Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “Ben?” She kept her voice low. It was pitch black, except for the pale turquoise surface of the pool and the eerie green uplights on the date-palm clusters at the back of the garden. Cicadas thrummed, and in the far distance, she heard a truck rumbling down the street. She crept forward, her hands extended, edging past the pair of chaise lounges perched at the edge of the patio, feeling the rough-textured coral rock beneath her feet.

  Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dark. There was no glowing cigar tip anywhere on the patio or the garden. She glanced toward the garage. No lights were on in J’Aimee’s upstairs apartment, and the garage doors were closed. Was Ben’s car there?

  For a moment, a train of scenarios unspooled through her imagination. Ben, passed out, or even dead, at the wheel of his car, an unknown assailant lurking nearby. Should she retreat to the house, find some kind of weapon, even call the police?

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she murmured to herself. “You’re a big girl. Just go look in the garage. You live in a gated community, for God’s sake. The only crime here is dogs pooping on the grass.”

  She tiptoed toward the garage, skirting the electronically controlled metal doors, heading toward the side door, trying to remember whether or not it would be unlocked.

  Luckily, it was. The knob turned easily in her hand, and she stepped inside the darkened space, her hand groping the wall for the light switch.

  And then she heard … heavy breathing. She froze. A man’s voice. The words were unintelligible, but the voice was Ben’s. Her hand scrabbled the wall for the switch. She found it, and the garage was flooded with light.

  A woman squealed.

  Grace blinked in the bright lights. She saw Ben, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Audi. He was bare-chested, his right hand shielding his eyes from the light. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks were flushed bright red.

  “Grace?” He looked wild-eyed.

  And that’s when she realized he wasn’t alone in the car. Her first instinct was to turn and run away, but she was drawn, like a bug to a lightbulb, to the side of that gleaming black sports car. The top was retracted. She looked down and saw that distinctive mane of flame-red hair.

  J’Aimee, her loyal, invaluable assistant, was cowering, naked, making a valiant effort to disappear into the floorboards of the car.

  “What the hell?” Grace screeched as she yanked open the passenger-side door.

  “I’m sorry, Grace, I’m so sorry,” J’Aimee blurted, her eyes the size of saucers.

  J’Aimee’s clothes were scattered on the floor of the garage, and, come to think of it, that was Ben’s shirt—his expensive, pale-blue, custom-tailored, monogrammed, Egyptian cotton shirt that Grace had given him as a birthday gift—that was flung over the Audi’s windshield.

  With the passenger-side door open, Grace saw, at a glance, that her husband was nearly naked, too—if you counted having your jeans puddled down around your ankles as naked.

  For a moment, Grace wondered if this was some bad dream she was having. Hadn’t she just been asleep a moment earlier? This couldn’t be happening. Not Ben. Ben loved her. He would never cheat. She shook her head violently, closed her eyes, and reopened them.

  But this was no nightmare. And there was no mistaking what she’d just interrupted. Suddenly, she felt a surge of boiling hot rage.

  “Bitch!” Grace cried. She clamped a hand around J’Aimee’s upper arm and yanked her out of the car in one fluid, frenzied motion.

  “Ow,” J’Aimee whimpered.

  Grace flung her against the side of the car.

  “Stop it,” J’Aimee cried. Her face was pale, with every freckle standing out in contrast to the milky whiteness of her skin. For some reason, Grace, in an insane corner of her mind, noted with satisfaction that J’Aimee’s breasts were oddly pendulous for such a young woman. Also? Not a real redhead.

  “You stop it!” Grace said, drawing back her hand.

  “Jesus!” J’Aimee screamed. She raised her arms to cover her face, and for a moment Grace faltered. She had never hit anybody in her life. She dropped her hand and glared at the girl.

  “Now, Grace,” Ben started. He was wriggling around in his seat, trying in vain to surreptitiously pull up his pants. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Don’t…”

  “Shut up, just shut up!” Grace shouted, her eyes blazing. For a moment, she forgot about J’Aimee. She flew around to his side of the car, but before she could get there, Ben had managed to slide out from under the steering wheel, zipping up his pants as he stood.

