The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

As she walks me out the door, she has one more word of advice: “Don’t buy any green bananas. You may not be around long enough to enjoy them.”

  Chapter 11

  Last Minute Cancellations

  It’s inevitable that some of the invitees to your party will try to bow out at the very last minute. It’s your party, but no need to cry, even when you wanna. Here’s what you do instead:

  1: Lay on the guilt trip. Tell them that you’ve made their favorite dish. Remind them that you haven’t seen them in too long. Lie about inviting someone who you know they’re gaga to meet. Sure, they’ll be disappointed when their crush is a no-show–even more so when they discover he was at the party they missed.

  2: Invite your B-List: Yes, I know–the reason they’re so far down the totem pole is that they aren’t the scintillating conversationalists of those who have cancelled. Then again, maybe this time they’ll surprise you by keeping their feet out of their mouths. Wishful thinking, I know. That being said, if the faux pas fly, send them on an emergency errand–one that takes them out of the house, and out of your hair until the party’s over.

  3: Beg your A-Listers to reconsider. If the reason for bowing out was the lack of a babysitter, hire one for them. (Just don’t tell them that you picked the sitter up where all the local streetwalkers hang out. Oops!) If they’re passing because they’ve gotten a better offer, guilt them with your tears. If that doesn’t persuade them, perhaps it’s time to go after the competition. It’s hard to throw a party when your house has burned down. Molotov cocktail, anyone?

  Tally Lloyd walks with purpose. Be it her ramrod straight posture, her take-no-prisoners poise, her long, lush mahogany brown hair or her honeyed Southern drawl, everything about her commands your attention.

  Abu is more than impressed with the ease in which she converses with him in three of the Arabic dialects used commonly in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iraq, as well as the languages of Urdu and Farsi. Arnie is happy that she’s already up to date on all the Pentagon-approved tech programs, and can clue him in to what Acme can do to get a foothold into the DOD’s various agencies based on our own tech gadgets and expertise. Her assault weapon marksmanship scores easily rival those of Acme’s exterminators. To top it off, Dr. Bellows is pleased that Tally’s psychological tests show no phobias, disorders or psychoses.

  And everyone is having a blast hearing her and Acme’s pilot, George Taylor, swap dogfight stories.

  In fact, Dominic is so smitten with her that he offers to be her assaulter for the martial arts test.

  “She’ll whip your ass,” I warn him. “It’s not as if she’s one of your fawning Dominic-imbos.”

  He winces at the reference to his Spooklandia fan club members, but his comeback has me smarting, too: “Perhaps you should stay away from this one, old girl–at least until tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be nice to break the curse put upon you by whatever gypsy you’ve offended?”

  He is the only one being offensive. To make this point, I poke him hard in the gut with my elbow. “I’m glad you lost your wager.”

  “If I take her home tonight, I’ll be happy I did too,” he gasps.

  While Acme’s martial arts instructor is putting Tally through her paces (or I should say, while she’s putting Dominic through his), I head to Acme’s rooftop deck–the one place I can make a call to Lee Chiffray without being overheard.

  The text I send Lee says simply:

  I have a question for you.

  I send via the only cell phone number I have for him, one set up to receive just my calls.

  Oddly, I don’t get a bounce-back, let alone a tone indicating that the number has been disconnected.

  Now, all I can do is wait for him to text me back.

  Acme’s roof is not a bad place to hang out. Ryan has it tricked out like a beautiful garden, with grass, flowerbeds, benches, walkways, Japanese maple trees–even a six-foot-high box hedge on the highway side.

  Best of all, it has a view of the ocean.

  Despite Jack’s jealousy, the truth of the matter is that there was only one thing that tied Lee and me together–our mutual desire to wipe Carl Stone off the face of the Earth. Now that he’s gone, we have no reason to continue any sort of relationship.

  I’m sure the first lady–Babette Breck Chiffray–was just as relieved about our final farewell as Jack was, despite the fact that she was Carl’s eyes and ears, and possibly his friend-with-benefits too.

