"He's at his mother's house.” When I said it out loud, something inside ached. “I just thought we needed a little time to get used to this and deal with it."
"You guys going to get a divorce?” Armand's face looked as sour as if he'd just tasted the raw squid.
"No.” Divorce was not an option. I'd been raised on the plain-and-simple fact that “'til death do us part” meant just that. “He's straight,” I added as fast as an Indy racecar.
"I know.” He was looking at me as if the men in white coats could come any minute. Let's face it. He was right. I was insane. “Let's forget about it.” Armand passed me a sauté pan. “Let's just get started on that squid mousse."
* * * *
I debated for twenty minutes whether I should pack the diary or leave it at home. A sane person, someone who wasn't a complete masochist, would have left it. I, of course, tossed it into the bottom of my bag.
Lyla showed up at the crack of dawn, ready to hit the road. “You look tired,” she said, grabbing my bag.
"Thanks."
"I didn't have trouble sleeping until my third trimester, but everybody's different.” Then she paused, looking at me. “Unless you're losing sleep over Kevin."
"Kevin?” I squeaked. “Why would I be losing sleep over him?” Or him and that damned diary, but I wasn't about to tell her that, either.
She waited for me as I locked up the store and looked me over when I turned. “I'm just thinking out loud. It's no secret why he's been hanging around a lot lately. Just wondered if he'd weaseled his way in yet or not."
I headed for the delivery van, which Armand insisted we take, pointing out we didn't have any big deliveries due out that weekend.
Like I needed reminding.
"I have no idea why Kevin's been hanging around.” I hauled my increasingly large butt into the passenger's seat. “And as far as I'm concerned, he can get lost and lose my number."
Lyla shrugged. “Well, this will at least give you a break from him, then. You'll be damned hard to track down in Atlantic City."
A curious twinge hit me in the gut. In response to not seeing Kevin for three days? No, that couldn't be it. It was nerves. Had to be. And possibly morning sickness. “Can we just go, please?"
Lyla wisely stifled a grin and put my bag in between us in the front of the van. I'd stuffed all the clothes that still fit me into it, and procured a year's supply of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which, with the mood I was in, would last me about a half-hour.
"You gonna share those?” Lyla asked a half hour later as I munched my fourth cup.
"Not planning on it.” I pulled the bag closer to me on the bench seat. Lyla, however, had already stolen one and was driving with her knees while trying to open it. “Hello! Baby on board. Is that really safe?"
"Sure.” She stripped off the last of the wrapper. “It's on cruise control."
"It's not the speed I'm worried about.” I resisted the temptation to grab the wheel and downed another cup.
"Well, don't sweat it, sweetie. I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you and Bob.” She took the wheel in her hands again and shot me a shy smile. “You know, I have a confession to make."
I nearly choked on a peanut butter cup. “Don't tell me you're pregnant, too."
"Oh, God, no! Forget that! Never again."
"Thank goodness,” I sighed. “Not that I don't think Jackie needs a little brother or sister, but I think one of us taking maternity leave is plenty at the moment."
"Not to mention all the hormones!"
I giggled around my chocolate. “Armand wouldn't survive it."
Lyla chuckled, too, but in an odd, uncomfortable way. “You know, it's just that this all seems so ... odd."
I licked the peanut butter from the center of the cup. “What do you mean?"
Lyla sighed, staring at the road. “When we were kids, Mags, you were the one who dressed up your Barbie in a wedding dress. And then, right after the wedding, you shoved a marshmallow up her skirt so she and Ken could start a family. Meanwhile, I was ticked off they hadn't made a Lawyer Barbie yet. Heck, forget the Barbies, I wanted a Jr. IRS Agent kit."
"I swear, Ly, if you're giving me the June Cleaver routine again—"
"I'm not. It's just that you were the domestic one, and I was the one who wanted the career. Then I met Armand, and everything changed for me."
"You mean you went gaga all over his ass. Not that it's not a fine ass."
She glowered at me out of the corner of her eye. “I did not go gaga. And I don't think I want to discuss Armand's ass with you."
