She supposed part of it was her own fault. Tom knew she lived and died by her Day-Timer, and if the Day-Timer said she’d be at the decorator’s at two o’clock, then that’s where she’d be.
If she’d been a tad more unpredictable, maybe they’d have had “lunch” at Marlene’s place instead, and ruined her good sheets.
Grace stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor at Kemper Ivy Kemper, where Tom’s lawyer, aka Bigger Prick, practiced. The receptionist directed her to the conference room, where Big Prick, Bigger Prick and Grace’s own lawyer, Debra Coyle, waited.
Tom raked his long fingers through salt-and-pepper hair. She could see the tension in his squared jaw. His bone structure was impeccable, really. He would undoubtedly age like Sean Connery, remaining breathtakingly handsome well into his retirement days.
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Big Prick’s eyes bugged. “You cut your hair. And it’s blond.”
Bigger Prick flashed his client a look.
Grace felt a moment of grateful relief before she considered where the compliment had come from. She gave Tom a bitchy look. “I’m getting the kids’ hair cut, too. I figure we’ll save money on shampoo.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Grace. You know the children will be well taken care of, and—”
“Just hold on, Tom,” his lawyer interrupted. “Debra, will you keep your client quiet for a few minutes?”
“I think she has every right to be pissed, David. Don’t you?” Debra motioned to the chair next to hers, and Grace took a seat. “How many times are we going to rehash this pathetic settlement?”
“She signed a prenup, Debra.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“My client just wants to be fair. He wants to do what’s right.”
Grace snorted. “He should have thought of that before he decided to audition for the role of mascot for Skippy’s porn division.”
Tom pushed away from the table and stormed out the door.
Grace rubbed her temples. “Can we just get this over with?”
Bigger Prick slid the latest draft of the divorce settlement across the wide conference room table.
“Will you leave us alone for a few minutes?” Debra asked Bigger Prick.
The other lawyer nodded and followed Tom from the room. Grace could see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting just outside the door.
Upon closer inspection, Tom didn’t look well. The bags under his eyes matched the gray suit he was wearing. Maybe the strain of the divorce was catching up to him, too.
Yeah, right. More likely he and Marlene had been dressing up in condiments all night.
A vision of Marlene’s bony ass, covered in ketchup, flashed in Grace’s mind. Blech.
“Grace, I don’t think we’re going to do much better than this,” Debra said. “The terms are shitty, but you did sign a prenup. He gets all property and monies generated by his inheritance, including the house. You get half of what you’ve both made since you got married.”
“You mean half of what he’s made. He wouldn’t let me work, Debra. God, I was so stupid.”
Debra reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “The child support is good. Some would argue that he’s being generous.”
“Generous? Listen, I don’t give a crap about the money. Well, okay, maybe a small crap. But I’m going to lose the house. My kids are going to lose their house.”
“Maybe you could offer to buy him out.”
“How? The house is worth three-quarters of a million dollars.”
Debra thought for a minute. “Can you borrow it from your parents?”
Grace shook her head. “They don’t have that kind of money.”
“Do you have anything you can sell? What about stocks? Jewelry?”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be enough to buy him out.” For the second time that day, tears threatened.
She’d worked so hard to make that house a home for Tom and the kids. It was a gorgeous, historic colonial manor house, once owned by William Penn’s sous-chef or something. When they’d moved in, it was hardly more than an old pile of bricks. She’d restored it, room by room, over the years, finding authentic fixtures at flea markets and on the Internet. She loved that house, and now she’d never even be able to afford the taxes. But there were more important things than houses.
At least she’d won custody of the kids. Probably because—unlike the house—Marlene didn’t want them.
“Screw it,” she said. “Give me the papers.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” She signed the papers, and Debra waved Tom and his lawyer back into the room.
“You did the right thing, Grace,” Bigger Prick said. “The sooner we end this hostility, the sooner you and Tom can get on with your lives.”
Right. Only now, hers would be almost unrecognizable.
Grace rose. “Good luck with Marlene.”
Bigger Prick stuck out his hand. Grace ignored it.
She made it to the door before Tom said, “Wait, Grace. I want to talk to you. Alone.”
Both lawyers looked stricken. But Grace nodded, and Tom held the door open for her as they left.
“What?” she said. “You want to thank me for signing that piece of shit agreement?”
He came closer. “No. I want to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?” She laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
Tom closed the distance between them and guided her to an alcove in the lobby. “I need you to do something for me. In return, maybe we could work something out with the house.”
She looked into his eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I need you to sign some papers.”
“What kind of papers?”
“Work-related stuff.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you want me to sign work-related papers?”
He reached out, almost touching her hand before pulling back. He whispered, “Not your name.”
Her insides went liquid. “No-oh. No way. Forget it.”
Now he grabbed her hand. His voice was low and quick. Persuasive. His sales voice. “Come on, Gracie. You’re the only one I know who can do this for me. You’re the best.”
