by Julie Kenner
Didn’t matter, the tears threatened anyway. I managed to blink them back, but I could tell by the expressions on the faces around me, that I wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my emotion.
David knelt beside me. “Kate? Are you okay? What happened?”
“I . . . I misjudged a move. I was trying something new. It didn’t work.”
“No kidding,” Allie said. She was down beside me, too, now, her hand on my elbow. If she or the others thought my “Hail Mary” outburst was odd, no one mentioned it.
David studied me through narrowed eyes. “You don’t look that great. Do you feel okay?”
“I’m . . .” I shook my head. “You know what? I don’t. I’m feeling a little woozy.” Right then, I wanted nothing more than to escape. And I wasn’t above faking an illness to do it.
“Go home,” he said. “Besides, don’t you two have company tonight?”
“We do?”
“Troy, Mom!” Allie said. “Mr. Long’s right. I’ve gotta go get ready.” She stood up, tugging me along with her.
“Right,” I added, with a queasy smile to Cutter and David. “And I’ve got a dinner to make.”
l dropped Allie At home so that she could do the primping thing, then picked up Timmy at KidSpace. On the way home, I stopped in at Laura’s to beg help. I told myself that I didn’t want her at home by herself brooding about Paul, but the truth was I wanted her kitchen gadgets, her recipe books, and her kitchen equivalent of a green thumb.
She’s not a neat or organized cook, but the end result always came out edible. And so long as I trailed along after her cleaning up the mess and putting the broken pieces back together, I was pretty sure we’d come up with something worthy of Troy Myerson by the time he arrived at eight.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I asked her. We were in her kitchen, putting a variety of Pampered Chef products into a box. Each and every one, Laura assured me, absolutely essential to bringing off a fabulous meal.
“I promise,” Laura said. “In fact, I’m glad you asked. Otherwise I’d just be sitting around plotting ways to kill him.” She shot me a piercing look. “I mean, I already know where to hide the body, right? I’m halfway there.”
“We definitely need to get you in the kitchen,” I said. “In fact, maybe you and Mindy should come for dinner, too. How’s Mindy doing, by the way?” I asked gently.
“She doesn’t know,” Laura said. “Well, I think she suspects, but that’s not the same. We’re going to wait until January to tell her. I told Paul that I’d take him for every last cent if he spoiled Mindy’s Christmas.”
“Yeah?”
She smiled thinly. “Of course, I plan to take him for every last cent anyway. But he doesn’t know that.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Maybe you and Mindy should plan on spending a lot of quality holiday time over here.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “Even tonight, for that matter. But is that kosher? Another teenage girl at the table when the boy du jour is present?”
“I’m not sure, actually. I’ll have to check the manual.” I pulled a face. “Oh, wait. Teenagers don’t come with a manual. Someone really ought to do something about that.”
As Laura continued to pack enough cooking utensils to supply a five-star restaurant, I called the teenager in question, grateful to discover that in this particular case, etiquette gave a big thumbs-up to the presence of best friends.
I relayed the news to Laura, then peeked into the last box she’d packed. “We’re just feeding a high school boy, you know. He’s not the monarch of a small country.”
“Allie’s crushing on him,” Laura said. “You don’t want her blaming a crappy dinner if it all falls apart. Do you?”
Since she had a point, we loaded all the boxes (five!) then raided Laura’s refrigerator and freezer. Between the two of us, she assured me that we had enough for a decent meal. Considering the Odyssey was packed to the gills, I believed her.
Once we’d brought the supplies back to my house and she’d put me to work dicing onions, the conversation shifted around to demons. Some women discuss soap operas with their friends. Laura and I dish about the undead.
I checked to make sure Allie was out of earshot, then brought Laura up to speed, ending with the theory David and I had concocted that somehow this all had to do with the exhibition.
“And he’s a rogue hunter, huh?” She slammed the knife hard against the cutting board, neatly slicing a bell pepper in two. “I don’t seem to have any luck with the buttoned-up corporate types. Maybe I should see if your academic demon-hunting friend is looking for a date. Because apparently I’m in the market again.” Her voice had risen, along with the speed and fury of her knife blows.
I watched silently, waiting for her to calm down. When the pepper was nothing more than tiny bits of green goo, she looked up at me with a beatific smile. “Cooking’s very cathartic, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Actually, there’s something about David I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh really?” Her perfectly arched brow quirked upward. “Is this the part where you tell your best friend to back off, because you’ve got your sights on the guy? Poor Stuart. His wife, thinking about another man.”
“Pretty much,” I said.
That got her attention and she stopped chopping mushrooms long enough to turn to me. “Kate, what are you talking about?”
I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. “God, Laura, I’m such an idiot. I got myself all worked up, thinking that David was Eric. But—”
“Whoa!” She held up a hand. “David is Eric?”
“No, no. I just thought maybe he was. But I was wrong. I had to have been wrong.”
A long moment passed while she stared at me, searching my face for signs of a recent mental breakdown. Since she started talking again, I’m assuming she didn’t find any. “You’re serious,” she said. “You really thought that? But why? I mean . . . how? How could he possibly be?”
