by Wendy Wax
At the end of her street, Amanda turned left and continued toward the entrance of the subdivision. The clubhouse parking lot overflowed with cars and on the adjacent tennis courts mixed-doubles teams warmed up, while those waiting to play socialized.
When they’d first moved to Atlanta, she and Rob had played on the neighborhood tennis team. She’d been adequate, nowhere near as good as Rob, but she could still remember the pure joy of moving on the court in tandem with her husband while her children played on the nearby playground.
Everything had felt fresh and full of promise then. They’d had Saturday tennis followed by a Saturday date night every week so that they could be alone with each other. She tried to remember when all that had begun to change, but there was no demarcation date, no specific day she could point to on which the kids’ activities had taken over the weekends and their time alone had somehow ceased to be.
Chatter and the lazy thwack of a tennis ball trailed after her as she passed the courts. Two streets ahead she rounded a corner and saw a sliver of the pond for which the neighborhood had been named. Two boys fished on the opposite bank and a family had spread out a blanket picnic next to the trunk of an ancient oak.
Amanda sank down onto a wooden bench shaded by the waxy green leaves of a massive magnolia. It was quiet and peaceful in her hidey-hole. Her thoughts skipped here and there, alighting briefly then moving on like the bee now buzzing around a nearby flower. The Rob she’d married versus the one she was divorcing; her life before and the one that stretched ahead of her.
Fear reared its ugly head and she mashed it back down. Everything about this day smacked of a new beginning; there was no room for fear in her new life.
Out on the pond a duck quacked. It was an angry, hostile sound that for some reason made her smile. “Oh, you,” she said. “What do you have to complain about?”
“Yeah, that’s a duck for you, never satisfied.”
The voice was masculine and nearby and horribly familiar. Amanda sat up straighter and stole a quick glance over her shoulder. A flush of embarrassment swept over her as she recognized the hunk who’d been behind her at the grocery store.
“So how’d things go the other night?” He looked even better in the daylight than he had in the checkout line. He was over six feet tall and blond, well built in a non-gym-induced way. Intelligent green eyes glinting with amusement considered her from the rugged face. A black Lab sniffed the bushes nearby.
Amanda blushed again. The front of her camisole felt damp and clingy from her walk, she wasn’t wearing an ounce of makeup, and he’d already introduced the topic of condoms. She prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but it appeared this was just one more in a long line of prayers that was going to go unanswered.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“We live over on Chandler Circle.” He named a street on the opposite side of the pond in the newer section of the subdivision. “This is Fido’s favorite spot.”
“You actually named your dog Fido?”
“Um-hmm.” He whistled and the dog’s ears perked up. “Here, Fido. Come here, boy.”
The dog crashed back through the brush, bounded toward the bench, and—just in case she wasn’t already embarrassed enough—poked its nose directly between Amanda’s thighs.
She gasped and shoved the dog’s head away.
“Sorry.” He reached for the dog’s collar and pulled him back. “He sits and heels and he’s got the first half of fetch down pretty well, but he’s definitely not a gentleman.”
Amanda smiled weakly and resisted the urge to look down to see just how wet the crotch of her shorts were.
“I’m Hunter James.” He stretched his hand toward her and she responded without thinking.
“Amanda Sheridan.”
Her hand disappeared in his and she felt the pleasant shock of warm skin and solid strength. His other hand remained clenched around the dog’s collar. The Lab’s tongue lolled out of its mouth and she wondered if after all these months of celibacy her crotch was sending out distress signals like those dog whistles that only canines could hear.
Hunter James didn’t rush to fill the silence that fell between them, but she could feel his thoughtful gaze on her face.
“It’s a nice spot,” he finally said. “Mind if I join you?”
Amanda did a surreptitious check to make sure the picnicking family was still within shouting distance. After all, Ted Bundy had been attractive and personable.
“Sure.” She slid over and he sat down beside her. Picking up a stick, he sent it sailing through the air. Fido raced after it.
Trying not to imagine what she must look like, or what he must think of her after the condom encounter, she stared out over the pond wishing for some of the boldness the margaritas had given her the other night. Chaud et sexy, the French words for hot and sexy shot through her mind. If she were a French soon-to-be-divorced woman, she’d seize this opportunity, not shrink from it. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met. And then, of course, there was that smile.
“It’s my favorite spot,” her Anglo self managed. “It’s a great place for figuring things out.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.” He settled onto the bench and stared out at the pond too. The silence surrounded them, interrupted only by the occasional quack of a duck and muffled bursts of conversation from the picnic. He was solidly there, but somehow managed not to invade her space.
Fido galloped back with the stick and shoved it toward Amanda. After a quick scratch behind Fido’s ear, she pulled the stick from the dog’s mouth and flung it as far as she could. The Lab raced after it.
“What kinds of things are you trying to figure out?” Hunter James asked.
The words “nothing major” almost made it to her lips, but she surprised them both with the truth. “Oh, you know, small things like what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. How I’m going to support my children after what feels like a lifetime as a stay-at-home mom.” She shrugged and looked up into his eyes. “Little things like that.”
