Burning Down the Spouse

by Dakota Cassidy

  Frankie let out a sigh. “No, it’s not that at all, Aunt Gail. I’m not as much of a food snob as you’d like to think. There were plenty of nights when Mitch was off globe-hopping that I ate TV dinners.” Though, if Mitch had known, he’d have had an apoplexy. “I’m just not very hungry.”

  Gail’s forehead wrinkled. “Nonsense. You need energy for your new job tomorrow. I just bet you’ll need energy to keep up with that hunk Nikos Antonakas. Phew, he makes my insides all squishy.” She giggled. Like she was still in high school. “He’s good-lookin’, don’t you think?” She peered at Frankie with covert eyes while poking holes in the plastic TV dinner.

  Good-looking? If ever there’d been an understatement. Calling Nikos good-looking was like saying the Andes were just little mounds of dirt. He was gorgeous, and if her libido wasn’t in a state of deep freeze, she’d acknowledge that very fact, but her hormones were officially ice cubes. “He’s fine, Aunt Gail.”

  Gail plunked down some forks and folded paper napkins on the table. “Fine, you say? Fine? Did your eyeballs fall out of your head when you got that divorce? He’s what the kids these days call brick shithouse.”

  A gurgle of laughter bubbled up from her throat at her aunt’s use of modern-day slang. “Okay, he’s brick shithouse, but it doesn’t make a difference. I’m not in the man market. Though, apparently, I’m now in the job market.” Albeit under duress and brute Maxine force.

  The microwave dinged the completion of their meal. “Maxine said you were none too happy about it either. Why’s that? It’s a perfectly good job with a perfectly good-lookin’ boss.”

  A tear stung her eye.

  Yes. Everything was perfectly good. She just couldn’t summon the will to care. Grateful was what she should be. What she wanted to be for her aunt’s sake at the very least. Yet she was numb and unresponsive. As limp as the wet noodle Mitch once called his love machine. Each reaction to a kind gesture was merely by rote, and that was some kind of pathetic. “I think I’m just overwhelmed. I did more today than I have—”

  “In months, and it’s about time, too.” Gail placed the Salisbury steak–mashed potato combo dinner in front of her. “I know, Frankie. Believe me, I know. You were sinking, kiddo. I had no choice but to call in reinforcements. Someone had to convince you to get out of bed and do something for yourself. You’re young. A beautiful young woman who should be out celebrating her freedom from that wanker, not holed up in her bedroom, sleeping all day, drowning in depression. He’s not worth that kind of vigil, my girl.”

  She knew that. She. Knew. Yet, it remained. This dark, dank hole of nothingness. Nothing to plan for, nothing to look forward to, nothing to get out of her own way for. Just nothing. “You’re right,” she agreed, flat and disinterested.

  Gail tapped her fork on the edge of the plastic covering the TV dinner. “I’ll wait until you say it like you mean it. And you will, cookie. I promise you, you will. Maxine was just like you. If you’d been interested enough to ask her, she’d have told you herself. She pulled up her bootstraps, and it wasn’t easy, but she did it. Though she had more at stake with a young boy. What you need to do is find your purpose.”

  Why?

  Frankie pushed the spongy Salisbury steak against her fork, forcing herself to take a bite, knowing it would please her aunt. “I’m not sure what that means anymore.”

  “It means you let your whole world revolve around a man who isn’t worth the crud on the bottom of my shoe. You had nothing that was just Frankie’s—it’s why you’re so lost. You were supportive long before he hit the big time, too. You arranged all his appearances and cookbook signings. You answered all his emails from fans and took care of that stupid FaceSpace or whatever ya call it. And he cheated on you, and left you with nothing.”

  Frankie fought to swallow the gritty mashed potatoes. “It’s MySpace and Facebook, and I have nothing because I signed a prenup that said I’d get nothing. There’s no one to blame for that but me.” And it had never occurred to her to change that. Not once had she considered Mitch’s empire hers, though she’d helped him build it from scratch.

  She didn’t even have a hobby. Jesus.