  “How could you?” she cried, raining ineffective punches around his head and shoulders. She was aware that her high-pitched shrieks sounded like the howls of a lunatic, but she was helpless to stop herself. “You? And J’Aimee? My assistant? You were screwing her? Under my own roof?”

  He easily caught her fists and held them tight in his own. “No!” Ben lied. “It’s not what you think. Look, if you would just calm down, let’s talk about this. Okay? I know this looks bad, but there’s a logical explanation.”

  “Like what? The two of you snuck out here to the garage while I was asleep and you decided to have a business meeting in your car? A clothing-optional meeting? And suddenly, J’Aimee decided to give you mouth-to-penis resuscitation? Is that the logical explanation for this?”

  “Calm down,” Ben repeated. “You’re getting yourself all worked up…”

  Grace saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and looked over just in time to see J’Aimee scoop up her clothing and make a run for it.

  “Oh, no,” Grace said. “You’re not getting away from this.” J’Aimee darted out the door, and Grace went right after her.

  “Stay away from me,” J’Aimee cried, running in the direction of the house. “I’ll call the police if you come near me … It’s aggravated assault.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of aggravated,” Grace shouted. She flinched when her bare feet hit the lawn, damp from the automatic sprinklers, but ran after J’Aimee, who was surprisingly slow for a young woman unencumbered by clothing. She picked up her speed until she was only a few yards behind her former assistant. She reached out to try to snatch a handful of J’Aimee’s hair, but her prey danced out of reach.

  “Don’t you touch me,” J’Aimee cried, backing away. “I mean it.”

  But Grace was quicker than even she expected. She managed to grab J’Aimee’s arm, and the girl screamed like a stuck pig.

  Lights snapped on at the house next door. A dog began barking from the back of the property.

  “Get away,” the young woman screeched, dropping her clothing onto the grass and windmilling her arms in Grace’s general vicinity. “Get away.”

  Now they heard the low hum and metallic clang of the garage door opening. Grace glanced over her shoulder to see Ben come sprinting out of the garage. “Are you insane?” he called. “For God’s sake, Grace, let her go.”

  In her fury, Grace turned toward her husband, and in that moment J’Aimee slipped out of her grasp. While Grace watched, speechless, J’Aimee scampered, naked, around the patio. A moment later, she’d disappeared behind the thick hedge of hibiscus that separated the Stantons’ property from their nearest neighbor.

  “Go ahead and run, bitch!” Grace screamed. “You’re fired. You hear me? Your ass is fired!”

  Ben was walking slowly across the grass, his hands raised in a cautious peace gesture. “Okay, Grace,” he said, making low, soothing sounds at the back of his throat, the kind you’d make to coax a cat out of a treetop. “Oh-kay, I know. You’re upset. I get that. Can we take this inside now? You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Let’s take it inside, all right? I’ll make us some coffee and we can sort this out…”

  “We are not going inside,” Grace snapped. “Coffee? Are you kidding me? You think a dose of Starbucks Extra Bold is going to fix this? We are going to stay right here. Do you hear me?”

  “The whole neighborhood can hear you. Could you lower your voice, please
? Just dial it down a little?”

  “I will not!” His calmness made her even crazier than she already felt. Grace megaphoned her hands. “Hey, people. Neighbors—wake up! This is Grace Stanton. I just caught my husband, Ben Stanton, screwing my assistant!”

  “Stop it,” Ben hissed. “I was not screwing her.”

  “Correction,” Grace hollered, lifting her voice to the sky. “She was blowing him. My mistake, neighbors.”

  “You’re insane,” he snapped. “I’m not staying around listening to this.” He turned and stomped off toward the house. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”

  “One question, Ben,” Grace called, running after him. She grabbed him by the shoulder to stop his progress. “You owe me that.”

  “What?” He spun around, rigid with anger. She noticed three small love bites on his collarbone. Hickies? Her forty-four-year-old husband had hickies? A wave of nausea swelled up from her belly. She swallowed hard.

  “How long? How long have you been fucking her?”

