Cover Me

COVER ME

…Roger frowns, saying, “Can’t we talk you ladies into staying?” Dulcie and I are beating a hasty retreat from Peter and Roger when we hear the emcee say the only words that could convince me to stay. “Here he is, folks, your favorite professor and mine, Doctor Ben Hart. Tonight he’s treating us to his rendition of, ‘It’s All Been Done Before’ by Barenaked Ladies. Give it up!” My feet glue themselves to the floor. Dulcie’s mouth hangs open. And there’s my landlord, bouncing on his toes, moments from ripping into song. Our eyes meet. The grin he shoots me warms me inside out. He opens his mouth. He’s good. No, he’s great. I hear Dulcie squealing. I’m silent, mesmerized. As the applause dies down, Ben heads straight for me, moving more like a rock star than a physics nerd. Not that he looks the least bit nerdish tonight, not with his shining espresso hair, large green eyes, and muscled body. Not Fabio-muscled, which I can’t stand, but trim and fit, dressed in jeans, black T-shirt, and denim jacket. Why does he have to be my landlord? And hot? And gay, to boot?

PRAISE FOR COVER ME

“A fast, funny and very readable novel!…I love, love, love this new, modern take on the marriage of convenience!” —Bev Katz Rosenbaum Author of I Was a Teenage Popsicle and Beyond Cool

“A feisty heroine and an endearing hero make Cover Me a joy to read! This book is for anyone who’s ever dealt with difficult parents, challenging children, found love and lived to tell the tale!” —April Kihlstrom Award-winning Romance Author

COVER ME BY SHARONA NELSON

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

COVER ME AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2007 by Sharona Nelson ISBN 978-1-59279-664-9 Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

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PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Dan and Mindy, and all those breakfasts we enjoyed at “the pancake house” (IHOP).

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CHAPTER 1 Love stinks. Oh, J. Geils Band, you are so right. As God is my witness, I will never, ever marry for love again. (Who knew that one day I’d look back fondly on any of the vinyl albums the ’rents used to play? Though never hearing Moby Grape again works for me.) “Mommmeee!” my four-year-old shrieks just before she slams into me, rocking me back on my heels. She has this way of glomming on to my thigh that’s sort of like cellulite. “What, sweetie?” I say, smoothing her silky dark hair away from her face. Her forehead is damp with sweat. While I detest cellulite, I adore my kid. She’s the one good thing that came out of my marriage to Kirk the Jerk. Maybe the only good thing. “I saw a bug!” Libbie squeals before hiding her face in my 1

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shapeless pants. Hmm. My khaki shorts are baggy, all right. I must’ve lost more weight, probably because I haven’t been eating enough. Trust me, it is not any easier to be a bag of bones than it is to be curvy and fighting every pound. “Lib, we’ve talked about bugs before. What kind was it?” She pushes her face harder into my leg, making her reply incoherent. “Is she all right?” Heather The Rental Agent says, tapping her dragon-lady-nails against the kitchen counter. I’ll bet she’s working hard to fake concern. “Libbie’s fine, just scared of bugs.” Heather glares at her watch. “I have another client at three, and you haven’t met the owner yet.” “Roach,” my daughter says. “You saw a roach?” She bobs her head and whimpers, still gripping my leg with pudgy fingers of steel. “Will the owner fumigate the apartment before we move in? If she’s seen a cockroach, the place is probably infested,” I say, still petting her hair. The agent’s long-suffering sigh sandpapers my irritation. You’d have thought I’d asked her to give up her weekly manicure. She stalks from the sunlit kitchen through the gently-aged living room, with its quaint wallpaper of colonial blue flowers on cream. “Let’s go meet him and find out.” She jerks the apartment’s door open. “After you,” she says, straining to smile. Someday you’ll find out life’s not all parties with your old buddies in Revere. I relish the thought of her inevitable comeuppance. I am such a beeatch. 2

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Heather’s voice turns chipper, almost conspiratorial as we walk down the wide stairway. “He’s wicked hot.” “Who’s hot?” I say. “The owner. However,” she half-whispers, “I think he’s, you know—” “I don’t want to live here, Mommmeee.” Libbie’s a mosquito whining in my ear. “—Gay,” the agent finishes, but only after glancing around first. Geez, save me from demented rental agents. I blink. “You think the owner’s gay.” “Yeah. He acts a little fruity, one of those absent-minded professors. And the other tenant is a real artsy-fartsy type, a weirdo photographer, that kind, y’know?” I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but I nod as if I do. “Are we going to meet the owner?” “If he’s home.” Dragon Nails Heather jabs at the first floor apartment’s buzzer. Libbie grabs my hand and squeezes, the way I’ve taught her to do when she’s overwhelmed. I squeeze back and pet her hair with my other hand. Poor kid. It sucks to be dragged around town to see apartments. And I’m a lousy mother for growing irritated when she protests. Great. I suck at mothering and I’m a bee-atch. The rental agent turns to me. “I guess Dr. Hart’s not here. I know I told him—” “Ladies.” The stained glass in the building’s front door throws shimmering patterns on the wall as a small blond man flings it open. “Heather, here again? Who are your friends?” Heather rolls her eyes, her contempt for the man obvious. I curse her silently for it. 3

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After I transfer Libbie’s moist little paw to my left hand, I offer my right one to the nattily-dressed, elfin fellow. “Hello,” I say. “We’re going to be neighbors. I’m Sunny.” I turn on my brightest smile to counteract the agent’s obnoxious behavior. “Hi there, I’m Man-O-War Raygun. Friends call me Ray. I live on the second floor. Who’s the little sprite?” The agent butts in. “Don’t count your chickens when it comes to the apartment, Ms. Montgomery. You have to pass the credit and employment checks before you get it. I don’t have to tell you that, if you don’t measure up, I’ll fill this place within twenty-four hours.” “You’re right. You don’t have to tell me.” I try but fail to shame her with my icy stare. Rental agents in Boston think they have you by the shorties just because you need a place to sleep. Usually they’re right that they do, too. “Apartments like this in safe neighborhoods usually disappear before the ink’s dry on the listing. This is Boston, y’know. My advice is, don’t argue over something like fumigation.” She sniffs and studies her nails again. I want to smack her. Libbie extends her hand slowly to the man. He takes it, bowing from the waist and clicking his heels together. “Enchanté, my dear.” His silvery-gray-blond hair glows in a shaft of afternoon light, pegging him as a member of my father’s generation. To say that my daughter doesn’t warm to strangers is like saying the Atlantic Ocean’s a salty puddle. I watch her shake his hand briefly before hiding it again in mine. He crouches to her level. “I’m Ray. Who are you?” She gloms on to me again. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name.” “Your Mommy is right. Forgive me for asking.” He stands. “It’ll be 4

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nice to have a family in the building. Ben and I could use the company. We two old bachelors find each other’s presence a bit dry at times.” With that, he climbs the mahogany staircase, looking as fresh and neat as my great-Aunt Grace, despite the August heat. An enormous photographer’s bag hangs from his slight shoulder, yet he carries it effortlessly. “Freakin’ homo,” the agent mutters. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” I snap. Damn. I hope my big trap won’t cost me the apartment. But I can’t abide narrow-minded morons. She opens her mouth, shuts it, then seems to remember she’s supposed to be a people person. “Let’s go back to my office,” she mutters. If looks could kill, I’d be kibble, but I’m not sorry I sassed her. I march, head high, to my ancient Dodge Omni hatchback. It’d be considered a classic if the body wasn’t spotted with rust-stopper and the upholstery ripped to pieces. Thank you, Gramma, for leaving it to me. It’s more than my parents ever did. “Are we getting ice cream now?” Libbie says. “No, honey.” I shoot the agent an annoyed look when she squeals her tires peeling out. “Want ice creammmm.” Her mosquito voice is back. I count to five. “Soon. First we have to go see the apartment woman at her office.” I reach in my purse for the car keys. Keys? Old cars don’t buzz or beep when you leave keys in the ignition. I can see them dangling, shooting lasers of reflected sunlight. Oh, crap on a cracker. If I hadn’t fixed the window that wouldn’t roll up, I’d be on my way by now. “Need help?” 5

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I look up. Way up. Over six feet of trim studliness stands before me, capped with goofy, black-rimmed glasses. The glasses are just ugly enough to slide his handsomeness to the edge of geekdom. Imagine Hugh Grant, only not quite so pretty, wearing Buddy Holly specs. I have a thing for men in glasses. I want to drool. Then I see the black leather backpack hanging from one nicely-muscled shoulder. Black leather. Oh, please, not another one of those men, the ones who say they’re “into dominance games,” when what they really mean is that they want to control your life and treat you like shit. Not one so tasty-looking. Please. I stop breathing for a moment, I think. My daughter coughs, wheezes. I tear my peepers from the nicely-chiseled jaw and deeply-set seagreen eyes that were sucking me in. Libbie needs me more than I need another handsome jerk in my bed. I drop to my knees. “You okay, Lib? You want your inhaler?” She shakes her head, rasping, “Firsty.” I hand her my water bottle. She drinks greedily, and guilt pings me. I’ve spent the hottest part of the day dragging her from apartment to apartment in a stuffy, airless beater without considering once how she’s feeling. Not to mention my stupid obsession with the exquisite male distraction before me. “Asthma?” the bespectacled black-leather-man says. I nod, eyes still on Libbie, her inhaler in hand. “I’m sorry.” He sighs. “You still need help here?” “Yes. No. I mean, not with her asthma.” He peers into the driver’s side window. “Ah.” I root around in my bag for the cell so AAA can rescue us. That’ll only take about two hours. Heather and the landlord will grow tired of waiting for me and I’ll lose the apartment. Roaches or no, this place is 6

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the best I’ve seen for the cheapest rent. “Old cars are easy to unlock. Let me get my shim.” I watch his butt, nicely encased in snug denim cutoffs, while he walks to his car. Its age is even older than mine, but all resemblance ends there. His coupe is nearly cherry. Libbie’s breathing might be all right, but mine is refusing to stabilize. On his way back, I note the T-shirt that reveals every curve of his chest. Red letters on black cloth read, “Astrophysicists do it with a Big Bang.” My eyes slip to the front of his jeans. My knees knock. I want him to take me now, with me splayed across the hood of my car, my legs wrapped around his. I relax into the fantasy, only to yelp when my bare arm contacts the car’s blazing-hot metal. I amend my fantasy so that he’s taking me inside my tired little Omni on the car’s torn upholstery. My fantasies prove that single mothers aren’t all Madonnas. I mean the Biblical one, not the one who sold a book full of photos revealing her holy of holies. Like I have any business finding this hunk hot. I’m short, scrawny, and flat, with dishwater blonde hair and dishwater gray eyes. He’s so out of my league, I’m working the lowest rung of the minors and he’s Red Sox star Nomar Garciaparra. Wait a minute. Nomar’s gone now. Just like bastard Kirk. The one who made sure I knew how average my looks are. The cutoffs-clad stud works the strip of metal into the window well. The lock pops. He wipes his palms against his shirt before offering his hand. “Ben. Ben Hart.” I let his hand hang in the air. “You’re the landlord?” “And you’re the prospective tenant? Where’s Heather?” “Flying around the city on her broom.” I slap my hand across my 7

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mouth. He laughs. “She already left. I’d be gone too, except for…” Where’re my manners? I extend my hand. “I’m Sunny Montgomery. The munchkin is Libbie.” His touch sends a joy-buzzer jolt all the way down to my own holy of holies. I barely hear my daughter protest, “Mommy, you’re not s’posed to tell strangers my name.” Our hands part. I fight the urge to rub the tingle out of mine. “Shall we?” he says. “Shall we what?” I choke out, scenes of steamy sex looping through my mind. He looks at me as if I’m out to both lunch and dinner. “Go to the rental office?” “Oh! Yes, sure, that would be great—” Libbie stops my babble. “Mommmeee, wanna go home.” “Soon this will be our new home, Lib.” His gaze turns shrewd. “So, you want the apartment?” I suck at negotiating, it’s clear. “Noooooo! Roach!” Libbie stamps her tiny foot, a Boston-bred Scarlett in the making. I cross my arms, determined to be businesslike despite my body’s desire to dance the horizontal cha-cha with temptation personified. “You have to fumigate first. My daughter saw a roach.” “Impossible. I don’t have roaches, and neither does Ray.” “She claims differently. Besides, it’s Boston. Most old apartment buildings are infested.” “Not mine.” “So you say.” He shrugs, then bends down to eye-level with my daughter. “Hi, 8

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sweetie. I’m Ben. Where did you see the roach?” She shakes her head and slips behind me to hide. His face droops. “Kids usually love me. Really. Okay, where did she see the bug?” “Take us to see the roach, Lib,” I say. “Noooooo.” “Okay, tell us where you found it.” “Noooooo.” Her pouting chin hangs low. My patience is thinner than my wallet, but I try. “Libbie, if you don’t show or tell us where in the apartment you saw the roach, we won’t stop for softie ice cream later.” Her pout disappears. Promises to withhold ice cream always bring her around. Is this my daughter, or what? “The bafroom. Where you keep bubbly-baf?” “The closet?” “Uh-huh.” The man rubs one sandaled foot against the other leg’s bare, wellchiseled calf. A runner’s calf. Shoulders I could chin myself on. Who could ask for anything more? Remember that black leather he’s carrying, chickie. Remember that the ex liked black leather. Probably still does. Ben throws up his hands. “I’ll go look.” Libbie and I follow him to the front door and wait in the welcome shade of the porch. “I found it,” he says when he rejoins us. “It’s dead. And I don’t see any others, alive or dead.” “Libbie, was the bug dead?” I say. She nods. “Did you see any live ones?” “No, Mommy.” She pauses. “Want ice cream now. You promised.” I didn’t promise, but she’s old enough to push my guilt button on 9

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purpose. “You still want me to fumigate?” he says. Even frowning, he’s drop-dead delicious. I consider my daughter’s asthma and her likely reaction to strong pesticide odors. I waffle. “When did you last spray for bugs?” I say. “Just before I listed it, two weeks ago.” “This place has been on the market for two weeks? What’s wrong with it?” pops out of my mouth. Shut up, Sunny. “Nothing. I didn’t like any applicants. Till now. If your credit record doesn’t stink and you have a steady income, your moving in works for me.” He leans toward me, smelling musky and all male. Quivers ripple through my lower belly. “Fumigation?” he asks, making intense eye contact. I manage not to gasp, but am unable to stop my feet from retreating. I am so not a risk-taker, and this man should have “game of chance” tattooed on his forehead. As if he reads my mind, he says, “Come on, take a chance. It’s not a zero-sum game.” “Zero sum?” He spreads his arms to explain. “Means the game has a clear winner and loser, as opposed to both parties winning some and losing some. Say winning is represented by plus one and losing by minus one—add them together, you get zero. Zero sum, right? Anyway, I think we’ll both win if you take the apartment.” He smiles. “I know a little about risk from mathematics, though I’m a physicist at my day job.” Looks and brains and glasses, my one and only kink. God, I want him. “Okay, no fumigation. But if I see one single bug—” 10

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“You see a bug, you tell me. I’ll have exterminators in here within 24 hours. Now, can we go sign the lease? Everything’s contingent on your credit record and income, of course.” His grin would make mothers hide their daughters and fathers load their shotguns, as my friend Dulcie would crack. Ray chooses this moment to join us. “Hey, how was your day?” he says, regarding Ben with doe eyes. “Good. I’m almost ready to submit my paper to the Journal.” Ben flips his hair off his forehead. Is it my imagination, or are the two men inching closer? I spy a golden stud in only one of Ben’s earlobes. I can’t remember for the life of me which ear is supposed to signal I-play-for-the-other-team. Damn it. Does the hot professor prefer men? I wouldn’t know. I have the lousiest gaydar in the world. Ben places his hand lightly on the back of my T-shirt to move me forward. My mouth instantly dries, and my little joy buzzer is zapped again. Damn shame if he’s gay. Dulcie has to meet him. Her gaydar’s infallible. “By the way, this is Sunny. We’re off to sign the lease,” Ben says. “I met her earlier. Sunny, I love your name, and I think you’re going to bring sunshine to our world,” Ray says. Our world. Hmm. Must call Dulcie immediately. I return Ray’s sweet smile. He radiates a certain childlike innocence. Ben, on the other hand, hasn’t had an innocent day in his life, I suspect. My imagination dives into the gutter again. What great fantasy material he is, gay or not. Libbie drags me back to the present. “Are we getting ice cream now?” *

* 11

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“I’m going to miss you,” Dulcie says, stuffing a slice of pineapple and ham pizza into her mouth. “You’re a rare friend if you’re going to miss a crazy woman and her cranky four-year-old bunking in your living room.” I scarf a slice of pepper-and-mushroom. “Mmm, this pizza rocks.” “Greek pizza is the best. Okay, I admit I won’t miss stumbling over you two in my teeny-weeny place. But it’s been nice to have you around, considering all those years we didn’t even live in the same state.” “It’s not as if we’re moving to Arizona, just Allston. I have a car now, so the tiny monster and I can come visit you as often as you’ll put up with us. And as often as you order this pizza.” “So, tell me about your landlord.” I picture him. I think I moan. “You’re sweating,” she says. “Women glow or perspire, according to your Mama.” “Yeah, right. On August evenings in a third-floor walkup, they sweat. But I bet that your, um, glow has nothing to do with the weather. Dish.” “Well, his name is Ben, he’s about a foot and a half taller than me, and he may be gay.” “Your gaydar sucks, darlin’.” “The rental agent says she thought he was.” “Heather the Nails Queen? Honey, she wouldn’t know gay if it slapped her with a purple feather boa,” Dulcie says. “Why did you recommend her to me, anyway? She’s a total bitch and rude as hell.” I stuff more pizza in my face to keep from huffing at my friend. “She found you a good apartment, didn’t she?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Well, yeah.” 12

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“Case closed.” I hate it when Dulcie’s right. A giggling Libbie dashes into the kitchen to grab a slice of pizza. She runs back to the living room. I hear her shout, “SpongeBob Square Pants!” along with the singers on her favorite DVD. She’s in love with a goofy cartoon character I’m not even sure is male. She’s my daughter, all right. “How many guys now have you fallen for that walk the other side of the street?” Dulcie manages around a mouthful of ’za. “You mean, counting my high-school, drama-club-prez boyfriend, my college fiancé that came out a few years ago, and the others in between? Four, I think. How am I supposed to read the signs? I have the limpest-wristed dad in the world, but he’s not gay.” “Your dad’s cool. He sounds like an ad for Woodstock.” “He is Woodstock. He and Mom are in the movie.” “I know. They’ve shown me that blurry clip about a dozen times.” Dulcie and I found each other the nasty-hot summer Mom and Dad decided to park their school bus—our home—near a dinky southern town named Two Bit, Alabama. The reactionary small town and my hippie parents combusted like gas fumes and lit matches. We were out of there before Halloween, the town’s chief of police breathing down their belching tailpipe. Somehow, Dulcie and I kept in touch, despite my lack of a fixed address at times. My parents’ fault, not mine. I grab the ice cream from the freezer. “You want your usual dainty portion?” She snorts. “After this pizza, I’ll need to live on carrot sticks and seltzer for a week. No ice cream for me, thank you, Miss SkinnyMinnie.” “Is it my fault I have to eat like a lumberjack to keep from wasting 13

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away?” I scoop a lump of peach ice cream into a dollar-store bowl and dig in. “Lucky for you I love you, otherwise you’d be dead, gal. Life stinks when your best friend eats anything and remains a size zero, while you gain five pounds looking at diet soda.” “Four. I’m a four. Zero is anorexic.” “I’ve never seen four in my life. Or ten, for that matter.” “I was a chubby kid, remember? Just like the Libster. Then, when other girls filled out, I turned into a toothpick. How’d you like the boys to call you Stick Girl?” “How’d you like the boys to call you F-Squared, for fat fanny?” “Yeah, well, at least your parents didn’t saddle you with a flowerchild name.” “No, they named me after a character in Don Quixote. That’s so much better.” “The way we argue, you’d think we were sisters.” I pat her hand with affection before taking a big bite. “Owww, ice cream headache!” Dulcie stares at my bowl for all of ten seconds before giving in. After dishing up some for herself, she says, “When’s your vacation end?” “Monday. I hope I have a job to go back to. Rumors of layoffs were flying thick and fast last week.” She pats my hand. “Ain’t gonna happen to you. They love your work. Didn’t your boss give you a raise recently?” I nod. “At least Libbie and I are both covered by decent health insurance, even if I do lose my job. Thank you for that at least, Kirk the Jerk.” “Heard anything from Mr. Midlife Crisis?” “He saw Libbie two weeks ago for a day. Naturally, she was on a sugar high and bouncing off the walls when he returned her. If I’m ever on the brink of making another mistake of Kirk’s magnitude, promise 14

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you’ll lock me up for my own good.” “You’re too hard on yourself. Kirk looked golden seven years ago.” I put down my spoon. “I know. What the hell happened?” “You grew up. He regressed,” she says. “Hey, The Coast started their karaoke nights again. Want to go?” “Sure. But who’ll mind the Libster?” “There’s this concept known as a babysitter, Sun.” “I don’t know any sitters. And it’s not like I can count on her father to watch her.” “I know a teen through my work. She loves kids and is looking for babysitting jobs.” “If she loves kids, mine’ll cure her of that.” I decide to finish the ice cream and scrape my bowl clean. I eye the fridge. “Maybe I’ll eat a little more.” “Jessie sits for a coworker of mine, Denise. Jessie’s trustworthy, sweet, and needs money, honey.” Dulcie works at a community center that serves what used to be called “the underprivileged.” My smart-mouthed friend has a heart the size of Boston Harbor. “Okay, I’ll meet her. If you vouch for her, I’ll let her sit. But not until I’m settled in the new place. I’m too busy to stress over performing at The Coast.” “How many times are you going to go and then chicken out? I get up there, and I can’t sing for shit. You, however, actually have a voice.” She places her bowl in the sink and runs water into it. “That’s it. No more for me. My shorts are about to split as it is.” I open the freezer for thirds. She eyes me. “God damn your genes. Anyway, we can duet like we have before. You won’t have to sing alone, and you’ll make me sound better than I am.” “What should we sing?” 15

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“I’ll come up with something interesting.” “Nothing by Madonna. I’m not going to sing something sexy and make a fool of myself.” Just thinking about being an idiot on stage makes me frown. “Then you’ll miss half the fun,” she says. “Look at me. I make that Ally McBeal actress look like a Weight Watchers ‘before’ pic. Clothing sags on me like I’m a wire coat hanger. I couldn’t possibly get up and sing about sex, with this body.” “Gal, haven’t you figured out that skinny chicks need sex, too?” “All chicks need sex, if they’re honest with themselves. It’s finding the right partner for it that’s hard.” “Hard, huh? As in, a hard man is good to find?” Dulcie grabs a spoon to steal some ice cream from my bowl. “You really think you might be laid off?” “Honestly? No,” I say. Hubris, thy name is Sunny.

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CHAPTER 2 The bells of doom chime a week later on a cloudy Friday morning when I answer my phone. “Ms. Montgomery, this is Trish at Dr. Patchett’s office. I’m sure it’s just a bureaucratic snafu, but I thought you should know right away.” I’m past deadline—the press release I’m editing was due thirty minutes ago—and I do not need another problem. I sit up straighter. “Know what?” “According to the insurance company, your daughter is no longer covered.” “What? That can’t be. What did they say, exactly?” “That Elizabeth Montgomery’s insurance was canceled.” Kirk the Jerk. I can smell his handiwork as surely as I can smell the cinnamon on my half-drunk mocha latte. “Who canceled it?” “A Mr. Kirk Stanley.” A pause. “Says here he’s Libbie’s father.” 17

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The bastard didn’t have the guts to tell me. I blurt out, “Son of a—” before stopping myself. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll look into this.” “I won’t bill you until you straighten things out, all right?” I thank her and hang up, muttering a rainbow of curses. The ex really stuck it to me this time. I stab the buttons on the phone, wishing I were Edwina Scissorhands and the buttons were mounted on Kirk’s chest. I drum my fingers hard enough to hurt before a woman’s voice answers. “Anson Technology. Who are you trying to reach?” “Kirk Stanley.” Silence for a moment, then, “Mr. Stanley no longer works here.” “What? Where’d he go?” The worthless son of a bitch quit his job. Or did he get himself fired? “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t know. Do you want me to transfer you to Human Resources? Or can someone else in Marketing help you?” An idea flashes through my mind. “Yes, transfer me to Human Resources, please.” I bite my thumbnail while listening to some truly awful New Age music. “Human Resources. Trish speaking.” “Hello, my name is Sunny Montgomery. My ex, Kirk Stanley, used to work at Anson. I need to get in touch with him. Do you have his address and phone number? It’s urgent,” I add. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we can’t give out personal information over the phone, no matter who you are.” “Would you please confirm the address and phone numbers I have for him? Please, it involves our four-year-old daughter. I have to find him.” I’m twisting the headset’s cord and trying not to whine. A beat of silence, then, “I don’t see why not. Give me the address and phone numbers, and I’ll check for you.” 18

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After a few minutes of even worse music, Trish returns. “The address and phone number you gave me match what we have. Sorry I can’t help further.” “Thanks for checking.” I hang up, then enter Kirk’s home phone number, only to hear the familiar and annoying, “Bee-bee-BEEP. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” I try his cell phone. Same result. Shitbagel. I sit and steam. Just one more irresponsible action by my ex in a long line of them. What the hell will I do now? And did he cancel my insurance, too? Probably, my inner cynic shoots back. All my lawyer asked for was child support and health insurance for Libbie and me. Considering Kirk couldn’t keep it in his pants the last two years of our marriage, my demands showed incredible restraint. Sunny-the-even-handed pursued a no-fault divorce. I hadn’t wanted screaming matches—we’d had too many of them by the time lawyers entered the picture—and I hadn’t wanted any more negative emotions spilling over into my daughter’s world. I look at the press release. It’s good enough, I tell my inner anal critic, and email it to the Marketing admin for distribution. Then I call the insurance company. I’m listening to more bad New Agey music when my boss pokes his head into my cubicle. “Sunny? When you get a moment, come see me.” His face clearly communicates that “get a moment” means “hang up the phone right now.” So I do. “What’s up?” I say as I follow him into his office. “Close the door behind you, please.” I sit. I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next, and the knowledge has me screaming inside. “I’m sorry, Sunny, but we have to let you go.” 19

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I bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Let me go where?” It wouldn’t be prudent to make fun of this. Instead, I say, “Why? My work’s good. In fact, you gave me a raise two months ago.” That raise helped me qualify for the apartment. My boss looks down at his desk, giving me an excellent view of his thinning blond hair. “Your work’s not the issue. In fact, I’ve already written you an excellent letter of recommendation. It’s just, well, about fifty folks are being downsized today at this location alone. You know we’re barely breaking even. Shareholders are clamoring for profits, and the new CEO is demanding cuts.” He abruptly sits back, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m really sorry. I want to keep you. But I can’t.” The enormity of my situation hits me. No job. No health insurance. Not even COBRA coverage, assuming I could pay for it. As Dulcie would say, well, crap fire and save the matches. “You’ll receive a month’s severance pay because you’ve been here more than two years but less than five. I’ll be happy to say you’re still employed here if you need a job reference within the next month. We’ll also keep your extension active so employers can leave messages on your work phone. I wish I could do more, Sunny—and I know this comes at a bad time for you.” No shit, Sherlock. “Of course, you’ll be eligible for unemployment. You can continue your health insurance and other benefits, too, if you want.” He checks my file. “Oh. You don’t have health insurance through us.” “Is it too late to sign up today so I can continue insurance through COBRA?” The corners of his mouth jerk. “I know we’ll all miss your offbeat sense of humor.” “I’m not kidding. I need health insurance, and I need it today.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” Someone knocks at the door. The security guard from the lobby is 20

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standing there when my boss—my ex-boss, that is—opens it. I wave weakly at the guard. Vague embarrassment covers his face, and he’s not meeting my eyes. “Mac here will escort you to your desk. Clean out what you can. We’ll mail anything you leave behind. Please don’t take the escort personally.” He sighs. “It’s mandatory these days.” “I understand.” My voice sounds mechanical to me. My boss offers his hand. I take it, barely feeling his bony fingers. “If there’s anything I can do to help you land a new job, please, Sunny, let me know. I mean it.” He squeezes my hand before letting it go. My boss isn’t a bad sort, and he’s always dealt straight with me. “Thanks, Joe. If I need help, I’ll ask.” He hands me two envelopes. “One’s your severance pay, and one contains your letter of recommendation.” I stumble to my desk. I pick up my photos of Libbie, the squishy “stress chicken” I received from last year’s Christmas grab bag, my snow globe of Phoenix, Arizona (which is a weird thing, if you think about it), and the lunch I brought with me today. I decided to leave the company mug behind. I’d be too tempted to bounce it off someone’s noggin. I nod at Mac. He takes my ID badge and follows me to the front door. I sense the stares, as if I have a scarlet “L” on my forehead. For laid-off. For luckless. For loser. Looooserrrr, a mean voice inside me taunts. The one that always sounds like one of those popular girls back in junior high. I took the T to work, so at least I don’t have to drive and risk an accident in my stunned state. The trolley I board has no air conditioning, but I’m in no mood to get off at the next stop to wait for cooler transport. I open a window, grateful for a seat, and pluck my blouse from my sweaty back. At least the trolley’s heat isn’t on, like on 21

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the one I rode last week. I realize I didn’t give work my new address, in case they have anything to send me. Like my dignity. Suddenly I’m thrown against the seat in front of me. A young man with piercings in his ears, nose, and lips falls from his pole-supported slouch to his hands and knees. His iPod hits the floor, sliding as far as the earplug wires will let it. He curses colorfully. The trolley has stopped short and I’ve bitten my tongue. I suck on it while resettling in my seat. I check that nothing’s fallen out of my bag of possessions while an undercurrent of muttering runs through the car. The driver, of course, ignores us and picks up his microphone, speaking in a nasal Boston accent. “The tracks are blocked by an accident at Harvard and Commonwealth. Exit the train and wait on the sidewalk. Buses will take all passengers to the remaining stops.” I have to choose between waiting in the humid August air for a bus that probably won’t arrive for at least thirty minutes, or walking the rest of the way home. The sky’s metallic cast promises rain, soon. At least walking to Dulcie’s place will give me an excuse to pig out on the peanut butter cup ice cream I plan to devour. Have to keep my weight up after all this exercise. Besides, ice cream solves any problem. Temporarily. I slip on the athletic shoes in my bag. Walking two miles in my dressy sandals would cover my feet in blisters. “Hey, lady, you have to get off the train now,” the driver says, scowling at me. He can see that I’m changing shoes. I give him a look that shouts, “Duh!” and say, “I will.” He shrugs and steps down to the street. He’s done his job and probably doesn’t care whether I leave the car or not. I start walking. After four blocks, my bag contains slabs of marble. I shift it from hand to hand, but my shoulders feel pulled out of their 22

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sockets. I duck into a coffee shop for a drink of water and some rest. I’m drenched because of the mugginess, so I welcome the air conditioning’s chill. I’m just sitting down when lightning flashes like a million-watt lamp shorting out. Thunder shakes the walls while water pours from the sky as if a giant bucket’s been upended over Allston. I’d be standing in the rain right now if I hadn’t decided to walk home and then take refuge here. These two decisions are the smartest things I’ve done today. Pitiful, isn’t it? “Can I help you?” the barista says. I look around, but see no one else in the place except for some scruffy intellectual types in the back, reading while slurping espresso. Probably grad students. Boston breeds them like rabbits. “Thanks anyway, but I’m on my way home soon as the rain lets up. I hope you don’t mind if I wait here.” She eyes my shopping bag overflowing with personal stuff. “Quit your job?” “Laid off.” She leans against the counter. “We’re looking for people.” Me, the rising star in Marketing, wants to scoff at working as counter help. Then I remember I can’t afford pride for the foreseeable future. “Do you offer health insurance?” I say, and blink when she says, “Yes, we do.” I think about it. I have no job and no insurance and a four-year-old. What’s not to like? “Got an application I can take with me?” She pulls one from under the counter. “Talk with me now while it’s quiet, then bring the filled-out application back. I’m the manager, Sherry. Where’d you get laid off?” 23

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“A corporation downtown you’ve probably never heard of. I wrote and edited press releases, that kind of thing. I started as a secretary and spent three years in that ungrateful place.” Her eyes narrow at my words. “You weren’t fired, were you?” “No way. Downsized.” I dig in my purse for the letter of recommendation. “This envelope contains a recommendation from my boss. Uh, former boss. Want to read it?” She waves her hand. “I believe you weren’t fired. For now. If I hired you, when could you start?” “I’m moving tomorrow. Would next week be all right?” “You like coffee?” “I’ve got one hell of an addiction to it.” “If you want a job, return the application to me later today. And bring a copy of your letter of recommendation.” She motions toward the windows. “Rain’s stopped, by the way.” I tuck the application into my purse before pushing the door open. It’s barely ten A.M., and I have the rest of the day off. Normally, time off would be a happy event. Not today. The rain has left the air more sultry than before, though that hardly seems possible. The sun’s angry glare beats on my head while I trudge to Dulcie’s place. I yearn to drown my sorrows in ice cream, but I suppose I should finish packing before I do. Not that I have many possessions to box up. Libbie and I have been living out of cartons for weeks. Come to think of it, I could pick her up early from day care. I suddenly yearn to hold my daughter close. Spending time with her appeals to me much more than eating ice cream till I puke. Day care. If I don’t pursue the coffee shop job, I need to end it. No way I want to pay day care charges while I’m unemployed. Actually, would I earn enough from the coffee shop job to cover day care? I stop short at the thought, and a man runs into me from 24

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behind. He grumbles something surly as he shoves his way past. If I earn seven bucks an hour, about the most I can hope for in such a job, I’ll rack up two-eighty before taxes and insurance premiums. The remainder would barely cover child care costs, unless I found someone insanely generous enough to take care of the Libster for free. Ah, but you’d have health insurance, the voice inside me murmurs. God knows you can’t go without it, not with an asthmatic kid. Not having health insurance dares Fate to screw you over. So I’d bust my butt for forty hours in a coffee shop for health insurance and maybe a few groceries. Great. Just great. Maybe I could bring Libbie to work with me? Oh, yeah, Sherry the Manager would love that. Not to mention having my daughter underfoot in a place brimming with scalding-hot beverages. Not to mention it wouldn’t exactly be a nine-to-five job. Who offers day care Saturdays and Sundays? I wipe my brow and squint at the sun. Maybe I should forget about the coffee shop job and temp instead. I never had a problem landing office temp work before I took the permanent job that led to my late, great position in Marketing. Plus, the hours would be regular—no need to find weekend day care. And I’ll bet that I can pull in at least nine or ten an hour. My keyboarding skills are excellent, plus I know MS Word better than the proverbial back of my hand. However, unless the agencies have changed a lot, I won’t find health insurance in the small package of benefits a steady temp worker receives. Not till I’ve worked at least six months, anyway. Who’s going to cover me? More to the point, who’s going to cover the Libster? Where will I ever find affordable health insurance, let alone decent coverage? My lack of job, insurance, money, and options pisses me off. Thankfully, I’m home, so I take it out on the building. I stomp up the 25

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stairs and bang the door open, cursing. My life is going to suck for a while, no matter what I do. And, as if to underscore that fact, the phone rings.