  Gail threw her fork down in disgust. “He’s a dirty bird, Frankie. I told you that from the get-go. He took advantage of your youth and those starry eyes of yours, all romantic and gooey. That he left you with nothing after everything you’ve done for him, whether you signed something or not, makes me want to sauté his man parts.” She shook her head in revulsion. “Doesn’t matter anymore. We’re moving forward. Just like Max says. Now it’s time for your world to revolve around you.”

  Maybe it could just stop spinning altogether and Mitch and Bamby would fall off the edge of it. “Forward,” she mumbled on her last bite of spongy Salisbury steak, washing it down with the glass of water her aunt gave her.

  Gail perked up, the hope in her eyes bright and bubbly. “That’s the spirit. Now, if you finish all your dinner, you can have dessert. I made a nice peanut butter cup pie while you were gone with Maxine, hoping we’d have something to celebrate when you got back.”

  Yay.

  She had a job at a diner.

  Celebrate good times.

  C’mon.

  “Frankie? Wake up.” Gail’s soft hand, covered in a light application of lily of the valley hand cream, caressed her cheek.

  She struggled to force her eyes open, muttering, “Are you okay, Aunt Gail?”

  “I’m fine, honey. Phone’s for you.” Gail opened her hand and put the phone in it.

  She put it to her ear with a groan. No one called her anymore. “Hello?”

  “Frankie?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Maxine.”

  Woot. The divorce fairy. A glance at the clock told her she was a divorce fairy of the early bird variety. Jesus. It was five in the morning. “Yes?”

  “I’m calling to check and be sure you’re up.”

  “For?”

  “Work, Frankie. You have to be at work in an hour. You’re working breakfast and lunch today, remember?”

  Yesterday came back in a crash of mental visuals, featuring hunky Greek men and red vinyl stools that swiveled. She sat up with a speed that left her dizzy, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to prevent a wobble. Kiki was instantly at attention beside her mistress, quiet as a mouse, eyes unblinking. “Right. Work.”

  “Right. Work,” Maxine mimicked her. “You know, the place where you go every day to earn money to pay for crazy things like food and shelter.”

  Both of which she could care less about. All she really needed was a sleeping bag and a sturdy bridge. No fuss. No muss. Then she caught sight of the picture of her aunt and her deceased Uncle Gus, smiling at her high school graduation, and guilt crept up to bite her on the ass. “I’m up.”

  “Don’t forget to shower. As a courtesy to those around you.”

  Funny. “I’ll shower.”

  “Use soap. Lots of soap.”

  Frankie frowned. “I’m not ten.” Heh.

  “Then you won’t forget to wash behind your ears, will you?”

  Her jaw clenched. “Anything else?”

  “One more thing.”

  “Just one?”

  Maxine’s laughter tickled her eardrum. “Smile today. Just try it once. I swear your lips won’t fall off. But try to make this a positive experience instead of looking at it like you’re walking the plank.”

  A male voice, low and muffled, said something in the background, something she assumed was intimate, and then Frankie heard Maxine giggle girlishly. “Gotta run, but I’ll pop in later today to see how things are going, and maybe tonight I can bring you over to Trophy and introduce you to everyone. You go have a good first day. Bye, Frankie.”

  She didn’t say good-bye. Instead, she hung up the phone with a trembling hand. A pang of envy shot through her, hearing that male voice so low and early morning grumbly. For an agonizing moment, she found herself longing for sleepy mornin
g intimacies. Those first moments when you woke up and discovered an arm flung around your waist, and rather than get out of bed, you snuggled deeper beside your . . .

  Frankie’s heart began an uncomfortable thump. That had to stop. Mitch didn’t deserve warm memories and gushy reflections from her.

  Pushing back the covers, she rose to take Kiki out, then trudge to the shower and make good on her promise last night to Gail. She’d try and find two sticks to rub together and start a fire in her cave. Live, live, live for the moment and all that jazz. Booyah life.

  But only for Gail.

  The house was chilly as she made her way to the bathroom, flipping on the light to get her first peek at her mussed appearance.

  A shower would never fix the jacked-up mess she was. It was like putting a Band-Aid on a gushing jugular. Her skin was pale, her eyes dull, her lips chapped, her hip bones jutting painfully from beneath her flannel drawstring pajama bottoms.

  But whatever.

  This wasn’t Miss Universe. It was Miss Needs A Job.