  Well, now we’ll never know. It’s hard for me to fathom what Lee saw in someone as clueless, devious, and narcissistic as Babette. It wasn’t as if he needed her billions, since he has just as much, if not more, in his own right.

  The fact that he’s a blond Adonis certainly helped ease any angst Americans had over the shock that their president-elect, Catherine Martin, put a hit on her husband, Robert.

  By all rights, Catherine should get the electric chair. But she won’t, because she did her political party the favor of stepping down before the actual inauguration.

  And Jack actually thinks I’m crushing on someone who can pardon her? I think not.

  And not just because she ruined my high school reputation, either.

  I’m still so angry at Jack’s bullshit that when I hear the buzz of the phone in my hand, my response is a cold and crisp, “What is it?”

  Lee chuckles. “You called, so you tell me.”

  “Oh!” Thank goodness he can’t see me right now, since I’m sure my face is the color of a Target dot. “Wow, thanks for calling back…Lee.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You were the one who wanted to call it off, remember?”

  “We no longer have the same thing in common…remember?”

  He laughs. “Despite your newly widowed status, I think we still have a hell of a lot in common.”

  I take a deep breath. “You’re not making this call any easier.”

  “Good to hear! Unlike all the lobbyists who hang from the rafters of every building up and down K Street, I love it when you need something from me. Name it.”

  “I…I just wondered if you’re coming to town anytime soon.”

  “It can be arranged.” By the tone of his voice, I can tell he’s intrigued.

  “No–you don’t get it. I’m asking if you’ve got a trip planned for Los Angeles. Already, I mean. You…and Babette? Or just you? Or just Babette?”

  I can imagine I sound like a blithering idiot to him.

  There’s a long pause. Then: “Why would you ask?”

  “Just…’cause.”

  “Oh, I see.” Another long pause. Finally: “Officially, no. However, if you–”

  “Good! Thanks, Lee! That’s all I need to know.” The neediness in his voice breaks my heart.

  “But…Donna, I’d like to–”

  I don’t need to prolong the agony–his. “Don’t worry, Lee. Everything is fine, just…fine! I–I look forward to when you’re out here again, whenever. See you then.”

  Quickly, I hang up.

  Now I can officially tell Ryan what he wants to know: POTUS is in the clear.

  I’m sure it’s something Jack will want to hear too. Well, he won’t hear it from me. Ryan can, if he quote-unquote feels he needs to know.

  That’s what Jack gets for doubting me.

  Chapter 12

  Dealing with Your Guests’ Requests

  Your vision of your party is that (a) it flows smoothly and without a hitch, (b) your guests enjoy every moment of it, and (c) your social set is buzzing for months that it was a raving success.

  Despite your attempts to make all of your fantasies a reality, the typical swarm of metaphorical flies has the unsightly habit of plopping dead center in the ointment of your life. To ensure the day of your soirée isn’t its next destination, here are a few do’s and don’ts:

  DO invite everyone you’ve ever wanted to host. Let this be your black-and white-ball (of which you are its one and only belle), your grand salon, your fête-accompli! (It’s not spelled wrong; it’s a pun. Just
part of the fun…)

  DON’T spare any expense. This is your time to shine! That said, pull out all the stops on food, drink, decorations, location, and most certainly the outfit you’ll wear on your big night! (And if you’re lucky, despite its great flavors and presentation, there will still be enough food left over so that you can live off of it until you pay off your credit cards.)

  DO triple-check every little detail. If it’s being catered, go over the menu and libations list with the caterer at least three times. Remind her that there are no second chances, no makeovers, and no make-goods. Take her to the shooting range with you and she’ll hear you loud and clear.

  DON’T forget to ask your guests if they have any odd predilections you will need to accommodate. But once you do so, be prepared to be bombarded with a list of food allergies–and don’t be surprised if you get a couple of odd sexual requests as well. Some people want you to be their fantasy as well as their host!