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CHAPTER 3 Total disaster. In other words, M (for moving) day starts off with nothing but hitches. And not the kind used to tow trailers. Actually, my problems begin with phone calls from so-called friends the day before. The first call arrived when I slammed through the front door yesterday after being laid off. I can’t believe they all bailed on me. Except Dulcie, my rock. She’s so good to me, at times she’s unreal. Her giving nature is why I’m moving today, on the worst day of the year, instead of waiting another week. See, the calendar has jammed the last Saturday in August and Labor Day weekend together. With Boston’s large student population, that’s a double whammy. No sane, nonstudent Bostonian moves on this weekend if they can help it. But now that I have my own apartment, I can’t bear taking up her space one more day. I’m mortified as it is that it took me so long to find a place for the Libster and me. Today I arrive at the truck rental place by six-thirty A.M., hoping to 27

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grab my truck and leave before the others descend like relocation-mad locusts. However, the person who’s supposed to open the rental place at seven shows up thirty-seven minutes late. By then, the milling group of rental customers is an unruly mob. Though I arrived a half-hour before everyone else and have a reservation for a ten-foot truck at seven, a few jerks attempt to cut in line before me. I snarl and threaten to bite. Lots of middle fingers are flashed, but hey, I’m driving a truck away, finally, by eight twentynine. Because I’ve drunk at least a pint and a half of coffee, I doublepark at Dulcie’s, galloping up the stairs. When I dash back down again, I find a meter maid ticketing the truck. I plead with her not to do it, but apparently she’s never had to search for a legal on-street parking place that’s big enough for a moving truck. I move the truck, this time parking legally, and stuff the ticket in my pocket. Then I trudge upstairs to begin moving. It still rankles me that only Dulcie and I are on the job. You’d think all the pizza and beer my faux friends wanted would be enough incentive to help me move. Friendships in Boston have to pass two tests. First, will they help you move on the busiest and hottest day of the year (or on the coldest and snowiest; it’s always one or the other)? Second, will they drive you to Logan Airport? In rush hour? On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving? If you’ve found someone who will do both of these things with a cheerful heart, keep them on your side any way you can. Hell, implant an ID chip like they do in pets, so that you never lose track of them. On the other hand, Labor Day weekend is the last summer weekend for sun-starved New Englanders. If you’ve endured one of our winters, you know what I mean. So I can understand backing out. Sort of. No, not really. Wait till they need my help. Because absolutely everyone who lives 28

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in Boston eventually needs help moving. Will they get any from me? Ha! While I mentally torture my so-called friends, Dulcie and I discover we can’t both carry things because Libbie finds mischief to get into while no one is watching her. So we alternate keeping an eye on her with schlepping boxes down the stairs. By ten we’ve loaded everything in her apartment that’s mine. Unfortunately, it’s only about fifteen percent of what I own. The rest is in storage. I drive the truck to our new digs while Dulcie follows in my car, Libbie safely ensconced in the child safety seat. I don’t expect the reception we receive from Ben and Ray. Both are sitting on the porch with bags that look suspiciously, delightfully, like they’re full of bagels and coffee. And, wonder of wonders, they’ve also cleared a legal space large enough for the truck, smack in front of the building. Four garbage cans are blocking the area. Doing this sort of thing is illegal, but it happens in Boston all the time, especially after a big snowstorm. If you’ve spent hours digging out “your space,” you want it vacant when you return. People have killed each other over “stealing” another’s parking space. And you thought we only go nuts when the Yankees are in town. The fact that Ben and Ray have cleared a place big enough for the truck touches me. After getting out to move the space-reserving cans, I yell my thanks through the open windows. When I attempt to parallel park the damned truck, Ben chooses that moment to stand up. Ye gods, his cutoffs couldn’t be much shorter or tighter. My insides go all warm and slippery. “Hey!” Dulcie yells a split second before I thunk against the curb. “You’re too close!” No more looking at nearly-naked Nature Boy in his cutoffs as long as I’m behind the wheel of several tons of moving truck. “Welcome,” Ray calls. I can hardly believe he’s wearing dress 29

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slacks, shirt, and tie. In this heat? The dew point must be seventy-five. I sneak another look at Ben while walking toward the porch. He’s wearing his “big bang” T-shirt again, forcing me to consider the kind of big bang I prefer. I’m acutely aware of my scruffy clothing, lack of makeup, and dirty hair. I do a quick sniff-check while pretending to sneeze. Not terrible, but not fresh, either. I’d figured I wouldn’t need to clean up or dress up for my move. That’s logical, as I’m going to become very dirty and sweaty today. Yet suddenly I yearn to be dressed in a way that shows off my assets, such as they are. And they aren’t much. “Is that the guy?” Dulcie whispers, pointing to Ben behind her hand. I nod a tiny bit, not much more than a jerk of my head. She assesses him. “If he lost the glasses, he’d be a total hunk. But I don’t know. An earring in that ear, well, you know.” “Libbie,” Ben says, squatting down to meet my munchkin. She flatly ignores him, beelining for Ray. Apparently she’s decided she loves him, astonishing us all. “Mister Ray!” she says. “Hi, Libbie. How are you?” “Hungry,” she says. “Libbie, you ate two bowls of Cheerios,” I say. “How can you be hungry?” Ray bends down to stage-whisper in her ear. “Maybe Mommy will let you have some ice cream. I have chocolate.” “Yes,” Libbie says. “Mommy, say yes.” What the hell. Ice cream before lunch will make her happy on a stressful day. So what if the sugar sends her into orbit. She might actually need the energy later. “Sure,” I say. He disappears into the building. “Libbie?” Ben says, still hunkered down, holding his arms wide for 30

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her. Her one look at him says it all. But my Boston-Scarlett-in-the making doesn’t stop there. She opens her mouth. “Mommy likes you. But I like Mister Ray better.” Oh, God, kill me now. “I like your mommy,” Ben says. “But I like you, too.” My daughter sort of waves her hand toward him, the way a queen dismisses her subjects. She says nothing until Ray reappears with a vintage red Fiestaware bowl, heaped with chocolate ice cream and topped with whipped cream and a cherry. My daughter screams in joy and runs to him. “She’s almost as cheap a date as you,” Dulcie says, ducking just in time. “You’re a cheap date?” Ben says. “Hmm. That knowledge might come in handy.” His smirk is friendly, but my face grows hot under his gaze. I want to die. Actually, I want to kill my best friend, then die. I change the subject. “Are those bagels in the bags, and are any of them for us?” “You bet. Sorry, I forgot.” He holds out two bags. “A bagel and cream cheese and a large coffee with creams and sugars for each of you.” “He’s too thoughtful to be hetero,” Dulcie snickers under her breath before elbowing me. “Introduce me, dummy.” So I do. For a few moments, we all concentrate on stuffing our faces. Even the Libster, sitting between Ray and me, enjoys her ice cream without a peep. “I’ll be happy to keep your daughter occupied while Ben and Dulcie move you in, Sunny. I won’t be useful as brawn, what with my arthritis,” says Ray. “And I’ll schlep whatever you want me to,” says Ben. 31

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I whip my head from man to man. “You’re both going to help me?” Ben shrugs as if to say, why not, and Ray says, “Of course. Anyone want ice cream?” “Me, me, me!” Libbie says, but I shake my head. Amazingly, she does not pout. “I’m already full and it’s brutally hot. Working hard on an overstuffed tummy will make me sick. Maybe later,” I say. Ray walks about, gathering up breakfast’s garbage. Only then do I notice his limp. Concern stabs me. “I’m grateful that you offered to watch Libbie. But let me know if she becomes too much for you. Promise?” He smiles. “I have a number of nieces and nephews, and Libbie’s more well-behaved than half of them. I’m sure she’ll be no trouble at all.” While Ray and Libbie hang out, the rest of us carry boxes, finishing this phase of the move by noon. I flop in the porch’s shade and swipe my dripping brow with the back of my forearm. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s hot.” “Is that all you have? Don’t you have, well, furniture?” Ben says. “It’s in storage. We can get the rest of my stuff after we recover from carrying all those boxes. Damn, where’s air conditioning when you need it?” Dulcie sprawls beside me, saying, “What I wouldn’t give for a cold one.” “Come on in. My place has air and beer,” he says. We all troop after him. His place, furnished in early Sears, screams “nerd.” A hot-looking nerd, but still. I’m vaguely disappointed in his lack of decorating skills. Then again, maybe it’s a sign he’s not gay. In one corner, shelving holds various video gaming systems of the Eighties and Nineties. On the opposite wall, a sepia-toned photo shows 32

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a youthful Louis Armstrong playing trumpet. No human being’s cheeks should be able to puff out like that. “Got any Sam Adams?” Dulcie says. “Better. I have Harpoon IPA.” “That’s my favorite,” I say. He rewards me with a big grin. “We’re going to get along great, if you prefer microbrews,” he calls from the kitchen. “Ray’s a dear friend, but he’s not a beer man.” A dear friend. Hmm. Ben returns to hand out the beer. Ray sniffs. “Sherry is more my style.” Sherry makes me think of the coffee shop manager and the open job, which reminds me once again I’m unemployed. I groan out loud. Ben says, “Something wrong with the beer?” I shake my head. Dulcie opens her mouth, sees my expression, and shuts it again. “What is it?” he says. I swig the beer, doing the automatic aftertaste-grimace because of the bitter hops, then say, “Nothing. It’s nothing.” An odd quiet settles over us until Libbie asks me for “lem-nade.” Ray goes to make some for the little princess clinging to me, watching Ben warily. Maybe my own daughter has better judgment. Maybe I should pay attention to it—and her. Ben leaves the room, only to return with a Rubik’s Cube, which he offers to my daughter. “What’s that? Mommy, want some lem-nade.” “Something you can play with, if you want,” he says. “Bet you can’t make each side only one color.” Hearing the challenge in his voice, she takes the cube, turning it over and over in her hands. “What are you trying to do, torture my kid?” I say. 33

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“Torture?” “I used to have one. It drove me nuts.” “You couldn’t figure it out?” “No, I couldn’t, Mr. Smarty-Pants Physics Professor. I suppose you solved it in a half-hour.” “Nope. Never did figure it out. But I’ve seen kids solve it. Thought your daughter might enjoy trying.” I have to admit, Libbie is absorbed. Ben sits on the floor next to her, showing her how it works. Only then do I notice he changed his Tshirt. This one says, “Jazz musicians give good sax.” I start feeling all warm inside again, and I want to wiggle in my chair. “Do you have an entire wardrobe of T-shirts with double entendres?” I ask, playing with a lock of my hair. Not too subtle, am I? “I like word play.” His sea-green eyes bore into mine. I keep talking so I won’t drown in them. “You teach physics. You play jazz, too?” “A little saxophone. Dixieland stuff, not the modern, bebop kind.” I can’t resist saying, “A girlfriend once told me to date horn players, because they’re very good with their lips and tongue.” He turns away, pretending to tie a sneaker, but I spy the red flush creeping up his neck. So I can fluster Dr. Cool. Ha! “Who told you that?” Dulcie says. “You did, remember?” She grins. “Oh. Yeah. I remember now. Brian. Whoo-eee.” Ben says, “I’m an amateur musician. Mostly I get together with friends and jam. You’ll eventually meet my music buddies.” He slaps his forehead. “Oh, no. We usually go until the wee hours. That’s not going to help your kid sleep, is it? Maybe we shouldn’t practice at my place any more.” His eyes find mine again. “Unless there’s some way 34

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we could work it out.” “Maybe,” I say, my mind whirling with X-rated suggestions. I hear Dulcie’s muffled snort and know she knows I’m sinking fast. Ben’s now sitting cross-legged in his cutoffs. He’s decent, but my imagination isn’t. I flee the room, mumbling something about putting my empty bottle back. In the kitchen, I grab a cube from the freezer and run it over my face. It’s definitely been too long since I had a man. Any man. I’m about to embarrass myself by slobbering all over Ben, and I don’t even know if he likes girls. Likes girls. Listen to me. I sound ten years old. I close my eyes, focus on a beautiful mountain stream, and chant to myself, I am stronger than my desires. I am stronger than my desires. I want to wait for Mr. Right, not Mr. Right Now. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Mr. Right Now sounds damn fine. “Hey, let’s go load your stuff in storage and then break back here for pizza,” Dulcie calls from the other room. I straighten my shoulders, resolving not to become a quivering lump just because the hot, handsome man in the next room wears tight, double-meaning-T-shirts and brief cutoffs. I stride back to the living room, full of the best intentions. Libbie is drinking the lemonade Ray brought her and playing with the Cube. “Okay, I’m here,” I say. “Ray, Libbie’s going with Dulcie in my car.” “Can I ride with you in the truck?” Ben says. Geez. I’ll have an accident if he sits next to me with all his delicious flesh and intriguing bulges on display. “Uh, better not. Insurance,” I lie. “If you’re coming along to help, ride with Dulcie, okay?” We reach my little portion of the storage company. I unlock the garage-like door and roll it up. 35

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Furniture. My furniture. For my new home. I allow myself time to luxuriate in the comfort I take from that. Screw no job and no health insurance. At least we’ll have a roof over our heads that’s ours, and it’s a place I’ve chosen, not simply accepted because my husband wanted it. “My bed!” Libbie cries, rushing past me. I barely manage to grab her shirttail. If I let her, she’d climb the wall of stuff. “We have to load everything in the truck, Lib, and then unload it at the new place.” I scoop her up and kiss her. “But I promise you I will let you do whatever you want to your bed once it’s in your new room.” “Even jump on it like a tram, trama—” “Trampoline. No, you shouldn’t jump on it, because you might fly off and make a boo-boo on your head, like last time. You don’t want to go to the doctor, do you?” Kid, I got no insurance. Please don’t hurt yourself. She whips her head back and forth. “No doctor. Will you put the SpongeBob sheets on, please, please?” “Of course I will. How could you sleep without your SpongeBob sheets?” She throws her arms around my neck so hard she rams my teeth into my lower lip, cutting it. But it’s worth it to hear her say, “You’re the best mommy in the whole wide world.” I’ll swallow any amount of my blood to hear that. “Hey, you’re bleeding,” Ben says. “Here.” He pulls a tissue from his pocket and stuffs it into my hand. “It’s nothing.” I dab at my lip. “It must have stopped. I’m not tasting blood any more. You always carry tissues for damsels in distress?” His smile slowly spreads across his face. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. A friend told me I should, long ago.” “We’d better get cracking,” Dulcie says. “I’m starving for pizza and 36

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it’s too damned hot to stand here in the sun.” The three of us move simultaneously toward the furniture, but I stop. I still have Libbie in my arms, and no one to watch her. I set her down on the pavement. “Look, Lib, I need you to stand right here and not move. I need you to stay safe while we carry all the big heavy stuff like your bed. Will you do that for me?” She regards me for a moment before she says, “Ice cream?” That’s my shrewd little bargainer. “All you want, but only after you eat some pizza.” “Okay, Mommy.” I keep my eye trained on her the entire time we’re lifting, hauling, and grunting, but she’s as good as her word. Maybe she’s maturing. Then again, maybe it’s the promise of ice cream. “I’m surprised you have some modern furniture,” Ben says while hoisting my Boston rocker. “This is the only piece that looks halfway traditional. The rest of your stuff is, well, angular.” “It’s not modern. It’s a cross between Shaker and Mission. And it’s all real wood, one hundred percent.” I run my hand over the oak headboard. “At least the bastard let me choose the furniture.” “Which bastard?” Ben’s comment grounds me. “Oh. My ex. Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that last sentence out loud.” “You’ll also notice,” Dulcie adds, “that almost everything matches. Sunny likes stuff to match, because of her parents.” “Shut your mouth, or I swear I’ll come by and eat peach ice cream in front of you every night for a month. And I won’t give you any, either.” “That’s mean. Don’t you think that’s mean, Ben?” “I guess so.” He swings his attention toward me. “Why do you want things to match? What did your parents do, force you to wear polka 37

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dots and plaid together?” I pretend not to hear him while I buckle my daughter into the seat in Dulcie’s car. “Last one back has to pick up the pizza,” I say. Turns out I’m the last one back—driving a rented truck makes me slow and cautious—so the others unload while I locate my car keys. Unfortunately, my old beater won’t start. Ben tries jumping the battery for me, but it’s dead. “It’s the starter,” he says. “Got to be.” As I am not a car person, I take his word for it. We all break for lunch. After Dulcie, Libbie, and I pick up the pizza, I call AAA. Two hours and too much pizza and schlepping later, the AAA guy confirms the car is dead. I have him tow it to a local garage Ben recommends. Dulcie, Libbie, and Ray stay at the apartment building while Ben drives me over, behind the tow truck and my sad little Omni. The garage’s owner, at work tinkering on his own vehicle, agrees to check my car immediately on the strength of Ben’s presence. Big surprise, it’s the starter. I receive an estimate that I suspect is well under the going rate, thanks to Ben, and arrange to pick up my car on Tuesday. If I’d only known the catastrophe in store for me a few days later, I wouldn’t have bothered to fix the car.

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CHAPTER 4 Libbie’s cries cut through my fog. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happened. A taxi has t-boned the driver’s side of my car, at the intersection that’s three buildings short of our new apartment. I check Libbie anxiously, but I don’t see any signs that she’s hurt. Scared to death, but not hurt, thankfully. Her cries are damping down to whimpers. I assess myself: no obvious injuries, though I’m certain we’ll both ache all over later. The other car’s impact spun us nearly a full circle. We’re shaken up, but my seat belt and her car seat prevented either of us from flying freely inside—or out of—the car. After comforting my daughter, I force my crumpled door open. I’m pulling my daughter out of her safety seat when the other driver approaches. “You all right?” he says, his eyes jerking from me to Libbie. The cabbie’s fare has an obvious bloody nose, most likely from her 39

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face hitting the plastic divider between the front and back seats “I’m fine. You do realize you ran a stop sign, right?” He opens his mouth to protest, sees the stop signs on every corner, and shuts it. “We need to exchange information,” I say while comforting Libbie. She’s calming down, but her eyes are still big as moons. “Sunny! Are you and Libbie okay?” Ray is heading toward us, moving as fast as his limp allows. “I saw the whole thing. The other driver didn’t stop.” He glares at the cabbie. It feels nice to be the object of someone’s concern, but he’s more upset than I am. “Ray, call the police, okay? We have to report this.” “I already did.” With that, he begins snapping photos of the accident scene, using an expensive-looking Canon SLR and an assortment of lenses. “Lady, can’t we settle this ourselves?” the cabbie says. “No need to involve the cops and insurance company. I’ll pay for the damages to your car out of my own pocket.” “Why do I get the feeling you’ve run stop signs before?” “C’mon.” His voice rises a half-octave, morphing into a whine. “I can’t afford another accident on my insurance. I drive cab for a living.” “All the more reason you should drive more carefully.” I see his fare, tissues held to her nose, exit the car and creep away. I don’t think he notices. That’s one way to beat a fare. The cabbie and I are still arguing when the police cruiser pulls up. The cop takes one look at the cars and one at the four stop signs. His sigh indicates he’s seen too many accident scenes just like this one. “Anyone hurt? Need an ambulance?” We all shake our heads. 40

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“Ma’am, what happened?” The other driver butts in. “She ran the stop.” Ray explodes, “Bullshit!” Never in a hundred years did I expect profanity from this meticulous man’s mouth. “Mommy, Mister Ray said a bad word,” Libbie whispers in my ear. The police officer looks right through me. “Ma’am, what do you say? Who ran the stop sign?” “He did.” “I saw the whole thing,” Ray says. “From my place over there, third floor.” He points. “I’m a photographer. I notice things.” “Okay,” the officer says. “What happened?” “Her car stopped. She barely entered the intersection when the cab came flying through and hit her, hard. It’s a wonder the child isn’t hurt.” “He’s lying,” the cabbie says. “Hey!” He points a finger at me. “You see where my fare went?” I shrug. “Maybe she figures the bloody nose you gave her from the accident entitles her to a free ride.” “You mean there’s another witness, one that’s injured?” the officer says. “Ma’am, where did she go?” “Up that street,” I say, gesturing with my free hand. “She turned left at the next corner. That’s all I know.” Traffic is creeping around us in the intersection. The officer says, “I’ll hold traffic while you both move your cars to the curb.” Ray stands with Libbie while I try to move my old car. Try, but fail. The engine’s dead. Reality hits me. I have no car, no job, no health insurance. And very soon, I will have no money. I sway, grabbing the car for balance. My stomach rolls. “I want everyone’s license and registration. Now,” the cop says. 41

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I hand mine over, mentally obsessing over my run of bad luck. The cop checks us out on his cruiser’s computer. I’m not paying attention when the cabbie makes a break for it. The officer tackles him with a lunge worthy of the Patriots’ Tedy Bruschi. Handcuffs gleam in the sun, and the ratcheting sound they make when tightened sends a shiver of ice down my spine. “All right, buddy, you’re going in.” He locks the cabbie in the back seat of his cruiser. “Ms. Montgomery, a tow truck will be here for your car soon. Here’s your license and registration back. I’ve determined you’re not the one at fault for the accident. You and your kid all right?” “We’re both fine.” The cop jerks his thumb at the cabbie. “That joker has an expired hack license, not to mention a violations record as long as your arm. I’m not trusting him to tell me the truth. Plus, the eyewitness says it wasn’t your fault. Good luck, ma’am. If I were you, I’d go have a stiff drink.” He drives away, the cabbie glaring at me through the cruiser’s back window. I don’t think he’s any danger to me, but the malevolence in his expression bothers me. I try to shrug off the disturbing image of violence on my doorstep. I hear the wheezing and Ray’s shout simultaneously. Grabbing Libbie’s inhaler, I minister to her. Once she’s breathing freely again, I relax. Only then do I see the fresh tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she says, her lower lip quivering. “Whatever for? You didn’t do anything wrong, honey.” She begins to sob. I fold her in my arms, holding her shaking body and murmuring wordless sounds of comfort. “What’s wrong?” Ray mouths silently. I whisper, “Probably just the stress of the accident.” After the tow truck hauls away my car, the three of us walk home. The sky’s intense blue hurts my eyes; the white trim on the turquoise 42

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triple-decker gleams. Despite the sun’s warmth, the breeze rustling through the maples and oaks carries a hint of fall. It always feels odd when bad things happen on beautiful days. “Mommy, why aren’t you working?” Libbie says, calmer now. “Uh, I’m taking a day off.” She yawns. “Will you watch TV with me?” “You bet. Ray, want to join us? I could fix a snack.” “Hot dogs,” my ever-hungry munchkin says. “With special sauce.” I mix mustard and ketchup together till it turns an ugly shade. Libbie loves my “special sauce.” “Thanks, but no. I’m working on a project,” Ray says. “Libbie, tell me why you like hot dogs so much.” “They look like fingers.” She giggles. Ray raises his eyebrows as if to say, kids these days. “What are you working on?” I say. “I’m photographing the cars of people who park illegally at convenience stores. For a coffee-table book idea I have.” “Ray, that sounds a little scary. Doesn’t anyone ever get pissed at you for photographing their car?” “Now and then,” he hedges. “But no one’s hit me yet. I always offer them a chance to sign a release. If someone threatens me, though, I don’t offer the release. I make a note not to use the photo and move on. Sometimes escaping with your skin is the best policy.” “And you think people will buy this book you’re planning?” “I’ve sold two previous coffee-table books. Not a bad way to supplement my regular photography income.” His project sounds weird and dangerous to me. But who am I to judge what others will buy? “Are you sure you’re both okay? Do you need anything?” Sweet concern radiates from his face. “Cross my heart, hope to die, et cetera. We’re both fine.” 43

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“Can I pick up anything for you? After all, I’ll be near a convenience store or two.” I mentally check my provisions. “I could use some milk and bread and more ice cream. Chocolate of some kind.” I dig in my purse for cash. “Pay me later,” he says, his hand gentle on my forearm. Upstairs, Libbie and I watch TV while chowing down on peppermint patty ice cream. When the phone rings, I have to choke down an icy mouthful before I answer. “Aunt Grace here. How are you?” Great-Aunt Grace is my mother’s-mother’s sister. She’s most definitely not countercultural, nor is she warm and fuzzy like my ditzy mom. “Okay, who died?” I carry the phone away from the kitchen to shield young ears. “No one. Don’t say such morbid things.” “You never call me unless a catastrophe is in progress. What else am I supposed to say? How are you, anyway? I’m fine, except that an idiot cabbie just totaled my car.” “You sure you’re both okay? How’s Elizabeth?” Her concern vibrates down the line. “We’re all right. Really.” She sighs. “What I have to tell you may depress you further.” I wait for the other shoe to drop. “Your parents are on their way to see you.” “What? You told them where I live?” I can hear my own breath on the line because I’m hyperventilating. “Before you get all snippy with me, listen. They begged me. They miss you so much. And I think it’s high time you extended an olive branch. After all, you do have their only grandchild, and it’s been seven years.” 44

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“Wait a minute. You don’t have my new address.” Smugness tightens my face. “All you have is my temporary one, with Dulcie.” “She gave you up, dear, and told me about your new place.” I curse softly, so as not to teach my kid new forms of the F-word. “Don’t you dare use that kind of language when you talk to me, young lady.” “I am going to kill Dulcie, but only after ice cream torture of the worst kind.” A pause. “Well, I thought you might like fair warning,” she says. “I do, Aunt Grace. But unfortunately it’s too late for me to disappear to, say, Idaho.” “How’s your new place working out? And do you need any money?” “Of course not,” I say, crossing my fingers. She snorts. “You always lie about such things to me, always put on the good face. Just like your mother.” Ow. I wince. “If I did need money, and I don’t, I wouldn’t take any from you. You barely have enough to feed your cats, let alone yourself.” My voice softens. “You are okay, aren’t you?” “Of course I am. Right as rain.” I slump into my favorite easy chair, deciding to tell her the truth. “Aunt Grace, I was downsized last week. I spent most of this week registering with headhunters and temping agencies. Maybe I can pick up a little clerical work to keep the wolves from the door while I search for something in my field. I do have a month’s salary, but no matter how frugal I am, it won’t last forever.” “Why didn’t you call me right away? Do you think I don’t care?” I want to throw the phone across the room. Relatives. Argh. In a voice I work to keep steady, I say, “I thought you might want to know what’s new, that’s all. I don’t want to have a big hairy discussion. 45

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It’s spiraling my mood into the toilet. That’ll make me eat too much ice cream and then I’ll won’t sleep tonight from the sugar buzz.” “Then we won’t talk of such things. Let me know if I can help you in any way. And don’t kill Dulcie for giving you up. I tricked her into it. Give my love to Libbie.” *

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“Don’t you just love it?” Dulcie swirls in front of me, showing off her scarlet dress. Its filmy skirt floats lazily around her thighs. I look down at my black jeans, dull blue sweater, and black ankle boots, then survey her clear plastic highheeled slides. “If we sing together, we’re going to be the ugly duckling and the swan. Are you certain you want me up there with you?” I nibble my lip. “Hush up already with the ugly talk. You have the biggest gray eyes in the world, blonde waves to die for—” “Dishwater blonde,” I say. “—blonde is blonde—though a few highlights wouldn’t hurt—and a body made for high fashion. Let me check your closet.” Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a midnight-blue dress. It skims my bones so that I look as if I actually have curves. Silver strappy sandals and a quick makeup job, and I’m nearly gorgeous. “I’ll bet you didn’t buy this dress, did you?” she says while squinting, adjusting the fabric to flow better over my bones. “No. I think Kirk did.” “Have you ever worn it before?” “Uh-uh.” “The sandals?” “An impulse buy. Wasn’t I with you?” She taps her chin with an index finger. “I remember now. You’d just found out that Kirk The Jerk couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Yes, I took you for shopping therapy that day. I still can’t believe he flat-out 46

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dropped his life here and ran away to parts unknown. The man’s pureD nuts.” “I still can’t believe he’d do that to his daughter. Run away from her, I mean.” A sob escapes before I can choke it back. “Aw, shit.” My best friend dabs at my eyes with a tissue. “No tears, now. Tonight you’re going to try something new, and you’re going to kill. By the end of the evening, you’re going to have a date, too, or else.” “Or else what?” “I’ll sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.” “In that case, I’d better find a man.” When Dulcie reaches for the high notes and misses, stay away from large panes of glass. After sufficient primping on her part, we pile into her car. We spend less time driving to The Coast than we do finding a parking place once we arrive, but that’s typical for Boston. After we locate a legal spot a mere block away, we join the streams of people, all of us walking in the same direction. The Coast is the biggest and best karaoke bar in Allston-Brighton. It’s kitschy seventies: colored lights, a mirrored revolving ball, and an actual dance floor. Did I mention that the house special is a classic Seventies drink, the Tequila Sunrise? A couple of those and you won’t know whether the sun is rising or setting. “You really think Libbie will be all right with Jessie?” I worry. “You saw the way they were playing before we left,” Dulcie says. “Lib took to her as if she were an older sister. Ooo,” she whispers, grabbing my arm, “take a look at the fellow over there.” My eyes follow her not-so-subtle pointing finger. “Geez, Dulce. Even a dating service would reject him. You think he’s hot?” “Well, who do you like, smarty-pants?” “I like the one standing near the stage. With the hair.” 47

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She stares briefly. “He’s your type, all right. Good-looking businessman who oozes testosterone. I’ll bet he’s in middle management at some financial operation.” “Operation? You make him sound sleazy.” “Yeah. He’s Boiler-Room-Roger. He sort of resembles Tim Robbins in The Player. Just not as good-looking.” I take another glance; he doesn’t seem as hot as he did before. Something about him reminds me of Kirk the Jerk. “Who do you like?” I say. “That one.” She motions with her hand. “He looks like Software-Engineer-Ed.” Dulcie actually acts offended. “Just because I appreciate a man who looks smart and not smarmy, there’s no need to diss my taste.” “Okay. Truce. Let’s figure out what the heck I’m singing.” “Don’t you mean, what we’re singing?” A man at the bar catches my eye, smiling. I toss my head in my best Sarah Jessica Parker style and smile back. Another woman approaches to snag him. Damn it. “I’m going to do it. I’m singing alone,” I say. “No, you won’t. We’ve been here before. You always chicken out. C’mon, let’s do something fun like ‘Werewolves of London.’ I don’t want to sing alone.” “You don’t sing. A cat in heat sounds better. Yet, the audience always loves you.” “I stand up there and enjoy myself. That’s all you have to do. Remember, unlike me, you can actually do something that sounds like singing. And the audience wants you to succeed. So give them what they want.” It’s our turn to choose from the songbook and sign up. Dulcie, a huge Warren Zevon fan, picks “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me.” I flip the book open, stab randomly, and come up with Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel 48

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Like a Woman.” “Perfect,” I say while scribbling my name and song on the list. “No way you’ll do that song,” Dulcie says. “Way.” “Nooo way.” “Waaaay!” “Bet me a drink?” she taunts. “Hell, yes.” “Ladies?” Boiler-Room-Roger stands before us, with a dumpy man to his right. “I’m Roger, and this is Peter.” Damn. His name really is Roger. “Oh, goodie,” Dulcie says under her breath. “So, like, what are your names?” the man called Peter says. “I’m Dulcie, and this is—” “Sarah,” I interrupt. “Sarah Parker.” “What are you drinking?” Boiler-Room-Roger says. He oozes charm. I hate charm. Charm reminds me of Kirk. From now on, I’m immune to charm, I decide. “Beer,” I say. “Something diet and non-alcoholic,” Dulcie says. “I’m the designated driver.” “You want Bud Light?” Roger asks me. The Coast has about two hundred brands to choose from. Feeling a little mean, I say, “Yuengling Light,” knowing he’s probably never heard of it, much less how to spell it. “Ying-Ling?” Boiler-Room-Roger says, frowning. “What’s that, Chinese beer?” “Oh, God, don’t get the microbrew freak started on beer,” Dulcie says. 49

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I stare both men down. “No. It’s a Philadelphia beer. Oldest brewery in the country.” I use my snobbiest tone. Peter looks as if his shoes are pinching his feet, but my comment flies right over Roger’s head. “Okay. Back in a moment,” he says. Peter follows. It’s clear who the alpha male is in that twosome. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee begins. “I’m your host, Frankie Went Hollywood. It’s time for Saturday Night Karaoke at The Coast, where we celebrate the best—and the worst—of pop music. First up, the incomparable Patsy. Give it up!” A regular who sounds eerily like Patsy Cline takes the stage. Tonight she resembles Cline, too, with a dark flip-do wig, circle skirt, and neckerchief. She croons her way through “Walking After Midnight.” “She’s so good,” Dulcie says. Her voice holds a tinge of envy. After Patsy, a Madonna-wannabe performs “Respect Yourself.” She dances better than she sings. “Vogue” follows, sung by a woman whom I suspect is not one hundred percent female down where it counts. Peter and Roger return with drinks. The people on stage give me an excuse not to talk, though that doesn’t stop Roger from trying a bit of non-verbal communication. I smack his hand when it strays to my thigh. “Let’s welcome Dulcie Williams, as she channels both Warren Zevon and Linda Ronstadt,” Frankie the host says. I cheer as she sways to the beat. Three minutes later, she has us all laughing fit to burst, because she vamps the Zevon verse that describes a perverse encounter. She really can’t sing worth a damn, but she’s a showstopper. “Next is Sunny Montgomery, in her first solo performance at The Coast. Give her a big welcome, folks!” 50

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I hear Roger say, “I thought your name was Sarah.” I stand, walk to the stage, take the mic. My knees are wobbling, and flop sweat breaks out on my brow when I hear the opening bars. No, damn it, you’re going to do this just like you do in front of the bathroom mirror. I pretend no one’s in the room but me and let ’er rip. I pose; I sing; I dance on those silver heels like Mercury had blessed them. When I finish, I freeze, eyes closed, breathing hard. Waves of applause and cheers hit me. I open my eyes. I killed! Dulcie is jumping up and down, screaming, “Sun-NY! Sun-NY! Sun-NY!” My eyes turn wet from sheer joy. I did it. I conquered my fear and security demons and did it. Hot damn, but it feels good. Maybe I’ll take another risk soon, despite the fact that taking risks normally gives me hives. I skip back to the table, where the two men are bug-eyed with admiration. Actually, they look a little intimidated. I throw my head back and laugh. “Wowie,” Dulcie says. “You’re even better than I thought you would be, and I thought you’d be fabulous.” We high-five, then hug. “Want to go celebrate somewhere else?” she says. We grab our purses. Roger frowns, saying, “Can’t we talk you ladies into staying?” We’re beating a hasty retreat from Peter and Roger when we hear the emcee say the only words that could convince me to stay. “Here he is, folks, your favorite professor and mine, Doctor Ben Hart. Tonight he’s treating us to his rendition of, ‘It’s All Been Done Before’ by Barenaked Ladies. Give it up!” My feet glue themselves to the floor. Dulcie’s mouth hangs open. 51

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And there’s my landlord, bouncing on his toes, moments from ripping into song. Our eyes meet. The grin he shoots me warms me inside out. He opens his mouth. He’s good. No, he’s great. I hear Dulcie squealing. I’m silent, mesmerized. As the applause dies down, Ben heads straight for me, moving more like a rock star than a physics nerd. Not that he looks the least bit nerdish tonight, not with his shining espresso hair, large green eyes, and muscled body. Not Fabio-muscled, which I can’t stand, but trim and fit, dressed in jeans, black T-shirt, and denim jacket. Why does he have to be my landlord? And hot? And gay, to boot? “Great job! I didn’t know you could sing.” He invades my space just a little, the way he usually does. “What about me?” Dulcie says, batting her eyelashes with frantic exaggeration. “You’re a real performer, you. But Sunny here can wail.” “Right back atcha,” I say. His upper lip curls in a mock-sneer. “Thank-yew-verr’-much.” I’m not an Elvis fan. But on him it looks good. “You like Elvis?” I say. “Yes, both Presley and Costello. You?” “Neither. But Barenaked Ladies is cool.” He sidles closer. “Want to sing with my band some time?” “Jazz?” I wrinkle my nose. “Eeuw.” “What’s wrong with jazz?” “Old-people music. Give me hard rock any day. Is jazz all you play?” “Mostly. But when we jam we do a little of everything.” His expression turns earnest. “You should hear us, you might like it. What 52

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are you afraid of, turning into an old fart?” I ignore his question. I don’t feel like arguing about my musical preferences. “You play clubs?” He shakes his head. “Nah. That turns it into work. Besides, the number of musicians in the Boston area trying to make it—well, forget a bunch of guys who just do it for fun. Come on, let’s celebrate with a beer.” At the bar, three seats miraculously open up. Dulcie and I sit, but Ben stands, leaning against his stool. “So, do you?” he says after sipping his Harpoon IPA. “Do I what?” “Want to sing with our little group?” “Nah.” Dulcie kicks my leg and shoots me a look. “How about if I buy you another—Yuengling, is it? Then would you?” Something about his grin reminds me of a smirk. And his invading my space is pushing a button. Not to mention implying I base my musical preferences on fear. I may have security issues, but not about the kind of music I like. “I’m drinking Yuengling Light. The beer, not the lager. And sit down,” I say. “Looking up at you is giving me a headache.” “I give a mean neck massage.” “Will you stop with the lines?” My remark chases the smile from his face. “Sorry to offend you. It wasn’t a line.” He stalks away without looking back. I should feel triumph. I don’t. “Well, who peed in your cornflakes? He was just being nice. You, on the other hand, are acting like an asshole. I should slap you,” Dulcie says. I run my finger up and down my glass, doodling in the 53

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condensation. “I don’t know. Something about him makes me mad.” “Real smart move, pissing off your landlord. Not every goodlooking man is Kirk the Jerk, you know.” “And not every fish in the sea contains mercury. But a lot do.” “You’re impossible. Why don’t you want to sing with his band?” “You know I don’t like jazz,” I say. Dulcie presses on. “So, it’s not because he’s hot and you’re confusing him with your ex?” “Not entirely,” I admit. “Besides, he’s gay. No heterosexual could move the way he does. He reminds me of one of the ‘Queer Eye’ guys.” “He is so not gay.” “You sure?” Dulcie thinks. “Not absolutely positive. That earring’s not in the proper ear. Probably not gay, all right?” “You know my tendencies when it comes to good-looking men. Even if Ben is hetero, getting horizontal with a man who has power over me is monumentally stupid.” I look down at my lack of curves and feel my confidence ebb away. “He wouldn’t want me, anyway. I’m Stick Girl, remember?” “Oh, for the love of—” She throws money on the bar. “Let’s take you home before your mascara runs.” She’s right; I’ve been an asshole to Ben for no good reason. My eyes search the crowd for him, so I can apologize, but I’m out of luck. Shot myself in the foot again. I almost make it to her car before sobs erupt. My best friend holds me while I cry, shushing and comforting me till I wind down. The tissues she offers me smell like her favorite perfume, Pavlova, mixed with peppermint candy. “Oh, hell,” I say. “My makeup’s on your dress.” “Never you mind about that.” 54

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She steers me to a nearby Starbuck’s, where she orders me to fix my face. When I return from the ladies room, she and two cold mocha drinks are waiting at a table far from the other patrons. I sit down and blow my nose one last time. “Mind telling me what that was about?” she says. “Damn, girl, if I’d thrown a hissy fit like you did in The Coast, Mama would’ve taken me to the woodshed.” I can’t meet her stare. Every time I try, the tears well up again. “Don’t hate me, Dulce,” I say, my lips trembling. “I’m sorry.” “Aw, honey, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. We’re friends forever, remember? But you’re not yourself. What’s wrong?” “Besides my obvious lack of job, money, and car?” “It’s more than that, I can tell. C’mon, don’t bullshit me.” I push the drink aside before hiding my face with my hands. Her hands pull mine down. “Sunny,” she says, locking me into fierce eye contact. “It’s just not fair,” I burst out. “I was the best wife in the world to Kirk. I’m the best mother I can be to Libbie. Yet my life is crumbling all around me, and none of it is my doing. I know I’m a good person. Why does my life suck?” I bite my lip to keep from sobbing. “Sometimes that’s just the way life is,” she says. “Thanks for the sympathy. You sound like my Aunt Grace,” I huff. I sip my drink for the first time, my distress easing. “This drink tastes pretty good. What is it?” “A Mocha Frappa-something. Look, I’m sorry if I haven’t been as sympathetic as I should be. I know you’re carrying a heavy load, considering your lack of health insurance, the job, and the car accident. Sun, just take one thing at a time, one day at a time, okay? And trust that I’ll be there for you, no matter what.” “What is this, twelve steps for mopey friends?” I smile. She smiles. 55

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“God, you’re such a brat sometimes,” she says. “Hey, why didn’t you apply for the coffee-shop job? You mentioned it, what, a week or two ago? Or did you apply and not get it?” “I decided not to apply. My wages would barely cover day care. Better to collect unemployment and search for a real job.” I slurp my mocha-frappa-something the way Libbie would, and the noise turns heads in my direction. “Sun, you are so not mature,” Dulcie says before slurping her own drink, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Hey, how’d Aunt Grace make you reveal my new address?” I shake my finger in her face. “I should be mad at you, because now Daffy and Silly are on their way to Boston. God, they might even be parked in front of my apartment as I speak.” I call my parents Daffy (for Daphne) and Silly (for Sylvester) behind their backs. The nicknames fit them like skin. “Want to hide out at my place?” Dulcie says. “No. You’re put up with me long enough.” “Oh, about Aunt Grace? She told me she wanted to send you a present.” “You fell for that? It’s the oldest trick in the book. Why didn’t you tell her to send it to your place?” She sets her mouth in a line. “Well, well, because.” “Because why?” “Stop being a pain.” “Because you forgot you can’t trust my family?” I press. “She promised she wouldn’t tell Daffy and Silly.” Dulcie’s not dumb, but she is the most gullible person in the solar system. “My family’s promises are right up there with ‘the check’s in the mail’ and ‘I never had sexual relations with that woman.’” 56

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“Are you quoting Bill Clinton?” “No. Kirk the Jerk.” “I’m sorry, Sun.” “It’s all right.” I suck down the rest of my yummy mocha thing. “After all you’ve done for me and Libbie, I have no right to get mad at you for anything short of murder.” “Wanna go home?” she says. I think of Ben and how I tongue-lashed him at The Coast, and how it’s probably not the kind of tongue action he’d prefer. “Yeah, let’s go. I have a strange hunger for crow.”