  Flipping on the water, Frankie let it heat up while she undressed, catching a glimpse of her breasts in the long mirror above the vanity. She cupped them, wincing at how small they were, noting they were also beginning to sag.

  How fun.

  Bamby had fluffy D-cups.

  Maybe she’d been the inspiration for Mitch’s comment when he’d said Frankie might consider a boob job.

  Frankie shook off the memory with a shiver. Mitch was all up in her head today, and she had Maxine to thank for that. If she’d just left her alone, her numb state of denial could have gone on in a blissful haze of her own stench.

  Kiki sat beside her on the bath mat, her paws primly in front of her, dark eyes observing Frankie in typical stoic fashion. “Just remember, I’m doing this for you—because kibble costs money. But I don’t like it. Got that? If you didn’t need to eat, I’d just stay in bed.”

  That train of thought became a theme for her first day at Greek Meets Eat Diner. Upon her arrival, loud crashes of pots and pans came from the kitchen followed by words, harsh and foreign, mingled with laughter and a lot of yelling.

  Frankie winced, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, unsure where to go, but desperately hoping to avoid the overwhelming chaos by finding a dark corner. It wasn’t so much the yelling. God knew Mitch had yelled at her, more often than not, without her even realizing it, as their relationship disintegrated. It was the overstimulation she found abrasive and jarring. Like small needles puncturing her cocoon of quiet.

  The diner held only one customer, most likely due to the fact that not even vampires were putting on their eye masks and night cream yet.

  A man, just an inch shy of Nikos’s tremendous build, and almost as handsome, skidded out of the kitchen, his face a mask of anger. Frankie backed up against one of the red vinyl stools lining the long counter. “You’re here!” he all but shouted.

  She was. Frankie nodded, wincing. “I am, and you’re an awesome welcome wagon.” She jammed a finger in her ear to stop the ringing.

  The man grabbed her by the hand, dragging her back to the kitchen. With a harried look, he dropped her hand and spat, “I can’t find my spatula.”

  Frankie’s eyes went blank. “Your spatula.”

  He nodded like she should know exactly what he meant. “My spatula. Can’t find it anywhere. How the hell am I supposed to make omelets for the morning rush if I can’t find the damned thing?”

  “I don’t want to sound judgmental, but you only have one spatula?” What kind of cook had one spatula?

  “It’s my favorite,” he reasoned.

  No one understood that better than Frankie. Mitch had a favorite everything, too. If Mitch lost or misplaced his favorite anything, she was in charge of making it appear out of thin air. “Am I in charge of spatula recon?”

  “I don’t know your exact job title, but you’re in charge of whatever needs taking charge of. You’re Frankie, right?”

  He didn’t recognize her either? Please. Had televisions gone the way of Tears For Fears and ripped sweatshirts while she’d hibernated? “I’m Frankie. Yes. Frankie Bennett.” She remembered to hold out her hand in introduction. If nothing else, she’d earn courtesy points on her work eval with Nikos.

  The tall, dark man grabbed it and gave it a brisk shake. “Cosmos Antonakas. This here’s Hector Louis, our other short-order cook, and he can’t find my damn spatula either.”

  Jamming her hands into her jean pockets, Frankie rocked back on her heels. “You said as much, and nice to meet you, Hector.”

  Hector gave her a brief smile, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes, holding up his hands to indicate they were covered in grease as a way to apologize for not shaking her hand. “Hey,” he muttered before turning back to what he was doing.

  Cosmos flapped his hands to indicate she should get moving. “So let’s go. Nik said you were going to help organize the kitchen and do the prep work for the breakfast and lunch crowd.”

  “Oh, she is here!” A woman with big hair, fashioned in some sort of bouffant, and eyes resembling Nikos’s, crowed from the corner of the kitchen. She rushed forward, her white apron fluttering about the tops of her knees, to envelop Frankie in her doughy-soft embrace.

  She plucked at Frankie’s arm and made a face. Her Greek accent had shades of light and dark when she said, “First things first. You are too skeeny. I make you spanakopita and you eat it. No make with the mouth about it either. It is a miracle you can hold up your head, never mind a whole body all skin and bones like you are. We must fix the skeeny.”

