece of shit’ part of the speech,” Jasmine murmured her delight, her eyes twinkling.
“Nah, my favorite part’s the part where you find a way to beat down the piece of shit by being self-sufficient and confident all by your lonesome. Sometimes, Max swears in that portion. I love to hear her say the word ‘fuck’—it cracks me up,” Frankie snickered, running soothing hands over Nikos Junior’s back.
Mel’s chin had been sinking into her chest with disinterest until she caught sight of Frankie’s face in full view. “You’ re—”
“Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife. That’s me.” She grinned like she wasn’t at all displeased by Mel’s recognition.
“I loved his show…” Mel mumbled, then caught herself.
Frankie’s freak-out on Mitch’s show was
infamous. There were YouTube spoofs on it, Saturday Night Live had had a field day with it, and the late-night talk show hosts had used her for fodder for months afterward. Instantly, she regretted her words.
“Damn, that’s probably not appropriate. I’m sorry. How rude of me.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mel. Just be glad to know you can find your way out of tabloid hell with me as your guide.” Frankie rose, slender in her skinny jeans and layered tank tops, to pass the baby to Jasmine, who cooed her appreciation and ran her nose along the baby’s cheek, inhaling his scent.
Frankie sat back down and faced Mel, her warm eyes and smile reassuring. “Here’s the score. Your husband had the upper hand when you were married. You did whatever he wanted, gave him every last fiber of your being, accepted whatever explanation he offered, and then he took a dump on you by taking the one thing you really love, your dance studio. In one way or another, we’ve all been through it and come out the other end realizing it was never about the cars and the jewelry or the limitless credit cards we had. It was about not being able to breathe on our own when we lost it all. It’s sad and maddening all at once.”
Mel looked down at her feet covered in her old black ballet slip-pers with shame in her eyes, her heart tightening in her chest.
“That’s it,” she choked, refusing to cry in front of strangers. “I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I can’t get comfortable in my own skin. Everything feels unfamiliar.”
Everything, everything.
“That’s because Stan owned your skin, darling. But he doesn’t anymore. He chose to find new skin,” Jasmine pointed out, cradling Frankie’s little boy against her perfect breasts. “Look, we all know what it is to suffer through a high-profile divorce, Frankie being the expert here. We all also know what it’s like to be tossed to the curb and lose everything. Your friends, your house, your clothes, your world. We know what it’s like to have to start over with nothing while trying to understand some of the most basic of life’s lessons like balancing a checkbook and interest rates on a credit card. It’s like wandering around in a foreign country where the countrymen don’t speak Gucci.”
Mel felt her lip tremble. She hated that words of fear were tumbling from her lips, but there they were—tumbling in an outpouring of pathetic.
“I went straight from my parents to marriage with Stan. I don’t know the first thing about surviving on my own. Everything was handled either by Stan or his accountants, business managers, maids, and drivers. I feel like an idiot.”
Nay. You define “idiot.” She fought a groan.
Max snorted from behind her desk. “I get it. Are you ready for this? When I was in the middle of my divorce and living with my mother, I’d finally made enough money to contribute to the groceries. She took me to Walmart. I actually hadn’t been in a place where you could buy things at discount in almost as many years as I was married. How’s that for pathetically sheltered? I was pitiful. Look, I know you think all the gurulike stuff I spout is silly. You’re not some trendsetter there. I have all sorts of analogies and euphemisms for being an ex-pampered princess that are laughable. I had oodles of time to think while I job-hunted and took the place of one senior or another at the Village, teaching classes at the rec center. But if you at least give them a look, I think Jasmine and Frankie can tell you from personal experience, they work.”
Frankie nodded, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger in thoughtful contemplation. “I hated Maxine’s hokey advice—at first. But she taught me to suck it up. She made me shower. She helped me get a job. She encouraged me to come to the meetings here at Trophy where I met Jasmine, where I learned how to stand on my own two feet. I had no job skills other than being Mitch’s bitch. No one in the industry would hire me because Mitch blackballed me. If it wasn’t for Maxine, I’d still be at my Aunt Gail’s, buried under the covers.”
“And you’d really smell,” Max said on a chuckle.
Frankie nodded. “Yeah. There’s that.”
“Is your aunt Gail Lumley?” Mel asked. She remembered Gail backing up her dad when he talked about the kind of help Maxine offered, but she’d blown her off because she wasn’t receptive to anything but a bag of salt-and-pepper kettle chips at the time.
“That’s her.”
Mel felt a smile lift her lips. “I like her. She’s pretty feisty.”
“Indeed, she is,” Frankie confirmed. “She’s also who called Max to intervene. Just like your dad called us. He wants to help, Mel. So do we. So there’s really only one question, Mel—are you ready to suck it up and take back your life by learning all the things you would have if you’d lived on your own and found out exactly who Melina Cherkasov was before you devoted your life to that jerk?”