I laughed. “All I'm saying is you were obsessed. Seriously, Lyla, you lost control."
She sighed, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I did not! I still focused on my work."
"When you weren't focused on his ass."
"Can we be serious for a second?"
I choked down my amusement and nodded, getting another peanut butter cup out of the bag.
"What I am trying to say, if you'll let me, is that for the first time, my job wasn't the end-all, be-all of my existence. Then Jackie came along.” She stopped, shaking her head in amazement. “I finally got it, Maggie. What you had worked toward all your life. I finally understood what you wanted. My life became so different in so many ways, and I'm so happy it is. Unfortunately, while my world was changing, yours was, too."
My laughter was gone and I felt like breaking into tears. “Yeah. I know."
"I know you're strong, Maggie. God knows you've proven that. But to have everything you ever wanted and lose it all ... I don't know how you'd live through that. I would be devastated if I lost Armand and Jack."
I took a breath—and another piece of candy—and took stock for a moment. “The thing is, Lyla, you never gave up you—your identity—to get what you wanted. Just as you figured out there was more to life than what you thought, and that it was a good thing, I found out there was more I wanted than just a husband and baby. Sure, I'd have loved to have that, too, but it wasn't in the cards for me. Yeah, it was hard, and this is going to be even harder. Telling Mom and Dad is going to be awful, I know, but when I get through it all, I think I might end up with more than I ever dreamed."
Lyla blinked. “More? You're going to be a single mom, Mags. There's no white picket fence anymore. No Ted."
"Yeah, Lyla, but maybe I'll get to find me, instead. A whole me, not just the perfect shell I always thought I wanted."
It had come out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Once it was out, the words reverberated in my head and I understood. No matter what hell I'd suffered, I had grown in the time since Ted left. Sure, it wasn't the perfect life I had wanted, but it had to be worth something.
"You've got something else, babe,” Lyla said. “You've got Armand and me. And you're always going to have that, too.” When she looked over at me, I could swear I saw a tear in the corner of her eye. Before I could call her on it, though, she grabbed for the bag of Reese's. “Hand some of those over. You're eating for two, not twenty-two."
I slid the bag back into the middle of the seat. “Oh, all right. But when we get to Atlantic City, you're buying dinner."
"Hell, yeah."
* * * *
Lyla and I entered the Pink Squirrel just in time for the show to start. The whole atmosphere of the place just about knocked us over as we were bombarded with sights, smells and the sheer impact of the place. Despite her worldly attitude, Lyla had suffered pretty much the same sheltered upbringing I had. We came from quiet, repressed, fifties-throwback families—she just got the Jewish version. Then again, perhaps nothing would have prepared us for what we'd just walked into.
The air was thick with the scent of appletinis and peppery perfume, so much so that it was difficult to breathe. Sequins, glitter and mirrored disco balls reflected the colored lights that came from everywhere, practically blinding us. Exposed flesh came at us from every angle—buxom blondes, brunettes and redheads looking at us like we were
the exhibits in the Museum of Unnatural Wonders.
I pulled my white cardigan closer around me and saw Lyla tense under her henley. We were so obviously out of place it was actually funny.
Lyla pointed to a table in an out-of-the way corner and we headed for it. Lyla brushed her seat off before she sat down and, as my rear sank into something sticky, I wished I'd had the foresight to do the same.
"Heya, sweeties. You want anything from the bar?” The voice came from high above us. In unison, our eyes ran the length of an incredibly tall, zaftig woman with a bad dye job.
"Margarita,” Lyla said, gawking.
The woman's eyes rolled. “What kind? Strawberry, banana, peach, orange?"
"Um, a margarita margarita.” I may be a terrible person, but seeing Lyla thrown off base was amusing as hell. Especially since I'd never seen it happen before.
The waitress heaved a sigh, which hitched her breasts up a full six inches until they bounced off her chin, coming to rest back where they'd started. “Do you mean a lime margarita, honey?"
"Yeah.” Lyla made an art of staring at the stage.
"And what about you, sugar?"