  Taking hold of Frankie’s hand, she led her to the back of the kitchen, lined with ovens and an enormous grill, to a small space adjacent to the long stretch of steel countertop used for prepping. She patted a lone red vinyl stool. “Sit.”

  As though she instinctively knew Frankie was going to refuse her invitation, Voula raised one raven eyebrow flecked with gray, daring her to decline. Frankie’s lips clamped shut. “I said no mouth about it. Everyone eats to start the day right with Voula. It gives the brain energy and the body gas.”

  “Fuel, Mama. It gives her body fuel,” Cosmos interjected with an indulgent chuckle, planting a kiss on his mother’s cheek.

  Voula waved her pudgy hands at him. “Fuel, gas, make no difference. Still the same. You fill up the body with both.” She pulled a plate from beneath the warming lights used to keep customer orders hot prior to being served, and plunked it in front of Frankie. “I make this just for you, because Nikos said you are too skeeny. We have much to chop today. You need your strength.”

  Frankie’s face flushed at the notion Nikos thought anything of her. Yet, she still planned an uprising. As Voula went off in search of what Frankie figured was silverware, Cosmos leaned into her with a crafty smile. “I wouldn’t even consider telling her no. If you’re totally opposed, make nice and I’ll cover for you while you dump it, but telling her no is like poking her in the heart with a hot pitchfork. You would not believe the drama that woman can generate over the word ‘no.’ It’s not in the Greek vocabulary when it comes to food.”

  Voula brought her silverware, placing the fork in Frankie’s hand. “You eat. Now. I’ll get coffee to put some color in your cheeks.”

  Frankie instantly sat. She might be reluctant, but she wasn’t brain dead, and the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass her Aunt Gail, who’d cooed with delight about Nikos and his diner. Lifting the flaky crust, she almost smiled. The pastry was cooked to perfection, filled with gooey feta cheese, eggs, and spinach. Finding herself appreciative of the visual effect of the dish, she placed a piece in her mouth.

  Wow. Had she ever underestimated a good meal all these months. The melt-in-her-mouth goodness, the combination of salty cheese and mellow eggs hit her stomach with a euphoric sigh of bliss.

  Voula put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. She smelled of pastry and spices mixed with floral perfume. Her scent made Frank
ie’s eyes sting with more unwanted tears. “It’s good, right?”

  “It’s delicious. Thank you,” Frankie said around another mouthful, hoping to avoid any more “skeeny” conversations.

  “Hah! I bet all those pretty television food people you know don’t know my spanakopita.”

  Frankie’s stomach sank.

  Further sinkage occurred when a now familiar voice boomed, “Mama! What did I tell you?”

  Voula yanked the striped towel from her shoulder and swiped playfully at the dark Adonis, er, Nikos. “I think about this last night before I go to bed, Nikos. Frankie isn’t a stupid girl. We don’t come from the old country where there is no electricity. We have a TV. We saw what happened. If I was her and your papa was Mitch, that dirty, old man would lose more than his pride on the television. He would have lost his olives.”

  Frankie snorted before a cough erupted from her throat. Cosmos passed her a cold glass of water she downed in two gulps. Though, it didn’t help the flame of her cheeks or the tingle of her scalp as Nikos leaned over her to pinch his mother’s plump cheek. “Mama, that’s not the point. Sometimes, even when you mean well, you dump salt in an open wound with your kindness.”

  Voula brushed a stray piece of hair back into its nest and made a face. “Bah! You don’t put salt in a wound. You put peroxide. It makes everything okay. And I’m not gonna tippy-toe around here in my own diner. My memory is bad. I forget to keep the secrets. So we just let the rabbit out of the hat and get it over with—”

  “The cat out of the bag, Mama,” Nikos corrected, his grin fond and warm enough for Frankie to feel it.

  “Yes, cats, rabbits, groundhogs. That’s not the point. The point is we cannot have Frankie here afraid she is not with people who understand.”

  Voula turned to Frankie, cupping her chin, her dark chocolate eyes warm. “You were married to a bad man, Frankie. Now you are not. We will take good care of you, but we do it without all the pretending and nicey-nice like we don’t know you did something people say is crazy. Okay?” Voula directed her question to Frankie, who’d semi-recovered.