Fido trotted back with the stick. Stretching out at his master’s feet, he began to gnaw on it.
Hunter placed a hand on the dog’s head and rubbed gently. “Sometimes we get broadsided by trouble when we’re least expecting it. But if there’s anything that can help you do what has to be done, it’s your children.” He sighed and withdrew his hand from Fido’s head, and for a moment Amanda wished he’d lay it on hers, not in a sexual way but as a gesture of comfort. “I’m sure it won’t be easy,” he said, the green eyes kind and sad at the same time. “But you strike me as exactly the kind of woman who’ll figure everything out just fine.”
“Thanks.” Hoping that he was right, Amanda dropped her gaze. A glance at her watch told her it was time to get going if she wanted to make it to the grocery store in time to get home and make dinner for Brooke and Candace.
She stood and dusted off the bottom of her shorts, oddly reluctant to leave. If she hadn’t known that there was probably a Mrs. James and a bunch of little Jameses waiting for him over on Chandler Circle, it would have taken an act of God to pry her from that bench.
“I have to admit I’ve been curious,” he said as she leaned over to give Fido a good-bye pat on the head. “Did you have enough?”
His eyes lit with the same amusement she’d noted during that first condom encounter. Here in the dappled sunlight they seemed even greener.
Her earlier embarrassment forgotten, she found herself smiling back. “Truthfully,” she said staring into them, “all the condoms in the world wouldn’t have been enough for what I was trying to accomplish that night.”
He laughed. A dimple creased his cheek. “I’ll have you know I’ve actually lost sleep trying to figure out what you did with that many. My imagination’s been running wild.”
She couldn’t stop her answering smile. Just sharing a bench with him had somehow lightened her mood. “Well, I’m afraid we
’re going to have to chalk it up as one of the great mysteries of the universe.”
He laughed again, this time with appreciation.
“Because that’s one bit of information I intend to take to my grave.”
His laughter, which she really, really liked the sound of, followed her as she said good-bye and turned and left the park.
The day seemed brighter as she hurried by the tennis courts and made her way home.
chapter 10
F or dinner Amanda decided on Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic and Moroccan Couscous which she found in her favorite Barefoot Contessa cookbook. She served it on the back deck on a patio table covered with a red checkered tablecloth. Flickering candles stuffed in empty Chianti bottles and a string of white Christmas lights wound through the deck railing provided light and atmosphere. A Paris Combo Live CD played on the boom box. If she tried hard enough, Amanda could imagine herself at one of the sidewalk cafés that dotted the broad avenues along the Champs-Elysées.
“Welcome to Chez Amanda!” she said as she took one of the bottles of white wine Candace proffered and set Brooke’s prettily wrapped bakery box on the counter. She kissed them, European style, on both cheeks. Bringing the bottle of wine, she led them onto the deck.
“Wow! What a great setup,” Candace said. “All we need now is a Maurice Chevalier–type waiter. Or a piano player with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth singing naughty French love songs.”
Amanda uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of the white wine for herself and Candace. “Brooke?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
Amanda smiled and reached for the bottle of Pellegrino. When they all had something to drink, she raised her glass and the three of them clinked crystal.
“Ooh la la.” Brooke sipped her sparkling water and scanned the setting Amanda had so painstakingly created. “It’s fabulous out here. I feel like a jetsetter.”
“Have some brie.” Slathering apple slices and crusty bread with the melted cheese, Amanda prepared them each a plate of appetizers.
“This is great.” Candace snagged a bunch of white grapes and helped herself to a cracker covered with pâté.
They chatted for a while, just the inconsequentials of their day, but Amanda could sense them waiting for her to invite them into her life. For the moment she was content to play hostess—she’d enjoyed preparing tonight’s meal even more than she’d anticipated. Still it felt incredibly good to know that they cared what happened to her. With some surprise, she realized that they no longer seemed like unlikely strangers. Their movements and facial expressions had become familiar; the details of their lives important.
“How did the boys take their loss today?” Amanda asked as she set an endive, pear, and Roquefort salad at each place.
“It wasn’t pretty,” Candace said as they sat. “If those parents don’t stop blaming Dan for everything, I’m going to snap someone’s head off. I don’t know how he stays so calm. Even my mother couldn’t rattle him.”
“I know what you mean,” Amanda said. “He always seems like a white sand island in the middle of a roiling sea.”
Amanda finished her salad. Pleased, she watched Brooke and Candace finish every bite of theirs too. “How about you, Brooke?” she asked. “Is Tyler treating you any better?”
“Only when Hap’s around.” Brooke speared the last sliver of pear. “Which isn’t anywhere near as much as I’d like. He’s out visiting his restaurants almost every week now. So I’m on my own a lot. Good God, I miss my job at the accounting firm. And when he gets back, he either wants to play golf with his friends or we have some event of Tyler’s. Or both.”
They carried the empty salad plates to the kitchen and came back out with heaping servings of chicken and couscous. The garlic was sweet and tender with the faintest hint of Cognac and cream sauce.