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CHAPTER 5 I raise my fist to knock on Ben’s door. “You sure you want to do this tonight?” Dulcie says. “Tomorrow morning I’ll have Libbie with me and I’ll have to be a mommy,” I say while rapping. “The babysitter doesn’t know I’m home yet, so at the moment I have a chance to converse with a single man as a single woman.” We wait. No response. “Maybe he’s not home,” she says. “I’m going to press the buzzer outside,” I say. We wait. Still nothing. I check my watch, sighing. “It’s after eleven. He’s probably still out partying.” Upstairs, we find the sitter watching the local news. “Any problems with Libbie?” “She begged for ice cream after dinner, but you said no, so I didn’t 58

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give her any. We played Candyland and watched SpongeBob. Then I read Harold and the Purple Crayon and Goodnight, Moon to her. She’s been asleep since nine or so.” I have to see my munchkin right now. I open the door slowly to gaze upon her, so beautiful, so innocent, so young. Idiot Kirk doesn’t know what he’s missing. Tears prick my eyelids again. I blink rapidly to disperse them, shutting Libbie’s door behind me. I dig through my purse, come up with a twenty. What the hell, even though it is too much. “You only owe me fifteen,” Jessie protests. “I insist. Plus, I want you motivated to sit for me again.” She hesitates a moment, then takes the bill. “Oh, I will. Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery.” “Please, call me Sunny. How are you getting home?” “My mom said she’d come get me.” Dulcie interrupts, “I can take you. You’re on my way home. Call me tomorrow, Sunny.” She waves her fingers as she and the sitter leave. I collapse on the sofa, kicking my sandals off. My fluffy slippers are right where I left them, under the coffee table. Sexy shoes are fun, but heaven is a pair of well-worn slippers. I turn off the TV. There’s a book on the coffee table I don’t recognize. It looks like a second-year algebra textbook. Jessie’s. I dash out of the apartment, book in hand, frantic to catch Dulcie and Jessie before they drive away. I forget I’m in my slippers. And that they’re called “slippers” for a reason. Halfway down the staircase, you might say my feet lose touch with the real world. I slide down the stairs, one ankle horribly bent beneath me. At the bottom, I whack my chin against the rail when I reach out, 59

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frantic to stop my descent. I taste blood in my mouth and my left foot refuses to move. I pull myself up, put weight on it. “GAHHH!” I sit down hard on the steps. My stupid foot won’t bear my weight. Someone’s banging on the door. “Let me back in!” Dulcie calls. I shake my head, still dazed. I can’t get to the door. No, I have to get to the door. I need someone to help me climb the stairs. Or maybe take me to the ER. My ankle and foot are already twice the normal size. I might have broken something. Nausea with teeth attacks me. I bend forward, dropping my head, willing it to pass. The only time I broke a bone in my life, I had near-immediate nausea. Nothing’s broken, damn it. I grit my teeth, pulling myself upright to balance on my right foot. I look down to see blood on my beautiful dress. The one I was wearing when I killed at The Coast. Honestly, life sucks and then you die. I’m calculating the distance I have to hop, wondering whether I can actually pull it off, when Ben jerks his door open, snarling, “Who the hell is standing on my buzzer?” He stops dead when he sees me. In a heartbeat his arms are holding me tight, steadying me. I want to nestle in them for an eternity, or at least the rest of the night. “Can you stand if I let you go long enough to open the door?” he says. “I think so.” He lets me go, lunges for the front door, then returns to support me. My best friend flies in. The sitter, her face white, stares at me from the 60

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porch. “You look a sight,” Dulcie says. It hurts to smile, but I try. “I’m sure. Help me back upstairs, you two?” “You need an emergency room,” Ben says. “Let me take you. Dulcie, would you stay with Libbie?” I shoot my friend a look that says, play along with me . She bobs her head the tiniest amount to show she understands. “No, Ben. ERs on Saturday nights are madhouses. I’ll be last in line after the high-speed auto wrecks and the gunshot wounds and God knows what else.” As if to underscore my statement, an ambulance’s siren wails nearby. “What’s wrong with me can wait until Monday morning,” I finish. “Yes, I can take the morning off and drive her to her doctor then,” Dulcie says. “That’s right. So, please, help me up the stairs so she can drive my sitter home.” “You need help tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.” “I promise I’ll take her tomorrow, when the ER won’t be so crowded.” I see Dulcie quickly crossing and uncrossing her fingers out of Ben’s sight. He makes a move that I interpret as an attempt to scoop me up in his arms. If he does that, I might kiss him. No. I back up fast, forgetting one of my ankles isn’t working, and fall flat on my can again. “Ow!” “Let’s take her upstairs before she hurts herself worse,” Dulcie says. 61

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Ben studies me, then her. He throws up his hands. “Fine, I’ll help you hop up the stairs. I could carry you, you know. I’ll bet you don’t weigh a hundred.” “A hundred and three,” I shoot back. “And I’m allergic to being carried in a man’s arms.” “Leave the downstairs door unlocked. I’m coming back to stay with Sunny after I take Jessie home,” Dulcie says as she turns to leave. “Just ring Sunny’s buzzer,” Ben says, his left arm holding me under my armpit. “No, that’ll wake Libbie,” I say. “No way I want her disturbed tonight.” “Here.” He tosses a key to Dulcie. “Use this. Leaving the outer door unlocked isn’t safe.” He helps me hop up the stairs. The shock’s wearing off; my ankle and foot throb like they were hit with a sledgehammer. Thankfully, I didn’t lock the apartment door behind me when I ran out. With his help, I settle on the couch, my legs straight out in front of me. He grabs throw pillows, lifting my leg to prop up my foot. I gasp, but signal I’m all right through clenched teeth. He heads for the kitchen to fetch one of the freezer packs I keep for Libbie’s boo-boos. “Wait. You need to be washed up. The amount of gore on you is worthy of a horror-film role. Are you sure you didn’t lose any teeth?” I wince when I run my swollen tongue over all of my teeth. “No teeth. I bit my tongue pretty bad.” “Let me see.” He gazes in my mouth but says nothing. Again he vanishes to the kitchen, returning with yet another ice pack and some wet paper towels. He sits on the floor beside me. “Let’s get the blood off your face first.” His hands work quickly but gently as he swabs the lower half of my face with the warm, wet towels. After drying me, he places the clothwrapped ice pack in my hand, then lifts it so that I’m pressing it against 62

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my chin. “Ow.” “Your chin’s a mess. Keep ice on it. How’s the ankle?” “Cold and killing me. Hey, tell me… do I have a little black cloud following me around? My car yesterday, me today.” “Your luck usually this bad?” “Only with men,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. “Present company excluded.” He politely ignores my comment. “Anything else I can help you with?” “Yeah, you can forgive me for being such a jerk at The Coast. I’m sorry.” “I’ve been shot down worse than that. Besides, that neck massage thing does sound kind of line-like.” He rubs his own neck. “You’re forgiven, no sweat.” “Thanks.” He’s sitting on the floor, next to the couch, staring at me. Something’s fluttering in my gut when he leans in closer. My tongue feels like a big wet rag stuffed in my mouth, but if he wants to kiss me, I’m game. He doesn’t. He pecks me on the forehead. That’s not a kiss kiss, damn it, and I want a kiss kiss. I wiggle a little, frustrated. “What’s wrong?” he says. I freeze. What stupid thing have I done now? “What do you mean, what’s wrong?” “You looked like you were trying to get comfortable, and you frowned. Need help?” I think about it. “Actually, help me sit up straighter, please.” He does. And sitting hurts. Why does it hurt? Then I recall literally falling on my ass. Twice. On unforgiving wood. 63

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“I think I’m bruised. It really hurts to sit.” “If you want an ice pack for your butt, you’ll have to place it there yourself.” “You’re not going to kiss it and make it better?” He grins. “Is this your way of telling me to kiss your ass?” I giggle. He laughs. “Ow, ow, it hurts to laugh,” I say when I finally come up for air. “But it’s fun.” “Ah, so you’re into pain?” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “You’re the one with the black leather backpack.” “You like it?” “Nope.” But I smile to soften my words. “Let me guess. Your ex was into leather.” I’m considering whether to tell him the truth, which is that Kirk is into anything as long as sex is somehow involved, when I hear a soft rapping on the door. “I’ll bet that’s Dulce. Let her in.” He’s barely unlocked the door when she pushes her way past him. Her casual words are at odds with the stark concern on her face. “How’s the malingerer?” “Hurting all over and in need of ice cream therapy,” I say. “One bowl, coming right up. Ben, you want any?” He glances my way. “Mind if I stay?” On the one hand, I don’t. On the other, I want to discuss my options with Dulcie. Alone. “Okay,” I say, but he sees right through me. “I’ll leave the two of you alone and come back in the morning,” he says. I suspect my face reveals the relief flooding through me. The strain of hiding no job/money/health insurance from my landlord is growing more difficult by the minute. “That’d be perfect. But not too early,” I warn. I have no idea 64

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whether he’s an up-with-the-sun kinda guy, or a night owl like me. “How about if I swing by around ten? I’ll be up for at least another two hours, so call me if I can do anything for you.” I consider his rear view as he leaves and melt inside, despite my pain. Recalling Dulcie’s claim that horn players have strong, talented tongues, I wonder if this fact applies to Ben, the saxophonist. Yeah. He could do something for me, all right. “Well, hell,” I say when Dulcie locks the door behind him. “Something I should know, sweetie?” “He wants me to call him if he can do anything for me.” “I see. Want me to keep the phone away from you?” “How long has it been since I’ve had sex?” I think about horn players and lips and tongues and, unable to help myself, I moan. “Longer than me, and Lord knows I’m ready to perform an unnatural act with the nearest bedpost.” She vanishes into the kitchen. I ponder my mysterious ability to grow totally horny while in agony with a smashed-up ankle. Bowl in hand, she pulls a chair up to the couch. “Okay, here’s your ice cream. This’ll be enough food in your stomach so that you can take some pain meds.” “I want to wash up and change before I take anything. They might make me woozy.” “Honey, all I have is extra-strength ibuprofen. That won’t do anything to your head at all.” “I guess it was too much to hope for Percocet in your medicine chest.” “You mean the ones left over from my root canal last year? Those are long gone, taken for bad cramps. Sorry.” I shrug. “I’ll deal with it.” “So, you eat your ice cream, take the ibuprofen, and then I’ll help you wash and change into knock-around-the-house clothes. Once 65

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you’re taken care of, I’ll see if I can get the blood out of your dress. You know whether it’s washable? Or dry clean only?” “No idea. Throw it out for all I care.” Her face twists. “No way. You look like a trillion bucks in that dress. I’m salvaging it if at all possible.” “Mommy, I heard noises.” “Oh, shit,” Dulcie breathes before saying brightly, “Hey, Libbie, what are you doing up?” “Mommy?” She’s rubbing her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with sleep. Her vulnerability wrings my heart. “Mommy’s visiting with Aunt Dulcie. You need anything, Lib?” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “C’mon, honey, let me take you back to bed. I’ll bring you a glass of water.” Libbie jerks away when Dulcie takes her hand. “No, want Mommeee.” Oh, Lord, not the mosquito voice. “Mommy has a headache, Lib. Please go with Aunt Dulcie. I promise I’ll let you eat ice cream for breakfast if you’ll just go back to bed right now.” Stress headaches plague me. Libbie understands the phrase, “Mommy has a headache.” However, being a typical kid, she tries to up the ante. “Ice cream now.” “No. Ice cream for breakfast only. Please help Mommy and go back to bed, please?” I hold my breath, praying she cooperates. The lights are low, but if she draws closer, she’ll see the bruises on my chin and my battered ankle and then she’ll never go back to bed. “’kay, Mommy.” I exhale in a whoosh, thankful she didn’t see me tucking my bowl of ice cream out of her sight. She allows Dulcie to lead her back to bed. 66

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I stare at the ceiling for ten minutes and contemplate my so-called life. At least it’s not boring. Suddenly I need to pee, with an urgency that dismays me. Damned beer. In my state, I can’t do the simplest things. I’m going to need Dulcie’s help to walk to the bathroom. It’s either that, or a bedpan. Not that I own one. My friend returns. “Lib’s down for the count. You finish your ice cream?” “No. Help me to the bathroom now. Please.” Afterward, I grip my friend’s arm with one hand while I wash makeup and smudges of blood off my face with the other. My tongue has a nasty bite mark, but I’ll live. I swallow way more ibuprofen than the label recommends, chasing the pills with lukewarm tap water. While I sit on the edge of the tub, Dulcie brings me my favorite oversized T-shirt, socks, and a sneaker for my good foot. I want to wear a slipper, but she says, “You need secure footing.” I don’t argue with her. When she takes care of someone, she brooks no interference, not even from the patient. Finally I am back on the couch, with frozen bags of peas serving as temporary ice packs for my chin and ankle. “Your dress says wash in cold water, so I’ll take care of it. Need anything before I do?” “Soda?” The chilled ginger ale hits the spot, even though the carbonation stings my wounded mouth. After Dulcie hands it to me, she tries to hide an enormous yawn. Guilt stabs me. “Hey, early bird, go sleep in my bed. I intend to make do here.” I pull Great-Aunt Grace’s afghan off the back of the couch to convince her. “You’re the one who needs the bed.” 67

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“I do not. I won’t sleep much no matter where I am. Take the bed.” “Okay.” She yawns again. “You haven’t asked me about the dress.” I roll my eyes. “Okay. How’s the dress?” “I think I got all the blood out. It’s hanging up over the shower head, so it can drip into the tub.” “How’s Jessie? Was the end of the evening so whacked that she’ll never sit for me again?” “She was okay by the time I dropped her off. You really were creepy with all that blood running down your chin, you know.” “I can imagine. I’m glad Libbie didn’t see me that way.” My foot and ankle still throb with painful heat, despite the ibuprofen and ice, but I say, “Go to bed, girlfriend. And thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done tonight without you.” She waves off my gratitude. “Don’t thank me too much. If I weren’t around, you might have made out with Ben. Ankle or no.” *

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It hurts to lift my leg off the pile of pillows, so I wake up every time I move. It’s one of the worst nights for sleep I’ve ever experienced, worse than any night I’ve spent up with Libbie. The benchmark for losing sleep is the night I lay awake, deciding to leave Kirk. Last night wasn’t quite that bad. Libbie stays zonked till eight, her normal waking time. A late sleeper, just like her mom. Dulcie, however, is up by seven-thirty. For her, that’s sleeping in. We caucus on what we’ll tell Libbie and what we’ll leave out. When the Libster walks into the living room, she stops as her eyes take in my Technicolor bruising and swollen foot for the first time. “Mommy?” Her thumb pops into her mouth the way it does when she’s afraid. “It’s okay, pumpkin. Come here.” I open my arms wide, but she approaches cautiously. 68

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“Boo-boos on your face and leg,” she says. Her expression is uneasy. “I slipped on the stairs and fell. You know how I tell you not to run on the stairs, that you might fall and get hurt? Well, Mommy ran on the stairs and she fell and got hurt.” Her eyes cloud over. “Daddy,” she says. Both Dulcie and I suck in our breath. “You said she didn’t see anything that night,” my friend mutters. I could have sworn Libbie was asleep the night Kirk shoved me, hard, against the kitchen wall, because I told him I was leaving him. The next morning my upper arms sported bruises where he’d gripped me, bruises I thought I’d hid from my daughter. I did exact revenge, however, on Kirk. Let’s just say I ensured his equipment was too sore to use for several days. “Mommy will be all right,” Dulcie says. “Once we take her to the doctor.” “No doctor.” Libbie’s voice is flat and final. “Not for you, munchkin. For me,” I say. “Let me hug you, Lib.” She climbs on the couch next to me, but her body is stiff with fear. Just like me, Libbie does not like changes in her routine. And a hurt mommy signals big changes. “You still want ice cream for breakfast?” Although I offered her a breakfast of ice cream in the heat of desperation, no way I’ll go back on my word. I kiss her sweet-smelling hair. “’kay.” She follows Dulcie into the kitchen, who returns with a mug of freshly-brewed coffee for me. “One nectar of the gods, coming up.” “God bless you, dear.” I sip. Heaven. Coffee always tastes better when she makes it than when I do. She insists there’s no secret ingredient or method. 69

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I think she’s holding out on me. Libbie carries her half-eaten bowl of melted ice cream in her hands, placing it carefully on the coffee table before she crawls up next to me. It hits me that my kid is in for a boring day. Mommy can’t do anything but lie here, pretty much. But Dulcie has come prepared. “Look what I have!” She pulls a DVD box from the oversized messenger bag she uses as a purse. “SpongeBob!” Libbie screams, jumping off the couch and knocking over her bowl. Ice cream floods the Mission oak tabletop. I curse under my breath, but I don’t have it in me to scold my daughter. “I’ll wipe up. Relax,” Dulcie says while I eye the damage. Amazingly, Libbie says, “No more ice cream. SpongeBob now.” “And to go with your new SpongeBob DVD, you have your very own SpongeBob chair.” My friend whips out something flat and plastic and very brightly colored. It’s an inflatable SpongeBob chair. Libbie shrieks this time. Dulcie puts her finger to her lips, saying, “I’ll blow up the chair, but only if you promise to quiet down. First, though, I have to wipe up the ice cream.” Dulcie cleans my probably-ruined table as best she can. That’s what I get for trying to have nice furniture while raising a SpongeBob fanatic. Still, my priorities are in the right order. It’s only furniture. Libbie trots around the living room, singing the SpongeBob song at normal volume and clapping her hands. The pump that Dulcie pulls out of her bag inflates the chair in no time. My daughter is beside herself, petting the chair as if it’s a puppy, while watching her new DVD. “Where the hell did you find these things in the last few hours?” I 70

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say. “Did you shop while I slept? Are you the most perfect friend on the planet, or what?” “Oh, please. I stopped home to get these after dropping Jessie off. I was saving the DVD for her birthday and the chair for Christmas, but I decided it’d be better to give them to her today. She needs distraction.” “I love you so much I could kiss you. Or give you my first born.” “I love Libbie, but, uh, no thanks.” Dulcie plops on the floor, next to the couch. “Do you have a plan yet?” “For what?” “Getting to the doctor.” “Yeah. I’m not.” “Sunny, you could have a broken bone. If you don’t set it, it might heal all wrong and you’ll end up with bigger problems.” I recall my sudden nausea last night, a possible sign that something’s cracked. She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “Listen. There are low-cost community health clinics. Let me take you to one.” “Low-cost is still more than I can afford. Doctors are expensive. So are x-rays.” I resettle myself on the pillows, not looking at her. “Trust me. I know where to take you. We’ll go tomorrow morning. It’s walk-in, which means you may have to wait a few hours. Bring a book. I’ll drive and keep Libbie amused the best I can.” “Like hell you are. You’ve done way too much for me as it is. Not that I’m not deeply grateful.” “I’m taking you to the clinic, and that’s that.” Her chin firms and lifts, which means arguing with her further is pointless. “Oh, geez, all right, if you insist. Thanks, Dulce,” I say, embarrassed by her offer. Sometimes I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such a friend. I’m on my second mug of coffee when someone knocks. “Hey, Ray. Sorry I can’t rise to greet you,” I say. 71

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“Ben told me you were hurt. I juiced some oranges for you.” He holds out a small, elegant glass pitcher for my inspection. Dulcie takes it from him. “Fresh-squeezed would be great. Thanks.” It will kill my wounded tongue, but I don’t say that. “And I brought these.” He produces a pair of crutches. “I’ll have to adjust them, of course, to fit you. They’re left over from my knee surgery. Keep them as long as you’d like.” “Did Ben tell you whether he’s going to stop by? Last night he said he would.” Dulcie asks so I don’t have to. “Kitty called with another crisis, so he won’t be around till much later.” Ray frowns with disgust. “Kitty calls, he jumps.” Kitty? Who the hell is she?

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CHAPTER 6 I’m dying to know who Kitty is and what she means to Ben, but asking seems so, I don’t know, needy or something. Then again, Ray’s wearing a jilted lover’s expression. It’s all too modernly metrosexual for me. “What happened, exactly?” he says, moving his arm to encompass all of me. “I tried to do a good deed and got punished for it.” “What?” Dulcie butts in. “She ran down the stairs in her slippers, trying to catch me before I drove off with the sitter, who left a book behind. Sunny doesn’t seem to understand they’re called slippers for a reason.” “Hi, Libbie.” Ray says. “Want some orange juice?” “Mister Ray, watch SpongeBob.” She pats the floor next to her chair. “Maybe later. I need to talk with your mommy.” He turns to me. 73

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“Have you seen a doctor? I can drive you.” “A little ice, a little ibuprofen, an Ace bandage, and I’ll be fine in a day or two.” “Sunny, that’s the worst-looking ankle I’ve ever seen that didn’t have bone protruding from it.” Dulcie stares at him. “You’ve seen bone sticking out of someone?” “Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate, and neither of us have the guts to pursue it. “Can you stand on it? You could have ripped ligaments,” he says. “You need care.” “Yeah, well, I need a lot of things.” I cross my arms, brooding. Ray bends over, speaking quietly in my ear. “I know you lost your job. Is that why you haven’t gone to the ER? Is it the money? I can lend you anything you need short of major surgery costs.” “Hey, if there’s any money-lending to be done, I’ll do it. I’m the best friend here,” Dulcie says. “How the hell did you find out about my job?” I decide brooding is too mild and progress to sulking. “Oh, please. I know you just took a vacation. Am I supposed to think you’re taking another one a week later? Besides, I overheard you two before you went out last night.” Dulcie slaps her hands on her hips. “I thought you were nice. Eavesdropping’s not nice.” “Then don’t have loud conversations near the bathroom pipes. Plumbing carries sound,” Ray sniffs. I pick up the magazine I was browsing earlier and throw it. “Goddamn it to hell.” “Bad Mommy. You said bad words.” Libbie’s shaking her index finger, a Mini-Me of me. I can’t help laughing. “You’re so right, Lib. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” She turns back to the TV. By now, Dulcie and Ray are snickering. 74

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“Bad Mommy,” Dulcie says, mimicking my scolding voice. “You need a time out.” “Oh, cram it up your—just cram it. Why does everyone think my business is their business?” “Duh, because they care about you?” she says. I sit up straighter and glare into Ray’s eyes. “If you tell Ben about all this, I will kill you with your own crutches.” “No problem. I know I wouldn’t want my landlord to know I was out of a job.” “Hey. How come you could hear a conversation, but not the racket I made last night on the stairs?” I say. “Good question.” Dulcie stares him down. “In a word, earplugs. And Ambien.” “That’s two words,” I say. “She was nicer before she moved in. Is she usually this difficult?” he says over my head. “Ray, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. She’s stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery.” I pretend not to hear them while I sip my coffee. Ray places his hand on the doorknob. “I’m going out for a cinnamon bun. Anybody else want one?” I bob my head. “And a Sunday Globe. For the want ads.” “Save your money. You can have my paper,” Ray says. “Cinnamon bun, Dulcie?” “Take a look at me. Do I look like I need seven hundred calories pasted directly onto my hips?” “I didn’t say need. I said want.” “Oh, gee, in that case, get me six.” “Dulce, damn it, play nice with Ray.” “Mommy.” Libbie’s shaking her finger at me again. I groan. I hate being unable to cuss in my own house. 75

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*

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Sunday passes in a blur, though I do find out that Ben and the woman named Kitty have a significant history that Ray doesn’t elaborate on much. I’m too polite to grill him, but Ben’s and Kitty’s past definitely includes a sexual component; of that, I’m certain. Which should be good news for me—that confirms he’s not gay, right? It’s only a maybe, though. After all, my college fiancé married someone else, had kids, and then came out of the closet on their anniversary. Who said seven is a lucky number? Poor woman. I dodged that bullet only because I broke up with him. We had an enormous fight, because he accused me of stealing his Barbra Streisand CDs. Yes, my gaydar really, really, really sucks. I spend all Monday morning at a clinic. Back home, I’m barely comfortable on the couch when someone knocks. All I want to do is take my prescription painkillers and zone out while the Libster naps, so I don’t want to yell, “Who is it?” and wake up a cranky kid. I’d sooner deny myself the pain meds. I decide to ignore whoever it is, only they won’t let me. They’re knocking louder now. Dulcie’s gone to work for a few hours, so if the door’s getting answered, it’ll have to be by me. I struggle to my feet, but I’m not the most coordinated person around, so one of the crutches slips out of my reach, clattering on the bare wooden floor. I fervently hope the noise hasn’t awakened the tiny monster. I hop ten feet to the door, using the single crutch to keep me from falling. Once I reach the door, I peer through the peephole. Nobody’s there. “Hello?” I say, willing my quiet response to penetrate the old wood. “Sunny?” 76

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I peep again. It’s Ben. With more eagerness than I should feel, I throw the chain and unlock the deadbolt. “How’re you doing?” he says while I cling to the edge of the door for support. “I’ve been better. What’s up?” His sea-green eyes bore into mine. “You going to invite me in?” I hop back to the couch in reply. I hear him close and lock the door. “That’s some bandage,” he says. “Nothing’s broken?” “Just a bad sprain is all. I’m supposed to leave my ankle taped up for forty-eight hours. I can switch to an Ace bandage after that. Ow,” I say when I try to get comfortable on the couch. Only having one useable leg is becoming more and more annoying. “Let me help you,” he says, lifting my leg onto the pillows gingerly while I wince. “You need to keep your injury elevated. RICE, you know.” “Rice?” I haven’t taken any Percocet yet, so I don’t understand why he’s spouting gibberish. “Stands for Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. What you do after an injury.” I blink. “You an M.D. as well as a Ph.D.?” “Just someone who plays sports badly and therefore occasionally racks himself up. Now that your ankle’s elevated, I’ll fetch an ice pack. You’re already resting, and the tape is serving as a compression bandage.” Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. It makes sense, sort of. He returns with an ice pack, wrapped in my dish towel. “Sorry. I couldn’t find anything but this towel.” “Works for me.” I exhale with a sort of “ah” sound, enjoying the blessed relief of the cold. “Okay. What else can I do for you?” 77

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If my ankle didn’t hurt so badly, I swear I’d grab his hand and place it on my—never mind. But that’s what I’d like him to do for me. Instead, I say, “Some water to wash down a pill? And some crackers. They’re in the tall cabinet, next to the cereal.” It must be years since I ate last. Breakfast was a hurried affair of toast and mediocre coffee, and lunch was part of a cold burger. Dulcie, bless her, took my daughter to the McDonald’s down the street to let her burn off energy on the playground. As for me, between my exam and my x-rays, I missed the window for a decent lunch. He brings me a paper plate with saltines and a couple of slices of American cheese. “I’ll make you a grilled cheese, if you want.” I shake my head. Then I gobble most of the food and suck down the pill with the entire glass of water. I didn’t realize I was so hungry and thirsty till I started eating. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fix you something? You demolished the cheese and crackers, and you look like—I mean, you don’t look like you need to lose weight.” Ben’s staring at me as if I’m an exotic animal. What he’s not doing is staring at me as if I’m sexy. And that pisses me off. “I appreciate your concern and help, I really do. But you can go now. I’m used to taking care of myself.” He’s still staring, so I say, “You’re my landlord, not my nurse. I said I’m all right. You can go.” “Aren’t you going to tell me?” “Tell you what?” I snap. “That you lost your job.” Oh, crap on a cracker. Wait a minute. How would he know? Did Ray tell him? Or is he just a lucky guesser? 78

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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, nonchalantly reaching for a magazine. “The real estate agent called your work. Seems there’s some piece of paper Heather forgot about that we both have to sign. She told me they said you no longer work there. Is it true?” I want to tear out Heather’s heart and cook it over hot coals. “They were supposed to leave my extension up for a month,” pops out of my mouth. He sits down in the designated visit-the-invalid chair, hands behind his head, legs crossed the way men do, foot on knee. “When were you planning to tell me?” When cornered, attack. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, as long as I pay my rent.” “Why are you treating me like I’m your enemy?” I keep my eyes averted by picking lint off a fleecy throw on the back of the couch. “You’re an adversary of sorts because we have a contractual agreement. If I don’t live up to it, you can throw me out on my ass.” “How long have you lived in Boston?” he says. “Years. Why?” “Then you should know that ‘throwing you out on your ass’ isn’t easy to do under Boston’s tenancy laws. Evict a single mother for nonpayment of rent? It could take a year, or longer, depending on the judge. Not to mention I don’t want to throw you out. I’d rather give you a break on the rent, help you get back on your feet.” “A verbal promise is worth the paper it’s printed on.” “We can draw up a contract to adjust the rent, if you want. I’m serious, Sunny. I don’t want to evict you. You don’t seem the type to run out on your responsibilities.” My pride won’t let me accept what he’s offering. 79

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“I don’t understand all this concern for a tenant,” I shoot back. “You’ve been oh, so helpful and considerate that it makes me wonder what you want out of the deal.” “What I want?” He’s standing now, red creeping into his face. His eyes are cold little bits of jade. “You think I’m offering you a break on the rent to get you into bed? You think I’m after that?” Wow. He sure laid it out on the table. The hurt in his voice shames me into speaking more kindly. “No, I don’t think you’re that crass.” “That crass?” His eyebrows shoot toward the ceiling. “Look, everyone wants something. You don’t know me at all, and you’ve been incredibly friendly considering what we have is basically a business relationship. Why?” He turns away to walk around my living room, his lips pursed, gazing at the floor. He stops to face me. “Tell me why I saw you coming out of the health clinic this afternoon.” I’m stunned, try to cover it. “I don’t know what—” “Can it, Sunny. I saw you, and Dulcie, and Libbie. I know the kind of people who use the clinic.” I rise off the couch as much as my battered ankle will allow. “‘The kind of people?’ You ignorant snob—” “What I mean is, you don’t have insurance, do you?” I find more lint to pick off the fleecy throw while he continues. “It all makes sense now. No job. Your reluctance to go to the ER Saturday night. Going to the clinic instead of your usual doctor. Don’t even try to convince me your regular doctor works there.” “Ben, I’m not in the mood to have my face rubbed in my troubles. I’ll manage. I always do. Now please go away.” 80

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Crying in front of him would be the ultimate humiliation. I will my tears to recede. Stay angry. Anger works. Anger chases away tears. “I watched my sister struggle; Carole used to be a single mom. I guess I’m just projecting her onto you. I’m sorry if I invaded your privacy.” His hand is on the deadbolt when I say, “Wait.” He’s not looking at me, but he’s not leaving, either. “I’m the one who should apologize. You’ve been kind and I’m a paranoid jerk. I have my reasons, good reasons, for being a paranoid jerk, but that doesn’t excuse my rudeness.” I pat the air in the direction of the chair. “Please, sit down.” He sits, but he’s tense, perching on the edge of his seat. “May I suggest something?” Proper grammar. Wary tone. My lack of trust surfaces again. I make a noncommittal noise. “Before you say anything, just listen. It worked for my sister, all right?” “How do I even know you have a sister?” “I’ll give you Carole’s number. I’ll give you my parents’ number. All of them live in California. I’ll give you all the damned 411 you want. Just shut up a minute. Please.” “Being told to shut up so turns me on.” In a low voice, he says, “Marry me.” I blink a moment. “Okay. I’d like a two-carat diamond and a May wedding, please, at the Ritz-Carlton.” “I’m not joking.” “In that case, no. Had a husband once. Don’t want another one.” He leans forward in the chair, as if he’s willing me to listen. “Carole married a guy she’s known for years. It was strictly for health 81

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insurance. Hers was total crap, and my nephew needed surgery. So they wrote an agreement, got married, and my nephew was taken care of medically. Then they divorced, and he agreed to keep her on the insurance as part of the decree. When she fell in love with James, her current husband, she married him and went on his health insurance. Everyone’s living happily ever after.” “What about the guy? The one who married her? Is he married now, too?” “Bruce? He’s gay.” “Oh.” “You have a problem with gay men?” I don’t like the way he’s regarding me, so I keep it light. “Of course not. How could you think that? You know I’m very fond of Ray.” And you. I’m fond of you. Am I supposed to draw a parallel between Bruce and you? Are you gay? His breath sort of whooshes out. “I didn’t really think you were homophobic, but I had to ask, because our marriage would be like my sister’s—in name only. No sex or anything, I mean.” I think he just answered my question. Disappointment washes over me. “We’d draw up a pre-nup or something like it, right?” I ask. “Sure. And we’d continue to have separate lives, live in our own apartments. The only thing that would change is that you and Libbie would be covered under my insurance. My U. has the best around, and it would go into effect the minute we married.” A light bulb goes on. My eyes narrow. “How did you see me at the clinic, if you were coming home from school? It’s not on your way.” “I didn’t go straight home. I needed something from a classic car parts shop over on Western Ave. I saw the three of you after that.” 82