I ran down Eddie’s theory, then concluded by telling her about the failed Hail Mary. “So I figure that means he’s not Eric. And, honestly, I was being ridiculous to even consider it for a second. Eric would never have hijacked someone else’s body.”
“Are you sure?”
I opened my mouth to say that of course I was sure, but I couldn’t quite get the words out.
“Maybe it is him. Maybe he doesn’t remember all the little details like your fighting code words,” Laura suggested. “Maybe it’s some sort of weird amnesia where he thinks his past life was as a friend or something.”
“Maybe,” I said, trailing off. “I mean, I guess it could be possible.” But would Eric do that? Dabble with dark forces that way? A week ago I would have emphatically said no. Now, I wasn’t as sure.
“Or maybe it’s Eric and he remembers perfectly well,” Laura continued.
I frowned. “Then why not just tell me? Why tease me by calling me Katie-kins?”
“Slip of the tongue?”
“I don’t know,” I said, not sure what I wanted to believe anymore. “Why even pretend to be David in the first place?”
“What would you do if he told you?”
“I don’t know.” That was a question I’d been asking myself all day, and I still didn’t have an answer. “I just keep thinking about how Eric knew me so well, but with Stuart I have this secret life.”
“You could tell him,” Laura said.
“I can’t,” I said. “I don’t want Forza to be part of my life with Stuart. That wasn’t in the original package, you know? And I don’t want him to wake up and find out he married some other woman. A woman who prowls the streets with holy water and a stiletto. The only time I want Stuart thinking about me and stilettos is if he takes me to a fancy restaurant.”
“Kate . . .”
I held up a hand. “I’m not that woman with him, Laura. And I don’t want him looking at me that way. Thinking about th
e things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen. Telling him might give him the truth, but it wouldn’t really be honest. Because the woman I’d be describing isn’t the woman he comes home to every night.”
“Yes, Kate. It is.”
I closed my eyes and let the truth of that settle over me. “Maybe, but I don’t want it to be.”
What that said about my marriage, I didn’t know. But I loved my husband and I didn’t want to lose him. And the one thing I hadn’t shared with Laura was that I didn’t know how Stuart would react if I did tell him. Would it close the chasm between us? Or would it make it that much wider?
Because the truth was, I’d already lost one husband because of demon hunting. I don’t think I could stand to lose another for the exact same reason.
“I didn’t mean to start another big thing,” Laura said. “This started with the whole David-Eric question, and that’s gnarly enough.”
“No kidding,” I said.
“It could be true,” Laura said. “David does seem to be around Allie a lot. And if Eric came back, he’d want to see her. Want to see what she’s been up to and how she’s grown up.”
“And he’d keep the secret from me,” I said, more to myself than to Laura. “After all, I’m remarried now.”
Laura shot an ironic look my direction. “Yeah, you with two husbands, and I can’t even manage to keep one.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m so so sorry.”
Laura waved a hand. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to start it all up again.” The timer dinged, and Laura blew out a loud breath. “And we don’t have time for it anyway.”
Maybe I’m a bad friend, but I was relieved we had the interruption. I felt horrible for Laura, don’t get me wrong, but my mind was too overwhelmed with husbands of my own, both past and present.
Not to mention the demons.
“YOU’re Sure I look okay? ’Cause I could wear the blue top.” From her makeshift runway at the top of the stairs, Allie held it up for illustration purposes. “Oh, man,” she whined, leaning against the railing in a fit of abject helplessness. “Mo-ther, can you please give me some help here?”
“The yellow,” I said. “Definitely go with the yellow.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I couldn’t be more certain.”
“Can I wear eyeshadow?” She clasped her hands in front of her, as if in prayer. “Please? I promise I won’t ask again until I’m sixteen. No, eighteen. But please, please, pleeeeeeze can I wear it tonight.”
“Eighteen?” I said. “You swear?”
“Cross my heart,” she said, adding the appropriate motion for emphasis.
I didn’t believe her, of course. For that matter, I figured the question would come up again in about a week, when she started going with her friends to the holiday parties. Then I’d get hit again after the new semester started. I’d held fast for an entire semester, despite horrific odds and a whining teenager. By spring break, odds were good that I’d have given in completely on the subject.
“Hang on,” I said. “Let me check the stove and I’ll meet you in my bathroom.” I held up a warning finger. “Don’t touch.”
“Hello? I’m not Timmy!”
She had a point. But just in case, I intended to make sure that she didn’t apply makeup with as heavy a hand as her brother.
All of Laura’s concoctions looked to be cooking or boiling or simmering just fine, so I figured it was safe to leave the kitchen. Actually, considering my natural ineptitude in that department, I might be giving the meal a better chance by leaving it to cook in peace.
Laura had gone home to change after making sure everything was under control, and that I’d read and understood her scribbled instructions. She promised to be back—dressed and with Mindy—in time to do the last-minute tweaking. I glanced at the clock. Almost eight. The Duponts—and the guest of honor—should be arriving any minute.