“Are you crazy?” Her voice rose, and she made a concerted effort to quiet herself. “Are you nuts? Do you want to send me back to jail?”
“You won’t get caught. I promise. It’s a one-time deal.”
She pulled her hand from his.
“Think about it, Gracie. Five minutes of your time and the house is yours.”
“What about Marlene? I thought she wanted the house.”
“Yeah, well. She’ll just have to live without it.”
He must have known how tempting this all would sound to her. He’d always been a great salesman, finding just the right carrot for the mules.
He’d found hers, all right. But it wasn’t a big enough carrot.
“I’d want the ’Vette, too,” she said. Tom’s white 1976 Corvette was basically a fifteen-foot extension of his penis.
He frowned. “Grace—”
“Okay, then.” She started walking toward the elevator, and he grabbed her arm.
“Wait. All right. The ’Vette, too.”
She realized then that he was really, truly desperate.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast, okay? I need this done quickly.”
She nodded.
Before she could figure out what his intentions were, he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll call you.”
She got almost to the elevator before she remembered to ask him about Megan’s field hockey game.
“Hey,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You know Megan has a game today?”
“Of course. I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Grace walked out of the building and into the
sunshine. She’d made a decision.
She didn’t need meditation. She needed a margarita.
Chapter 1.5
Friday, 11:45 a.m.
Wild Card
Pete Slade popped another Tums and stared out the window of the Melrose Diner in South Philly. He had a bad feeling.
Hell, he’d had a bad feeling since this whole mess began. And the fact that he now had to rely on a sharp-looking kid with a hundred-dollar haircut and a different girl for every night of the week didn’t help matters.
Nick Balboa wasn’t what you’d call reliable. Not even a little bit. He was a low-level thug with big plans.
A wild card.
And he was gonna screw everything up.
Pete chugged his coffee and threw a couple bucks down on the table for the waitress.
Out on the street, he flipped open his cell phone and called Lou.
“Hey. I got a funny feeling.”
“Yeah?” said Lou.
“Yeah. I’m gonna swing by the airport, maybe watch Balboa’s car.”
He imagined Lou rolling his eyes. But Pete had been doing this long enough to know when to follow his gut. Even when it was rebelling against him.
“Anything you want me to do?” Lou asked.
“Just sit tight. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Pete disconnected the call and popped another Tums.
Jesus, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.
Chapter 2
Friday, 11:56 a.m.
Grazing
Beruglia’s was packed, as usual. Businessmen in athletic-cut suits lined the bar, hunched over low-carb beers and plates of South Beach–acceptable protein. Groups of women crowded around tables, grazing on giant bowls of lettuce and sipping water with lemon wedges.
The hostess led Grace to a table against the window. It had taken her a while to get used to eating alone in restaurants, but as long as she didn’t see anyone she knew, it was okay.
She unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.
“Grace?”
Damn. So much for that.
One of the grazers at the table beside hers was leaning so far back in her chair Grace was afraid she’d topple over backward. Motherhood had made her hypersensitive to behaviors apt to result in head injury.
“Grace Poleiski?” the woman said.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Roseanna Janosik, from Chesterfield High.”
“Roseanna! Wow, how long has it been?”
“Since the last reunion, I guess. What, eight, nine years?” Roseanna squeezed out of her chair and came to sit at Grace’s table. “You look great! What’s going on with you?”
“Eh, you know. It’s always something.”
“I hear that. Hey, what’re you doing tonight? Some of the girls are getting together at a club downtown. They’d die if you walked in.”
Grace thought about the salmon and new potatoes in her fridge. “All the way to Philly? I don’t know…”
“Come on. It’s fifteen miles, not the other end of the earth. Live a little. Leave the kids home with your husband and come out and play. The club is supposed to be a riot. There’s a DJ playing all eighties music. It’ll be just like high school.”
Grace had a sudden flashback to high school. The sausage-curl hair, giant belts, parachute pants. Smoking in the girls’ room. Making lip gloss in science lab. She smiled.
She and Roseanna had been good friends. In fact, she’d had a lot of good friends.
Grace’s mother had always told her those were the best days of her life, but she’d never believed it.
How was that possible when one strategically placed blemish could put you on the pariah list for a week? When the wrong look from the right guy could annihilate your confidence for a month? When there was no bigger horror than having your period on gym day and having to take a shower in front of twenty other girls?
God, she missed those days.
It was hard to admit, but her mother had been right.
Roseanna squeezed her hand. “So, what do you say? Wanna come?”
“Why not?” Grace said. “Sounds like fun.”
“Great.” Roseanna scribbled on a napkin. “Here’s the address of the club. Meet us there around nine.”
Grace pulled her Day-Timer out of her bag and penciled it in and then ordered a salad.
And a margarita. Rocks. No salt.
Friday, 1:30 p.m.
Slow Brenda
“Look at y-o-o-o-u.” Misty Hinkle grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her into a living room the size of a hockey rink, and almost as cold. Six card tables were huddled together in the center of the room. Probably for warmth.