  “I’m not…” He shrugged. “Come inside. All right?”

  “How long?” Grace felt hot tears springing to her eyes. “Tell me, damn it. This wasn’t the first time, was it? So tell me the truth. How long?”

  “No matter what I say, you won’t believe me,” Ben said quietly.

  “Tell me the truth and I’ll believe you,” Grace said.

  “No,” he said softly. “Not the first time. But we can fix this, Grace.”

  “Fix it?” Grace exploded with pure, white-hot rage.

  “Fix it,” she said, lifting her voice to the heavens. “He’s been screwing her for a while now, and he thinks we can fix it.”

  “That’s it,” Ben said. “I won’t stand here and let you humiliate me like this.”

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me,” Grace called.

  “I’m gone,” Ben said. True to his word, he stalked away toward the house.

  She raced to the back door, to discover that he’d locked her out.

  “Let me in, damn it,” she screamed, pounding on the kitchen door.

  Nothing. She kicked the door. Still nothing.

  She looked around for something, anything, to break the glass in the door. Just then she spied the heap of clothing J’Aimee had discarded in her hasty escape.

  Grace scooped up the clothes and returned to the back patio. She craned her neck in the direction of the hibiscus hedge, hoping she might spot J’Aimee’s bony white ass back there, hiding in the foliage or, better yet, being gnawed on by the neighbor’s dog, a vicious-tempered chow mix named Peaches. But nothing moved in the shrubbery.

  She had an idea. She stepped onto the patio and found the light switch for the outdoor kitchen, with its granite counters and six-burner gas-fired barbecue.

  Earlier in May, her Gracenotes blog had dealt with barbecues.

  Mr. Grace and I are fortunate to live in Florida, where grilling season never ends. But just because we’re dining outdoors doesn’t mean I serve burnt hot dogs on spindly white paper plates. I love to spread a white matelassé bedspread diagonally across our glass-topped patio table and anchor it with a pair of heavy black wrought-iron candelabras, or, if it’s a windy day, I’ll place votive candles in old Mason jars anchored with a layer of bleached-out seashells. Especially for casual occasions like this, you do not have to have a set of matched plastic dishes. I’ll let you in on a secret: I hate matchy-matchy! Instead, I have an assortment of mismatched Fiestaware plates picked up at junk shops and yard sales over the years, in bold shades of turquoise, green, pink, yellow, and orange. Paired with silverware with ivory-colored Bakelite handles, and oversized plain white flour-sack dish towels bought cheap from Ikea, and a bouquet of brilliant zinnias cut from the garden, they telegraph the message to guests: the fun is about to begin!

  Speaking of fun, Grace chortled as she tossed J’Aimee’s clothes—a T-shirt, pair of shorts, bra, and pink thong panties—onto the counter and then reached into the stainless steel bar fridge and found herself a perfectly chilled bottle of Corona. She didn’t really like beer all that much, and there were no lime slices handy, but she’d just have to make do. She uncapped the bottle and took a long, deep swig, and then another. She pushed the IGNITE button on the front burner and the blue flame came on with a satisfying whoosh.

  The beer wasn’t bad at all. She took another sip and tossed the panties onto the burner. The tiny scrap of synthetic silk went up in flames and was gone in a second or two, which was a disappointment. The shorts made a nicer display, and she watched the blaze for two or three minutes, reluctantly adding the T-shirt and then, after another five minutes, the bra. The bra, which had heavy padding, smoldered for several minutes, sending up a stinky black fog of smoke.

  She looked around for something else to add to the fire, and remembered Ben’s shirt, still draped over the windshield of his Audi.

  Ben loved expensive things. But Grace, raised above her parent’s working-class bar in the nearby fishing hamlet of Cortez, could never quite get comfortable with the luxury goods that her husband had grown up with as the pampered only son of a Miami bank executive. The day she’d bought the shirt at Neiman-Marcus, for $350, she’d walked away from it twice, finally forcing herself to pull the trigger and buy the damned thing.