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I play with the fuzz on the throw again. “And you’re serious about this?” “Absolutely. It would be just like being single, except you’d have insurance.” “But marrying you brings in a host of legal ties. It doesn’t matter what kind of agreement we write. Suppose you disagree with the way I’m raising my daughter.” “But I don’t.” “That’s not the point. Suppose you did. You could make a lot of trouble for me. I don’t want you or anyone else having a legal tie to her. Not even Kirk the Jerk. Though I can’t do anything about that, him being her father. Or at least the sperm donor.” “You really hate him, don’t you?” His wariness is back. “You have no idea.” I close my eyes. The Percocet has kicked in, and the throb in my foot and ankle is receding. Silence settles over the apartment, broken only by the whirring of the window fan. “If I died while married to you, you would inherit everything I own,” I say. “From what I understand, it’s not that much.” I open my eyes. The corners of his mouth are twitching upward. I smile. “Touché. Actually, I like that you’d inherit instead of Kirk. I’d rather anyone inherit my stuff than him.” “If you haven’t made out a will, Libbie would probably inherit, not me. Forgive my nosiness, but if you haven’t designated a guardian, you need to define custody in case you die. That is, if you don’t want Kirk to take her, or some other relative.” I steal a glance. Compassion radiates from him, and he’s quickly demolishing my objections. Having real insurance again would lessen my stress. 83

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But you don’t know him at all. Maybe he’s not as nice as you think. I decide to ignore the paranoid loser that occupies a corner of my brain. “Thank you,” I say. “Huh?” “Thank you for offering. Marrying me puts certain legal ties on you, too, so, thanks. But because my kid is, well, my life, I need to think about it.” “No pressure. I just hate to see you struggling and stressed out, that’s all. I want to help, and supplying health insurance is a way I can do so easily.” He pauses before saying, “I like you.” “I like you, too.” I keep my tone light, refusing to analyze his statement of affection. Not for the moment, anyway. I know I will later. Hell, I’m a woman, aren’t I? “What about insurance for domestic partners?” I say. “We wouldn’t have to be married that way.” Please give me some clue why you are offering marriage to a relative stranger. “I’ll check into it. But I’m pretty sure the U. doesn’t offer it. Ray and I talked about using the domestic partner angle so he could have affordable insurance, but the last time I asked, I was told no.” His eyes seem to focus on something far away. “I’m not sure it would have worked out, anyway.” I’m left to ponder whatever the hell that means. “Why are you so eager to marry me?” I say. Ben’s gaze shifts away. “Partly because of my sister’s situation. I guess I’m paying it forward. Doing a good deed.” “But why?” “Because I’m a nice guy?” He smiles briefly while opening the front door. “As I said, I like you. And you need help. You deserve help, with a kid and all. Think about it.” 84

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I let it go. “All right, I’ll think about it.” After he leaves, I drift off on the couch. I’m having an interesting dream involving the Grissom character on CSI. Until he starts patting my hair and calling me Mommy. “Mommy, Mommy. Wake up, Mommy.” I lift one eyelid. Not Grissom, but Libbie, and I’m thankful. The dream would be way too icky if he were calling me Mommy. I don’t want a man with an Oedipal complex, not even in my dreams. “Mommy,” she repeats. “What, sweetie?” “Hungry. Hot dog.” “Hot dog what?” I remind her. “Hot dog please.” “Oh, shoot. I don’t have any buns.” She usually ends up eating the bun and leaving half the meat behind. So she switches gears. “Grill cheese. And ice cream.” “Why am I not surprised you want ice cream. Okay, Lib, you have to move so Mommy can stand up.” She doesn’t budge. “I help Mommy.” “No, honey, I mean, thank you very much, Libbie, but I need to do it myself. You remember how good you feel when you do something hard all by yourself, right?” “Uh-huh.” She moves aside. I drag myself to standing, pop the crutches under my armpits, then hobble to the kitchen. I hop around on one foot while gathering a frying pan, bread that Libbie will eat (she’s strictly a white bread kid), margarine, and radioactive orange American cheese. (Is there any other kind? Not for my munchkin. She violently refuses to eat the pale yellow variety.) “You have fun with Aunt Dulcie today?” I drop two slices of bread, 85

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margarine-side-down, on the nonstick surface. Grilled cheese and ice cream for dinner work for me, too. “It was a pretty day outside.” “Gotta Happy Meal,” she says. “And slide. She let me go slide lots and lots.” Libbie adores slides more than anything else on the playground. Sounds of distant traffic wash over me like white noise. I’m making dinner for my munchkin, happy in the moment. On each slice of frying bread, I place two slices of cheese and another piece of bread on top, margarine side up. The kitchen is filling with the tantalizing aroma of comfort food. I pull out paper plates and plastic cups. “What do you want to drink?” “Grape juice.” “Me, too.” I’m about to pour her juice when she says, “I like being home with you, Mommy.” My hand pauses. My kid has never said anything remotely like this before. Not out of the blue. “You like it more than playing with everyone at Miss Claudette’s?” I say, naming her favorite person at her former day care. “Uh-huh. More funner with you.” I am bathing in the glow known as, I must be a good mother, look what my kid just said. “Lib, would you like a purple cow?” That’s grape juice and vanilla ice cream, to the uninitiated. “Mommeee!” she says, gleefully bouncing up and down in her chair. “Yes, Mommeee!” I’m trying to reward her as best I can. Maybe somewhere down in her brain a little conditioning is happening. Say something nice to Mommy, get a purple cow. “Know what? I’m going to have one, too. And let’s have Tater Tots.” 86

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“Yes, Mommy, Tater Tots, Tater Tots!” She’s singing and bouncing the way four-year-olds do when they’re anticipating something they love. Okay, I’m not one of those perfect Stepford moms. I’m not Martha Stewart, either. I feed my kid junk food on occasion. Get over it. I throw the frozen potato thingies into the microwave. It says to bake them, but I don’t have twenty minutes. They come out okay. Well, at least they’re hot. And Libbie doesn’t care. She’s scarfing grilled cheese and tater things and sucking down her purple cow as if she hasn’t eaten in three days. One thing my kid will do is eat. She might eat only seven things in the world, and they all have to be composed of dairy or starch or sugar, but at least she eats. I have a forkful of microwaved greasy potato en route to my mouth when I hear noises. Lib’s chattering about SpongeBob and Rugrats. I shush her a moment. It sounds as if someone is trying to open my apartment door. I limp to the living room as quietly as I can, which isn’t very, and grab the portable phone. I’m about to punch in 911 when I hear the sound of dropped keys and a distinctive curse. “Dulcie?” “It’s me, it’s me. I’ve got your keys. Don’t get up off the couch.” My bedraggled friend staggers in. “I’m so friggin’ tired I could sleep standing up.” She sees the phone in my hand. “Oops. I didn’t scare you, did I?” “You were about three seconds from fame with 911.” “Sorry about taking the keys with me.” She places them on the coffee table while sniffing the air. “Tater Tots?” “And grilled cheese and purple cows. Come eat if you want.” “I have a fancy salad I picked up, some Asian chicken thing.” She hesitates, sighs. “Oh, what the hell. So what if my ass balloons bigger 87

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than Texas. No, you sit. I’ll make my own.” I’m glad to let her take over as I sink back into my rickety chair. The comfort food hits the spot, and the Fifties-style, Formica and metal table feels like home. It’s one of the few pieces of furniture I own that’s cheap and ugly. But tonight, it seems so right here in my new kitchen. My new apartment. Mine. No, ours. Mine and Libbie’s. I suck noisily on my straw, greedy for the last drops of grape juice mixed with sweet cream. Dulcie says, “Libbie, let me show you how to give your purple cow gas.” My daughter giggles when Dulcie blows through a straw to create bubbles, spraying sticky purple liquid on herself. “I guess you didn’t want that shirt anyway, did you?” I say. “It’s white cotton. It’ll bleach, no sweat.” “You’re worse than my kid.” “And your point is?” She covers her nuked taters in ketchup, acts offended when she sees my expression. “What? Ketchup’s a vegetable, right? So I should eat a lot of it.” She chews, making a face. “These really don’t turn out well in the microwave, do they?” “But they’re faster that way.” “True. Hey, what did you do this afternoon? Get any rest?” I make a split-second decision not to tell her about Ben’s offer. I’m simply too tired to discuss it tonight, and she’ll want to discuss it to death. “A little. Ben came by to say hello. We chatted.” She points at me with her half-eaten sandwich. “You’re holding out on me. I can always tell.” I give in. Otherwise, she’ll nag me till I scream. “Talk about it later, okay?” I shoot my eyes at Libbie. She raises her eyebrows, but says nothing except, “I’ll do the 88

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dishes. You go rest if you want.” A few minutes later, she’s on her way out the door, saying, “Call me?” I nod while reading to Libbie. Harold and the Purple Crayon feels just right after drinking a purple cow. *

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After Libbie falls asleep, I resolve to tackle the hairy mess known as my finances. I’ve watched all the television and read all the books and magazines I can stand, and my ankle doesn’t leave me with many options for entertainment. So, I gather up what I need to address the issues and flop down in front of the computer. Shit. If checkbooks could bite, I’d be missing an arm. I stare at my balance as if it were a coiled cobra. No matter how I stretch the money, no matter how frugally we eat and live, we’ll be in the red within two months. And that includes my one month’s severance. I thought I had more of a cushion. I thought I had three months’ expenses saved, just in case. My ankle is killing me, but I don’t want to take a pill. I need the pain to keep me sane. I need a clear head to figure out a plan. I applied for unemployment last week, but I know what I’ll receive won’t be enough. However, I find a bright spot on the Division of Unemployment Assistance web site. I might (or might not) be eligible for the Medical Security Plan, whatever that is. Sounds like insurance. Hooray! And, according to another site I link to, I’ll be eligible for the federal Food Stamps program, too. My independent side dislikes taking food stamps, but I’ve gotta feed my kid. The down side is that both these programs will make me count child 89

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support as part of my income, even though I’m certain I’ve seen the last of it. My bastard ex, Kirk, has vanished. All my inquiries regarding his whereabouts have dead-ended. One thing is clear: I’ll have more money if I don’t work temp, unless I find a contract that pays really, really well. When I’m not working, I’m not racking up day care costs. I lean back, running rough figures in my head. Unemployment will cover the rent and the utilities, if I’m lucky. With food stamps, we’ll eat three weeks out of four if we stick to cheap, filling foods like macaroni and cheese. (Libbie will be thrilled to eat one of her favorite foods for days on end.) However, forget paying for health insurance. We’ll have to do without it unless I qualify for the Medical Security Plan. I pray for Libbie’s asthma to take a permanent vacation. I think about cable TV. I can use my free dial-up Internet account, but cable TV is a luxury we can’t afford. Then I picture Libbie with no SpongeBob, Rugrats, and so on. I really don’t want to take her small pleasures away. There must be a way to squeeze out enough money to keep Nickelodeon. Wait a minute. Duh! I have a savings account. I haven’t added anything to it in so long that I’d forgotten about it. I return to the computer and log in to the bank holding the account, a tiny savings bank over in East Cambridge. I started it years ago, when Kirk and I lived on Hampshire Street. I must have several thousand in it. The earned interest won’t be much, but if the account holds as much as ten grand, I can start to breathe again. I log in, only to see: BALANCE: $10.01. My breathing stops dead.

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CHAPTER 7 I gape. This can’t be true. I know I have almost ten thousand dollars. I know I’m entering the proper ID and password. I know— Kirk. Did I forget to remove his name from the account? Apparently I did, according to the information in front of me. No other explanation for the missing money exists. Unless I’m a victim of identity theft and didn’t discover it till now. There’s a cheery thought for you. I click the DETAIL button. On August twenty-ninth, someone withdrew $9,783.55. It wasn’t me. I start tearing into boxes, hopping and hobbling and cursing through tightly-clenched jaws. I want to see the latest statement. The information on the screen may be more up-to-date, but I need to see account information in black-and-white, on paper. Irrational, but paper records of bank accounts seem more real than the glowing pixels 91

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displaying BALANCE: $10.01. Or maybe I’m just Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. A pile of rubber-banded envelopes appears at the bottom of a box full of papers. The envelope on top has a postmark of June. The address is our old apartment; Kirk moved back in after I moved out to live with Dulcie. The June statement has both Kirk’s and my name on it. I can’t locate any statements with Dulcie’s address on them, nor any with only my name on them. Well, hell. The son of a bitch not only canceled the health insurance, he not only skipped town, he also cleaned out my account down to the minimum balance. He would have needed my signature to close it, so he took what he could and split. And I have no one to blame but myself. I simply forgot to take his name off. And I forgot to change the address. Of course, he didn’t exactly remind me of these facts. No, I’ll bet Kirk-the-World-Class-Jerk-Thief counted on my forgetting. I feel incredibly stupid. Looooserrrr. Wet splashes soak the paper. I must be crying. But I never cry when I’m angry. But I have to cry, or burst. I collapse on the couch, grab a pillow, and howl into it. I’m too stupid to live. I’ll never find a job. I’m a loser. Looooserrrr. Libbie and I will be homeless. We’ll starve. We’ll die. And it will be all my fault. Sure, Kirk stole the money. But I was too dumb to remember to take his name off the account. I’m too dumb to live. 92

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Looooserrrr. After a few moments, my sobs taper off to sniffles. I have to hop across the room for tissues to mop my face. Okay, Sunny, deal with it. Unemployment will pay the rent, with a few dollars left over. Food stamps will mostly feed us. I’ll dump my cell phone. Wait. No. I’ll dump the land line and access the internet at the local library branch, and I’ll drop down to the cheapest cell phone plan that exists. And Libbie will have to make do with whatever we can receive on the television via an antenna. Though she’s never been fond of Sesame Street and all the other PBS children’s shows. Do they still make antennas? Maybe Ben knows. After all, he’s a science kind of guy. I dish up more ice cream, squirt on gobs of chocolate syrup, dump in some chocolate chips for good measure, and then call Dulcie. My problem is too big to handle without her and lots of sugar. “You calling to tell me about Ben’s visit today?” she says once she knows it’s me. “Yes. And also to discuss the problem of how Libbie and I will survive on unemployment.” “You’re welcome to move back here and save beaucoup bucks on rent.” “We lived under your feet for months. I’m not going back unless my situation’s reduced to bare survival. Besides, Ben offered to cut the rent till I get a job, and pay him back later.” I pause. “He also offered to marry me so Libbie and I could have health insurance.” “You can’t be serious.” “What can’t you believe? That he actually said that, or that I’m actually considering it?” “Details, honey, details.” I relate the entire conversation as closely as I can come to word-for93

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word. She never interrupts, not once. After I wind down, she says one thing. “I think you should do it.” Dumbfounded, I say, “You do? Why?” “Well, if you’re not going to move back in with me, and you don’t have a job by the time your severance pay runs out, you’re going to run out of money pretty quickly.” She clears her throat. “You have an IRA or 401K you can tap?” “No. Kirk and I never thought about retirement. When I suspected we were through, I concentrated on saving up enough cash to tide me over in case of an emergency like this. Only he stole my emergency fund.” “Okay, don’t kill me for suggesting this, but you could call your parents.” “N-O. No.” “In that case, you are royally screwed, darlin’. So marry Ben and negotiate a cheaper rent. And start selling excess possessions on eBay.” “That means I have to keep my landline for internet access.” “You should do that anyway, simply because so many jobs are advertised on the net these days. What’s your land line run a month, twenty bucks?” “About that.” “Cut the cell phone plan back as far as you can, and cancel cable. I can buy some tapes and record all the SpongeBob and Rugrats you need. Think Lib can make do with tapes?” “I think I want to kiss you. Maybe I should marry you instead of Ben.” “Last I checked, the Massachusetts Supreme Court said we could. Only trouble is, I don’t make crap and my insurance isn’t worth the plastic card my ID number’s printed on.” I’m mulling over what she said when I hear her yawn. 94

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“I need to go to bed pretty soon,” she says. It’s after ten, my ankle’s throbbing again, and I’m exhausted, too. “I should sleep on all of this, I guess. Thanks for listening. Call me tomorrow?” “On my morning coffee break,” she says, “unless I have so many fires to fight that the damned place is burning down around me.” *

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I must have made it to the bed at some point, because that’s where I wake up. I can see the sun shining behind the window shades, and the clock says nine. Why didn’t Libbie come wake me up? I grab the crutches and roll out of bed, curious and a little worried. In my haste, I whack my bad ankle against the maple rocker. I use every curse word I ever learned and a few more I make up on the spot. Tears still in my eyes from the pain, I totter to the living room, where my daughter is quietly watching television. A fuchsia plastic bowl containing a spoon, a little milk, and a few soggy Cheerios rests next to her on the floor. “Hi, pumpkin,” I say. “Mommy, come watch,” she says, patting the floor. “Can’t sit on the floor with my hurt foot. Want to sit on the couch next to me?” She comes to cuddle. I quickly lose track of what’s on the screen, because I’m absorbed in thoughts from the day before. Libbie. Rent. Food. No job. No money. Ben. Marriage. And none of it’s any clearer than it was last night. Sleeping on a decision is vastly overrated, I decide while I enjoy the warmth and sweet, milky smell of my little girl. Sometimes I’m not sure who is more comforted by our cuddling, her or me. 95

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“Honey, is it all right if Mommy goes to the kitchen for breakfast?” “Uh-huh.” Her eyes are fixed on the television. She’s watched entirely too much TV since I lost my job and racked up my ankle. Today, I decide, we will go outside and do something outdoorsy. I have no idea what, and I can’t move very far with no car and only one operational foot, but I vow while the coffee drips that we will do something that doesn’t involve television this morning. I remember we have a back yard here. Might as well try it. “Hey Lib,” I say, “let’s go in the back yard and play. Want to throw the ball around?” “I want hoppy thing,” she says. It takes a while, but we manage to move “the hoppy thing” (which resembles an enormous fitness ball with a handle—you sit on the ball and bounce up and down), along with her, me, and a mug of coffee, to the ground floor. I’m slurping my life-giving brew and hoping Ben doesn’t mind my sitting on the back porch. The first floor back porch is his, but a mother can’t exactly sit on a second floor porch while her kid is down in the yard, can she? I inhale deeply, enjoying the crisp tang of early fall—drying leaves with a hint of chrysanthemum. Movement catches my eye. The blinds have just been raised in the window to my immediate left. I nearly drop my mug. It’s Ben, au naturel. He stretches for a moment, stopping my breath and almost my heart. Wowie zowie. Even with a painkiller in me, I feel all the things you’re supposed to feel when you catch a glimpse of a naked, godlike man. Without his goofy glasses, he’s damned close to godlike. Who knew a nerd could be so hot? The image that flares in my head is so erotic, my face flames with heat. Abruptly, the blinds fly down. I could swear we had a moment of 96

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eye contact immediately before the show ended. I can’t help sighing. Ben is the first man I’ve truly wanted in a good, long while. The lust singing in my veins makes me feel like I’m seventeen again. A very horny seventeen who knows a lot more about sex than she used to. Libbie occasionally shouts things to me while bouncing about, thrilled to be playing outdoors like a normal four-year-old. She is a normal four-year-old, I remind myself. And she deserves a normal life. You’d take any reasonable job to keep food on the table and a roof over her head. Do what you have to do to care for her. The back door of Ben’s apartment opens, and he emerges fullydressed, carrying his own mug of coffee. “Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were on the porch. Not used to having someone else living here. The house across the yard can’t see into my, uh, windows, so I didn’t think…” His voice trails off. He is steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with me. “I did not mind the unexpected scenery. Trust me. You’re hot without your glasses on, you know.” “Me? Hot? You must have me confused with this coffee.” He takes a sip, still not looking at me. “Seriously, why don’t you wear contacts?” “I tried them, hated the feeling of something in my eyes all the time.” He grimaces. “For the record, I like the way you look in glasses.” I feel my face grow hot when I confess my small kink. “But most women would probably like you better without them.” He shrugs. For all his suggestive T-shirts and stage persona, he’s shy, I realize. I sit back down and try my damnedest to engage him. “How about those Red Sox? And aren’t we having nice weather?” I 97

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say. He must get my joking use of conversational clichés, because he visibly relaxes, leaning against the house’s wall. “I’m more of a Bruins fan,” he says. “Hockey’s been my game since I played it as a kid. Started when I was eight. Too bad there’s no season this year.” “I didn’t realize hockey was so big in California.” “My folks lived in Canada for a while. That’s where I learned about hockey. Dad used to flood the back yard with the hose so I could practice.” I don’t know squat about hockey, so I say instead, “Are you Canadian?” “No. My father was working for a corporation that transferred him to Edmonton for much of my childhood. That’s in Alberta, western Canada.” “I know where Edmonton is.” I’m annoyed that he thinks I’m geographically ignorant. “Have you been there?” He finally looks at me, his eyes peeping over the rim of his mug. “I’m not very traveled. My ex—” I stop. “Seems like I always talk about my ex to you.” “It’s okay.” He’s still holding eye contact. “Kirk liked beaches, casinos, and all that. I’ve been to every island in the Caribbean, I think, but that’s all.” “Hey, Mommy, look!” Libbie doesn’t like my attention diverted from her. “Lookin’ good, Lib,” I call. “How high can you bounce?” “This high!” Libbie bounds around the yard. “You don’t like beaches?” he says. He’s still meeting my gaze. That’s good. I shrug. “The beach is okay. I’m more of a woods and mountains 98

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person. And I definitely hate casinos.” “I thought you’ve seen a lot of the U.S. Didn’t your parents move a lot?” I can’t remember whether I ever said that, but it’s not a state secret. “Yes, they did.” “And why was that?” I avert my eyes and drink coffee. The silence stretches out uncomfortably. Finally I say, “Don’t you have to go to work?” I swing my glance back to him in time to see his body stiffen. “You want me to leave you alone, just say so.” His hand reaches for the door. Sunny, you idiot. “No! That’s not what I meant.” I sigh. “I was trying to change the subject, that’s all.” He settles against the wall again. “My first class isn’t till one. I was up late working. I do most of my work at home and I’m not usually on campus except for classes and office hours.” “What do you do besides teach that you can do it at home?” “Research. Calculations. Writing papers and my book. Grading exams.” “What’s your book about?” He grins. “Physics. Seriously, I’ll bore you if I tell you what it’s about, in great detail.” “No, it won’t.” I smile to encourage him. “It’s an attempt to reconcile two theories. One is that the universe is expanding, the other is that it’s contracting. Anything more than that, you need to know something about my field. Do you?” I shake my head. “I’m too stupid to understand that stuff.” His mug stops halfway to his mouth. “Stupid? You? Now that statement’s stupid. But not you.” 99

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“I was never good at science.” “Doesn’t mean you’re stupid. For example, I’m a whiz at physics, but there are other things I’m not good at.” “Like what?” Now it’s his turn to look away, his mouth firmly closed. “Hmm, touchy subject?” “Let’s agree on something. I won’t ask you about your childhood, and you won’t ask me about things I’m not good at. Deal?” “Deal.” I watch my kid. We drink our coffee. “Have you thought any more about my offer?” he says. “A lot. But I haven’t reached a decision yet. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re proposing. So to speak.” He chuckles. “Word play. I like that in a person. Well, my mug’s empty, and I have to work some more before I head to campus. Talk to you later.” I watch him pull the door shut behind him. Its closing feels symbolically final. I make up my mind on the spot, heaving myself to my feet. When I knock, his door opens instantly. One look at my face, and he reads my thoughts. The warmth of his smile radiates toward me. “Want to go for the blood tests today?” he says.

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CHAPTER 8 “I can’t believe you don’t want me for your maid of honor,” Dulcie says, her body language screaming, “pout.” “Witness, not maid of honor. And Massachusetts doesn’t require witnesses for weddings,” I say. “So it’s just Ben and me standing up.” “Then I’m an honored guest. In any case, I’m going to your wedding.” We’re in my bedroom, choosing something for me to wear to the contract signing, as I like to think of it, which is barely twenty minutes away. Jessie, the sitter, is with Libbie, watching one of the many SpongeBob tapes Dulcie made for my kid. “Why don’t you want Libbie at your wedding?” Dulcie’s sulky tone has me gritting my teeth to keep from snapping at her. “Going would only confuse her. Besides, life as she knows it is not going to change. That’s the reason I agreed to this marriage—to keep her life stable.” 101

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“I see your point.” She scrutinizes the few dresses hanging in my closet. “How about this one?” she says, pulling out a pink monstrosity I haven’t worn in at least five years. “Too frilly.” “Too frilly for your wedding day?” “Damn it, it’s not my wedding day. Not the way you mean. We’re having a simple civil ceremony, over and done with in less than five minutes. Speaking of which, you’ll never guess what the justice of the peace is charging us for our few minutes of words.” “At least I don’t have to wear an icky bridesmaid’s dress,” she mutters, still peering into my closet. “Dulcie, this is so very not all about you.” I sit on the bed. I want to cry. I hate all of this fuss. “Did you consider wearing the gown you—” “Not for one nanosecond did I think of wearing the same dress I married Kirk the Jerk in.” “Nanosecond? Has Ben been teaching you about physics? Hmm?” She tilts her head, placing an index finger on her cheek. “Maybe about the laws of attraction between heavenly bodies?” “You’ve been reading Scientific American again, haven’t you?” “Nah, I just remember the intro physics course I took in college to satisfy the science requirement.” I know better than to stop Dulcie mid-story, even if it’s one I’ve heard before. “Zoology meant cutting up nasty things, and botany involved too much memorization. I was afraid I’d blow myself up in chem lab, so physics it was.” “I went to a college that didn’t require science,” I say. “I know, darlin’.” She snaps her fingers. “What about the karaoke dress?” “It looks black,” I say. “I may feel like wearing black, but I’m not 102

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going to do so. It would tempt the wedding gods into springing a catastrophe on us all.” I pull my hair off my face and twist it into an updo. It’s not great, but it’s okay. I secure it with pins. “That dress isn’t black, it’s midnight blue. It and your silver heels would be sexy. Oh, wait. Your ankle isn’t well enough for heels.” “Dulcie. It’s a glorified contract signing. I don’t need to look sexy.” “So, you’re going to wear one of your shapeless business suits instead? No, I’m your maid of honor—” “Guest!” “—honored guest, and I know what’s best. And that dress is it. Anyway, then you’ll have something blue and something old. But you still need something new and something borrowed.” I throw up my hands. “Do what you want. I’m only the one getting married.” “Thank you for coming to your senses. Here,” she says, handing me a small box. “It’s your something new.” I open the gold-papered box to find a lovely choker of freshwater pearls strung on cream-colored silk, each pearl held in place with a small knot on either side. A small dangle of pearls on French wires matches the necklace. She made this for me, I know, because her hobby is crafting jewelry, mostly with non-precious stones. Freshwater pearls cost. “Do you like them? Oh, please don’t be mad at me,” she says, her body language screaming for my approval. “I’m a hopeless romantic, I know.” “I—I—” I swallow hard, wanting to cry. “They’re beautiful, Dulce. Thank you.” “Give me five minutes, and you’ll outdo the pearls.” She works her usual makeup magic—I never was one to spend time foo-foo-ing my face—and I look as good as I did the night I sang, the night I tore up my ankle. I gaze at my stockinged feet—the injured one 103

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is still bruised, puffy and sore. “Shoes.” She taps her chin with an index finger. “How about those black flats you wore when you were pregnant?” She slides one over my sore foot. It’s a tight fit and it hurts, but I no longer have the heart to scold my friend. “Okay?” she says. I nod. She places the other shoe on the floor so that I can slip it on. It’s a little loose, but I can live with it. “Ready to go?” I say, leaning on my cane to stand. “Too bad this stupid cane doesn’t match.” “Wait,” she says, producing a hair ornament covered with freshwater pearls that I’ve admired on her. She places it in my ’do. “There’s your something borrowed.” On our way out the door, we say good-bye to Jessie and Libbie, who doesn’t much notice, wrapped up as she is in her bright yellow undersea buddy. “Thank God we don’t have to go far,” I say, limping up the stairs. Ray has kindly offered his living room for the wedd—er, contract signing. The justice of the peace requires us to supply our own location. Ray opens the door, as excited as a small, yapping dog. “Sunny! You’re breathtakingly lovely.” He beams at me as if I’m a favorite niece. “The justice of the peace isn’t here yet, but your groom is.” Ray’s worse than Dulcie. You’d think this wedding was the culmination of a storybook courtship. My groom looks great in his dark gray suit and dorky glasses. But I doubt an article of clothing exists in which he would look bad. I think back to the moment I glimpsed him without any clothing. Unmistakable tingles zip around my lower tummy. “You look great. I wish you’d told me what you were planning to 104

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wear,” Ben says. “I’m in my best outfit, but the way you look, I should have rented a tux.” “I wanted to wear one of my pantsuits,” I say. “Not for your wedding day,” Ray cries. “Not a pants suit. Mercy. You’re a girl.” I lean on my cane and sweep my gaze across them all. “For the last time, this is not my wedding day. Ben and I are entering into a legal contract, that’s all. Besides, a pants suit would better match these ugly shoes I have to wear. Heels are out for the duration.” Ben clears his throat. “I have something for you.” Mmm, I have something for you, too, lover boy. Shut up, Sunny. This isn’t about sex. It’s about health insurance, and insurance is as sexless as you get. He hands me a shiny white box. A florist’s box. “I thought you should have flowers at the very least, seeing as how you wouldn’t let me pay for anything else.” “You’re paying half the JP’s fee and supplying me with health insurance. That’s more than enough.” I insisted on paying for the marriage license and refused his offer of a wedding band, purchasing an inexpensive 10K gold one by myself at Wal-Mart. I don’t plan to wear it unless one of us needs medical care. I sort of wish I still had the one Kirk the Jerk bought me, if only so I could pawn it, but I threw it into the Charles during a hissy-fit. Damned men and their double-damned ways that make me do idiotic things like throw a thousand-dollar diamond band in a murky river. I open the box. It’s a corsage of white Phalaenopsis orchids amid glossy, dark green foliage. Simple, but stunning. “Thank you.” I know I’m gaping at him. “Just because it’s a contract signing, as you say, doesn’t mean you can’t have something pretty. Though the way you look in that dress 105

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puts the flowers to shame. Let me pin it on you.” I stand absolutely still. His bare fingers brush the skin under my dress as he attaches the corsage, lighting a fire in every square centimeter he touches. Never has a man smelled better. And he’s not wearing a drop of aftershave or man-cologne. If we were alone, I’d kiss him. He’s staring at me, too. One of his fingers, still under my dress, slides toward my bra strap. Is it my imagination, or is he leaning toward me? I close my eyes, anticipating the meeting of our lips. The door buzzer erupts, startling me. I lose my balance, but he catches me, his hands slipping around my waist as if they were created for my measurements alone. I want to ravage Ben right here on Ray’s Oriental rug. I’m going to have to stay as far away from my future husband as I can. Otherwise, I’ll be jumping his bones before midnight. Then again, it’s been nearly three years since I had sex. No wonder I’m jumpy. I shrug his hands off, backing up. “You all right?” he says. “I’m okay.” Ray opens the door. Our justice of the peace has arrived, an older fellow with a scarf around his neck that matches his suit-pocket kerchief. He beelines for Ray, and I note for the first time that Ray is wearing a tux. “Hello! I’m Allan Barnes, and I’ll be your justice of the peace today. So, are the two of you the happy couple?” He motions to both Ray and Ben. “Who picked out the JP?” Dulcie whispers. “Why would he assume it’s the two men who’re getting married?” “No,” Ben says firmly. “This is not a gay wedding.” 106

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“Oh! My apologies for assuming. But I saw this handsome gentleman in a tux, and, my, I’m so glad he’s not spoken for. You’re not, are you?” “Not at all,” Ray murmurs. He’s positively glowing under the JP’s flirting. If I believed in love, I’d swear the two of them were falling into it. Ben sidles up to me. “Ray recommended the guy, so he’s not my fault. You’re not mad, are you? That he—” “No, everything’s fine.” I smother a giggle with my hand. The JP is making cow eyes at Ray, apparently forgetting he’s here for another reason. Suddenly it makes no damn difference to me that Ben may be gay. (Well, it does to my libido, but that’s how it goes.) So far, this is more fun than I had at my first wedding. But that wouldn’t be hard, considering the first time I was marrying Kirk the Jerk. Despite the fancy surroundings and my expensive dress, I didn’t have a good time. Kirk was so obsessed with having a “perfect” wedding (that is, one at which he’s more beautiful than the bride), that he paid scant attention to me. Or maybe that was when his eye started to rove. Come to think of it, he vanished once or twice during the reception. I distinctly recall a female friend from his side of the room disappearing for quite a long time in the middle of it all, too. Hmm. Maybe I was a dope from the beginning, blinded by his handsomeness and his interest in marrying a skinny nothing like me. I shake off the bad memories when Dulcie proclaims, “It’s time to get this show on the road.” “What? Oh, yes! The wedding. Now, where’s the happy couple?” the JP says. “Here.” Ben indicates the two of us. “I’m so sorry for my initial confusion. Same-sex weddings are my 107

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specialty, you see. Now, do you have attendants?” “No,” I say. “Yes,” Dulcie says. I stand as tall as I can and address the room. “Listen, all of you. There is no wedding. There is no walk-downthe-aisle-happily-ever-after. There is no nothing except a quickie ceremony.” “Darlin’, you’ve never been one for quickies,” Dulcie says. “Oh, shut up, snarky one.” The JP raises his eyebrows and addresses Ben. “Are you sure you want to marry this woman?” “Yes, I do.” He glances at me. “Though I’ll admit to second thoughts.” “Do you have the license? And the rings?” “We aren’t doing rings,” I say. The JP’s eyebrows shoot skyward again, and he tsks to himself like a disapproving bachelor uncle. “Shall we get started?” he says. Ben and I stand before him, our hands nearly touching. “We are gathered here today—” I interrupt. “Think we can pare it down to the essentials?” Ben glares down at me. I feel very short and small and like I’m about to be banished to the corner. “Sunny, stop this. You’re acting like a brat.” “Okay.” My voice squeaks. “I’m sorry.” The ceremony proceeds. It’s the usual words, minus the “obey” stuff and the exchanging of the rings. We both say, “I do.” The words I dread come next. “You may now kiss the bride.” I’m frozen to the spot. I don’t want to make the first move. Suppose he’s really gay and I kiss him and it’s so embarrassing because he 108

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doesn’t want to kiss me? Suppose he’s not gay but he thinks I’m repulsive? Suppose— Ben’s mouth lands securely on mine, and my body automatically leans into his. It’s not raving-hot monkey love, but it’s not a peck, either. And, maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels like he parts my lips for a split second, touching his tongue’s tip to mine. He pulls away while a small shudder runs through me. Damn. I should have insisted on a honeymoon, back when he was trying to pay for stuff. Okay, jumping into bed with my husband would be stupid, but I’ll bet it would be fun. Assuming that kiss wasn’t just for show. It certainly didn’t feel like it was. I’m still reeling when Dulcie throws her arms around me. “Congrats, girlfriend.” “Thanks.” She whispers in my ear, “No way he’s gay. I watched him when he kissed you.” “Crap,” I whisper back. “It would be easier on me if he were.” “Sunny, Ben, I have an announcement,” Ray says. “There’s a reception in your honor, courtesy of Dulcie and me.” I groan. Ben regards me with that stern-from-on-high glare that makes me feel, well, naughty. Not the good naughty, either. He puts his arm around my shoulders. “I know I speak for Sunny when I thank you all for your kindness. Where’s the reception?” “The pancake house,” Dulcie says. I swear I see the devil dancing in her eyes. She knows how much I absolutely adore the pancake house, otherwise known as the IHOP. And so does Libbie. Ray sniffs. “It’s not Café Budapest, but it’s not my reception.” After we sign the license, the JP wishes us well. Ray escorts him to 109