  “You’re sure?”

  For the life of me, I don’t know why Ryan doesn’t believe me when I relay the conversation between Lee and me.

  I make the letter X over my chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  He shows his relief with the ghost of a smile. And yet, there are dark rings around his eyes, and his forehead seems even more lined than I remember it.

  If I try to hug him, he’ll shrug me off.

  Too bad. I do it anyway.

  Glad to see I’m wrong, and he hugs back.

  And thank goodness the blinds are drawn, so that the rest of the office can’t see that he’s such a softie.

  Jack bounds in without even knocking–nothing new there. Seeing our clinch, he does a double-take. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Like me, Ryan couldn’t care less and stays put. He lifts his hand off my back in order to give Jack the finger.

  Jack shrugs and eases down on Ryan’s couch, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  “It’s not POTUS or FLOTUS,” Ryan assures him.

  “What a relief.” Jack’s sarcasm indicates he feels that it’s anything but.

  Tally’s head pops in next. “Mistress Stone, I want you to be the first to know–I aced it!”

  “I’m not surprised,” I assure her.

  “Well, someone is–the infamous Mr. Fleming.” She delivers this with a smile and a wink. “Sorry, but he may be on the disabled list for a couple of days.”

  “Serves him right,” I mutter under my breath. “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say he put his hand somewhere it shouldn’t have been. But a sprain is better than a break, am I right?”

  Ryan buries his head in his hands.

  Tally holds out her hand. In it is a note. “It’s from Dominic.”

  My perplexed look prompts her to add, “He made me promise not to read it.”

  I take it gingerly, and open it:

  My dear Donna,

  I beg you to stay clear of Madam Lloyd. Doing so will allow the obvious attraction between this luscious lady and myself to continue toward its inevitable course. At the same time, it will go far in fading the blemish on your growing reputation as a black widow trainer.

  Heed my words,

  Dominic

  I crumple it up and make a three-point shot into Ryan’s wastepaper basket.

  Tally tilts her head in my direction. “Boss man, I’ve got to run an errand. It’s not far, but it should take me out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. Mind if my keeper goes with me?”

  Ryan nods solemnly.

  As I walk past him, he growls under his breath, “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Once again, I cross my heart.

  When I’m out the door and I’m sure no one is watching, I make the sign of the cross.

  Tally lied to Ryan and Jack. We’re in her rental–a slick black Tesla Roadster–headed to Van Nuys Airport where she left her Learjet 45XR.

  With me, she’s more honest–make that direct. But, as she puts it: “Considering my perfect test scores and the luck of the other candidates, I presume the gig is mine for the asking.”

  I show my agreement with a nod. “You’re right. At this point, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  She laughs. “Thanks for your honesty. However, before I formally sign on, I need to ask you a few questions, and I felt it would be easier for you to let your hair down if we talked outside the office, just the two of us.”

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you. But lately, I haven’t had good luck with the candidates outside the confines of Acme’s offices.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances. The whole purpose of my taking this gig was to leave a desk job behind for good.”

  “I can assure you, Tally, a desk is the last place you’ll find yourself.” I chuckle. “Although, admittedly, I have found myself on top of a few desks.”

  “I can imagine.” She looks away for a moment. When she’s ready to face me, there is a new resolve in her eyes. “I hear you. It comes with the territory.”

  “On a positive note, not every mission is a seduction. You’ll learn, very quickly, that each one will vary. In the first, you may be a carrier. Another may call for an extermination. A third might entail breaking and entering in order to secure vital intel. The next may mean the exfiltration of an asset.” I hesitate. “I don’t need to tell you that there are no guarantees for your safety.”

  Her grin dissolves into hardened grit. “I made it through three tours in the Middle East. I’ll take my chances.”

  “It’s probably why you turned out to be the best person for the job after all.”

  “No. You were the best hard woman. You were the best honeypot.” She takes her eyes off the road just for a moment to make her point. “Donna Stone, you’re a legend.”