I don’t often wear makeup—most of the time, I really don’t see the point—but my natural skills in that area are significantly more fine-tuned than my cooking skills. So I felt confident that we’d selected a perfectly appropriate, not overly dramatic, eyeliner and shadow.
With her hair curled and clipped up, my pearl earrings, and the soft-focus makeup job, I have to admit I got a little choked up. My little girl was growing up. (That fact was registering with me on a regular basis lately. I’d experienced pretty much the same moment two months ago when we’d gone to the mall for bras and discovered that Allie and I now wore the same size. This was a blow to my ego from which I’m still trying to recover.)
Since nothing can turn a dinner party south faster than unexpected toddler crankiness, I’d fed Timmy earlier. Now Allie and I got him to bed, then called Stuart up for the requisite bedtime kiss.
With that chore handled, and a few minutes left before Troy was due to arrive, Allie prowled the living room, picking lint off of cushions, organizing the magazines so that Newsweek and Time were top of the pile, artfully placed to conceal Vogue, Redbook, and Entertainment Weekly.
She scowled at Stuart, who had his feet on the coffee table, double-checked that I’d bought actual napkins (instead of our usual paper towel segments), tuned the television from yet another presentation of Miracle on 34th Street to CNN, and begged Eddie to keep any off-color jokes to himself.
I sat quietly—fearful that actually reading a magazine would incur my daughter’s wrath—until Mindy and Laura arrived at the back door. If I’d thought their presence would lighten up the mood, I was sadly mistaken. Mindy was just as antsy as Allie, and they held whispered conversations, then moved around the room, straightening pillows and knickknacks, and, yes, dusting. I would have felt totally incompetent as a mom and housekeeper if I hadn’t been so amused.
My amusement faded, though, about eight-fifteen. I’d been staring blankly at the television, absorbing not a word of the commentator’s discussion of the latest fiscal crisis, when I realized that Allie was doing the same. Her foot was bouncing and she glanced toward the clock about every ten seconds, the time in between spent checking the digital time displayed on the cable box as well as her wristwatch.
No doubt about it. Troy was late.
Another five minutes passed without him. Then another. Then another.
“Maybe he’s lost,” Mindy suggested hopefully.
Allie jumped all over that idea, and the girls raced to the kitchen to call Troy’s cell phone.
No answer.
When the mantel clock chimed the half hour, the consensus was in: My little girl had been stood up.
“Allie,” I said, moving to the arm of the sofa and putting a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away, then stood up, not quite meeting my eyes. “It’s okay,” she mumbled. “Something probably came up. Or he’s late. Or something. Not like I care or anything.” She pressed her mouth together in a thin line, then concentrated a little too long on the carpet. “I’m gonna go wait upstairs.”
Mindy stood up, apparently understanding that she was welcome where parents weren’t.
“Bastard,” Stuart whispered as soon as the girls were out of earshot. “If I ever get my hands on that son of a bitch.”
I nodded, feeling exactly the same. And when I met Laura’s eyes, I’m certain she could read my expression. Right then I wished Troy Myerson were a demon. Because nothing would feel better than shoving a blade through his eye.
I gave myself about an hour to calm down, figuring Allie and Mindy needed the time, too. Then I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pushed up off the couch, pointing upstairs in response to Stuart’s questioning glance.
“Chocolate might help,” he said.
“Good point.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, then turned and walked the opposite direction to the kitchen. When I came back through the living room to our staircase, I had a bag of Oreos, two glasses, and a gallon jug of milk.
“Ah. The heavy artillery.”
“I have a feeling I’ll need it.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Connor,” she said, She leaned over and gave Allie a tight hug, then slipped beside me into the hall.
Allie rolled over, hugging her pillow. I sat on the bed beside her and stroked her back, the same way I used to when she was a little girl and would wake up with a nightmare.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, after an eternity had passed. “Why’d he stand me up?”
“It’s not you, baby. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
She didn’t roll over, but her shoulder twitched, and from my perspective, that felt a whole lot like a smile.
“Any guy who stands up my little girl obviously is a guy lacking in taste and discernment,” I said. “Basically an idiot. A big fat idiot, actually.” No reaction. “Probably eats boogers, too.”
At that, her shoulders really did start to shake.
“I mean, did you really want to go out with a booger-eating moron? He probably wouldn’t have even liked what Laura made for dinner.”
“That is so not funny, Mom,” she said into her pillow. But the shake in her now-spasmodic shoulders told a different story.
She rolled over and faced me. “I’m not Timmy, remember? You can’t get me with gross-out jokes.”
“I can’t?” I grinned at her as I stroked her hair. “Well, in that case, I stand corrected.”
“He has been showing signs of being a moron lately,” Allie said. “He was so nice at first. But lately . . .” She trailed off.
I rubbed lightly on her shoulder. “So what happened? Did Troy start liking some other girl?”
“I wish,” she said. “No, it’s not even like he ditched me for a person. It’s that stupid surf club,” she said. “I mean, no offense to Mr. Long and all.”