Without warning, tears, hot and stinging welled in her eyes again.
She made a frustrated swipe at them. “Maybe.”
“Well, it’s time you figure it out, Mel,” Max said, only this time it was without the cajoling warmth in her tone, which was replaced with a sharper edge.
“But it’s only been six months…”
Which was a perfectly good excuse. Drowning your pain in junk food because you were divorced surely had a longer grace period.
Jasmine sighed, shifting on the couch. “It’s not like we’re asking you to hurry up and sleep with someone. We’re asking you to get off your ass and get back in the game. We don’t just mean earning a living either. Do you know what you like to do aside from dance? Maybe you like to spelunk, and you wouldn’t know it because you never took the time to figure it out. Those six months you’ve been mourning that dick are six months you can’t get back. I don’t know about you, but Stan the Dancing Man wasn’t worth six minutes of your life let alone half a year.”
Yeah. A small crack in Mel’s reluctance rippled inside her. “So what do I have to do? Is there a ritual ex-princess hazing?”
Max shot Mel a sympathetic look. “Your hazing began when you went to your studio and found out it was locked because Stan didn’t want you to have it anymore, honey. When he took you from the kids who so obviously loved you. You’ve been hazed enough, in my opinion, and of all of us, you at least began to try and get it together more quickly than we did. You might be filling the gaping hole of your depression with junk food, but you multitasked and did it while you looked for a job. At least it wasn’t booze and cheap sex. Those are messy interventions.”
She and booze had never worked well together. Too much to drink made her either cry or sing. Both of which no one wanted to endure. “Is there some type of award or maybe a merit badge for my chaste nature and sober state?”
Max’s laughter tinkled. “No awards. Your reward is you haven’t slid all the way down the slope. I thank God at the very least I didn’t have to drag you out of bed like I did Frankie. So here’s the score. Take this.” She held out a manila envelope in Mel’s direction. “Look at it. Mock. Look at it again when you’re past rolling on the floor in fits of laughter. In the meantime, I have good news for you.”
Mel took the envelope with a shaky hand. Max was right. She didn’t want it, and if some of the crazy catchphrases her father had picked up from Maxine were included in the divorce packet, she would indeed mock.
“Thank you. So the good news?”
Max beamed. “You have an interview for a full-time job!”
Frankie and Jasmine clapped their hands.
But Mel was instantly skeptical. “People in Riverbend are hiring women who can spin without getting dizzy?” There really was a job for everyone.
“I saw your old competition videos on YouTube. You were truly beautiful to watch, Mel, and your partner, Neil Whatever, from Celebrity Ballroom—hellooooo,” Frankie commented with a sigh of exaggerated lust. “You were both so sexy at such a young age. Very sultry. Maybe sometime you can teach me how to roll my hips like that. I’m sure Nikos would appreciate it.”
“Were.” “Was.”
All words that contributed to her now. Neil had been
part of her was. They’d kept in touch over the years and made a point of seeing each other whenever possible, but his job and her life with Stan didn’t always allow them the kind of time she wished they had together. Still, he would always be one of her best friends.
Max sighed just as breathy before saying, “Actually, yes. You have an interview at Westmeyer.”
Mel was taken aback. “The private school for boys who’re Mensa candidates?”
Max grinned. “That’s the one. God, I can’t tell you what it’s like to be around all those little geniuses. I feel like a total idiot. In fact, I am an idiot compared to them, but I can’t wait until you meet Dean Keller.”
Mel gave her a confused look. “Is this a private lesson? Does the dean want to learn how to samba?”
She didn’t want to dance. Strike that. She didn’t want to move. She’d only agreed to Waltzing Wednesdays at the Village because she needed the money. As it stood, as the condition of her body stood, she was better off working at a Container Store.
“He might after he sees your hips in action,” Jasmine snorted.
Maxine laughed. “No. Westmeyer has a tradition. All the boys must learn to ballroom dance to hone their sorely lacking social skills. Most of the boys who attend Westmeyer are introverts with their noses always buried in a book. They don’t work well with others and are typically more awkward than your usual tween with girls. As you know, twelve and up is an age of discovery.”
“Oh, I love it!” Jasmine snarfed. “Hormonal smart kids who can waltz.”
“The tradition goes back as far as the early forties and is attributed to the woman who opened the school—Leona Westmeyer. Her love of ballroom dancing and the traditional, in particular, was what led her to insist the boys learn how to dance. According to Dean Keller, the boys’ reluctance to socialize with anything other than a petri dish worried her enough that she mandated they all learn to dance and have fun. Lightening up being the key goal here. Back in those days, ballroom dancing was common. Everyone knew how to dance. Its resurgence on TV seems to please Dean Keller.”
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