“OK, now I know I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Candace bent over her plate and inhaled. “Why don’t we skip right over the brainstorming? I think you should train to become a French chef and open your own restaurant.”
“Someday, maybe.” Amanda smiled at the compliment as they began to eat. “Right now I know how to make two dishes and I have aspirations for a third. And I don’t have time for a slow build. I’ve got to make money and I’ve got to make it fast.”
The sun sank lower and the breeze that had felt balmy earlier began to feel cool as they finished the main course. “Why don’t we have coffee and dessert inside?” Amanda suggested. “I’ve been dying to see what Brooke brought from the bakery.”
They trooped in, carrying everything they could. Candace rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher while Amanda brewed a pot of coffee. Brooke sliced three large wedges of the chocolate mousse cake and carried the plates into the family room.
Shoes off, their feet tucked under them, they settled in to drink coffee and moan over the sinful richness of the chocolate cake.
“OK.” Amanda set her plate on the coffee table in front of her. “I need an idea.”
“Maybe we should try stream of consciousness and see what we come up with,” Candace suggested.
“OK, but it has to be something that will allow me to be home for the kids by dinnertime and doesn’t involve a lengthy commute,” Amanda said. “I don’t want to be too far away in case of an emergency.”
“What are your skills?” Brooke asked.
“Well…” Amanda thought about that for a moment. “I’m good organizationally. I’ve chaired a ton of committees and I know how to get things done.”
“What’s your degree in?” Candace asked.
“Drama.”
“Have you tried the local theatre companies?”
“Yes.” Amanda ticked off the negatives on her fingers. “Employees are mostly volunteers. Those who are paid, get almost no money. And you have to be there nights and weekends.”
They all drooped. “Could you teach it?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not certified, and I don’t have time to get a teaching certificate.”
“What about substitute teaching? You don’t need a degree for that,” Candace said.
“Even less money. A substitute gets a whopping ninety dollars a day before taxes. And you can’t count on it.”
“Drama…makeup…” Brooke mused. “How about selling Avon? Or one of those multilevel marketing companies?”
“I’m not giving home parties. Even if I could count on my former friends and acquaintances, it takes forever to build those things.”
“What about real estate?” Candace asked.
Amanda shook her head. “Every other divorced woman in the county has already beat me to it.”
“Catering?”
“Like I told you, I make two really good dishes, both of them French. And it’s another slow build.” Amanda was starting to get depressed. “I need something I can make money at right away.”
“Party planning?” Brooke said.
“Too festive.”
“Personal shopping?” This from Candace.
“I thought I had a job doing that for Steinmart for about five minutes. But doing it on my own?” Amanda shook her head. “Most of the women I know are probably even more avid shoppers than I am. And it’s another slow build.”
“Decorating?”
“I’d need training and, again, you have to start with your friends. Right now you two are it.”
Brooke sighed. Candace settled back into the sofa and folded her arms across her chest. “There must be something you’re good at that people need.”
“Right now the only thing I excel at is cleaning my house.” Amanda laughed, but there was little humor in it. “My grout and I are intimately acquainted. It started as a kind of therapy, but at this point I spend so much time cleaning we could have stayed inside tonight and eaten off the floor.”
“You know,” Candace said slowly, “the only thing the women around here talk about more than other women is their maids.”
�
�That’s true,” Brooke said. “The other night at the ballpark there was a thirty minute dissection and comparison of cleaning crews. And nobody sounded all that happy.”
“Just imagine what they’d give for someone who could speak English and actually understand what they want done,” Candace said thoughtfully.
Amanda looked at Brooke and Candace. “I would have hated waiting on these women in Steinmart, I don’t see how I could waltz into their homes, shoot them a smile, and excuse myself to go clean their toilets.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t think so.” She got up to retrieve the carafe of coffee then freshened everyone’s cup.
Candace raised an eyebrow. “My cleaning crew gets a minimum of one hundred twenty-five dollars a house and they do two houses a day, sometimes three, five days a week. That’s…”
“A minimum of twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week,” Brooke calculated, her voice sounding odd.
“Cash? In their pocket?” Amanda couldn’t believe it.
“That’s sixty-five grand a year.” Candace did the math. “Cash. No deductions.”
They looked at her, waiting for her reaction. Sixty-five thousand dollars a year would go a long way toward paying their bills and keeping them in the house. And if she did more than two houses a day…
“Bitsy Menkowski and Susie Simmons are both looking for a new cleaning woman.”
“Oh, right, should I just call them up and tell them I’d like to come wax their floors?”
“I could book it for you, maybe use an alias,” Candace suggested. “We could try to schedule you to clean when no one was home.”
Go in their closets? Pick up their underwear from the floor? Amanda grimaced. Given the hours required to thoroughly clean the houses here, she didn’t see how she could completely avoid the customers. And she wouldn’t be the only one embarrassed. How would she feel if an old friend asked to clean her home? She might say yes at first out of pity, but it would be so uncomfortable. Like giving someone who’d been a frequent dinner guest scraps at the back door.