The question was aimed in my direction. “The same.” I focused on the sequined torpedoes pointing at my face. Then I shook my head. “Um, no, actually, I'd just like a Diet Coke."
From the smirk on her face, I deduced we were the most amusing things this waitress had seen in a long time. “Diet Coke?"
"Yes, Diet Coke.” I tried to sound assertive. I think it probably came out sounding pitiful.
"Okay, honey. Should I watch the clock and let you know when it's your bedtime?"
The waitress wandered off and, somehow, I doubted we'd get our drinks anytime soon. “No tip for her!” Lyla said.
Before I could wrap my brain around my tongue enough to reply, a deep, commanding voice came over the speakers. It reminded me of the old joke about God calling Noah, but I doubt if God quite had this in mind.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is the Pink Squirrel's distinct pleasure to introduce the one, the only, the incomparable ... Tiffany."
The stage lit with a spotlight that nearly blinded me. In the glare was a tall, dark, fine-featured brunette in a bright red sequined dress that hugged every curve perfectly. Her eyes were lined with the most lush, velvety lashes I'd ever seen. She was absolutely stunning.
Lyla folded her arms in an attempt to control her laughter, but little puffs of air escaped her nose and the sides of her mouth. “Well, at least he's a headliner. You can be proud of that."
"Holy cow.” No, that's not what I really said. What I did say would make my mother turn in a grave she hasn't used yet, so we'll leave it at that. I was a tad thrown off by seeing my husband—EX-husband—in drag for the first time. “I'm gonna puke."
"Oh, you're not.” Perhaps it was the surprise of seeing Ted—er, Tiffany—but Lyla appeared to have gotten over the shock of the place and was enjoying the show. “You told me you're not having morning sickness anymore."
"This has nothing to do with morning sickness."
"Aw, come on! I think he looks great! I have to ask him where he learned to do his eye makeup like that. Wow, he really looks like a woman!"
I swallowed hard, tasting the bile rising in my throat. “That's part of the problem."
She pried her eyes off the man of my former dreams. “Geez, Mags, it's not like you've never seen him in drag before.” My silence drew a huge grin on her face. “You've never seen him in drag before."
"It wasn't something I was really interested in, okay?"
Our waitress returned, and it was more obvious than ever that she was a he. “Thanks,” I said, my voice hoarse, and accepted my drink.
She followed my gaze to the stage. “You like Tiffany, huh?” I nodded, once again seeming pathetic in front of the Amazon waitress. Our waiter/waitress sighed longingly. “She is divine, isn't she? I'd love to get me a piece of that. Too damned bad she's straight."
Lyla took a huge gulp of her margarita and nodded to me. “See? Another piece of good news."
The waitress looked surprised but smiled lasciviously. “Oh, I get it. You're white bread who likes a little kink. I bet you're just his type, too. Might have a shot.” She passed me a napkin. “Jot down your number and I'll pass it to him after the show.” She winked at me and moved on to the next table.
My supposed best buddy patted me on the shoulder. “There you go. You're his type. That should make you feel better."
I narrowed my eyes and gave her my best defiant stare. “Oh, yeah. This is so totally not awkward now!"
"No need to be sarcastic.” She was using her glass to hide her mirth.
"Listen, it's not like I have a problem with Ted doing this.” This time, her glass couldn't hide her incredulity. “Okay, so I have a bit of a problem with it, but it's what he wants and I want him to be happy."
"I know.” Lyla put down her glass and grasped my hand. “You still love him. I understand that. And I know exactly how hard it was for you to let him go."
I shook my head, reliving the years in a broken heartbeat. “He was living a life he didn't want. He wanted to bring me with him, but I just—” I looked around the room at the sparkle, smoke and glitter. “Can you see me in a place like this?"
"You're here now."
Her comment made me stall a second, but then I chuckled. “Yeah, and it's a good thing my dad doesn't know about it. There aren't enough drugs in the world to bring him back from the coronary that would come from that kind of shock."
As Lyla finished her drink, Ted—excuse me, Tiffany—finished the show and left the stage to the sound of wolf whistles and cat calls. To say I was unsettled was a serious understatement.