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the door. I glimpse the two of them exchanging information, each writing something down. I’ll be thrilled if our ceremony leads Ray to a partner. “We’re all going, right?” Dulcie says. “Ray and Libbie can ride with me, and we’ll drop off the sitter on our way.” “And my wife here can ride with me.” I turn, ready to growl at Ben, only to see him grinning. “I love baiting you,” he says. “It’s so easy, yet so incredibly rewarding.” “Give me a minute to change, okay?” I turn to limp away, only to feel his hand on my upper arm. “No. We’re all going just like we are. Including you,” he says, shocking the hell out of me by lightly swatting my butt. Zowie! I don’t like what he just did, not really, but the surprise of it keeps me quiet on the ride over to the IHOP. I have happy memories of this place. The familiar bright colors call to me as much as the pancakes do. Libbie and I used to have breakfast here almost every day. Of course, that was back when things with Kirk were beginning to fall apart, before I returned to work. Our booth now ready, we all slide in. Libbie perches in a booster chair on one side of me, and Ben sits on the other side. He presses his thigh to mine. When I look up, flustered, he smiles in a lazy way that communicates pure sex. Maybe we’ll have a honeymoon after all, tonight, in my bed. He leans toward me. For a moment, I swear he’s going to nibble my earlobe, but he doesn’t. Though he does brush his lips over my ear. I am ready to drag this man to the nearest dark corner. As excited as I am, I’m not sure I can eat—food. “What are you having, dear?” he whispers. 110

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My heart’s pounding so hard it’s cracking my ribcage. “The three eggs and pancakes, with the whole-grain and nut pancakes instead of buttermilk,” I say. “Want chocolate pancake,” Libbie says. “Lib, no choc—” The man’s hand is on my thigh. I gulp before I finish the sentence. “—How about silver dollar pancakes with egg and bacon instead of chocolate?” Her face clouds up. She’s hungry and tired—no nap today—and ready to blow. Dulcie saves the day. “Hey, Libbie, everyone’s getting ice cream sundaes for dessert. But that means you can’t have chocolate pancakes for dinner. Unless you want to be the only person at the table not eating ice cream.” Bless her. She sidetracks my kid’s obsession with chocolate, an obsession definitely inherited from her mother. “Silver dollar pancakes?” I ask her. “Yes, Mommy. And ice cream.” “We’ll all have ice cream, don’t worry.” The waitress takes our orders. Ray wants French toast, Dulcie, an omelet, and Ben, cheese blintzes, plus a plate of potato pancakes for everyone at the table to enjoy. “How can a potato be a pancake?” asks Libbie. Ben explains to her, moving his hand off my leg. Now I can breathe again, despite the hard, muscled thigh next to mine. “I just want to say, thank you,” I say. “Thank you, Ray and Dulcie, for this dinner out. You certainly know what to feed me to keep me happy.” “The sundaes are in place of a wedd—in place of cake. Besides, you and Libbie are ice cream freaks of the first order,” Dulcie says. “Like you aren’t.” 111

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Ray sips his cup of tea. “Whenever I was sick, my mother would cook me French toast. To this day, it’s my favorite comfort food. So I’m glad we’re here, too, though the IHOP is not normally my style.” “By definition, anyone who drinks sherry on a regular basis cannot be a person who loves the IHOP,” Ben says. “As for me, the potato pancakes and blintzes here are better than Mother used to make. That should tell you how bad a cook she was. Is.” “My mother’s a great cook,” I say. “As long as it’s wheat berries and vegetables and brewer’s yeast.” “Tell me about your parents, Sunny,” Ben says. “What’s to tell? They’re aging hippies with money.” I shrug. “My mother probably doesn’t cook any more. They went from righteously poor to driving a Lexus, and they have no shame over doing so. Their so-called principles went out the window when money came in the door.” Fingertips are trailing up and down the inside of my leg. Not high up enough to be X-rated, but they are a few inches north of my knee. I grab my glass of water, drinking to cover a gasp. Too late, I remember I’m not wearing any bra. Not that I usually do, considering I don’t have anything needing support. But bras do hide stiff nipples. And man, are mine stiff. Ben catches my eye. He grins because he’s noticed that the dress doesn’t hide my nipples one bit. He runs his fingers a little higher up my thigh. I’ve had enough of his teasing. Under the table, I place my hand on his groin, which startles him so much that he tips over his glass. Some of the water splashes on my dress. Now my nipples are seriously obvious, between my arousal and the ice water. The waitress appears with paper towels and a fresh glass of water for Ben. Within a few moments, order is restored. 112

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And he doesn’t put his hand on my thigh again, which is all right with me. Because, when I cupped him, there was no erection. All his sexy flirting must be just for show. Shit, he probably is gay. Unless he has ED. Hmm. This warrants further investigation. He doesn’t touch me again during the meal. I keenly feel that I messed up, somehow, when I put my hand on him, though I’m not sure why I feel that way, or even if I should feel that way. Ice cream sundaes are had and enjoyed by all. Dulcie promises to put Libbie to bed and wait there until I’m back home. She and Ray and Libbie wave to Ben and me when they drive off, leaving us sitting in the IHOP parking lot in his cool classic car. “Want to go home now?” he says. “I want to go some place where we can talk,” I say. Without another word he starts the car. We end up at this little hole in the wall bar, the kind of place you’d go if you were meeting an illicit lover or planning anarchy. Planning anarchy. Isn’t that an oxymoron? He guides me to a corner booth all the way in the back as if he’s done this a hundred times before. I cock an eye at him. “You come here much, sailor?” He doesn’t smile. “What do you want?” “Um, to talk?” “I mean, what do you want to drink?” His expression clearly communicates I’ve lost my mind. I need some courage in a glass, so I say, “Vodka gimlet. On the rocks. And make it a double.” He goes to order from the bar, leaving me alone in the booth, shivering, but not from the air conditioning. Though it is cranked too 113

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high on a coolish night. His frigid manner is what’s freezing me. He returns with a monster-sized gimlet for me and a double shot of whiskey for him. “What’s that?” I say in my best friendly voice. “Scotch.” He sips twice, then puts the glass down hard. He folds his hands, making eye contact so intense, I think he’s burning holes in the back of my head. “Now. What do you want to talk about?” I gulp as much vodka as I can stand, regretting how I stuffed myself at the pancake house. “What was all that about? Back at the pancake house?” I say. “What was all what about?” His face is as blank and smooth as an egg. “Feeling me up. Kissing my ear. And the cold shoulder ever since I returned the favor.” I swallow more of my drink to shut myself up before I say something about his lack of an erection. “Sunny, I—” He stops himself. “You see, I—” He stops again. I reach across the table and take the hand not holding the whiskey. “Ben, I’m confused, that’s all. I remember you saying there wouldn’t be any sex. Then, once we’re married, you’re slapping my backside and blowing in my ear and leering at me. If you were just playing, having some fun in the moment, that’s all right, but I need to know that.” I bite my lip briefly before I continue. “You can probably tell I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers. But I have to know where I stand.” His eye contact vanishes. He slugs down the Scotch, after which he stares at the table, brooding. Emboldened by the booze, I move to the other side of the booth, to sit next to him. I take his face in my hands and lay the best kiss on him 114

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that I’m capable of. I know for a fact I’m a great kisser. But his response is zero. Nada. Nothing. I pull away but still hold his face in my hands. “Ben. What is it?” Even I can hear the desperation in my question. He removes my hands gently, shakes his head. “You’re a great person. And mother, Sunny. And I’m happy to help you with your insurance problems. But I’m not the right man for you. Trust me on this.” “But, but, what was all the flirting and touching about? Tell me, because I’m totally clueless. Did I do something wrong? Did I forget to wear deodorant?” “I’m sorry if I hurt you or led you on. I’m so sorry, Sunny,” he says. The grief in his eyes is soul-deep, and it’s begging me not to continue. I want to cry, for both of us. During the ride home, neither of us says much. But it’s not the happy quiet of the drive to the pancake house. Somehow, some way, I have embarrassed or upset Ben by responding to his flirting. Whatever’s bothering him can’t be trivial. He’s suffering real pain. And I am more confused than ever. Is he gay but conflicted about it? Does he have some secret that prevents him from enjoying sex? Can he not have sex for some reason because of a problem “down there?” Maybe that’s it. Men are so touchy when it comes to their equipment. I sigh loudly. Ben looks my way, but says nothing, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Hey. Thanks again for marrying me. It means a lot that you’re helping Libbie and me.” I touch his shoulder. He flinches. “You’re welcome.” His reply couldn’t be any more wooden if he were a maple tree. I press on. “We can get divorced and you can provide our insurance 115

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as part of the settlement, if you’d rather not be married to me. After we’re married a non-suspicious length of time, that is.” “Is that what you want?” “I want whatever’s going to turn you back into a human being again. Please don’t be mad at me.” “I’m not mad at you. Shit,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I told you, Sunny, it’s not your fault. As for divorce, let’s wait a few months before discussing it, all right? Because you’re correct, we do need to stay married for a little while so as not to arouse any suspicions.” I’ve done all I can, but the man’s a stone-cold statue. “Okay,” I say. He turns the wheel as we round the last corner before home. And there, practically glowing in the moonlight, is a bright blue school bus. “Oh, fuck me,” I say. “What?” I point at the school bus. “The circus is in town.” “What?” “My parents, Daffy and Silly, are here.”

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CHAPTER 9 He parallel parks the car in front of the school bus. This one’s so new they haven’t decorated the outside beyond painting it blue. Eventually my mother will add clouds, suns, and rainbows, as befitting a real, honest-to-Timothy-Leary hippie-mobile. She does have artistic talent. Why she wastes it on school buses and domestic decoration has always been a mystery to me. Ben helps me out of the car. “Daffy and Silly?” “I’ll explain later. Follow my lead.” I limp toward the long-haired couple leaning against the bus. My father, Silly, has not one hair on the top of his head. To compensate, as some men do, he grows all the hair on the sides of his head as long as he can, then pulls it back into a straight-haired ponytail. I see a lot more gray in the ponytail than I used to. My mother, Daffy, has hair more like mine—wavy-to-frizzy and dishwater blonde. Tonight she’s left it wild and free, so she looks as if 117

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she has a massive blonde-and-gray Brillo pad springing from her scalp and escaping halfway down her back. “Sunshine!” She opens her arms wide. I know the drill. I endure her enthusiastic hug and think I smell a little smoke in her hair, no doubt from the weed they apparently still indulge in. Don’t they realize they should just say no? “Sunny stands for Sunshine?” I hear Ben say. When I break away from my mother, I see his monster grin. I’m glad he’s no longer Great Stone Face, but I also know I’m never, ever going to live this down. “Her middle name is Rainbow,” Mom says. “No kidding,” Ben says, laughing. I want to scream. “Sunny,” Dad says, opening his arms. I let him hug me, too. “Okay,” I say, “you’ve seen me and hugged me. Now you can leave.” “Not till we see our granddaughter,” Mom says. “We have rights, you know. Under the law.” “You’re the last two people who should invoke the protection of law, if what I’m smelling on both of you is what I think it is.” Mom is the strident one. Dad takes a different tack. “Honey, we want to see your child because we love you. Don’t you understand that? How can you deny us the pleasure of a grandchild?” Ah, yes, there it is, that old familiar guilt. “If I hadn’t married Kirk, you wouldn’t have a grandchild, you know. And you two did everything you could to prevent that marriage.” “You’re right. And we’re sorry we did that,” Dad says. Huh? Sorry? “Why don’t you introduce us?” Mom says. “Introduce?” I say. “I think they mean me,” Ben says. “He’s sure as heck not Kirk. He’s smarter-looking. Cute, too,” says 118

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Mom. No matter how old you are, your parents can still embarrass you as if you’re thirteen. “Mom, Dad,” I say, struggling to regain control of the situation. “This is Ben Hart. We’re, um, uh—” “Married.” Ben grabs my hand and squeezes as if to say, follow my lead. “Married? Oh, Sunny, we’re so happy for you!” Mom grabs me again as if she wants to break every bone in my body. “Erp,” I say, trying to breathe. Mom’s built more like Dulcie. Dad’s the skinny one. I inherited his metabolism and Mom’s wild hair. And her wild temper. “How long have you been married?” says Dad. Ben looks at his watch. “You want that in hours, minutes, or seconds?” “You mean you were married today?” says Mom, who promptly fusses at Dad. “I told you we shouldn’t stop to see your old buddy Peaceman. If we’d arrived yesterday, we could have attended the wedding.” “Uh, since when did the two of you become so into weddings? I seem to recall you dissing marriage licenses as shackles of the state.” Mom ignores me, concentrating on my husband. “Ben, how did you and Sunshine meet?” “We met when she came to see the vacant apartment, last month,” he says. “A whirlwind courtship. How romantic!” Mom’s swaying as if she’s about to swoon, her crinkly gauze peasant skirt fluttering around her calves. I peek at their feet. Yep. Beat-up Birkenstocks. With socks, no less. Some things never change. 119

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Growing up with Daffy and Silly is the biggest reason I have no interest in retro fashions from the Sixties and Seventies. My parents continue to wear them into the new millennium. “What do you do, Ben? For a living?” Silly’s trying his best to be a traditional dad. “Well, sir—” My well-mannered husband. Kirk would never have said, “Sir.” “Call me Sylvester,” my dad says. “Well, Sylvester, I teach physics. Cosmology, actually. I have a doctorate from MIT.” “Origin of the universe physics? Heavy, man. Like Stephen Hawking?” “Yes. Only I’m not nearly as brilliant as he is.” My father and Ben laugh together. Men, they bond so easily. “If you got married tonight, what did you wear? Not that black dress, I hope,” Mom says. “It’s not black, it’s midnight blue,” I say. “At least you’re wearing good shoes. High heels are sexist.” Let’s not get Daffy the Flaming Feminist started. “Oh, my, Syl, I just thought of something,” she says. “It’s their wedding night. We should leave these two alone so they can get it on.” Get it on. Oh, Lord. The two of them stand there, grinning. I grab Ben’s hand and lead him to the front door. “Goodnight. Have a good time,” calls Dad. “You need any condoms?” says Mom. “Kill me now,” I say once we’re safely inside the building. “Your parents aren’t that bad.” “My mother just yelled out, ‘You need any condoms?’ for the entire neighborhood to hear.” “Sunny, in this neighborhood, they fit right in. Haven’t you noticed 120

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it’s kind of… eclectic around here?” Someone’s knocking on the front door. I crack it open. “I almost forgot, I want to see my granddaughter. Aunt Grace said her name is Libbie.” “Mom, she’s asleep by now. You can see her in the morning. I promise.” I slowly start to close the door. “Which floor do you live on?” she says, casually wedging her sandaled foot between the door and the jamb. “On the second.” “So why are you living on the second floor while Ben is living on the first? At least, that’s what it looks like from the way the buzzers are labeled.” “Mom, please. We just got married. We haven’t figured it all out yet. Just go back to the bus. I’ll see you in the morning. Okay?” “We’ll come by for coffee,” she says. “No, Mom. Don’t. This is our wedding night, remember? I’ll come find you in the morning.” She regards me with half-lidded eyes. “Promise.” “Promise,” I say. She nods, removing her foot. The aroma of patchouli wafts behind her. “Well, I guess we should say good night.” Ben’s put his hands in his pants pockets, resembling an awkward thirteen-year-old. “If I know them, they’ll spy on us for a while. Let’s go in your place till they tire of it.” Ben fumbles with his keys, then shuts the door behind him. I bump into him, and he backs up hurriedly. “What now?” He reaches for the light switch. “No, leave the light off. After a while they’ll assume we’re ‘getting it on.’ Then they’ll retire inside the bus. At that point, it’ll be safe for 121

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me to go upstairs.” I slap my forehead. “Oh, crap. Dulcie. They’ll wonder why she’s not staying all night with Libbie if they see her leave before morning.” “I don’t believe they’ll actually stay up and watch the place.” “You don’t know them like I do. Besides, Daffy’s an insomniac.” I rummage in my purse for my cell. When Dulcie answers, I say, “Me. Did you notice who arrived?” “Uh-huh. What do you need?” “Could you stay all night?” “Why?” “Ben told them we’re married. I’m down here for my wedding night. If you leave, they’ll wonder who’s sitting Libbie. My folks are pretty quick to figure things out.” “Definitely no flies on them,” she agrees. “I can stay all night, no sweat. Are you going to stay with Ben?” She lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Are you going to do it?” “Geez, no. I’ll sneak upstairs once they’re not watching any more. Thanks for staying.” I sign off. “I gather the problem is solved?” Ben says. “Can I turn on a light now?” “No. Look, you were the one who told them we were married. I wasn’t planning to do that.” “So this is all my fault?” His voice grows louder with irritation. “Not all. I can’t blame you for my parents showing up.” We’re arguing in the dark, which is odd in itself, when the situation turns beyond strange. “Is that what I think it is?” Ben says. Two voices, a sweet soprano and a guttural bass, are clearly singing the Beatles’ song, “All You Need is Love.” Right at Ben’s front window. 122

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“It’s classic Daffy and Silly behavior,” I say. “See what you started by telling them we’re married? You have no idea how weird my ’rents can be. And, ‘when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.’” “What’s that mean?” he says. “A quote from Hunter Thompson. You know, the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? The inventor of ‘gonzo journalism’? A guy who did so many drugs in the Sixties and Seventies it’s a wonder he could walk?” “Oh, yeah, he killed himself, as I recall,” Ben says. “He was a friend of a friend of Silly’s. Or maybe Daffy’s. Anyway, they both think highly of his books. Someone made a movie of the Las Vegas book a few years back. Johnny Depp played Thompson.” “I remember that movie. It was terrible.” Daffy and Silly segue into “When I’m 64.” “Do you realize we’re standing here in the dark, discussing the weirdest journalist of the past hundred years, while your parents serenade us with Beatles songs to help us ‘get it on?’” he says. “Yeah, and your point is?” He laughs. “Sunny, I’m so glad I met you. My life was a black-andwhite documentary before you showed up.” “That’s a compliment. Right?” “Right.” “Mind if I sit?” I slump into an easy chair before the question is out of my mouth. “Good idea.” He sits on one end of the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Come sit over here.” “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.” “Hey, it’s our wedding night.” The grin I can’t see in the dark is clearly in his voice. “I’m thirsty. Got any Coke?” He stands. “Stay there. I’ll get the bottle from the fridge and two 123

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glasses. I can navigate my place in the dark better than you can. Especially with your gimpy ankle.” He returns with two enormous plastic glasses and a two-litter bottle of Classic Coke. My eyes have adjusted to the dark well enough to make out that the glasses are the tacky, loud-colored kind you find in dollar stores or Wal-Mart. “Say when,” he says, pouring. “Fill it to the brim, please.” I grab the glass and suck down about a third of it. “Ahhh, hits the spot. Thank you for having the classic stuff. I can’t stand the diet crap or the flavored kinds.” “I’m a purist in my drinks. Now, come sit next to me. I promise no mixed messages.” I take my place on the couch. And I notice something. “The singing’s stopped.” Ben creeps to the window to peek through a crack in the blinds. “They’re gone. But I see dim light inside the bus.” “No doubt enjoying some tea before turning in.” “Herbal or illegal?” “Knowing them, it could be either. Or both.” “Maybe singing to us made them hot to ‘get it on.’” “Eeuw. These are my parents. I don’t want that image stuck in my brain.” He sits again. “Okay, is it safe to turn the lights on yet?” “It’ll be better if you wait till the bus is dark, but if you need light, go ahead.” “I can wait.” We sit and drink our soda. “Well, what should we do?” he says. For starters, big boy, we could… “Tell me about physics. Why physics?” I say, willing my libido to pipe down. 124

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“Elemental things have always fascinated me. The origins of the universe. The forces that pull it together and break it apart. Fundamental stuff that we can’t see but take for granted, like gravity. Universal laws, like those for motion, just waiting to be discovered. Plus,” he says after a gulp of Coke, “I’m a science nerd in a long line of science nerds. My father’s a mathematician and his father taught chemistry. Your turn to talk. Why marketing?” “Ah. When I graduated, I took an entry-level job, meaning I was a glorified admin, at a high-tech company in their marketing department. I became Kirk’s assistant. We fell in love, got married, I quit. That sounds so clichéd, but there it is. “I went back to work when I discovered he was fooling around. I took a job at a financial corporation as a marketing admin, and had just graduated to junior-level blurb writer when I was laid off. That brings us to the present.” “You didn’t tell me why marketing.” “Why not?” I shrug. “I fell into it. My degree’s history, but I minored in business.” “Do you mind if I put my arm around you? It sort of feels right.” I snuggle into him and feel surprisingly comforted. “It does feel right,” I say. My eyelids begin to droop. What a long, stressful day it’s been. “What would you do, if you could do anything?” he says, rousing me from drowsiness. “Oh, I don’t know. Never really thought much about it.” “I can’t believe that. You are not the sort to float through life rudderless. You make decisions. You act.” “I haven’t always been that way. I drifted into my first job, into my relationship with Kirk, into the marriage. Even Libbie was unplanned. Only recently have I started actively making decisions and trying to plot a course. Probably because I have the munchkin depending on 125

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me.” “But what’s your dream job, dream field?” he says. “You must have one.” “Well, at one time it was archaeology. I flirted with majoring in it, but I didn’t care for the field work. I majored in history and also took business courses. I wanted a chance at a decent job when I graduated.” “Archaeology. Interesting,” he says. “Maybe we can take in the artifacts at the Museum of Fine Arts one day. I’ll bet Libbie would love the mummies. Most kids seem to.” “Maybe,” I say, yawning. “I need to go to sleep, and I think it’s safe for me to go upstairs now. Thanks for the company and the soda and the snuggling. I do miss having someone to cuddle with.” “I know what you mean. You can cuddle with me anytime. Maybe we could rent a DVD and watch a movie together?” “You mean, like a date?” My hand is on the doorknob, but I wait for his answer. “More like old friends. That work for you?” “Absolutely. In fact, I may need a refuge if my parents decide to visit for weeks on end, which is not unheard of in Daffy-and-Silly-land. Can I hide out here?” “You, and your little munchkin, too.” He pecks the top of my head before the door closes behind me. *

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“I wonder what happened to the money?” I say. “Do you know for a fact they don’t have money any more?” Dulcie says while making coffee. I’m toasting and cream-cheesing the bagels. Libbie is still sleeping. “Don’t you think they’d be in a Winnebago or something other than that rattletrap bus if they were still rich? Or that they’d fly here and stay in a hotel? It doesn’t make sense.” “Ask them,” she says. 126

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“I guess I’ll have to if I want to satisfy my curiosity. Which is almost equal to my not wanting to talk to them at all. Why’d they have to show up now?” I sit at the table and put my head in my hands. “Why’d they have to show up at all? I have enough to deal with.” “Speaking of deal with, what’s up with you and Ben? There was real heat between you two last night.” “He was feeling my thigh under the table at the pancake house. When I returned the favor, he turned off. Why do I always attract the strange ones?” “Hey, eat something before you waste away to nothing, damn you and your metabolism.” She slides a bagel and cream cheese across the table, bumping my forearm with the plate. I take a huge bite of bagel. “Mmm, thankph.” “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” I swallow. “Yes, Mother. Coffee?” She hands me a mug that smells like paradise. “I slave and slave, and what thanks do I get for it?” She grins. “You’re definitely morphing into your mother. Are you going to wear flowered dresses and nylons and join the women’s prayer circle at the nearest Baptist church?” “No, but I’m going to whine each time I take care of you.” “I can handle that.” I sip my coffee. “So, where’d you guys go after the reception?” “To a dark bar where he couldn’t manage to tell me what’s wrong. He did say there would be nothing sexual between us.” “I’ve decided this man cannot be gay. Wonder what’s up?” Dulcie bites into her bagel, chews slowly. “Maybe a woman wounded him terribly?” “Maybe. When I touched him, he wasn’t, er, excited.” “Why don’t you just ask him why?” “I tried. He turned to stone.” 127

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A knock at the door interrupts true confessions time. Damn, I told them not to come by, told them I’d come find them. “That’s gotta be the ’rents. They’ll never stop asking questions if they see me up here with you and only you.” Dulcie shushes me before tiptoeing to the door to peek out. “No sweat, it’s your hubby.” Ben walks in, looking as if he hasn’t slept at all. “Got any coffee for me?” “Thank God it’s you. I was afraid it was Daffy and Silly and then I’d have to explain why I was up here and you weren’t,” I say. Dulcie hands him a mug. “You look like shit.” “Gee, thanks, so do you.” He slugs down the bitter brew before spraying coffee on the table, gasping, “That’s freakin’ hot!” Dulcie hands him some paper towels, shaking her head. “Duh, it’s coffee, Dr. Hart. Why’d you chug it?” He turns his sleepy eyes on me. “Hello, you.” “Good morning. You do look like hell, Ben.” “Couldn’t sleep for some reason, so I got out of bed and worked on my paper. You look like you got a good night’s rest.” “I slept like a baby,” I lie. “Back to the money,” Dulcie says. “What do you think happened?” “Maybe they gave it away to the Marin County Home for Aging Hippies. Maybe they forgot which bank it was in. Knowing them, anything’s possible.” “What money?” Ben says. “You want the whole story? It won’t make sense if I give you the short answer.” He motions with his mug. “Go for it.” I take a deep breath. “My parents lived hand-to-mouth the entire time I was growing up. While I went to college, which I paid for myself, mind you, because 128

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they were useless at earning a living, Silly inherited some money. He decided to invest it in the stock market. God knows why, because capitalism is supposedly Evil-with-a-capital-E. His first time out of the gate, he hits a winner. He reinvests. He wins again. By the time I brought Kirk home to meet them, they were almost millionaires. They’d bought a real home and a new car, and turned into Reaganites.” I avoid his eyes for the rest of the story. “We broke off contact. Doesn’t matter why. Anyway, if they still had money, why would they show up in that blue monstrosity out front? See, that’s what we lived in while I was growing up—an assortment of renovated school buses, sort of a poor person’s RV. So I figure they must be down on their luck again. The question is, why?” I punctuate the end of my story with a big bite of bagel. Ben’s gaping at me as if I’ve sprouted a third eye. He turns to Dulcie. “Is all of that true?” “You calling me a liar?” I kick him under the table, forgetting which foot of mine is bad, and use the wrong one. “Ow!” “I’m not saying you’re lying, Sunny, despite the story’s absurdity. But if it all really happened, it would explain a lot about you.” “And what’s that mean?” “The way you’re über-responsible with your money and your life. You’re rebelling against your parents.” “When did you turn into Freud?” I kick him again, this time with my good foot. He scowls. “Damn it, stop kicking me. I’m simply saying it explains some of your actions. That’s all. And I think I’d be the same as you, if I grew up the way you did.” “How did you grow up?” “Typical middle-class existence. Mom took care of me and my younger sister in between her paintings and art shows, while Dad was an absent-minded mathematician for a corporation. My upbringing was 129

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mind-numbingly dull next to yours.” “Your mom paints? Has exhibits? That sounds interesting.” “Living with an artist is always interesting, because most artists have temperaments to match.” He’s no longer meeting my eyes, busying himself with emptying the last of the coffee into his mug. “Shall I make more?” he says. “Yes. And while you do, tell me about your life growing up.” He gets out of the chair to fill the coffee pot with water. “Dad and I are alike. I like playing sax and singing but I don’t have Mom’s artistic personality. Which is fine by me. I hate bitching and yelling.” His lips form a tight seal, and he shuts down the way he did after we talked in the bar. I could hop on my good foot, twirl sparklers and whistle Dixie simultaneously, but when this man’s done talking, party’s over. Maybe the strong, silent type will be refreshing after Kirk, who nearly talked me to death. “About the damn money,” Dulcie says. “I’ll ask,” I say. Libbie bursts into the kitchen, only to slow when she spies Ben. She sidles past him, grabbing my arm. “Want some cereal?” I say. She nods. “Sit at the table, Lib. Mommy wants to talk with you.” “’kay,” she says, clambering onto a chair. I’m pouring the milk over her Cheerios when she asks, “Where’s Daddy? Why isn’t he here?” Startled, I almost drop the milk jug. My daughter is regarding Ben with half-lidded eyes. I place the bowl in front of her and pull my chair next to hers. “Sweetie, Daddy had to go”—I frantically search my brain for the right words—away. For his work. He won’t be around for a while. But 130

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he’ll come back when his work is all done.” The lie breaks my heart, but what else can I say? That Daddy’s an irresponsible, cheating, midlife-crisis asshole who flew the coop and is probably not ever coming back? She looks at Ben again. I think I know what this is about. “You have only one Daddy,” I say. “No one will ever take his place. You can have friends like Mister Ray and Ben. But I promise I won’t ever ask you to call another man Daddy. Okay, pumpkin?” “I miss Daddy,” she says. My heart breaks for her. “I know you do, pumpkin.” I hug her before I retreat to the sink. I stand with my back to her, pretending to wash a dish, so she won’t see the tears flooding my eyes. After a moment, I wipe my face and say, “I know you miss Daddy, Lib. I’m sorry he’s not here.” “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry.” “Mommy’s not crying. She has allergies, that’s all.” It’s a wonder my pants aren’t on fire. “Are you ready to see your grandparents, Libbie?” Ben says. She shoots her eyes at me. “Mommy told me I don’t have grandparents.” “Sure you do. Everyone has grandparents.” Ben’s flat assertion agitates Libbie. She yells, “Mommy says I don’t have any!” “For a Ph.D., you’re awfully dumb,” Dulcie snaps. I glare at him briefly. “It’s all right, Lib. Mommy was wrong. You do have grandparents, and they’re coming to see you this morning.” As if on cue, the door’s buzzer sounds.

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CHAPTER 10 Libbie’s eyes are moons in her stricken face. I take her hand, tugging her to the intercom. Before I open the door, I tell her, “Mommy’s Mommy and Daddy are here. They’re your grandparents. But if you don’t like them and don’t want to be with them, you don’t have to. I promise.” Only then do I allow Daffy and Silly to come in. Before they can speak, I say, “Mom, Dad, this is Libbie. She may or may not want to talk with you, or let you hug her, or any of that. It’s up to her, and I ask that you respect her wishes.” My statement freezes them in the doorway. They stare at me. I stare back, holding my daughter’s hand tightly. We stand together, my kid and me, and I won’t allow anyone to invade her space regardless of who they are or what rights they think they have. My mother snaps out of the trance first. She bends down to meet Libbie face-to-face. 132

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“Hi, Libbie. My name’s Daphne, and I’m your Gramma. This man here is Sylvester, and he’s your Grampa. We’ve come a long distance, all the way from California, to meet you. We plan to stick around for a few weeks, so take as long as you want to get used to us.” A few weeks? Oh, crap, kill me now. Daffy moves on to envelop Dulcie in one of her crushing hugs. At least my friend is large-boned enough to give my mother as good as she gets. “Dulcinea! I’m so happy to see you again!” “You, too, Mrs. M.” “Don’t you remember what I told you the last time you visited? Call me Daphne.” “The last time you what?” I say. “You let the cat out of the bag, dearest,” my father says to my mother before addressing Dulcie. “Dulcinea, how have you been?” “Same old, same old,” she says, hugging my father. “The last time you what?” I say, more loudly this time. My mother faces me down. “The last time she visited. Just because we’re dead to you doesn’t mean we are to her. We love Dulcinea like a daughter, and it’s no business of yours if she stays friends with us.” “She’s right. It’s none of your business,” Dulcie says, regarding me coolly. “Poisonous lookalike!” I manage through gritted teeth, referencing an obscure Warren Zevon song I know she knows by heart. “Don’t you dare quote The Warren to me. This isn’t junior high, Sunny, so get over it.” “I’m supposed to get over my best friend stabbing me in the back?” “No one’s stabbing you in the back!” she yells. “So you didn’t have a storybook childhood. Well, neither did I, and I’ll match my wretched experiences against yours any day of the week. Your parents have 133

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always treated me kindly, which is more than I can say for my own.” “You weren’t the one trying to study in a one-room, broken-down school bus while you parents either entertained or held political meetings every damn night of the week!” “At least your parents didn’t beat the shit out of you!” She advances toward me as if to brawl. Libbie whimpers, then wheezes. “See how you’ve all upset Libbie,” I say, racing across the room for her inhaler. I sit down, pulling my daughter onto my lap, and administer the medicine. “Don’t pin that on me,” Dulcie snarls. “You’ve done your share of the yelling.” With that, she snatches her purse and slams out of the apartment. Libbie’s crying now, big fat tears. Dulcie’s right about doing my share of the yelling, though I don’t plan to admit it to her any time soon. “Mommy,” Libbie cries, “don’t fight.” Her words twist the knife I’ve stuck in my own heart. “Ssshhh, it’s all right,” I whisper, hugging her, doing my best to calm her down. I glare at my parents, whose faces have turned ashen. “Why did you have to come here?” I say, near tears myself. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” My mother comes to sit on the floor next to me. “Has she been asthmatic since she was born?” “It started a couple of years ago, around the time Kirk and I—” I stop. “Poor baby.” My mother reaches out to smooth her hair. Instead of shying away, Libbie sits statue-like, watching, waiting. My mother begins to sing a traditional Appalachian folk song, her eyes glued to Libbie’s, her voice reedy but on key. 134

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I remember the song, remember her singing it to me after some kids had made fun of my clothing when I was not much older than my daughter. Hearing it makes me want to cry. But I don’t. I won’t give either of them the satisfaction of seeing me break down. The song ends. Daffy stands, saying, “We’re going to visit old friends. That way you won’t be bothered with us the rest of the weekend. Maybe we’ll see you Sunday night. If you’ll let us.” I hold my daughter closely, watching my parents leave. When the door clicks behind them, I look at Ben for the first time in several minutes. He’s grimacing as if in great pain. “What’s wrong?” I say. “Do you always yell like that? I hate yelling.” “Oh, you, too? It’s all my fault?” I say, my temper rising again. “Please, don’t yell.” He frowns. “It reminds me of my mother, the fiery artist. Besides, look what it’s doing to your daughter.” Now I frown, because he’s right. I will my breathing to slow. “Okay, how’s this?” I say in a normal tone. He puts his hands on my shoulders, saying, “Tell me why your tore into everyone.” When I narrow my eyes, he adds, “I want to understand, that’s all.” “How can I tell you when I don’t understand all of it myself?” “Then tell me the parts you do understand.” He sits in the chair opposite mine, leaning forward, with his forearms on his thighs. “Apparently Dulcie’s been visiting my parents behind my back. I know that might sound overly dramatic, but I feel that she betrayed me by doing so. I hadn’t seen them for seven years until last night, and I expected her not to break rank with me on this issue.” “What happened to keep you mad at your parents for seven years?” Libbie, over her upset and bout with asthma, struggles in my arms. I let her go. 135

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“Read me story, Mommy?” “Sure, sweetie. Go pick out a book and bring it here.” While she’s out of the room, I say, “I’ll tell you everything. But first I’m reading to Lib.” He relaxes back in the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.” My daughter returns, clambering onto my lap, shoving a book at me. “Read dis one.” It’s The Runaway Bunny. I settle in to read the story of the little bunny who runs away, hiding from his mother. No matter what the little bunny does, the mother adapts and accepts. The book’s tale of unconditional love, of a mother who would follow her child to the ends of the earth, brings a lump to my throat on the best of days. Right now, I’m in danger of bawling fullthrottle. I realize for the first time in seven years that maybe, just maybe, my parents love me as unconditionally as I love my own daughter. I read, my voice choking up once or twice. I sense Ben’s eyes on me, but I’m not uncomfortable. Rather, his silent presence soothes my raw nerves. Perhaps it’s time to make up with Daffy and Silly. Dulcie, too. She’s been my best friend forever. The morning’s excitement has stressed and tired Libbie. Before I reach the end of the book, she’s asleep. I read to the end, anyway. For me. I need to hear the words, for they are a balm on old, badly-healed wounds. Ben takes the book from my hand so I can carry my kid to her bed. Once I’ve closed her door, I throw myself on the couch to howl my pain into a pillow. Ben’s hand pets my hair, much as my mother’s hand soothed my daughter. Bless him, he doesn’t say a word. He just pats and strokes my head until my tears run dry. 136

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When I’m ready to talk, I reach for tissues. “I’m okay,” I say before honking my nose. “No, you’re not,” he says. “Want some water?” When the full glass arrives, I gulp it all. Funny how a glass of water helps in times of emotional distress. Crying is thirsty work. “I’m here, if you want to talk,” he says, returning to the chair. “Thank you for not sitting next to me on the couch,” I say. “I don’t think I can say what I have to say if you’re that…close to me.” He nods. “I need to tell you some other stuff first, before I go into the seven years’ estrangement. First, my parents and I never fit in anywhere we went. You can probably understand why. I changed schools once a year, sometimes more. We lived mostly in communes or at campgrounds, getting around in one or another old school bus that was roughly outfitted to house three people. When I was younger, moving a lot wasn’t so bad, but as I grew, pulling up stakes every few months made my life hard. I never could stay in one place long enough to establish friendships, except for Dulcie.” “Where did you meet her?” he says. “Sorry to interrupt.” “In a tiny, reactionary Alabama town called Two Bit. Dulcie was kind of a misfit, too, for her own reasons, so we bonded. And we managed to keep in touch. I had to do most of the writing because she never knew where we might be living from one week to the next. And, of course, we never had a phone unless we were sharing it with a dozen others. “The good folks of Two Bit ran us out of town because my parents were, and still are, gypsy-like hippies. They met in San Francisco, you see. The Summer of Love in ’67.” My mouth is dry. “I need more water,” I say. Ben brings me some, after which he sits down, saying nothing. I swallow half the glass before continuing. 137