  I’m truly humbled that she thinks so. “It’s flattering to hear, Tally. But it’s come at a very high price.”

  Like heartbreak. And trust.

  And innocence.

  She pulls into the airport’s parking lot. “Save it. In a couple of hours, we’ll be watching the sun go down on a Baja coast beach. It’ll make for great girl talk.”

  She’s right about that.

  Something tells me this is the start of a beautiful relationship.

  “You’ll miss it, won’t you?” Tally and I are sitting on chaise lounges on a sliver of beach caught between a placid Pacific and a hardened lava ridge. Her plane landed only a few yards away, on the hard-packed sand.

  From what I can tell, we’re in the middle of nowhere–certainly south of Lázaro Cárdenas, but certainly north of ticky-tacky Guerrero Negro. The owner of the beach’s sole food truck speaks only Spanish. Since Tally doesn’t know the language, when I grabbed our piña coladas, I ordered dinner for us, too: soft tacos filled with thin-sliced marinated steak.

  To keep our hunger at bay while we wait for our order, the cook hands me homemade tortilla chips, along with a bowl of yummy salsa.

  “Delicioso!” I exclaim. “What’s in it?”

  He beckons me forward. “Un ingrediente secreto,” he whispers. “Crema de anacardo.”

  Ah! Cashew cream. I’ll remember that for when I make it at home.

  But right now, I’m a million miles from there, at least emotionally. Maybe that’s why Tally’s question doesn’t seem so hard to answer. “The fact that it’ll be over by next week is hitting me just now. But I’ve got my children to think of.”

  Tally shrugs. “It’s why I chose not to have kids. You can’t be a kamikaze and worry about getting home in time to make dinner.”

  “At some point, you’ll want to get out of the game,” I point out.

  She snorts. “You know the odds. They’ll take me out feet first.” Her gaze never wavers. “Look, Donna, if you hadn’t met the ambiguous Mr. Stone, who’s to say you wouldn’t have stumbled into the armed services, or some government job, or Acme, or with some other cowboy organization that handles the
bad guys for the rest of the world? Don’t fool yourself! You always had it in you. It’s just that he provided the detour.”

  “Yes–and, eventually, the on-ramp, too.” I shrug.

  “Hey, trust me, I get it.” All the fun has gone out of her voice. “I made a choice, too–and I don’t regret it in the least. I came into this world alone, and I’ll go out the same way.” She shrugs. “Despite what you think, you will too. Remember: kids grow up, and move out. They get lives of their own. So, you see? The odds are you’ll end up just like me anyway–alone.”

  I shake my head adamantly. “Not exactly. I’ll have Jack.”

  She laughs. “Who ever knew Wild Card Jack Craig would end up being someone’s Mr. Right!” Tally feigns ignorance. “How did you meet him again? Ah, yes, through Acme! And now, you have your happily ever after story–or do you? Don’t tell me you don’t worry about him with each mission. And don’t tell me you don’t already regret that you won’t be by his side every step of the way.”

  I can’t because she’s right–I do.

  But I no longer have the privilege. She does.

  I’m okay with that, because I know she can hold her own in any dogfight.

  I smile and tip my glass to her. “He’s in good hands with you. Tally Lloyd, you’re invincible–a veritable Super Woman.”

  “Trust me, I too have my Kryptonite.” She digs into the salsa with a chip and takes a big bite.

  I laugh. “Oh? What’s that?”

  She waits until she swallows before answering. “I’m severely allergic to nuts.”

  Oh hell, now she tells me.

  The fact that I’ve quit laughing gets her attention. She follows my gaze. When she realizes I’m staring at the dip, her eyes open wide with fear.

  Just as she pulls out the epi-pen from her jacket pocket, I reach out to calm her. Our hands collide and the one thing that will save her life falls onto the sand bar. As she gasps for air, I reach down for the epi-pen, but a wave washes over it, and it tumbles just out of reach.