  Grace stood in the open doorway of the garage, scowling at the Audi. If the shirt was Ben’s favorite, the Audi, a 2013 Spyder R8 convertible, was beyond his favorite. It was his obsession. He’d bought the Audi without consulting Grace, right after they signed the pilot deal with HGTV. Ben wouldn’t disclose what he’d paid for the car, saying only that he’d “worked a deal” on it, but when she checked the prices online, she’d discovered that the thing retailed for $175,000! She’d somehow managed to swallow her resentment over not being included in the decision to buy the new car, telling herself that if Ben, who handled all the family finances, thought they could afford the car, then she shouldn’t worry.

  She walked around to the driver’s side, snatching the shirt off the windshield. Looking down, she noticed the keys were still in the ignition.

  The next thing she knew, she was using the shirt to wipe down the bucket seat’s leather upholstery—just in case. She slid beneath the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, smiling as the powerful engine roared to life.

  Ben didn’t exactly prohibit her from driving the Audi, but he didn’t encourage it either, telling her it was “a lot of car” for a woman and pointing out that her experience driving a stick shift was limited, although she’d learned to drive on her father’s beat-up manual-transmission Chevy pickup.

  Maybe, Grace thought, she’d just take the Audi for a spin around the neighborhood. Wouldn’t that just fire Ben’s rockets? She hoped he was watching from one of the upstairs windows. He’d have a stroke when he saw her behind the wheel. She eased the car into reverse, carefully backing it out of the garage.

  Maneuvering an expert three-point turn, she was about to head down the driveway when the kitchen door flew open.

  “Grace!” Ben yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Going for a drive,” she said cheerfully, raising the Corona in a jaunty salute.

  “The hell you are,” he barked, walking toward her. “You’ve been drinking and you’re in no shape to be driving. Get out of my car.”

  “Your car?” she raised an eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “You’ve had your fun. This is taking things too far.”

  Too far? Grace revved the Audi’s engine and slammed the car in first, screeching past Ben, who was a shouting, raving blur. Now she was at the edge of the patio, knocking over chaise lounges and the wrought-iron table with its jaunty green umbrella. The limpid turquoise surface of the pool was straight ahead. She closed her eyes, held her nose, and stomped the accelerator. The shock of the water was a final reminder. This was no nightmare. She was awake.

  2

  Grace had grown up living above a marina, but
she was only an okay swimmer. Still, she could dog-paddle and manage a serviceable backstroke when the occasion demanded. The shock of the cold water disoriented her momentarily, but seconds later she managed to kick herself free of the Audi and power up to the surface, blinking and gasping for air.

  As soon as she surfaced, the enormity of what she’d just done came crashing down. She pushed her hair from her eyes and saw Ben, standing at the side of the pool, staring down at her, wild-eyed and more agitated than she’d ever seen him. “Jesus, Grace!” he shouted. “My car! What have you done to my car?”

  He wasn’t alone. A uniformed police officer stood at his side, training a large flashlight over the pool. Grace wished she could dive back down to the bottom, maybe hide in the Audi’s trunk. Just until things got a little less crazy.

  “Ma’am?” The cop was young, with close-shorn hair and a look of concern that was noticeably absent from her husband’s face. “Are you all right?”

  Grace coughed and brushed a strand of hair from her face, dog-paddling to stay afloat. “I’m all right,” she said cautiously, flexing her toes and examining her hands just to make sure. Not a scratch, she thought, which pleased her. After all, she was homicidal, not suicidal.

  “You’re not all right,” Ben snapped. “You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  “Ma’am, could you come out of the water now?” the cop asked.

  Grace looked around the backyard. “Where’s the slut?” she called.

  The cop looked confused. “Who?”

  “J’Aimee. The slut. I’m not coming out if she’s still here.”

  “Who’s Jamie?”

  Grace jutted her chin in Ben’s direction. “Ask him.” Her legs were getting a little weary from all the dog-paddling, so she floated onto her back and stared up at the sky. It was a gorgeous evening. The clouds had cleared, and the stars sprinkled in the deep blue heavens looked so close she felt she might just reach out and pluck one. It was too bad she couldn’t just float here for a long time, enjoying this view.