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“In some ways, they were good parents. I was always clothed, though not fashionably, and I never went hungry. We always had beans and rice to eat, at the least. They never hit or abused me. “But I resented the moves, the cheap, mismatched clothing I wore, the way I never fit in. By ninth grade, I’d decided that I’d better study hard to win a scholarship and escape from Hippie Hell. It wasn’t easy. Daffy and Silly had friends over a lot, sometimes even crashing with us.” I rub my eyes at the memories. “Crashing?” “Staying. Sleeping. Anyway, I had no place of my own where I could go and be alone, where I could study in peace. I would work outside when the weather wasn’t bad. It was either that or study in the bus.” “Sounds like your life stunk,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “Pretty much. On my eighteenth birthday, my parents emancipated me.” “They what?” “Emancipated me. They threw a big party to tell me that I was now an adult and could do whatever I wanted. Of course, what they really meant was that I was no longer their responsibility.” I study my hands. “It was up to me to send myself to college. Fortunately, I won a scholarship from a small, second-tier university. I made up the difference with work-study and loans.” “They threw you out?” he says, grimacing again. “No, no. I could have stayed with them if I’d wanted to. I didn’t.” We both grow quiet. The room has grown dark, and raindrops are pattering against the windows. “It sounds like you grew up poor,” he says. “That’s tough.” “Poor as dirt, though they considered it a badge of honor for not working in The System, for not working for The Man. Me, I think money comes in pretty handy when you’ve got a kid to raise.” 138

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He smiles. “That reminds me of my favorite line in It’s a Wonderful Life—” “You like that movie?” I say, thinking how I once envied the conventional life showcased in Capra’s film. “Big Stewart fan here. Anyway, remember when Clarence the Angel comments that they don’t need money up in Heaven? Jimmy Stewart snaps back, ‘It comes in pretty handy down here on Earth, bub.’ Even though I know the line is coming, it cracks me up every time.” He glances at me. “Guess I interrupted again.” “As a college buddy of mine once said, fugeddaboudit. That’s supposed to be his north Jersey accent. I’m terrible at mimicking.” “As you were saying,” he says. “The seven years?” I run my fingers through my hair. “Like I said earlier, Dad made a lot of money in stocks. By the time I brought Kirk home to meet them, they were living in a nice home and driving a Lexus. What I didn’t say earlier was that Daffy and Silly despised Kirk. They offered me a chunk of money not to marry him. You have no idea how profoundly weird it was for them to attempt to pay me off. They’re big fans of love, as you might have noticed, and not of money. But with Kirk, it was, ‘we’ll give you anything you want, just don’t marry him.’ I guess they could see what a shit he was. I didn’t.” I taste bitterness after saying the words. “Guess I was too blinded by his looks, his attention, his spending money on me.” “Of course, their offer offended me, we had words, and Kirk and I left in the middle of the night, I was so angry. Then I married The Jerk, realized Daffy and Silly were right, and then I really didn’t want to talk to them. Who wants to hear ‘told you so’? Especially from their parents? Besides, their whole money thing kind of pissed me off. It was all right to be poor and struggling when I was a kid, but once I’m grown, they do a one-eighty. Is that messed up, or what?” “Mmm,” Ben says. “People change.” 139

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“I know, they grew older, it happens. But to be so anti-convention only to end up with a house and car and money, well, maybe you had to know them before to understand what’s strange about the after.” I finish draining the glass of water. “Except now they seem not to have money any more. They’re behaving like their old selves.” Libbie wanders in, sleepy-eyed. I scoop her up, hugging her. She acquiesces so completely I check her forehead for heat. She’s burning up. “What’s wrong?” “I think she’s sick. I thought it was odd that she fell asleep so early in the day.” I place Libbie on the couch beside me. “Mommy has to get the ear thing that measures your temperature, Lib. You wait here, okay?” She lies down when I get up off the couch. “This is not normal,” I say, worry coiling like a snake in my stomach. I hurry back with the gadget that measures temperature in a child’s ear. In a flash it registers 103.4. I remember Libbie’s pediatrician telling me ear canal temp measurements often run low in kids. Visions of feverish seizures and worse clutch my heart with cold, bony fingers. “Give me a ride to the nearest ER.” Without a word, Ben scoops her up in his arms. He holds her while I install the safety seat in his car, a necessary act that’s taking longer than it should because of my panic. Finally I win the fight with the belts. With a lethargic Libbie in her seat and me riding shotgun, we tear off for St. Elizabeth’s in Brighton. *

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We spend most of the afternoon in the ER. Turns out Libbie has strep throat, but nothing else. The doc says to give her the penicillin and come back if she worsens. All the usual stuff. I sit up half the night, checking on Libbie so often that my 140

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obsession borders on mania. But her fever starts dropping with the first dose of penicillin and children’s acetaminophen. By Sunday morning, she’s clearly recovering. Me, I’m a wreck from worry. However, I used the time to think and have decided a few things. First, if Daffy and Silly want to hang around, they can. I’d like to insist on an apology, but wouldn’t we all like our parents to say they’re sorry for all the rotten ways they wrecked our lives? After you grow up, though, blaming your parents for your lousy life is lame. I need to get over the old times and move on. Second, although I’m still pissed that Dulcie secretly bosombuddied with the ’rents, she is my oldest and dearest friend. And I did act like a jerk. So, I will apologize and hope we can make up, even though I still feel betrayed. No doubt that’s my problem, and I’ll have to deal with it. Third, I can count on Ben in a crisis the way I never could with Kirk. He stayed by my side at the hospital, and he dealt with the insurance forms and related bureaucratic madness while I was freaking out over my kid. It’s a good thing he did, because I was so crazed, I’d forgotten he was my husband, not to mention I wasn’t wearing my cheapo wedding band. I’ve got to get my head into the marriage thing, as Silly would no doubt say. Last, I need to find a real job, not just a tide-me-over one. I may even have to leave the Boston area, something I’m loathe to do. However, I have responsibilities. If I plan to raise Libbie the way I see fit, that means money and security. Not to mention my unemployment checks won’t last forever. So, while my daughter hangs out with SpongeBob, I rewrite my resume for the fifth time and surf every job site I can find: Monster, Hotjobs, Craigslist, and all the rest. I apply for a few positions, many of 141

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them long shots. Tomorrow I’ll call in every favor I ever did for anyone in the business world and network until my voice gives out. And when I finish with that, I’ll bug the local headhunters again. “Mommy, hungry.” The tiny monster is tugging on my sweatshirt. Dark circles under her eyes and pasty skin still scream illness, even if her appetite doesn’t. “C’mon, pumpkin. It’s macaroni and cheese time.” She shakes her head and climbs back onto the couch. “I wait here.” No feeling in the world exists like the anguish of seeing your kid sick and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it except wait for the drugs to work. The only thing worse is having a kid sick with something drugs can’t fix. Ever since motherhood hit me, I’ve had newfound empathy for all parents waiting in doctors’ offices and hospitals for word on whether their child can be cured. I tuck the fleecy throw around her and hike the thermostat, and to hell with the cost of oil. The frigid dampness of the day, common during a Boston autumn, is soaking into my bones. If I’m chilled, Lib has to be as well. In the kitchen I start the water for the macaroni. Then I huddle close to the stove’s warmth while I wait for the furnace to send boiling-hot steam through the ancient radiators. I hope the carbs from the mac and cheese will put my daughter to sleep so that I, too, can catch a nap. I check out my face in my purse’s mirror and spy dark smudges under my own eyes. I look like crap, but I’m too tired to care. If Lib won’t nap, I’m going to make a second pot of coffee. I put the cane aside, trying my ankle. It’s much improved in the past two days. I add calling the temp agencies to my mental list of things to do. I refused a job or two after I fell down the stairs, so I need to tell them I can work now. At the least, I have to start a serious walking program to re-strengthen my muscles. 142

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How I’m going to do that with a four-year-old in tow, I’ve no idea. Her little legs won’t carry her as far nor as fast as I need to walk to get back in shape. Macaroni’s ready. A little milk, margarine, and orange cheese-like powder, and voila, dinner is served. Determined to stop babying my ankle, I leave my cane behind and carry both bowls to the living room. My limp’s not bad. We snuggle while we gobble the ’roni. I’ll take comfort food over gourmet cuisine any day, any time. After the food, I’m falling asleep sitting up. However, the Libster’s wide-eyed and full of energy. I kind of wish the penicillin wasn’t curing her so quickly, then am hit with terrible gobs of guilt for wishing such a thing. But I want sleep so badly. Knocking rouses me. I stumble to the door to let in Daffy and Silly. It’s an awkward moment, but in my groggy state I can barely mumble hello. “You sure you don’t mind if we come in?” Daffy says, hesitating in the doorway. I yawn, flopping on the couch. “Have a seat.” “We brought you something, leftovers from last night’s party with our friends.” Silly holds out a paper plate of cookies and crackers, loosely wrapped with wax paper. “Thanks. Put it on the table.” “Ben around?” he says. “Uh, no. He had to, uh, run to the drug store.” Daffy sits next to me. “You look exhausted. A second big night of honeymoon fun? If Ben went out to buy condoms, he didn’t have to. We have plenty.” Geez. I drop my head into my hands. “No. I was up all night, mostly worrying, because Libbie’s sick. She, on the other hand, actually slept.” “I gotta sore froat,” my munchkin pipes up. 143

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Silence settles over the room like a wet blanket, growing more oppressive by the minute. My father clears his throat. “Sunny. We’d like to apologize for trying to bribe you out of marrying Kirk. That was wrong.” “You’d like to? Or are you?” “We are,” my mother says firmly. “See what money does to people. Even old hippies like us. It turned us into The Man.” The absurd image of my mother turning into The Man, or any man, has chuckles bubbling out of me. “Mom,” I say, “that’s the funniest thing you’ve said in years.” “It’s the only thing I’ve said in years. To you, anyway.” “Neither of you were ever The Man. Believe me,” I say. “You don’t have it in you, no matter how much scratch may fill your pockets.” Silly cups his chin in thought. “Okay. Maybe we weren’t. But we did believe in the two-party system for a few months. For God’s sake, we owned a luxury car. And that’s just not who we are.” Mom puts her arm around my shoulders. “Will you forgive us? Please? You may not think we were good parents, but we tried to raise you according to our moral principles. And I don’t think we failed, because look at how incredibly well you turned out.” Her voice cracks. So does my heart. How stupid I’ve been to hang on to my anger. I can’t bear the burden of it one more moment. “Of course I forgive you. I love you,” I manage through trembling lips. I really do. Wow. Fast-forward through the mushy reconciliation. Afterward, the three of us are sitting and eating stale cookies from a paper plate, chatting like old friends. Libbie picks up a brownie. I open my mouth, but my mother beats me to it. 144

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“Don’t worry, Sunshine, sometimes a brownie is just a brownie. We don’t smoke, uh, anything any more. Not often, anyway. Hardly any of our friends do, either.” “Yeah, instead of growing pot, we’re growing pot bellies,” Dad jokes. My eyelids are drooping. Even the massive amount of sugar in the chocolate chip-macadamia nut cookies can’t keep me awake. “Do you want to take a nap? You look wiped,” Daffy says. “Mmm.” “C’mon, Syl, let’s take our granddaughter down to the bus.” My eyes fly open. “No.” I may love them, but I don’t fully trust them with Libbie. Not yet. Not with their tendencies toward irresponsibility. Both of them wear hurt expressions. My “no” did sound a little harsh. I take a soothing tone. “Libbie’s not ready to leave with you.” “We’re only taking her to our home,” Daffy says. “I know. But until a couple of days ago, she didn’t know she even had grandparents.” They glower at me. I shrug. “Okay, my bad for not telling her about you. But she’s only four—” “’most five!” Libbie adds. “—and she’s not ready to see you alone, in a strange place.” “How do you know?” Silly says. “Ask her.” “Libbie,” Daffy says, oozing charm, “we live in a really cool blue bus with lots of groovy things to play with. Do you want to visit Grampa and me at our place?” She shakes her head. “No.” The ’rents look at me. I raise my eyebrows. “Told you so,” I say, relishing the phrase. “How about if I nap on the couch while the three 145

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of you grow better acquainted?” “Will you actually sleep if we’re in the same room with you?” “Trust me, at this point nothing could keep me awake.” *

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I crash, as the ’rents would say, for over two hours, waking only when my door buzzer startles me out of a dream. A very, very hot dream, involving Ben and yours truly. I find myself hoping that Ben’s the one buzzing my place, forgetting in my sleepy stupor that the buzzer’s only for those who don’t have access to the inside of the building. I hit the TALK button. “Mmm, yeah?” “I’m lookin’ for Marvin Pupik.” I stare at the intercom, then reply, “Who?” “Marvin Pupik. Mr. Pupik live here?” The voice sounds gruff, with a working-class Boston accent; “Marvin” is “Mahvin.” I think I know who the man is looking for, but something in his tone makes me lie. “He doesn’t live here.” A pause before the voice morphs into a menacing growl. “He don’t, huh? Well, you happen to run into him, you tell him that he’d better stop taking pictures of them that don’t want their pictures took.” “What’s going on?” says Silly. I touch my index finger to my lips to shush him while walking as fast as I can to the window. The man leaving the porch resembles a brick wall in a leather jacket. He turns, scans the front of the building. I could swear our eyes meet, because the ice in them slides right down my spine. I drop the edge of the shade, shaken. I wait a moment, then peek again. He climbs into a large black SUV and drives away. I grab the phone to call Marvin, but there’s no answer. So I call Ben, exchanging a few terse words. 146

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“Mom, Dad,” I say to my oddly-silent parents, “keep an eye on Libbie, all right? And for God’s sake, don’t answer the door or the buzzer.” I have to see Ben. We have to find Ray. Now.

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CHAPTER 11 “What did he look like?” “Like one of those big guys on The Sopranos. Only his accent was pure North End.” I’m sitting next to Ben on the couch. I’m in sweats. He’s in tight jeans and a sweater that’s not thick enough to hide his build. He puts his arm around me. Yummy. “It’ll be all right. Don’t be scared,” he says, hugging me. “Number one, I think it makes perfect sense to be scared of a creep like that, and number two, I’m shaking because I’m freezing. How low do you set your thermostat? Fifty?” “You’re cold?” He smiles. “We need to warm you up.” My heart thuds in anticipation. I know we agreed to keep things platonic for some ridiculous reason (okay, some sensible reasons), but I’m fresh from that sizzling dream. Besides, brushes with death make you want sex, right? 148

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I tilt toward him, wishing I’d brushed my teeth before I raced (well, limped) down here. At least I’m not wearing Bridget Jones-type granny panties. I lean too far toward him because, when he stands, I have to throw out my arms to keep from falling face-first on the couch. “Hey, you all right? Didn’t mean to get up so quickly as to knock you over.” “I’m fine,” I say, feeling stupid and stupidly rejected. “I’ll get you a sweater.” “A sweater?” “You’re cold. Aren’t you?” “Oh. Yeah.” Damn it, I don’t want a sweater. I want you. “Be right back.” I’m still a wee bit excited, so I dull the arousal by gazing at his living room. Still early Sears, except for the books, the sax in the corner, and the interesting stuff on the walls. And is that a digital keyboard in the corner? Intrigued, I go to it. I’m trying to figure out where the power switch is when he returns with an enormous fisherman’s sweater. He hands it to me, saying, “You play?” I slip on the sweater. “No. I can sing a little—” “Yes, you can. I remember.” “—but I’ve never been any good with instruments. No dexterity in these tiny digits.” I waggle them. “Typing’s hard enough, unless I’m typing my own thoughts. Then my fingers fly.” “My dad taught me piano. He freelanced gigs whenever his schedule allowed. But saxophone’s my first love.” I’m shivering again. He cocks his head at me. “You still cold? I can turn on the heat.” “You mean it’s not even on?” “I spent a lot of my childhood in Edmonton, remember. I don’t chill 149

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easily.” He sets the thermostat before flipping a switch. In less than a minute, the radiators clang. “Damn, I meant to bleed the steam lines last month so they wouldn’t bang like that. And I can’t believe you’re cold.” He pulls off his sweater, only to reveal another suggestive T-shirt: “Hockey Players Like to Puck.” All those years in Edmonton, indeed. “What is it with you and these T-shirts? I want the truth.” Like why you advertise your sexuality but you won’t do it with me. “The truth? I think they’re funny. My sense of humor’s childish, I know. Do they offend you?” He moves to slip on the sweater again. The shirt’s as tight as his jeans. I don’t want the view to disappear, no matter how horny it makes me. “Not at all. I was just wondering, that’s all. You can leave your sweater off if you want.” “Good. I’m too warm with both the heat and a sweater on.” He throws the keyboard’s switch. When his hand touches mine, I shiver once more, but not from the cold. “You need more heat?” he says, his body brushing against mine. Not hardly. I swallow. “I’m fine. Just one of those funny chills, you know? But what are you doing?” “I’m going to teach you to play.” He places my right hand on the keys, his hand on top. “It’s not as difficult as you think.” He stands behind me, taking my left hand in his. I’m surrounded by him. His soapy-musky scent flares my nostrils. His front is pressing against my back, and his hands on mine make me want to lose the sweater, fast. As well as my sweats and panties. I have not wanted a man this badly since Kirk. Actually, I’ve never wanted any man as much as I want Ben. And, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I could swear that I feel the 150

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telltale male sign of arousal pressed against me. Wow. If that’s really him— Of course that’s him, dummy. His ragged breathing tickles my ear. A gentle kiss nibbles its way down my neck, stopping short of the hollow place where I know his touch will drives me nuts. His hands slide up my arms to hug my rib cage. I’m all too aware I’m braless. I press backward, wondering whether he wants me as much as I want him. “Sunny,” he says, “we shouldn’t be doing this.” “You started it,” I say, sucking in my breath as his hands toy with the bottom of the sweater. “Not that I’m complaining.” “You have too many clothes on.” “Agreed.” He tugs the sweater over my head. Immediately his hands hug me again, just below my breasts. I risk saying, “Touch them.” “Over or under?” “What do you thin—uhhh,” I moan as his hands disappear under the sweatshirt. I want to face him, am dying to kiss his luscious mouth, but he holds me in place with his palms. “No,” he murmurs against the hollow place as his fingers toy with me. My blood’s molten lava, and it’s pooling in three distinct areas while his fingers tease and his tongue darts. One hand slides down, toward that third, untouched area. It slips under the sweatpants, under my lacy bikinis. The fingers don’t stop moving till they reach the place I’m aching to be touched. They glide in and out, spreading warmth. “Don’t. Not this way. Let’s—” I pant. “Shhh.” 151

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His fingers perform magic, rhythmic magic. Only a musician could have such a keen sense of timing, sensing my quickening beat and matching it. His two hands feel like they’re in all three places at once. “Stop,” I say, but weakly. “No way.” I think he mumbles as he bites and sucks where neck and collarbone meet. A wave builds inside me. “Don’t stop,” I cry as it crashes to shore. I push against his fingers, the heat and excitement dizzying me. He murmurs in my ear, “You’re very, um, responsive. That’s nice.” I remove his still-caressing-me hands because he deserves his turn. I face him and say, “Let’s go to bed,” laying a liplock on him that beats any kiss I’ve given any man, any time before. He shakes his head while we kiss, breaking contact. “Yes,” I say, placing my hands on the front of his jeans. My fingers pick up the message instantly. The night in the pancake house floods my mind. “What? Why?” I say. “I can’t.” He won’t meet my gaze. “You can’t, or you won’t?” I stop. “Wait. Crap, I don’t mean that the way it sounds. Let me satisfy you, the way you did me.” I drop my voice to husky, not difficult under the circumstances. “You did satisfy me, in case you have any doubts.” He’s stirring under my fingers, but he pushes me away. “No.” “What is it? Are you gay?” I say. He raises his eyebrows. “Who told you that?” “No one’s told me anything, including you. By the way, your earring’s in the wrong ear if you’re not.” “No, it’s not.” He crosses his arms and widens his stance, ready to argue. 152

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“Oh, who the hell cares about an earring. But I don’t understand what’s wrong. Am I too ugly for you?” God, I didn’t mean for that to slip out. I avert my gaze, bite my thumbnail. “You’re not ugly, Sunny. Besides, it’s not you, it’s me.” “That’s a woman’s line. I’ve used it, so I know what it really means.” He hands me his sweater, the one I was wearing. “Here.” I push it away. “Why don’t you want to go to bed with me?” “I told you. I can’t.” He folds me in his arms, speaking over my head. “I’m sorry. Okay? Let’s change the subject. Discussing my inability, well, isn’t helping.” I realize I’ve broken the cardinal rule called, “when he can’t do it, tell him it’s okay.” “It’s okay,” I say. “Can we cuddle in bed? Please? Otherwise, I’m going to feel kind of slutty about what we just did.” “We need to find Ray.” “That’s convenient to remember right now.” His hands fist. “I said I’m sorry. I know I promised to leave you alone, but you’re so damned tempting.” “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard since Kirk insisted he was completely faithful to me.” I stalk to the door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say it?” His tone has an edge to it. Damn his eyes. I slam the door behind me. I’ll find Ray my own damned self. *

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Monday, I do all the job-related phone and internet errands I promised myself I would do. By the late afternoon, I have two interviews lined up and have networked until the cell phone’s heat burns my ear. 153

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The ’rents are doing the grandparent thing, and they’re not bad at it. Because Libbie acts completely recovered, all three of them play in the back yard till lunch. Daffy cooks a brown rice and cheese casserole that, not surprisingly, Libbie vigorously refuses. Grownups eat the casserole while the tiny monster has leftover mac and cheese with a hot dog on top. In the afternoon, I let them take her to their bus-slash-home because Libbie wants to—as long as they play Candyland. My parents have the attention spans of ferrets. I suspect that, once they have their fill of the day-to-day grind with my kid, they’ll be off to parts unknown. They’re not good at the long haul. I hope they don’t hurt Lib by splitting abruptly. Though I’ve forgiven them, I don’t quite trust them not to make a hash of their relationship with their granddaughter. They’ve downplayed the “all you need is love” shtick, and I am thankful. When I stomped up the stairs, fresh from the debacle with Ben, they figured out the two of us fought and wisely said nothing. If they’d been all cutesy-poo about “our first fight,” I swear I would have broken dishes. Perhaps over their heads. They haven’t asked why he isn’t living with me or why we didn’t sleep together last night. Maybe they’re coming to their senses and realize that I’m an adult who is, by nature, private. All those years crammed up against them and their friends and friends-of-friends in those damned buses helped me grow walls that do not come down easily, and that sport only one tiny, locked gate. I knocked on Ray’s door twice last night, but he never answered. I called him this morning, vowing that I would file a missing persons report if he didn’t answer. For all I knew, Mr. Brick-Wall-in-a-LeatherJacket kidnapped him. However, Ray answered, playing dumb about his thuggish visitor. I invited him for dinner tonight in the hope that I can convince him to stop doing whatever he’s doing that’s upsetting a bad guy. Guys like 154

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Mr. Brick-Wall-etc. don’t fool around when they’re pissed. I’m putting the finishing touches on a veggie lasagna while Daffy and Silly and Libbie watch (what else?) SpongeBob. From their cackles, I gather the ’rents are as amused by the show as my kid is. Possibly more. I can understand why ex-pot-heads would love it, if for no other reason than the bright colors. I miss Dulcie so much that I’m not even hungry for peanut butter cup ice cream. Two days have passed since our fight, and for us, that’s an eon. I decide to invite her to dinner, calling her to apologize. My chest hurts when she answers the phone. “Hi, it’s me. Don’t hang up. I want to apologize.” Silence on the other end of the call. I plunge ahead. “Dulcie, you were right—you didn’t betray me by staying friends with Daffy and Silly, and I have no right to trash you for it. I’m sorry for the awful things I said. Can we please be friends again?” More silence, then a sigh. “You were right that I shouldn’t have kept it a secret from you. I’m sorry, too. We never stopped being friends, Sun, and we never will. I mean, it’s not like we haven’t fought before.” “In that case, will you come to dinner tonight? It’ll be me and the Libster, the ’rents and Ray.” “No Ben?” “Um. No Ben. I’ll explain why later. Please come?” I hear the grin in her voice. “I can’t. I have a date.” “No kidding! Who is he? How’d you meet him?” “After our fight, I went to The Coast to sing my troubles away. I met a guy who owns a small restaurant-slash-cafe. He’s smart, funny, sings like a dream, and is he hot. My type, you know, sweet, a little shy. He took me home, then asked me out.” “Monday night’s a strange first date night.” “It’s the only night his restaurant is closed. He’s cooking for me; 155

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we’ll eat there. And—get this—he likes women who look like they enjoy eating—zaftig, you know. Like me.” “Did you two…” “The night I meet him, and have him think I’m a sex-crazed tramp? Even if I am, he doesn’t need to know that yet. Sun, this one might be The One, so I’m taking my time. His goodnight kiss drove me crazy. I just want to eat him up, he’s so yummy.” I hear Libbie chirp, “Mister Ray!” in the other room. “Ray’s here early; I have to go. Can’t wait to hear all about your fantastic first date. Come over tomorrow night?” “I promise,” she says. In the living room, Libbie beams at Ray, who’s carrying a large sack. A multi-zippered photography bag hangs from his left shoulder. I slap my hands on my hips. “This is not a potluck, Ray. I’m cooking vegetable lasagna.” The tiny monster wrinkles her nose. I can hear her thoughts: Vegetables. Yuck. “No offense, darling, but I’m pretty sure you’re not a gourmet cook.” “Nobody’s ever turned down my food before,” I say. “Oh, hush. I stopped by Olivera on the way home and brought delights for every age and taste.” He chuckles. “Olivera is one of the few decent restaurants owned and run by a straight guy.” Silly pipes up, “That sounds like a stereotype.” Ray looks him up-and-down. “I’m gay. I’m allowed to stereotype my own kind. Are you Sunny’s father?” “Yes. Sylvester Montgomery, and Daphne, my wife.” “I’d shake hands, but they’re rather full. By the way,” he says, turning to me, “I brought wine, a Shiraz and a Pinot Grigio. You have glasses?” “Do jelly jars count?” I laugh when his face freezes. “Don’t worry, 156

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I have real wineglasses. You won’t have to drink out of anything with Fred Flintstone plastered on it.” “We used to love The Flintstones,” Daffy says. “Who’s the flin’stones?” Libbie says. Silly explains the cartoon to her. I can tell by Ray’s expression that he suspects my glasses are K-Mart specials. He’s right, too. “It’s no trouble for me to go upstairs and grab mine,” he says. “But first, let’s put the hot food in a warm oven and the cold food in the fridge. Not to mention, open the wine. I’ve had a day.” Under Ray’s direction, I take care of the food and open the bottles. Libbie trails him around like an adoring subject until he leaves to collect his wineglasses. Hmm. Could she possibly have the same odd attraction to gay men that her mother does? “Can I do anything?” Daffy asks me. “Ray seems to have taken over this dinner party, so probably not. Just sit back and enjoy. What kind of wine do you want?” “Definitely the white.” “Make that two,” my father says. “Voila, goblets fit for an old queen,” Rays says when he returns. “And everyone else.” I look at one under the light. “Is this real crystal?” “Do you think I’d drink from anything else?” I picture him drinking from mine, and smile. “I guess not.” White for the ’rents, red for me and Ray. Libbie has grape juice in her goblet. I cringe to think of breakage, but Ray assures me he’s not worried. Indeed, my daughter drinks her “young wine for a young lady” (Ray’s phrase) as if she is holding court with royalty. “Ray, tell me about your day,” I say once we’re all settled. “I took some amazing photos today. Did you notice the sunlight? It had a late-October quality, even though it’s early in the month. I also 157

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snapped some good pictures for my latest coffee-table-book project. After that, I enjoyed a late lunch with Allan. The justice of the peace,” he adds when he sees puzzlement on my face. “Ah,” I tease, “was it a long lunch, Ray?” He sips his wine without comment, but his cheeks flush. He clears his throat before saying, “Time for dinner.” I briefly worry that he’ll insist on fetching his own china and silver to complement the food and crystal glasses. Thankfully, he says nothing about my unmatched faux china and inexpensive flatware. He’s brought an eclectic mix of food. Roasted goose with equallyroasted vegetables. Pot roast, complete with red bliss potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, and mushrooms. Kung Pao Shrimp. Chicken Satay with peanut sauce. And for dessert, an old-fashioned apple cobbler, made with a generous dollop of apple brandy. Ray convinces Libbie to try some of everything, which shocks the hell out of me. Maybe she’s trying to please her adored Mister Ray, I don’t know, but she eats it all. She’d never do that for me. We all speak little till the end of the feast, by which time we’re stuporous from the good food and wine. “I don’t think I can move,” I groan. “I ate like the proverbial pig.” “You always have, Sunshine, and I’m happy that you can do so without packing on the pounds the way I do,” Daffy says, patting her stomach. “I’m so fat since I turned fifty-five.” “I love you just the way you are,” Silly says. They kiss, not a big, sloppy one, but still… Eeuw. Parents. “Ray,” Daffy says, “you started to tell us about Amsterdam.” “Ah. Guess I got sidetracked.” “What’s Am-stuh-dam?” Libbie says. “A fun place in Europe,” Ray says. Seeing the blank look on my munchkin’s face, he adds, “On the other side of the ocean. Far away. 158

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You know the ocean?” She nods like her head is on a string. “Mommy says I’m too young to go inna ocean.” “That’s right. Not till you’re older and have learned to swim,” I say. “Anyway, this past spring I finally spent some time there. Amusing city, lovely museums, and the flowers are to die for. I went during tulip time.” “Amusing?” Silly says, his face scrunched into puzzlement. “Yes. In the red light district, you see the most amazing things in the shop windows.” Ray wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis, and I nearly shoot wine out of my nose. “Can you really smoke dope openly over there?” Daffy says. “I’ve never done it, but I know people who say you can.” Ray gets up, stretching. “Who wants apple cobbler and coffee? Or perhaps some cognac? I have some Courvoisier XO,” Ray says. I jump at the chance to have cognac with Ray. Foolishly so, because I know tomorrow I’ll suffer the mother of all hangovers from tonight’s cornucopia of alcohol. The Libster is falling asleep in her chair, leaning against me. My mother offers to put her to bed. The ’rents carry my daughter off to beddy-bye while I stack the dishes in soapy water, to be washed later. Daffy and Silly say goodnight, and soon it’s just Ray and I, sitting at my garish Formica-and-stainless table, drinking sinfully expensive cognac in fine crystal. A gal could get used to this. “Apparently you’ve kissed and made up with your parents,” he says. “How do you know about the fight?” “Ben told me last night.” I put my glass on the table. “I didn’t know he found you last night. He should have called me so I wouldn’t have worried.” 159

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“He told me he didn’t think you’d speak to him.” I probably wouldn’t have. “He caught me as I came in last night and told me about the leatherjacketed man. I doubt he’s worth worrying about. Still, I stayed with Ben last night, just in case.” Hmm. Ray must have gone back to his place early this morning, because I reached him there when I called. He meets my gaze over the rim of his glass. I wonder if he’s sending me a message like, Ben’s off-limits. I also wonder whether they slept in the same bed. “What’s going on between you and Ben?” he says. I slide my eyes away as I feel my face flush. “His usual bullheadedness, that’s all.” “And your own bullheadedness played no part?” “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s none of your freakin’ business, Ray.” “If you say so.” His lips tighten. “I only meant there’s no cause for concern. Ben and I will be friends again in no time.” He nods. “Ben told me you fought with Dulcie, too.” “What is he, the Boston Herald?” “Sometimes Ben gossips like an old woman.” Ray brushes off Ben’s indiscretion by flicking his hand. “Are you still mad at her?” “No, we made up. She’s not here tonight because she has a date with some guy who owns a restaurant.” “Ah. Must be the only other straight restaurateur locally, the owner and cook of Chez Fred. Is she seeing Fred Bowers?” “We didn’t get as far as names. I’ll ask tomorrow.” I offer my glass to him, trying to smooth Ray’s still-ruffled feathers. “Just a touch more, please. This stuff’s incredible.” “‘This stuff’ is about five dollars a swallow,” he says, but with a 160

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smile. I relax, happy he’s no longer offended. “I have other news to share, news that I thought would be best to tell you alone,” he says. “Lay it on me.” “Allan knows of a job you might find interesting.” “Define interesting.” “Working for an archeologist.” I sit up straighter. My old interest in the subject perks me up. “Go on.” “It’s just office work, clerical stuff, downtown near the Dig.” The Big Dig, or the Dig, as locals call it, will eventually replace the six-lane, elevated highway that runs smack through the middle of downtown with an underground eight-lane road. Formally known as the Central Artery/Tunnel project, it began with construction of the Ted Williams Tunnel back in 1992. It’s supposed to be finished “soon.” I’m not holding my breath. “How does an archaeologist fit in?” “The fellow’s called a Heritage Management Officer. He works with the Office of the State Archaeologist—” “I didn’t know such an office existed.” “It does, and he hangs around the site to ensure that anything of archaeological significance is excavated or preserved. Mostly you’ll type up reports and recommendations for action, tend the phone, greet visitors, and so on. Shall I continue?” “Definitely.” “It pays pretty well for clerical, though I don’t know how much, and it’s part-time—nine to four, something like that. The office isn’t far from the Government Center T stop, I think.” “I used to work in the financial zone. A subway or bus commute to downtown’s fine with me.” 161

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“Here’s the number.” Ray fishes a scrap of paper from his pants pocket. “Allan said to call first thing tomorrow morning because the guy needs someone yesterday. I’m supposed to warn you that he’s a bit eccentric.” “Consider it done. And whatever this guy is paying, it’s got to be better than unemployment alone. I received my first check today, but it was smaller than I’d hoped. I didn’t qualify for the medical plan, either, though I don’t have to worry about that now.” I think about my argument with Ben. I should make up with him, if only so he won’t dissolve the marriage, crass as that sounds. I change the subject. “Tell me what you’re doing to have a mob thug after your ass.” “Nothing. Not a damn thing. He must have me confused with another Marvin Pupik.” “Like I’m going to believe that. Give it up, Ray.” He shakes his head. “You’re as stubborn as Ben and I.” I pour myself another tablespoon of the heavenly liquid, though I’m at least two-out-of-three sheets to the wind. “Sunny, you’re drunk. I should leave.” “Why? You ’fraid I’m going to drink all your pricey booze? Or maybe jump your bones? Ben blab that to you?” I’m not too drunk to see that my comment goes, briefly, right over his head, but then comprehension dawns on his face. “Ben told me nothing of the sort.” He presses his lips together to keep from saying more. “Oh, shit,” I say. “I said too much. Sorry. Now I pissed you off, too.” I’m what’s known as a crying drunk. Big fat gobs of tears slide down the sides of my nose. Ray shakes his head, then half-lifts me to standing. We stagger together to the couch. 162

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“Lie down, Sunny. Will you be all right if I leave?” I’m not sure I ever answer his question, because the next thing I recall is kneeling at the porcelain throne.