“Look at Gra-a-a-a-ace, everybody. Doesn’t she look fa-a-a-abulous?” The women sitting around the tables tore themselves away from the snacks long enough to glance at her.
“Oh, stop it, Misty,” Grace said. “It’s just a haircut.”
“It’s not just a haircut. You went blonde.” There was an accusatory note in Lorraine’s voice.
“I needed a change. What can I say?” Grace caught the knowing glances ricocheting around the room and wondered how long these ladies of modest society would continue to invite her to their functions.
There was currently only one divorced woman in the group, and Grace had a feeling they only kept her around to talk about her behind her back. All the rest of the unfortunately uncoupled had been drummed out of the pack within weeks of their divorces being finalized.
Face it. No one wanted a suddenly single woman running around at one of their holiday parties, talking about how hard it was to get a date when your boobs sagged and your thighs jiggled. Why invite the ghost of Christmas Future?
“I, for one, liked the ponytail,” said Brenda McNaull. She pointed to the chair across from hers and motioned for Grace to sit down. “We’re partners today.”
“Great,” Grace said. She should have had a couple more margaritas at lunch. Brenda was the most maddeningly slow card player in the world.
“Pe-e-eople.” Misty clapped her hands. “La-a-adies, ple-e-ease. A couple of announcements before we begin.”
The room quieted. Slightly.
“Tha-a-an-nk you. Once again, Meredith is looking for volunteers for the Herpes Walk—”
“Hirschsprung’s!”
“Sor-r-r-ry—Hirshbaum’s Walk. Kathy needs crafts for the Literacy Fair, and Grace is collecting clothes for Goodwill again today. Leave your bags by the door. And I don’t mean the ones under your eyes. Haw haw! Oka-a-a-ay, ladies. Let’s play!”
Brenda examined the tiny glass dish of nuts at the corner of the card table. “Can you believe this chintzy spread?” She plucked an almond from the dish between two long, manicured fingernails and popped it into her mouth.
“So what’s the game today?” Grace asked.
“Pinochle,” Brenda said.
The two other women at the table rolled their eyes. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Friday, 4:10 p.m.
Date with Ludmilla
The parking lot at Megan’s school was nearly empty. Field hockey wasn’t exactly a big draw, as witnessed by the fact that the snack bar wasn’t even open.
Grace pulled a couple of grocery bags out of the back of the minivan and looked around. No sign of Tom’s car.
Not yet, anyway. But Grace knew he’d be there. He hadn’t missed one of Meg’s home games since she’d started playing field hockey. Or one of Kevin’s soccer matches, or one of Callie’s band recitals. Grace had to admit, he was a good father. A lousy husband, but a good father.
Grace picked her way to the field, her high heels aerating the grass. She’d forgotten to bring sneakers.
She plunked the grocery bags down on the bench at the sidelines and unloaded the supplies—a giant plastic bag of quartered oranges, homemade chocolate chip cookies, paper cups and two industrial-sized bottles of Gatorade.
Coach Ludmilla, a hairy but not completely unattractive Hung
arian woman, winked at her from the center line. Grace waved.
She wondered if theirs could be considered a monogamous relationship. Did Ludmilla wink exclusively at her, or did she wink at every mother who brought cookies and Gatorade? Maybe they were just dating.
Maybe she needed to get a life.
She watched as Megan dribbled the ball down the field and smacked it toward the goal cage. It hit the post and bounced out of bounds. She saw Megan’s gaze search the sidelines. Grace waved, but Megan was looking elsewhere.
Grace looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Tom stood near the risers, alone. He hesitated before heading toward her.
The official blew the whistle to indicate halftime, and Ludmilla trotted over to the bench.
“Sorry I’m late,” Grace said. “My afternoon, uh, appointment ran a little long.” Thank you, Brenda.
“No problem,” Ludmilla said. “Thanks for bringing the snacks again, Grace.”
“Sure. The team’s looking good.”
“You bet.” Ludmilla sidled next to her. “We’re looking for an assistant coach. Someone to carry equipment and keep the stats. You interested?”
“Sorry,” Grace said, handing the coach a cup of Gatorade. “I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Maybe next year.”
Ludmilla looked disappointed. “Sure. Well, I’ve got to get these ladies ready for the second half. Will you pour some drinks for the team?”
“Of course.”
While Grace bent over a row of paper cups, she saw Tom’s three-hundred-dollar shoes approach. Unfortunately, he was in them.
“Grace, how are you?”
She continued pouring. “Same as this morning.”
“Have you thought about what I asked you?”
“You mean how you want me to perform an illegal act that might get me arrested and destroy our children’s lives in order to get what I deserve out of this marriage anyway?”
He sighed. “I’m not trying to screw you.”
“Really?” She straightened. “Well that’s a relief, because I’m pretty sure you got the K-Y in the settlement.”
A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets Page 19