"You ready?” Lyla asked.
I gulped my coke and drew a deep breath. “No. But I have to do this."
She nodded. “Yep. You do. So let's get on it."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eleven
May 25
I am going to make this work. I swear. I will make my marriage wonderful and Ted will get over this. And if he doesn't, who is it hurting? It will be okay. I just need to concentrate on finishing school. Then it will all be perfect.
"I love you."
Ted said that to me every morning before he left for work and every night before we went to sleep, almost as if he was trying to convince me. I'd let him move back in after a couple of weeks. After all, if I wasn't going to leave him, I needed to live with him.
Our day-to-day existence was a little odd, but I reminded myself that I loved him, too. There were a few issues to work out, of course. As in “do I have the right equipment” type issues. He assured me I did, but every time he kissed me, I couldn't help but picture him in a Dolly Parton wig. And then images of Kevin would flood my mind, the memory of his lips touching mine. His completely male, sexy, complicated lips.
I finally decided that Ted wasn't the only one with issues, and it didn't matter to me whether he wore a suit, a pair of sweats, or a dress. This was a bump in the road, and that was it. Still, you can't blame a girl for asking her husband exactly what possessed him to start dressing up like a La Cage aux Folles reject and prance around a nightclub.
"I'm just playing dress-up,” he said. “Honestly, since I was a little kid, I loved performing. Acting. What better act is there than trying to be something I'm not—a woman?"
I had to admit it was hard to argue with logic like that. Mostly because I didn't get it. He promised me he'd stop, but I turned my head when he was out late on the weekends. I just hoped no one on the team would find out that he was a New York Knick on Friday, and New York Nicole on Saturday.
In the meantime, I had bigger fish to fry. Graduation was just around the corner, but before we were presented with our puffy hats, Armand and I had one last test to pass: the sugar showpiece.
It was an event used in all the biggest cooking competitions. We were to create a sculpture from sugar, using all the t
ools and ingenuity at our disposal. Great chefs who had been working in the finest restaurants for decades had difficulty with these things, and Chef thought we could do it. I couldn't figure out if it was a supreme vote of confidence in our abilities, or if she just really liked jerking our chains.
I was more inclined to believe the latter.
"How in the world do they do it?” Armand asked, his hands covered in sticky red sugar. It was supposed to be a fine-spun ribbon. It looked like The Return of the Blob.
We were at my kitchen counter—at least I think my counter lurked under all the colors and gooey gobs of gunk we had spilled on it. At that moment, I doubted it would ever look the same again.
"Do I dare ask where Ted is tonight?"
I tensed. It wasn't like Armand was trying to make me nuts, but let's just say he'd always had a knack. “Well, it's Friday night, so I'm assuming at Madison Square Garden."
Armand pulled at the sugar glob a couple more times. “Mags, I hate to bring this up, but basketball season's been over for a couple months."
"They train, okay?” I said, a little sharper than I had intended. “He's working. All right? Working!"
He looked at me with pity in his eyes, and then nodded. “Sure. He's working. I bet they practice Friday nights to keep in the habit."
I don't think I'd ever appreciated him more. “Thanks, Armand. Whatever would I do without an enabler like you?"
"Just doing my job, ma'am.” He dropped the red glob on the counter in defeat. “I give up. Maybe I should concentrate on getting the temperature right."
"I don't know about your temperature, hot stuff, but mine just shot up ten degrees!"
Nope, I didn't say it, but I'll give you three guesses who did. And the first two don't count.
Lyla stood in my kitchen doorway with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a grocery bag full of limes and chips in the other.
"Ly, what are you doing here? I thought you had to work late tonight."
She shrugged. “I hate my job, I hate my boss, and I really hate working late on margarita night.” She looked Armand up and down, her face and demeanor reflecting where her thoughts were taking her. I'd never seen her act more obvious. “Maggie, you've been holding out on me. Who is this gorgeous hunk of a man you have chained to your stove? And can I rent him for the weekend?"
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