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CHAPTER 12 Waking up with a hangover stinks, but a hangover, a sink full of dirty dishes, a kid who’s up too early? The pits, baby, the pits. I’m not much of a drinker, mostly because I drink only with friends, and most of my friends rarely drink. Kirk didn’t drink at all, except for our wedding-day champagne. That’s because he considered his body a temple. A temple to be worshipped by admiring, besotted females. Champagne. Cognac. I love them both. They’re related, you know. Technically, wine can only be called champagne when it comes from the Champagne region of France. Much of the best cognac comes from the same region and carries the appellation, “Fine Champagne.” But both of them cause wicked hangovers. I pry my eyes open. Libbie has once again fed herself some cold cereal. I suck at this mothering thing. I should be in the kitchen making 164

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oatmeal or eggs or some damned hot breakfast thing. Good moms make their kids a hot breakfast, right? “Hi, pumpkin.” I yawn. “Hi, Mommy.” Her eyes are glued to the television. I can tell by the programming that it’s around seven. I get drunk and throw up half the night, then pass out into a sleep so deep that my four-year-old must make her own breakfast. Not only that, my daughter is addicted to television because of my neglect. I’m scum. I’m worse than scum. I’m that beast known as a horrible mother. The morning grows worse when I totter into the kitchen. Memories of last night and intentions of doing the dishes later have come home to roost: cold, greasy water filled with half-clean plates, bowls, and flatware. First things first. I throw a filter, coffee and water into the coffee maker. I hope that a cup of eye-opener won’t upset my stomach further but will kill my raging headache. While I crouch by the coffee machine, clutching my mug, I mull over what, if anything, to eat for breakfast. I decide on nothing. I sit at the table, holding my head, with most of a mug of coffee in my stomach when my daughter appears, bowl in hand. “More Cheerios, please.” She pushes the bowl toward me. At least my kid eats Cheerios and not sugary crap; I do that much right. However, the day Libbie discovers SpongeBob cereal with its nasty little marshmallow bits, Cheerios will no longer satisfy her. I fill her bowl again and send her back to the TV with a kiss on her forehead. I pour a second mug of coffee and start working on the dishes. By eight all the dishes are clean and I’m awake, though so miserable I wish I weren’t. I drop onto the couch and stare at nothing for a good half-hour. I chance some saltine crackers and keep them down. Guess it’s time 165

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to clean up both the munchkin and me. I give Libbie the bath she didn’t receive the night before, brushing my teeth while she plays. By nine she’s dressed and raring to go. I, on the other hand, want to die. I decide not to shower. Instead, we go downstairs to visit the ’rents. They always were early risers. I knock on the blue bus’ door, wondering if I stink like brandy, or if it’s my imagination. I raise my eyes to the third floor. Ray’s blinds are still down. I suspect I know why, from the way the sun is stabbing my eyeballs. A blue-skyed day that’s wasted on me. “Come on in, kid and grandkid,” Daffy says. As I pass by her, she sniffs. “You been drinking this early in the day?” “No. But I don’t think you have any room to talk, considering the things I witnessed over the years.” “Dear, that was pot. Alcohol’s a different story. You never, ever saw me or your father drink to excess.” I feel sniffles coming on. I hope it’s not a cold. “You have any tissues?” “Let me look.” Daffy goes deeper into the bus. “Want some peppermint tea? Just the thing for a queasy tummy,” Silly says. I shake my head, and, still sniffling, dig my hand into my pocket in search of a tissue. Instead, I discover a scrap of paper from last night. I have to call about the job. Ray stressed that I should do so first thing. I hope nine-fifteen qualifies as first thing. “Can Libbie stay here a few moments? I have to make a phone call.” “Here. Use our cell.” Silly places a phone in one of my hands just as Daffy stuffs some toilet paper in the other one. “For your nose,” she says. 166

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I punch in the number, let it ring at least nine times. I’m about to hang up when a man answers with an exaggerated, “Y-e-e-e-s-s-s?” He sounds like the character actor from the Thirties, Franklin Pangborn, who usually played a hotel desk clerk, butler, or something similar. A drawn-out “Y-e-e-e-s-s-s?” was his trademark. John Ritter would have done a good Pangborn imitation. Taken aback, I stammer, “Uh, Allan told me you’re looking for some help?” Idiotically, I can’t recall Allan’s last name. “Can you type?” “Of course.” “Can you work nine to four every day, five days a week, no exceptions?” Except when my kid is sick. I cross my fingers. “Yes.” “Can you be here by eleven? If you want the job, you must come then.” He’s not eccentric, he’s unreasonable. “Why?” pops out of my mouth. Did I say that out loud? Damn. “Miss, uh—” “Montgomery,” I say. “—do you want the job, or not?” “I think so.” “You think so?” Disdain drips from his tone. I need this job. “Yes,” I say. “I’m on the third floor. Ring the buzzer.” He hangs up without a goodbye. I have an interview with the man, and I don’t even know his name. “Watch Libbie, please? I have an interview in about ninety minutes.” The ’rents nod. I hug my Libster and assure her I’ll return soon. 167

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“Do you have an extra key?” Daffy says. “I don’t. I’ll drop mine with you on my way out.” I take a quick shower, slap on makeup so I don’t resemble an extra in Dawn of the Dead, and decide on a black pantsuit that I liven with a bright pin. I slip into my black Rockports and hope they look businesslike enough to win the job. After tossing my purse, a couple of resumes, my letter of recommendation, and an Ace bandage into my backpack, I head out the door. I’m halfway to North Harvard Street when I realize I don’t have a clue how to get to where I’m going. I choose hoofing it to Western Ave and, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch the 86 bus to Harvard Square. From there it’s the Red Line to either Charles or Park, then walk a bit. On such a tight schedule, it’s the best I can come up with. I wait and wait and check my watch and wait and curse and wait some more. I’m about to give up and call my as-yet-unnamed interviewer on my cell phone when the bus appears. I probably could have walked all the way to Harvard Square in less time. Stupid transit system. However, my ankle is aching from what little bit of walking I have done. I’m in the process of wrapping my ankle with my Ace bandage when we arrive in the Square. After hopping off the bus, I sit on a bench next to (I think) a wino and continue the wrap job. Once my ankle feels stable, I stride-limp, stridelimp to the train. I’m lucky enough to have one arrive immediately. The digital clock in the station glows red: 10:37. We arrive at the Charles/MGH stop ten minutes later. I decide to ride to Park to spare my ankle. Then the train doesn’t move. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t move. I look at my watch. 10:52. “Let me off the train!” I yell, bounding for the doors. Someone must hear me, because the doors slide open. I’m down the station steps as quickly as my gimpy ankle allows. I gird myself for the long walk 168

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ahead. As I hurry down Cambridge Street, I call the guy on my cell. No answer. I leave a message, willing my legs to pump faster and my ankle to stop complaining. It’s farther than I remembered to Government Center. At 11:05, I’m sweating profusely, my ankle has gone from ache to screaming protest, and I’m cutting through the Center in search of Congress Street. I find the short side street off Congress that I need and ring the buzzer for Cholmondelay Heritage Management. The Franklin Pangborn-stylized “Y-e-e-e-s-s-s?” assaults my ears. “It’s Sunny Montgomery,” I pant. “You’re nine minutes late.” “Didn’t you get my message?” A businessman in charcoal gray passes by, staring at me while I argue into the speaker. I stare back long enough to convince him I’m not to be messed with. He averts his face and crosses the street. I do crazy well. “I received no message,” he huffs through the tinny speaker. “Can we please discuss this face to face?” He buzzes me in. I study the decrepit elevator, shudder, then climb the stairs, ignoring my complaining ankle. The building smells vaguely of corned beef and cabbage, the way old Boston buildings sometimes do. When I push through the fire door to the dusty third floor, an Ichabod-Crane-clone waits for me, door open behind him. He’s as tall as Ben, but all resemblance ends there. This man has sparse gray hair, a beaky nose with reading glasses perched halfway down it, and small, flinty eyes that follow my every move. His long-fingered hands extend from frayed dress shirt cuffs. The shirt itself, once pale yellow, has faded to a dingy non-color. A brown tie hangs like a limply-knotted noose. “Miss Montgomery?” Who else would it be? 169

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I stick out my hand. “Sunny Montgomery. And you are… ” “Franklin Cholmondelay, President of Cholmondelay Heritage Management.” He pronounces Cholmondelay, Chumley. His hand’s a limp cod. I pull mine away and resist the urge to wipe it on my leg. “Sit here.” He shuts the outer door, pointing to a chair in the cramped reception area. I figure the closed door to my left is his office. The empty desk and chair facing me would be mine, if I am offered the job. If I take the job. I am majorly creeped out. He leans against the front of the desk, towering over me. Sticking his bony hand out, he says, “Resume, please.” I hand one over, along with a copy of my recommendation letter. He reads both, pursing his lips. “Yes. Well,” he says, handing both back to me, “you were late. I do not tolerate lateness. Can you reassure me that you will always be here by nine, Monday through Friday?” “Barring a major transportation problem, yes.” “Barring nothing,” he snaps. Unable to help myself, I say, “Yeah, well, I made it to work on time at my old job ninety-nine percent of the time. Check with my old boss if you don’t believe me. But no one can promise one hundred percent, between T delays and snarled traffic. If this fact prevents you from considering me further, I won’t take up any more of your time. But I would have been on time today if you hadn’t insisted I show up by eleven on such short notice.” I rise, cheered that I won’t be working for this jerk. He fixes his squint on me. “I haven’t said I’m not interested in hiring you, Miss Montgomery.” He points to an ancient-looking computer. “I need you to take a typing test while I call your old boss. Sit behind the desk.” Cowed, I do. 170

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He produces a two-page letter. “Type this, starting now,” he says as he taps his digital watch, apparently starting a stopwatch. “I’ll return in a few minutes. Get as much done with as few errors as you can manage.” He shuts the door to his office behind him, leaving me alone. I might as well give it my best effort. I open Word and start typing for all I’m worth. Approximately five minutes later, he returns and orders, “Stop, print.” He paces the waiting area, stabbing the printed pages with his index finger. He’s counting mistakes. “How many words?” I use the Word Count command, telling him, “Two-ninety-three.” Chumley purses his lips again, fishlike. “Subtracting errors and dividing by four-point-five minutes, you managed almost sixty words per minute.” He studies me, then says, “Any questions?” “What are the job’s duties?” “Answer the phone, take messages, type letters and keep various records. Show up on time. Take lunch from noon to one. Don’t leave before four. Are you interested?” Figuring I have nothing to lose at this point, I ask the one thing you’re not supposed to in a first interview. Not so baldly, anyway. “Pay?” I say. His eyebrows shoot skyward, but he answers. “No benefits, first of all. I don’t pay you to eat, either, so your total hours amount to thirty a week. You’ll work for me as an independent contractor, meaning you’re responsible for all taxes and FICA withholding. Because of that, I’m offering a generous hourly wage.” “Which is?” I press. He takes off his glasses to clean them. “Twenty-five,” he says, not looking at me. “Cut the crap. No clerical job pays anything near twenty-five. What 171

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is it you really want me to do?” He resettles the glasses on his nose, turning his sour expression on me. “Do you want the job, or not?” “Twenty-five an hour, and all I do is type, file, and answer the phone?” He smiles for the first time. He’s even scarier when he does. “That’s all. You don’t even have to get me coffee. I don’t drink it.” “Are you actually offering me the job?” I say. “Call me at three today. I’ll make my decision by then.” “Don’t you have any other applicants?” The question appears to upset him. “I like your typing skills, your resume, and the glowing recommendation your boss gave me when I called. Are you interested, or not?” Think of Libbie. I pull a reluctant yes from deep inside. *

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I consider the job all the way home. It pays better than my old job if I take benefits out of my calculations, but Franklin what’s-his-name weirds me out. Still, he doesn’t seem dangerous. Maybe a little sleazy, but not a harasser of any sort. What the hell. Money is money, and the work looks easy enough. I can save even more if I brown-bag my lunch and walk instead of taking the bus to and from Harvard Square. If he offers me the job, I decide I’ll take it. At the hourly rate I’ll receive, I won’t collect any more unemployment, but if this job goes south, I’ll still have a pool of unused unemployment funds to draw on. It’s after lunchtime when I stop by the blue bus for Libbie. Daffy greets me with a whisper. “She fell asleep just moments ago. We’ll bring her to you when she wakes up. I’m sure your ankle could use some ice and rest. I saw you limping.” 172

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Gratitude I never thought I’d feel floods me. “Thanks, Mom.” Upstairs, I locate an ice pack and towel before grabbing my address book and phone. I recline blissfully on the couch with my foot propped up, enjoying the rest and quiet. I actually fall asleep for about thirty minutes. After my nap, I call Libbie’s former day care. Her favorite, Claudette, answers the phone. “Hi, it’s Sunny. I think I’ve found a job. I’d like to bring Libbie back. I’ll need five days, but only about eight hours—” “Sunny,” she interrupts me, “we filled Libbie’s spot last week. I’m sorry, but we can’t hold vacancies for people, not with so many needing care. You understand, I hope.” “Uh, sure. Well, thanks anyway.” I hang up. Where do I find day care at the last minute? I’m not going to drop my kid just anywhere. Any vacancies available immediately are apt to be due to lousy care, pricey care, or lousy and pricey care. Libbie will need an adjustment period, too, even if I were to find the perfect place this afternoon. Panic ripples through me. I can’t take any job without day care that I can trust. I grab my hair and pull on it, hoping the pain will keep me from crying. I curse, running through all the words I know, so it takes a while. The ’rents. Absolutely no freakin’ way. Why not? They’re not trustworthy. They might run off when a grandchild stops being fun. Or they might let her go outside the bus without supervision, easy pickings for a kidnapper. I argue with myself for several minutes, desperation and practicality 173

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and good sense at war with each other. “Sunny?” I hear my mother call over her soft knock. “Coming.” “Mommy!” Libbie throws her little arms around my legs when I open the door, and I feel ashamed for all the times I’ve resented her clinging to my thighs. “How did the interview go—” The phone’s ring cuts off Daffy. “Just a minute.” I eye to my watch. Three o’clock. Three guesses who’s calling. “Miss Montgomery?” “Yes, Mr. Cholmondelay?” “I’m offering you the job, thirty hours a week, Monday through Friday, nine to four, lunch from noon to one. For the work, I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars an hour as an independent contractor. That means no benefits, and you are responsible for all withholdings. Do you want it?” I decide to leap into the well-paying unknown. “Yes, I do.” “In that case, report tomorrow morning precisely at nine. If you can’t start tomorrow, don’t waste my time. Are we clear?” “Yes, I understand. I’ll be there.” He hangs up without a thank you or even a good-bye. What an asshole. I face my mother, saying, “The interview went well, I guess, because I just took the job.” “If he hired you the same day, you must have wowed him,” she says. Either that, or he’s freakin’ desperate because he can’t keep employees. Still, I admit I enjoy the admiration in Daffy’s eyes. 174

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“Oh, almost forgot, here’s your mail. The carrier came by while the three of us were outside. She needed a signature.” “So my mail carrier asks people she’s never met who are hanging out in front of the building to sign for me?” “She greeted Libbie by name. Maybe she figured that, if we were sitting Libbie, we might know her mother.” She lowers her voice. “We’re not untrustworthy people, Sunshine. I’ll admit at times we were less than stellar parents. But we have grown up. As have you. Can’t we put it behind us?” The phone rings again before I can argue with my mother. Good thing. “Hey, why haven’t you called me about my date?” Dulcie sounds hurt. “Ray offered me cognac last night, I had a job interview—” “Excellent!” “—and I’m just getting around to the rest of my day now. So, how did it go?” “First, tell me about the job, and how you did in the interview.” “I was offered the job moments ago. I took it, mostly because the pay is great. Suspiciously great. Can you swing by after work?” “When do you start?” “Tomorrow. You get me?” She groans. “Day care, right? I’m leaving work in a half-hour, so I’ll see you after that.” I realize I haven’t eaten anything all day except crackers and coffee. I toss my mail on the couch and head for the kitchen. “Mom, Lib, you hungry?” I rummage in the fridge and come up with last night’s leftovers, not to mention the veggie lasagna none of us ate. “Want some, let’s see, goose and roasted vegetables? Kung Pao Shrimp? Looks like we finished off the pot roast, damn it. Best pot roast I ever ate.” 175

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“Shrimp,” Libbie says. I cock an eyebrow at her. “You sure?” “Go ahead, give her some. If she doesn’t eat it, I will,” Daffy says. “What do you want?” I ask her. “Any apple cobbler left?” I serve my mom dessert and heat Libbie’s shrimp after picking out the hot peppers. Because of my stomach, I probably should have toast and tea, but I’m ravenous. I go with the veggie lasagna, as it’s the blandest leftover I have. “What did you do today?” I smile at my daughter across the table. “Grampa taught me how to play checkers, and I beat him! Gramma played ‘statues’ with me. We ate hot dogs and ice cream for lunch.” With Libbie, fun and food are synonymous. As they should be. “Statues?” I say. “Where you whirl someone around and they have to stay in the position they land in after you let go of them,” Daffy says. “You used to love it. Tell me about your new job.” “It’s clerical, but it pays well. I’ll work nine to four.” “Who’s going to watch Libbie? Because your father and I would be happy to—” The door’s buzzer sounds. “Hold that thought,” I say, silently cheering the interruption. Day care is not something I want to discuss with Daffy. Not yet, anyway. I buzz Dulcie in without asking who it is, then throw open the door to see—Ben. “Uh. Hi.” “Hi.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Why’d you buzz?” “I forgot my downstairs key.” “You expect me to believe that?” pops out of my mouth. He rubs his neck. “I don’t expect you to believe anything. Look, 176

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I’m sorry about the other night. Can I come inside so we can discuss it?” “What’s there to discuss?” I keep my tone stony. “You made it clear that we wouldn’t get physically involved. Then right there in your living room, you—” My voice breaks, remembering the pleasure he wrung from me, remembering the humiliation that followed. “Afterward, you pushed me away. I felt used. I feel used. I’m tired of your sick game.” I push the door closed. “Sunny, wait. Please.” His shoves his shoulder between the door and jamb. I slam the door. Viciously. He howls. “Damn you, go away. I can’t discuss anything right now.” “I’m not playing a game. Please let me in.” I relent. He rubs his shoulder, wincing. I fold my arms across my chest. “You can’t come in. I have a new job that starts tomorrow, and I can’t deal right now with your bullshit.” “You have a job? When did this happen? I didn’t know you’d gone on any interviews.” “Today. Now, please go. I have day care to arrange, among other things.” “I’ll come by tomorrow night, tell you the real deal about why I’ve been acting so screwy. It’s not bullshit,” he says. I want to believe the affection in his eyes. “Go let Dulcie in, will you? That’s her ringing my buzzer.” I wait in the doorway for my friend, who throws her arms around me when she reaches the top of the stairs. Ben watches us before vanishing inside his apartment. “Congratulations on the job!” Dulcie squeals. “And let’s never, ever fight again, girlfriend.” “I can live with that, assuming we can actually manage it. Want some leftovers?” 177

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“I’d kill for cobbler.” “Hi, sweetie,” Daffy says when Dulcie and I enter the kitchen. “Convince Sunshine why Sylvester and I are the best choice for day care.” “Well, that cat’s out of the bag,” Dulcie says. “What cat?” asks Libbie. Daffy pats her hand. “Just an expression, meaning something’s no longer a secret.” “Mommy, I want a cat,” Libbie says in her mosquito-like whine. “A baby cat.” “We’ll discuss it later.” “Noooo. Want kitty cat.” I pull out my favorite big gun—distract Libbie with food. “I see you finished your shrimp. Want a purple cow?” “Yay, Mommy, purple cow.” She hums to herself while I prepare one. “Make that two,” my mother says. “Three,” adds Dulcie. “To go with my cobbler.” I pull my head out of the fridge. “I thought you were on a diet.” “I’ll eat salad tomorrow. Besides, Fred says he likes zaftig women.” “You can trust a man who likes a little flesh on his woman,” Daffy says. “He won’t fall out of love with you when you grow fat like me.” “Mom, you are not fat.” “Yeah, you’re zaftig.” Dulcie grins. I finish making the purple cows, placing them on the table. I think I’ll chance some cobbler. The lasagna’s resting easily in my stomach. “Mom,” I say, “don’t take this the wrong way. But I need day care that’s, well, stable. As in long-term.” Instead of arguing with me as I expect, she says, “How about using us temporarily until you find a place that’s more to your liking? Though we’d love to stick around and sit Libbie for a long while.” 178

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“And how long is that? Can I count on it?” “What happened with Claudette’s place?” Dulcie says. “Libbie’s spot is taken. I called earlier.” “And you start working tomorrow.” “Yep.” I sigh. “I think your parents sitting Libbie is a good idea. She knows them, and they live out front. All you have to do is dress and feed your kid and deliver her downstairs to the grandparents,” Dulcie says. “You don’t even have to do that, Sunshine,” my mom says. “Just tell us what time, and we’ll come to you. If you give us a key, we can let ourselves in. That way you can concentrate on getting ready for work.” “That’s a great idea. I can drive Sunny to the Home Depot on Arsenal Street and have a key made tonight. But we should probably wait for the rush hour traffic to die down—” “Do you two mind? It’s only my place, my kid, my life,” I say. Give the ’rents a key to my place so they can violate my privacy any time they want? Yeah, that’s really gonna happen.

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CHAPTER 13 Today’s my fourth day at work, and I still don’t have my old routine down pat. I can’t believe I used to do all this plus deliver Libbie to day care a few short weeks ago. I rub my eyes. Crap on a cracker, it’s 8:04. I have to leave in ten minutes, and I’m still dashing around in underwear and bare feet, coffee barely drunk and no lunch made. I resolve to begin bagging my lunch next week. Today, I’ll treat myself at Quincy Market. Again. Unlike the three previous mornings when the tiny monster whined about my leaving, she shouts with glee to hear the key in the lock. No knock first. But it’s the ’rents. Did I truly expect anything different? “Dad, don’t come in,” I yell. “I’m still in my underwear.” God, it’s high school all over again. “It’s just me, dear,” Daffy says, shutting the door behind her. “Your dad’s not feeling well. Too much pepperoni pizza last night. The man 180

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thinks his stomach is twenty-five.” Libbie gloms onto my mother’s leg. “Hi, Gramma. Watch SpongeBob?” She used to grab only my thigh like that. Daffy lifts her granddaughter, twirling her in the air. “We can do anything you want. Want to paint after SpongeBob?” “Paint picture for Mommy,” Libbie says. “Paint now, Gramma.” “You sure? No SpongeBob?” “Where’d you get paint?” I call from my bedroom, where I’m throwing on the last clean business outfit in my closet. “I make it myself with the same recipe I used when you were a kid: evaporated milk and food coloring. Have to be careful because it stains, but it’s cheap and I can create any color Libbie wants. Your favorite was always purple. Hers is yellow.” “Must be the SpongeBob influence,” I say. “I’ve gotta run. See you by five.” I drop a kiss on top of my daughter’s head, but she’s too busy buttoning her painting smock (and old flannel shirt of Silly’s) to notice my departure. I enjoy my morning jaunts to Harvard Square. I’ve always liked walking, plus the exercise is strengthening my bum ankle. Once winter hits, my commute won’t be fun, but for now I can’t complain. I’m at the office before nine, as I have been every day this week. Fussbudget Franklin, however, has yet to stumble in before ten. His red eyes indicate he’s drinking too much, not sleeping enough, or both. Surprisingly, he’s not the boss-from-hell that I feared he would be. He leaves me alone most of the time, and hasn’t said a cross word to me all week. The workload’s not enough to keep me from boredom the last hour of the day. I hate sitting around doing nothing, so I look for chores to occupy my time. Today I’ll analyze the filing system and reorganize as needed. That should occupy me for at least a week. I suspect a lot of 181

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papers in the files are old enough to be archived. I do have to run personal errands for him, like buy stamps at the post office or hot tea from the corner deli, but a gopher’s job at twentyfive big ones an hour? Hey, no problem. Fussy Frankie surprises me this morning by rolling in at ninetwenty. He nods before disappearing into his office, not coming out again until eleven-thirty. He holds out a twenty. “I want you to take your lunch early, but don’t come back before one. You can use the extra thirty minutes to pick me up a chicken salad sandwich on the corner. And a hot tea. Please.” I open my mouth to ask a question, but he jumps on me before I can get a single syllable out. “Yes, I’m going to pay you for the half-hour,” he snaps. “Go on now, go. Don’t forget my sandwich and tea, and don’t come back till one.” Instead of returning to his office as he usually does after giving me an order, he waits for me to leave. As soon as I step into the hall, I hear him lock the door. An involuntary shudder passes through me. Creepy guy. His money spends the same, though. It’s a gorgeous autumn Friday, and Quincy Market is chockablock with office workers and tourists. Leaf-peepers, or folks who travel here to see our justifiably famous fall foliage, inundate Massachusetts come October. The sunny, crisp days make walking around the city a treat. I pass people angling for a seat in Cheers. The television show’s set draws thousands of worshippers and pub crawlers every year. All people, it seems, want to go “where everybody knows your name.” Even if it’s only in your fantasies. I’ll pick up a sandwich at the same place I plan to buy Franklin’s, I decide, and spend the next hour window-shopping the dizzying array of pushcarts and kiosks. 182

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Perhaps Libbie’s old enough this year to enjoy Quincy Market and the lighting of the big tree at Prudential Center, though the wait in frigid temps can be brutal for a little kid. I vow that we’ll at least visit Quincy Market to see the lighting and displays. I admit it; I’m a Christmas geek. I love all that sappy home and family stuff, want it in my own life. Must come from not having a traditional hearth-and-home upbringing. Maybe Ben will come along. I squash the thought like I would a scuttling cockroach. He never returned to talk, despite his stated desire to do so. I have to resign myself to the fact that Ben and I are a legal contract, nothing more. The sooner I knock that into my foolish head, the better. I fight my sudden, funky blues by checking out artistic renderings of Boston scenes, funny boxer shorts, holiday ornaments, and nightgowns with matching socks. I especially want the nightgowns, one for me, one for Libbie. If I quit eating lunch out, I can put aside enough money to buy them. I save visiting a pushcart loaded with beaded jewelry for last. I love beads and costume jewelry made from them. My budget doesn’t allow any new items at the moment, but looking costs nothing. The necklace I’ve coveted all week is still here, a riot of purples from violet to magenta. To say I want it is to say that chocolate tastes okay. I look at the price tag again today. I suck my breath in. Marked down forty percent. It’s mine. I check my watch—almost one, so I hurry to the deli. I’m keenly aware I overstayed my lunch period. Still, the magic necklace in my purse makes any scolding I’ll receive worthwhile. I’m opening the deli’s door when I notice a familiar bulky shape 183

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outside the building where I work. Mr. Brick-Wall-in-a-Leather-Jacket is squinting at the third floor. My floor. My heart takes off like a Porsche at a green light. I fling myself back, out of his line of sight. Passersby step around me, the better to avoid the dishwater-blonde nutcase. When my breathing settles a bit, I peek again. He’s been joined by Franklin, and the two are arguing. I can’t hear the substance, but I can hear the menacing tone in Mr. Brick Wall’s words. He turns my way, heading toward Congress Street. I flee into the deli, bumping into two people who yell at me to watch where I’m going. I shut myself up in the ladies room with a bang. I hide out for a couple of minutes, then peek out. No bad guy in the deli. And it’s now past one. Damn. I get in line for sandwiches. When I return to work, burdened with bags, a sign on the door reads, CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY. I unlock the door. I don’t turn on the light, but I do lock the door behind me. On my desk is a check, made out to me, from the personal account of an F. P. Cholmondelay. There’s a five with three zeroes. Fifty? No, five thousand. Holy shit. A scribbled note next to it says, “Don’t come back. Please. Sorry.” He’s not firing me, he’s paying me off. Why? I swear I can smell Franklin’s terror. The door to his office is cracked open. He’s never left it unshut in the four days I’ve worked here. A stupid-but-soon-to-be-dead character in a suspense movie would investigate. 184

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I’m not stupid. My neck hair is standing up. I snatch the check and note, then flee. *

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My breathing calms down by the time I reach the subway at Government Center, even though I’m checking for Mr. Brick Wall every other second. I take the Green Line to Park Street, where I pick up the Red Line. I’m reasonably sure I’m not being followed. However, I jump off the train just before the door closes at the MGH/Charles stop. Then I race down the stairs, fear overwhelming any ankle pain I feel. No one follows me. He could be waiting for me to return, up on the platform. I grab a cab in front of the hospital. I’ll pay the hole it leaves in my budget from the five thousand dollar check in my purse. The check that weighs ten pounds, it seems. I tell the driver to let me off at the bank branch nearest me. After depositing the check, I take another cab to an address two streets over from mine. I go home by creeping through yards until I reach the backside of my building. I scan the street. No one. You paranoid idiot, what do you think you are, a Special Ops soldier? At least, that’s what my brain is telling my frazzled nervous system. My hands are shaking, and it takes three tries before I manage to insert the key in the front door’s lock. I press Ben’s buzzer on the way in, heading straight for his door. I knock for good measure. No answer. I edge up the stairs. No one is waiting on my floor, and no one’s on the third. I think. I enter my place, sniff the air, cast my eyes about. My skin doesn’t crawl with terror, so I lock the door behind me. After grabbing a heavy 185

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marble bookend, I search every nook and cranny. Empty. I smell sour from the sweat of fear. I shower, but take the marble bookend in the bathroom with me. I shut off the water at least five times, convinced someone has broken in. Of course, they haven’t. I jettisoned the tea back at Government Center, but the bedraggled sandwich bag I’ve carried all over creation still holds two sandwiches. I pull mine out, sitting on the couch to eat it. The unopened, signed-for mail from yesterday is still on the couch, where I left it. I open it. Inside I find a birthday card marked, “for Libbie,” two money orders for one thousand dollars each, and a brief note signed, “Kirk.” My hands are shaking again. “I know you think I’m an asshole. Maybe I am, because I took your ten grand. This is all I can pay back right now. I’ll mail more when I can. Kiss her for me.” The money orders were purchased on two different days, and come from two different locations, neither of them in Massachusetts. The vaguely familiar return address clicks. Kirk and I lived there briefly when we first married. It won’t do any good to check it, however. I know he’s not there. Tears slide down my cheeks. Kirk, Kirk, you bastard, why did you run? And why do I care? I’m disgusted with myself for crying over him one more time. I dry my tears. Then I finish my sandwich, reminding myself to chew several times before swallowing. Despite this, each bite hits my stomach in a hard lump. Coke. I need Coke. Sitting at the kitchen table, I sip a tall glass of the classic stuff and ponder my bizarre day. Mr. Brick Wall. Franklin gives me five grand, leaves a note saying don’t come back. His open office door. The eerie mailing from Kirk, 186

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with money I never thought I’d see. I hear a key in the lock. Must be the ’rents with Libbie. I scramble to hide what Kirk sent. No way I’m telling them anything that happened today. If I do, they’ll worry me to death over it. “Mommeeee!” Libbie says, grabbing my leg just like old times. “You can play with us.” “Hello, dear. You’re home early.” Daffy’s eyes search mine. “Everything cool?” “Copacetic, Mom.” “Libbie painted a picture for you today.” “I’ll get it,” Libbie says, returning with paper on which she painted a yellow boxy shape containing eyes and a mouth. “SpongeBob,” I say. “Honey, that’s really good.” “It’s for your work.” Her smile is proud. I don’t know what to say to that except, “Thanks, Lib. I love it. I’ll put it on the fridge for now, okay?” “Okay. Mommy, Gramma bought a new game. Let’s play.” “We took a bus to a thrift store, where I found an old Chutes and Ladders,” my mother says, chuckling. “We’re all pretty tired of Candyland and the SpongeBob tapes.” “Wait a minute. I never said you could take her somewhere else.” My mother draws herself up to her full height, a half-head taller than me. “A thrift store on Brighton Avenue is off limits? It’s not like I took her to an adult store or a NORML meeting full of potheads. Kids love thrift stores, and now Libbie has a new game to play. What’s the harm?” I want to tell her the harm, but can’t. Suppose Mr. Brick Wall discovers Libbie is my kid? In fact, maybe he already knows. I’m clueless as to why this guy is after me, but I do know Daffy’s no match for him. “Damn it, Mom, I thought you understood the rules.” 187

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“So now we have rules on where we can take our grandchild? Do you actually believe we’ll let her come to any harm?” “Not intentionally,” I allow. My mother sputters. “Not intentionally?” I spot the frozen expression on my daughter’s face and don’t want to fight in front of her the way we did before. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Let’s drop it. It’s been the day from hell. Chutes and Ladders sounds just my speed.” *

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After dinner and Libbie’s bedtime, my mother collars me. “We need to talk. Seems like you think we’re good enough to help you with day care when you’re in a pinch, but not good enough to trust with a simple outing. I want to know what’s going on.” “Mom, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. Please, it was a bad day, and I can’t talk about it.” Her face softens. “Why not?” “Can’t say. I need you to trust me on this, all right?” I run my fingers through my hair. “For now, Libbie can’t be out of our sight, ever.” “Does this have anything to do with the man who came to the door last weekend?” I say nothing. But I’m not much of a poker player. “It does. I can tell.” “Look, Mom. I’m scared. I’m scared for me, and I’m scared for those around me. For all I know, if I tell you stuff, I’ll put you in danger somehow. Be alert. Watch for suspicious people and actions. That’s all I’ll say for now.” “You sound like Homeland Security. They tell us to be alert without telling us what to be alert for,” she huffs. “I’ll tell you this much… I don’t have a job to go back to, so we can all stay close while I try to figure it out.” 188

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“Why don’t you have a job?” My mother regards me with such love, such compassion, and I need so badly to spill my guts, that I do. “Creepy stuff is happening. My boss ordered me out of the office from eleven-thirty to one today. On my way back, I saw him and the mob guy arguing in front of the office building. I waited in a deli till the coast was clear. When I returned to the office, it was dark with a ‘closed’ sign on the door. Inside, my boss had left me a huge check, along with a note telling me not to come back, ever. The end.” “That’s it?” I nod. “So, you and Dad be careful. Don’t let anyone you don’t know in the bus. I suspect the big scary guy is after me, but why, I have no idea.” Daffy is quiet for a moment. “How huge a check?” “Four figures. I already deposited it.” “Wowie zowie. You’ve got bread to spare. Cool. Now,” she says, leveling her gaze at me, “tell me what’s up with Ben. You two don’t act married. What’s that all about?” “I appreciate you haven’t pestered me about it. I know you’ve wanted to ask. But I can’t talk about anything else tonight. I’m exhausted.” “Some time this weekend, then. I need to go check on Syl, anyway. Can I hug you before I go?” We wrap our arms around each other for what seems like days. Neither of us wants to let go. She kisses my forehead. “Your dad and I have been in much worse scrapes. We’ll come through this together. Be cool, Sunshine. Hang tough.” “G’night, Mom.” I open the door for her. Ray’s standing there, fist poised to knock. His other hand holds a bottle of cognac. “I thought you were with Allan,” I say. 189

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His lips firm, but he can’t prevent his voice from quivering. “Allan and I are through.”

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CHAPTER 14 Daffy hugs him; Ray and my mom have bonded into fast friends. “I’m so sorry, Ray. Come have tea with me tomorrow morning, all right? Wish I could stay, but I have to check on Syl. He’s had a stomach bug all day.” “Too much pepperoni again?” I ask. Mom nods. “Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow,” Ray says, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Come in, why don’t you,” I say as Daffy leaves. He chooses the living room’s only chair, if you don’t count the inflatable SpongeBob one, while I find my wineglasses. He smiles when he sees them. “Any glass in a storm, I guess.” “I hope you don’t plan to get drunk on hundred-dollar cognac.” “Of course I do. Life’s too short to drink the cheap stuff.” “Ray,” I say, “I don’t want to heap more bad news on your head, but you should know what happened at my work today.” 191

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“First, we toast. Good riddance to bad rubbish.” We clink the glasses. When I take my first sip, my eyes tear and I cough. “How did I drink this stuff the other night?” I choke out. “You’d had a lot of wine first, that’s how. Now, what happened at work?” “You came to see me, and it’s your expensive cognac I’m drinking. We should discuss Allan first.” “The Allan Problem can wait. Spill it, girl.” I tell him what I told my mother, finishing with, “Ray, this guy means business. I’m frightened he’ll hurt you or me for unknown reasons. And he might have hurt my boss.” “Why do you say that?” “When I returned to the office, Franklin’s door was ajar. He never left it open before. And his office was dark. I was afraid to go in there, afraid I might find—” I shudder. “A body? You’re watching too much Law and Order.” Ray drains his glass, pours more. “Ready for a refill?” “Okay. Ray, listen to me. When Mr. Brick Wall—” “Brick wall?” “I think of him as a brick wall in a leather jacket. When he came here, he was looking for you. Now he’s looking for me. And I have no clue why. What have you done?” “Nothing, Sunny. The guy’s mixed me up with someone else, that’s all.” “Mixed up or not, he’s dangerous. He’s a tall slab of muscle. And he asked for you by your real name. How many other Marvin Pupiks can there be in Boston?” I take a sip, finally relaxing into the warmth of the drink. “I’m curious. Why don’t you go by your real name?” “If your name was Marvin Pupik, would you?” The corners of his mouth turn up. “But, why ‘Man ‘O’ War Raygun’?” 192

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“I invented it one night back in the Eighties—” “Wow, you’re old,” I say. He chuckles. “My name’s partly a play on Ronald Reagan, partly meant to evoke the photographer Man Ray. And it’s a lot more interesting than Marvin Pupik.” It hits me. “You never changed it legally, did you? That’s how he found you. Everything’s in your legal name, so all information led him here.” Ray sighs. “You’re right, I never changed it legally. I started using my nom, but didn’t jump through all the legal hoops.” “In Massachusetts you can change your name without benefit of the court, if you don’t have a record,” I say. “I looked into it, because I considered changing mine.” “What’s wrong with Sunny? It worked for a song.” “Sunshine Rainbow is a little too Sixties, don’t you think?” “Not at all.” “So, why not change your name?” “I can’t. Not without petitioning the court.” “But you don’t have to as long as— Oh. You have a record?” He grimaces. “Back in the dark ages, I was arrested when the cops busted the gay bar where I hung out. I fought back, was slapped with a felony assault charge, along with a few other unlucky patrons. We were all convicted, but the judge gave us suspended sentences. I think he suspected the truth.” “I didn’t know. Sorry.” “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” His flat tone closes off further discussion. “Except that you’re out of a job again. I’m sorry about that. I thought Allan had a lead on something worth pursuing.” “About Allan. What happened tonight?” Air whooshes out of him as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “I was an ass.” 193

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“Tell me.” I lean forward to encourage him. “We were out to dinner. Allan seemed distracted. I tried to talk with him, but he made goo-goo eyes at the waiter. The waiter has it. I can’t explain what it is, but he has it, and I don’t. So, jealousy hijacked my brain. I snapped out a few choice words, then I stormed out.” He lowers his eyes. “I cabbed it back here, grabbed the cognac I was saving for later tonight, and showed up on your doorstep.” I reach for his free hand, the one not holding a drink. “You’ll make up. Just a lover’s spat, that’s all. I’ll bet Allan’s trying to call you right now.” “Like hell,” Ray snorts. “I may have been an ass, but I know infatuation when I see it. By now, Allan and the waiter are probably getting to know each other in a back room.” I think of Kirk. “People make mistakes. Have one-night stands. It happens.” “It happens, all right. More?” I’m relaxed and tingly, enjoying my third glass of the good stuff, when Ray says, “What’s up with you and Ben?” “You should know. You stayed there Sunday night, remember?” “He did say you two had an argument. But he didn’t relay details.” The alcohol buzzing in my blood makes me bold. “Look, I have to know. Is Ben gay?” Ray sprays half a mouthful of booze. “Gay? Ben? Don’t you think I’d be after him day and night if he were? He’s magically delicious.” “So he’s not gay?” “That’s a good one. Ben, gay. Hey, a joke. Ben-gay.” He laughs. “Sunny, you are completely oblivious if you think he’s gay. The man’s got it so bad for you he can barely speak when you’re around.” “No, he’s doesn’t.” “Yes, he does.” “No, he doesn’t. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know.” The 194

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humiliating memory of that night heats my face. Ray crooks an index finger, telling me to move closer. “Listen,” he whispers. “I’m speaking out of turn, but Ben’s been crapped on by some grade-A bitches, including his mother and the notorious Kitty Katz.” Ray frowns. “He lacks self-esteem in certain areas. Modesty forbids I clarify the area further. But, as Tony Soprano would say, capiche?” Light dawns on Marblehead. “Yeah. I think I do,” I say as a whirlwind of wanting overtakes me. “If he needs confidence, I’ll give him a dose. Mind staying here with Libbie while I visit him? You’re not as drunk as I am, are you?” “I’m barely lit. I need more cognac than this bottle holds to get drunk. Still, I’ll stop drinking right now. I want to be sober enough to handle any Libbie problem that comes my way while you and Ben get busy.” I take his face in my hands and kiss him. “I love you, Ray.” “Save it for your husband, darling.” Because I’m weaving a bit after three glasses of booze, I creep down the stairs, gripping the banister, in order to avoid another ankle injury. Within moments I find myself staring at Ben’s dark-wooded door. Deep breath, shoulders back, stand tall, gal. I knock. The door opens. “Ben, I—” Whatthefuck? The tallest, most voluptuous, reddest-haired beauty I’ve ever seen stands in the doorway. Her thick locks fall below her shoulders, her face is damp and flushed, and her lush body is bursting out of her towel. “Just a sec. Ben, it’s for you,” she calls. “Want to come in?” she says to me. 195

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“I, I, no.” She walks back inside. Even covered with a towel, I can see her butt’s world-class, matching the rest of her. Problems with women, my ass. He has a girlfriend. He chickened out with me because he didn’t want to cheat on her. I guess I should give him some credit for not cheating. Wait a minute. Remember how his hands possessed you? Tell me that’s not cheating. That son of a bitch. My pride convinces me to flee just as he shows up. “Sunny, what? What’s wrong?” he cries as I scramble up the stairs, closing and locking the door behind me. “Sunny!” The wind’s knocked out of me. I’m gasping for air. Once I fill my lungs, the tears start. “Sunny!” He’s pounding on the door. I have to cry, have to escape. “Ray,” I say, struggling to hold back my tears, “tell him to go away. He’ll wake Libbie.” I run to my bedroom while Ray orders Ben to vamoose. When my mind replays the past couple of minutes, welling anger stops my tears. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I’m too stupid to live. Ray is rustling outside my door. “Are you all right?” he halfwhispers. He’ll never cross the threshold to my bedroom, so I open my door. “Hell, no. I’m not nearly drunk enough, for one thing.” He puts his arm around me, leads me back to the living room. “What happened? You were down there a minute, tops.” I shut my eyes as the images in my mind assault me. I set out to seduce a man who already found a hotter girlfriend than me. No wonder he couldn’t get it up with me. I’m too skinny and my 196

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hair’s too curly-wild. Hell, isn’t that why Kirk stopped having sex with me? Because I’m ugly? Apparently, I’m too repulsive for even an easy pity fuck. I wipe my face. “I don’t want to talk about it. What I do want is another glass of that stuff. If you don’t mind.” “You’re sure?” “Quite sure.” My voice is firm. I’m back in control, walling off the jagged shards of my hurt and shame from public view. “Want to talk about Allan?” I say after a calming sip. He shakes his head. We drink in silence. “I know,” he says. “Would you like to hear about my latest project, a coffee-table-type book?” “I think you told me about it before.” “Yes, but I didn’t give you all the details.” He places his glass on a nearby table, the better to gesture extravagantly. “One day I was thinking about convenience stores, and how there’s never enough parking, and how these stores are great equalizers.” “I don’t get it.” “Sunny, it’s democracy personified. Or automobile-ified. Everybody eventually shops at a convenience store, from owners of rattletraps to Mercedes drivers. And we all park wherever we can— legally, illegally, it doesn’t matter if you’re only running in for a halfgallon of milk or cigarettes. Cops usually don’t ticket unless you park illegally right in front of them, because you’re in and out of the store in two minutes, tops. Anyway, I’m taking photos of cars and the locations where they’re parked at area Store 24s. These photos will appear in a coffee-table book I plan to release next Christmas.” I don’t see the point of the book, but Ray’s oddball coffee-table books must pay well enough to keep him supplied with expensive cognac. 197

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“Sounds different,” I hedge, not wanting to crush his rush, as the ’rents would say. “It’s actually a continuation of my previous book, which contained photos of cars in mall parking lots. I plan a third book down the road. The series is called Democracy and Automobiles. The last one was subtitled, The Mall. This one will be The Convenience Store. The next one will probably be The Airport.” People actually buy these books? “Could I see the mall one?” “I’ll be right back.” Ray leaves, his drink in his hand. I stare at the wall and drink till he returns with an enormous book, its book jacket glossy and bold. I glance at the price, and choke on my drink. “Sixty dollars?” “Never underestimate what wealthy Bostonians will pay for the latest chic coffee-table book. My work is all the rage among the wealthy, all the better for a working-class gay guy from Small Town, Ohio.” He puts down his glass, smiling. “And you really don’t have trouble with people not wanting their car’s picture taken?” He shrugs. “Not enough to make me stop.” “Hey, did you take a photo of Mr. Brick Wall’s car? He doesn’t seem the kind to want his picture taken. Maybe that extends to his ride. It would explain his coming to see you.” “If he saw me take a picture of him or his car, he would have confronted me at the time, don’t you think?” “Guess that’s true. It wouldn’t make sense for him not to. And if he didn’t see you, he wouldn’t know, right?” “Right. I don’t think he has anything to do with my project. What he does want, who knows? He hasn’t been back.” “Too much coincidence for him to show up where I work. Worked, I mean.” 198

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He tsks at me. “Sunny, you worry too much.” “I’m a mom. It’s my job to worry.” I reach for the bottle, but Ray takes it off the table. “No more, dear. You’ve had a hard day. I think I’ll save you from a certain hangover and leave now.” As I see him to the door, I say, “Maybe you’ll have a message from Allan waiting for you.” “Yeah, and the President might address the nation wearing gold lamé, a blonde wig, and stiletto heels.” *

*

*

What a glorious day. Barely a week after fleeing Cholmondelay’s, I’m glowing with achievement. The street musicians at Park Street Station have never sounded better and, while waiting for a train, I dance a terrible jig from sheer happiness. The heavenly-smelling donuts tempt me, but it’s the colorful mums that I buy, three bunches, and to hell with the budget. I inhale their sharp scent, essence of fall and Thanksgiving, and lose myself in the riot of copper, yellow, and burgundy blooms. I just pulled off the perfect interview with a great company interested in hiring me, me, for my dream job. Well, okay, not my dream job, which would be acting as personal slave, um, assistant, either to James Spader or Hugh Grant. But as neither Mr. Spader nor Mr. Grant have called to inquire about my services, Marketing Researcher-Wonk will have to do for now. At least the position is with an ethical corporation. After Enron, Global Crossing, and all the rest, to work for a company publicly lauded for its ethics pushes the position from “kinda cool” to “dream job” on the Job-O-Meter. Not to mention the starting salary is five grand more than my old job. Not to mention they have flextime and excellent bennies. Not to mention the commute wouldn’t be too awful. Not to mention marketing research sounds more interesting than endless rounds of press release 199

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writing. I’m more of a geek than a suit. Images of slaving away to, um, satisfy either Mr. Spader or Mr. Grant briefly cloud my mind. Not only do the images remind me how horny I am, they also remind me of Ben. He somewhat resembles Mr. Grant, at least in the naughty-little-boy-smile department. If Mr. Grant wore Buddy Holly specs, that is. I tamp down my feelings for Ben as if I were Dulcie refusing a chocolate dessert from Rosie’s. No, the man will not tempt me again. Nor will I allow myself to stand, sit, or (God forbid) lie within five feet of his hands. I’m so hot for him that I’m going to leave the thought of “how hot” unfinished rather than torture myself. He’s not for me. So very much not for me. To his credit, he did attempt to talk with me about Kitty Katz and all the rest, but I shut him down. Too painful to revisit. So now we’re cautiously friendly and wave and occasionally chat, but that’s it. The only good thing that came out of that night was that I discovered where I stood. There’s something to be said for finally knowing. The Alewife train’s headlight is growing larger in the tunnel’s darkness when I decide to bring something home for Daffy and Silly, in appreciation for their helping me. No time for the shops here, but I’ll find what I want in Harvard Square. I saunter home in the unusually warm weather, presents in hand. For Silly, a paperback about alternative politics he’s been coveting. For Daffy, a pair of earrings that will match almost everything she owns, they’re so wildly colorful. For Libbie, a purple winter hat, with a SpongeBob patch on it. Blue skies, sunshine, and giving good interview; no matter what else might happen, today is a good day. I head upstairs to the apartment to put the flowers in water. That done, I package the presents in the gift bags I bought on my last trip to 200

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the dollar store. I peek out a rear window—no Libbie or ’rents in the back yard. I doubt they’re in the bus on such a day, but I’ll check anyway and leave a note if they’re not in. I knock on the big blue bus’ door. I think I hear voices, so I call, “Libbie? Mom?” The door jerks open. Someone hauls me inside, nearly tearing off my right arm. The gift bags fly out of my hands, skidding across the bus’s floor. “Ow! What’s going on?” I rub where the rough hand gripped me, blinking in the darkened interior. A gun’s barrel is inches from my face. Omigod omigod omigod. Libbie? “Stand still,” Mr. Brick Wall orders. “Where’s Libbie?” My eyes adjust. Daffy, Silly, and Ray are all seated at the makeshift kitchen table, where Mr. Brick Wall Two has a gun trained on them. Ray’s nose is swollen and bleeding, and my father’s cheek sports a bruise. My mother’s the color of bleached flour. “Where’s Libbie?” “Shut the fuck up, blondie.” Brick Wall One waves the gun. “Get over there with the other freaks.” “Not till you tell me where my kid is!” “Do what I tell ya, or your kid won’t have a mother no more.” When I don’t move, he shoves me, hard. I fall to the floor. “Sunshine,” my mother says, “Libbie’s not here.” “Where is she?” Brick Wall Two kicks my leg. I scream. “Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Sit at the table.” I limp to the table, where the four of us huddle under the two goons and their guns. I have no idea what’s going on. All my brain can 201

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scream is Libbie. “Mom?” I say. She won’t look me in the eye. “Mom.” “She was playing outside, Sunshine, just for a minute. Ray came by for tea. Then these two shoved their way in.” “So where’s my kid?” Dad hangs his head. “I’m sorry, dear. We don’t know.” “You both are so dead. If we all get out of this alive, I’m going to kill you.” “Sunny,” Ray says. “Calm down. I’ll bet Libbie’s with Ben. He’s home. I saw them talking together on the front porch.” “I want to call him.” I pull out my cell, only to have Number One chop my wrist with his fist. It hurts like hell, and I drop the phone. He stomps on it. “No one calls nobody. In fact, all of you shut up now, or Vinnie and I are gonna use you for target practice.” “It’s me you want,” Ray says. “Why don’t you take me and leave these people alone. They don’t know anything about the photos.” “Ray, if it’s photos they want, for God’s sake give them up,” I say. “I’d offer, but I suspect we’ll all take a long walk into the woods once they have them.” Number Two grins, flashing a gold tooth. “Yeah, Mr. DiBenedetto, he likes everything wrapped up real neat-like. No loose ends.” “Shut up, asshole. Don’t be sayin’ names.” Number One, obviously the brains of the operation, briefly points his gun at Two. Part of my brain still screams, Libbie, but the problem-solving portion tells me I need to work on surviving this situation first. DiBenedetto. Local capo, recently in the news. Supposed to be dead. Maybe he’s not? “The photos show DiBenedettos’s alive, don’t they?” 202

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“Yeah, sure kills his alibi,” Two jokes. Number One slaps him open-handed. The crack reverberates, and I can see the deep red print on Two’s face, even in the dusky bus. “You keep talkin’, you gonna visit Carmine.” I don’t know who Carmine is, but the prospect of visiting him zips Number Two’s lip tighter than Libbie’s when she needs foul-tasting medication. I decide to try something, at the risk of offending Ray. “What do my parents and I have to do with all this? Why are we involved? We didn’t do anything and we don’t know anything. Let us go.” “Today’s the day we gotta take care of business. The fag here boarded this fruity bus before we could grab him. So the old freaks are what you’d call collateral damage.” “Me, too?” I say. He nods. “If I don’t have anything to do with this, why were you snooping around Mr. Cholmondelay’s office?” Number One’s eyes narrow. Shit, I said the wrong thing. “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.” I shut the fuck up. “If you’re going to kill all of us regardless, why not tell her?” Ray says. I shoot him a look that orders him to shut the fuck up. I don’t want Number One any more pissed at us. Number One lifts his shoulders as if to say, that’s true, no reason to hold back. His body language turns my insides watery. “Gentlemen,” Daffy says, “would you like some tea? I have a special blend you’re sure to like.” “Lady, we don’t want no tea,” Number One snaps. 203

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“Hey, boss, some tea would be nice,” says Two. One glares at him, so Two continues. “I can’t drink coffee no more, you know that. I could use some tea right now.” “It’s really groovy tea,” my mother says. “May I make some for you? We might be here a while, and you gentlemen look like you could use some refreshment.” “We won’t be here much longer,” One snaps. At that, my fear turns to anger. Libbie will have to grow up an orphan because of these assholes. I bite down on my fury, biding my time, because I suspect my mother has something planned. “Boss, I want tea,” Two says, in a mosquito voice similar to Libbie’s. The two stare for a moment. “Awright, make the tea. But if you try anything, I shoot her first,” he says, swinging the pistol in my direction. My mother shoots her eyes at me, inclines her head the tiniest bit. Trust me. I blink to indicate my understanding. She puts the kettle on the hot plate, fusses over two mugs. We wait through the process of boiling the water and steeping the tea. “I made one for each of you,” she says, placing the mugs in the center of the table. “I don’t want none,” Number One says. “Tea is what them fags in England drink.” “You callin’ me a fag, Joe?” Number Two says, his hand gripping his mug. I wonder if he’ll throw the hot tea in One’s face at the implied insult. “I can’t help I gotta bad stomach, can’t drink coffee.” “I don’t mean nothin’ by it, Vinnie. Drink your fuckin’ tea already.” Number One just backed off. Hmm. Maybe there’s something going on between the men I can exploit. “If you won’t take tea, how about a neck massage? My husband 204

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used to work as a masseur,” Daffy says. Number One swings the pistol to my mother. “No fruity freak is gonna put his hands on me.” “Then suppose I rub your neck? I’m pretty good at it, and you look so tense.” She keeps eye contact with him, seemingly unintimidated. She bends forward in her v-necked tunic, her considerable cleavage catching his eye. My mom, the Sixties sexpot. I want to kill her because it’s her fault my daughter’s missing, but she’s got a pair of stones, my mother does. I’ll give her that. “Here,” she purrs, stepping behind her chair, moving her body in ways I don’t want to think about. “Have a seat. A big, strong man like you must get stressed out. You need to let go.” “Fuckin’ responsibilities,” he says, nodding agreement. “Being in charge. Making decisions,” Daffy says. “You got it.” “Putting up with inadequate help.” “Yeah,” Number One growls. Number Two says, “Hey.” “Shut up, Vinnie. I woulda done you by now if it weren’t for your uncle, and you know it. Keep your gun on these three while Mama with the tits here massages me.” My mother works One’s neck and shoulders with utmost concentration, occasionally brushing the back of the man’s head with her front. Number Two drinks his tea. After a short while, Two’s gun hand droops. One’s eyes are shut, screwed up with ecstatic lust. I think I hear him grunt with pleasure as my mother works on a knot in his trapezius muscle. Ray, Dad, and I glance at each other, all of us with the same idea. We act as one. Ray goes for the gun in Two’s hand. My father grabs One’s a 205

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millisecond after I seize his forearms. In moments the two mobsters are under their own guns, though Number Two’s so drowsy, he doesn’t seem to care. Number One, though, is definitely pissed. I pray my father knows how to shoot the damned pistol. My mother and I have backed out of reach, and her fingers are dialing 911 on the cell she pulls out of her save-the-day cleavage. “So, while we wait for the cops, tell me… why were you snooping around Mr. Cholmondelay’s office?” I say. Number One curses long and inventively, but Two slurs a response. “Chum-ley and us were workin’ some angles at the Dig. He owed us some money, so insteada us breakin’ his knees, we ordered him to hire you. You gotta kid and are friends wit’ the fag, we figured we could squeeze you, somehow get to him.” He waves his hand to indicate Ray. His using the past tense with regard to Cholmondelay isn’t lost on me. I shudder. “How’s Allan involved in this?” Ray says. His finger tightens on the trigger. “Don’t know no Allan,” Two says. Ray holds the gun against the side of One’s head. “Allan,” he says flatly. Number One smirks. “That little JP fag friend of yours used to be special friends with Frankie C. If you catch my drift.” “But he didn’t have anything to do with your business?” I say before Ray’s twitching finger slips. The green-eyed monster has hijacked his brain. “Nah. Just a go-between. He knew Frankie C and he knows this fag here.” Number One glances at Ray. “But Allan’s not part of this mess?” I say. Number One shakes his head. Libbie. 206

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“You say you saw her with Ben?” I ask Ray without waiting for his response. I race into the building to bang on Ben’s door. He opens it, and Libbie’s standing next to him. Relief rolls over me. I drop to the floor and take my daughter down with me, crying and kissing her and ignoring her protests. “Mommy, stop it. Too tight. Come see me play Mister Ben’s piano.” “I’ve been teaching her to play the keyboard,” he says. Our eyes meet as we both recall the time he tried to teach me. Not gonna think about that now. I hold my munchkin tighter. The police arrive. They insist on taking all our statements, so we troop to the station to tell them what happened. It takes hours. They bring us sodas and sandwiches, but our brush with death has left me a bottomless pit of hunger. I need IHOP therapy.

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CHAPTER 15 “So, what was in that tea, anyway?” I say. Daffy laughs. “Every herb in the book that can put you to sleep. Plus a bit of ground-up tranquilizer. Ativan.” She squeals, then mock-slaps my father’s face. “Don’t pinch my ass, you bad man with the big gun,” she coos. He whispers in her ear, and I overhear something about his big gun. Eeeuuuwww! “Please stop reminding me you two have sex,” I say, covering my eyes. “Oh, Sunshine, don’t be so buttoned-down.” I open my eyes to see my mother snuggling against my father. He kisses her hair. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for sex.” “Well, duh. But do you have to push it in my face?” Ray sips his coffee. “I’m never drinking your tea again, Daphne. Who knows what you might do once you have me sedated.” 208

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She pats his hand. “I might try to have my way with you, you handsome thing, you.” Everyone laughs but me and Libbie, who says, “Mommy, what’s so funny?” “Eat your pancakes, Lib,” I say before forking more of my own into my mouth. I splurged on the chocolate chip ones with whipped cream, as did Libbie and Dulcie and her new hottie, restaurateur Fred, whom I asked Dulcie to invite. I love that Fred, a gourmet restaurant owner, lacks pretense, eating heartily at a low-brow place like IHOP. Dulcie has my seal of approval on this guy, even if he does have to dash back to his business shortly. “Tell me again what happened?” Fred says. “It’s hard to follow.” “I accidentally photographed a crime boss who was supposed to be dead,” Ray says. “You can’t pin a triple murder on a dead guy—talk about your airtight alibis. So knowing he was alive and in the vicinity of the murders when they happened will put DiBenedetto and his thugs away for a long time.” “They showed up to get Ray’s photos and kill him, and we were along for the ride,” I say. “Thank God Ben had Libbie.” “See, sometimes things work out for the best, despite your terribly irresponsible parents,” Daffy says, pointing at me with a forkful of Belgian waffle. I sigh. “I’ll admit this time it did. No telling where things might have ended if the goons had Libbie to use against me.” “Let’s not think about that,” Ben says, giving me a look that I’d think was love, if it weren’t for the curvaceous redhead he’s dating. “Sorry, have to run,” Fred says, as Dulcie scoots out of the booth to allow him to leave. “Chez Fred won’t succeed without hard work and thirteen-hour days. I have to arrange nights off in advance.” “I wish Allan could have been here to meet you. We’ll drop by Chez Fred soon,” Ray says. “Your osso bucco is divine.” 209

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“How can you eat veal, Ray? Don’t you know how they’re raised?” Silly says. As the animal rights argument roars into action, I watch Dulcie walk Fred to the doorway. Right there in the orange-and-turquoise ambiance, she laughs up at him, and he plants a kiss on her that’s curling my toes, and I’m twenty feet away. I hear a throat clear. Ben’s eyes are eating them up. I smother my lust with more pancake until Dulcie returns, her hair nicely mussed. “God, he’s great. Isn’t he great, Sun? So down-toearth.” “He certainly does look and act earthy,” I tease. She blushes fullbore. Inspired by young love, Daffy and Silly kiss again. I avert my eyes, asking my daughter, “What do you want for dessert, pumpkin?” “Ice cream! Choc’late sauce!” She’s grinning and bouncing in the booth. “Why am I not surprised?” I hug her to me, thinking how close we came today to having our lives blown apart, literally, by Brick Walls One and Two. “Aunt Dulcie, will you come back with me? We haven’t played for long time,” Libbie says. “I’m sorry about that, Lib. Can I come over tomorrow, after work?” She nods. Dulcie catches my eye. “I saw the S-B B-I-G-W-H-E-EL-S on sale today. Christmas is coming.” Translation: SpongeBob Big Wheels. I want a SpongeBob Big Wheels tricycle to give to Libbie for Christmas. “Kissmas, Santa, Mommy, go see Santa,” Libbie sings. “How long till Kissmas? See Santa?” “We haven’t had Thanksgiving yet. In fact, Halloween’ll be here in three days, so it’ll be a while before Christmas is here, Lib.” “What are you going as on Halloween?” Ben says. 210

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“Fairy princess,” she says. “What? Not SpongeBob?” “God, don’t put that idea in her head,” I say. But Libbie is already running with it. “SpongeBob, be SpongeBob for Hall’ween, Mommmeeee.” I groan, dropping my face into my hands. “See what you’ve done.” Daffy reaches across to pet her head. “Dear, if you want to trick-ortreat as SpongeBob, Grampa and I will make it happen. Want to go shopping tomorrow? We’ll buy foam rubber, paint it yellow, and have all kinds of fun.” Ray addresses my folks. “I’ll drive you two home, if you want. I’m a bit fatigued after today’s excitement. No need tonight for my usual nip of sleep-inducing sherry.” “Ray, wait,” I say. “Before you leave, tell me. You looked awfully comfortable with that gun today. Have you ever shot one?” “I most certainly have. I belong to the Pink Pistols.” Seeing my blank expression, Silly says, “Gay folks and their friends gather to shoot guns at a range. Ray’s going to take me to their next meeting. I’d like to try target shooting.” “Just as long as you don’t bring a gun home,” Daffy says. “Thanks for the presents, dear. You were so sweet to remember us. And I’m thrilled that the interview went well.” I stand to give each of my parents the most genuine hug and kiss I’ve bestowed on them since they arrived. “Thank you,” I whisper while holding Mom tight. “For everything.” *

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I eye my daughter. She’s dressed in yellow foam rubber, with holes cut out to make it look like a giant sponge. A white shirt, brown shorts and red tie complete the outfit. Long underwear is clearly visible; that’s my doing. I’m not letting my kid out improperly dressed. A Boston Halloween is always as cold as, well, a witch’s tit. 211

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“Libbie’s adorable as SpongeBob, Mom. You and Dad are geniuses when it comes to costuming. Ever think about working in the theater?” “Libbie helped, too, didn’t you?” my mom says. “She painted the foam rubber.” Libbie twirls around, singing the SpongeBob song, mangling a few of the words. “Remember, this block and the next, that’s all,” I say. “We’ll be all right, Sunshine, don’t you worry. Won’t we, SpongeBob?” Libbie giggles. I accompany them to the front door, where trick-or-treaters are already lined up, waiting for candy. After kissing my daughter goodbye, I grab the plastic pumpkin filled with treats to dole them out. Ben appears, dressed in fake goatee and shades, his saxophone around his neck. “Why aren’t you dressed up?” he says. “Have adults taken leave of their minds? Halloween’s a kid’s holiday. Besides, I don’t like dressing up.” “Dahling,” I hear behind me. Ben and I turn to gape at Ray and Allan. Ray is Barbra Streisand (I think) to Allan’s James Brolin. I burst out laughing. “I hope you two don’t scare the kids. Or freak the parents.” They sniff simultaneously. “Don’t worry. We’re headed to a party,” Ray says as they sweep out the front door. It’s barely closed when little fists knock. Upon my opening the door, a chorus of “Twick or tweat!” rises from a group of preschoolers. None of them can be older than Libbie. “Hey, daddy-o,” Ben says. “Get down with the Hartster.” He blows a riff on the ’phone. I pass out the candy, uncomfortable with his presence. And the parents, as I figured they would, stare at us and at the 212

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departing Ray and Allan, though one mother says to them, “You look fabulous, darlings.” She’s done up as Hilary Clinton in a black power pantsuit. I own one just like it. “Cool suit,” I say. A man at the back of the crowd of parents steps out. I have trouble placing him for a moment. When I do, my nerveless hands drop the plastic pumpkin full of candy. It’s Kirk. A little thinner, with a little more gray in his hair than I remember, and a few more lines around his eyes. But goddamnitall, it’s Kirk the Jerk. He walks onto the porch. “Trick or treat.” He manages a weak smile. I start to slam the door in his face, but more kids are walking up the sidewalk. Ben’s picked up the pumpkin and scattered candy. He hands it to me. I force myself to ignore Kirk, force myself to be cheerful while giving out treats. “Here, I’ll take over,” Ben says after the crowd of kids leaves. I can’t read the expression on his face. I pull Kirk inside the building, to the area behind the staircase. “What the fuck are you doing here? How’d you find me? And where’s the rest of my ten grand, you bastard?” “I still have most of the money. I’m sorry I took off like that.” He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. Can I see Libbie? How’s she doing?” “You walk back into our lives after canceling our health insurance and robbing me, and you think a few apologies will make it all better? And, no, you can’t see Libbie.” “The custody agreement allows me visitation.” “It won’t after I tell the court about your noncompliance with the divorce decree by canceling the insurance. I’ll make sure you never see her again.” 213

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My jaw hurts. I realize that I’ve had it clenched since the first moment he spoke to me. I stop gritting my teeth, wiggle my jaw to loosen it. He drops to his knees. Well, this is new. “Sun, please let me tell you what happened. I’m begging. If you want me to go away after that, I will. I promise.” “Huh. Your promises are like pie crust—made to be broken.” Kirk’s an awfully good actor, but even he has trouble crying on demand. I’m shocked to see actual tears in his ocean-green eyes. It hits me that Ben resembles Kirk. Is this why I’m hot for Ben, because he reminds me of Kirk? God, I hope not. That would mean I’m nothing but a slave to my hormones. “Okay, tell me. But don’t make me regret this,” I say. Words tumble out of his mouth in an endless babble. “I lost my job, had creditors on my back, and no way to pay for anything, including insurance. I freaked. I read about opportunities in California. I split. I got there, only to discover things are rough all over. There’s no rainbow, and there’s no pot of gold waiting for me to discover it. In other words, I think I finally grew up. I sent you the card and check because, at the time, I wasn’t sure I had the stones to come back and face you and our daughter. “Look, I spent a little less than two grand over the past two-plus months. I traveled and lived as cheaply as I could. Say the word, and I’ll never bother you again, except to send you checks. I will pay you back. I know I really fucked up. All I ask is that you give me another chance.” He takes my hand, kisses it. I jerk away. “You can’t be serious. Give you another chance? To do what? Break Libbie’s heart again, like you did mine? Do you have any 214

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freakin’ idea how much she misses you? She cries for you, goddamnit, and hearing it feels like a kick in the guts.” I’m so mad I could spit, so I do. Right in his face. He holds my gaze while climbing to his feet, wiping the spittle off his nose and cheeks with his hand. “Can I give you my cell phone number, in case you change your mind? Or in case you need something?” I open my mouth to tell him I don’t need one freakin’ thing from him, but the sadness in his eyes, in the droop of his mouth, contains a large dollop of hopelessness. I’ve known Kirk to put on many moods, but hopeless isn’t one of them. Seeing it makes my heart twinge. Besides, Libbie needs her dad. Why deny her? What he did to you is old news. If you’re truly over him, you’ll let him see her. Give him a chance to be a father. “You’re not asking for another chance with me, are you?” I can’t help narrowing my eyes when I say it. “You mean another chance with Libbie, right?” “Yes, yes, with Libbie.” Some of the hopelessness on his face fades. “I’m not asking for another chance with you. I’m pretty sure that ship has sunk.” “You mean, sailed.” “No, sunk. I torpedoed what we had and saluted it while it went down in flames.” He shakes his head. “I was stupid.” “Okay. You can see Libbie,” I say. “She should be home soon. Oh, and that blue bus out front houses Daffy and Silly. I’ve made my peace with them. You’d better do the same, if you want any chance at having a life that includes all of us.” “Thank you,” he says. I hate to admit it, but he sounds and looks sincere. That good an actor, he’s not. 215

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“Ben,” I say as we return to the vestibule, “meet Kirk Stanley, Libbie’s father. Kirk, meet Ben Hart, my landlord and, uh—” “Friend,” Ben says, barely moving his lips. The two men do everything but circle each other, the way dogs do when they’re not sure which one is on top. Someone’s knocking, so I leave them to their pissing contest. When I pull the door open, Libbie beams. “Trick or treat!” “Hey, is that my munchkin?” Kirk kneels, his arms open wide. “Our munchkin,” I correct him. “Daddy!” She bolts for his arms, and the sheer bliss on her face confirms that, whether Kirk’s an asshole or not, letting him have a relationship with her is the only right choice. “I missed you so much, Daddy. Aunt Dulcie bought me a SpongeBob chair and Gramma and Grampa play with me all day and they made my Hall’ween costume and Mommy hurt her foot and we went to IHOP where I ate choc’chip pancakes and a choc’late sauce sundae! And Mister Ray and Mister Ben went, too.” Suddenly she whacks him on the shoulder. “Where you been? Bad Daddy!” Best not to encourage that sort of behavior in her, though I slap my hands over my mouth to keep from howling uncontrollably. “Libbie, don’t hit your father,” I choke out after I squash my giggles. Kirk focuses all his attention on her. “Yes, bad Daddy. I lost my job and had to look for work. I still don’t have a job, but I came back here to see you. I couldn’t stand to be away one more day. I love you, Libbie.” “I love you, Daddy. Mommy’s looking for a job, too.” He flicks his eyes at me. “Then losing your health insurance and your savings must have been devastating.” “You could say that, yes.” I lean against the wall with my arms crossed, waiting. For what, I’m not sure. 216

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“Kirk, do you remember us?” my mother says. Daffy and Silly are also waiting. I notice how tired they look, and it hits me…they’re getting old, nearly retirement age. Kirk stands, Libbie still in his arms. “Yes, I do. Sunny’s parents. You tried to convince her not to marry me.” “I’m glad we failed,” Dad says, “because otherwise we wouldn’t have Libbie.” Ben sidles up to me. “Can we talk?” “Tonight? No,” I say. He touches my shoulder, his eyes intense. “I have a lot to say to you, especially if you’re going to let him back in your life.” He jerks his head in Kirk’s direction. My mother collects herself the way she does before she says something that’s difficult for her. But her words almost knock me over. “Kirk, do you need a place to sleep? We have sleeping bags and room on our floor.” Kirk’s jaw drops. Literally. “Uh, no, uh, thanks,” he stammers. “I have a place to go.” “Daddy, stay here.” Libbie clutches him, and those tiny fists squeeze my heart. “I’ll be okay, Lib. I’ll come see you tomorrow, all right?” I glare into his eyes over her shoulder, you’d better, or I’ll kick your ass. *

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Early November turns Boston cold and gray. Kirk shocks us all by being as good as his word, coming to see Libbie every day. My parents have thawed a little, but I think I still see murder in my mother’s eyes at times. And Ben and I haven’t talked yet. But bigger concerns are occupying my thoughts. Good news, bad news thoughts. The good news is, I aced the second interview for the Marketing 217

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Researcher job. The bad news is, it’s in Phoenix. Yesterday’s phone conversation offering me the job went something like this: Them: Everyone here agrees that you’re perfect for the position. We’ll overnight you a formal offer letter today. Me: Great! Them: We’ll pay relocation expenses up to three thousand dollars. Me: What? I thought the job is in Boston. Them: No, Phoenix. Didn’t we tell you that? At any rate, our other Marketing employees love it there, and our HR department can help you find what you need. Can you be ready to work in three weeks? Me: <sound of strangling> Them: Hello? Me: Um. I need to think about it. At least two days. Them: Certainly. Call us by five on Thursday. I’m staring at the just-arrived offer letter. The job’s fabulous, the money’s fabulous, the way they want me so badly’s fabulous. But Phoenix sucks. Rather, leaving Boston sucks. I don’t know enough about Phoenix to judge its ranking on the Suck-O-Meter. I bought that silly snow globe I own in the airport there, but an airport doesn’t tell you much about a city. On the one hand, I need work to support Libbie. I need a job with a real future. On the other hand, my best friend is here. So’s Libbie’s father. How can I take her away from him when he just showed up? And, of course, I’ll hate leaving Ben, even if it is for the best. I’m no match for Kitty Katz. I pour out my heart to Daffy and Silly over tea while sitting at the rickety table my mother has covered with a faded magenta paisley remnant. 218

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“Are you sure this job is worth a move?” Silly says. “No one in Boston has offered me anything at all, let alone a job with as much future as this one. I have to think of Libbie first.” “You, mean, support her?” he says. I nod. “How do you feel about Kirk? Do you plan to remarry him?” Daffy says. I see the horror on my face reflected in hers. “God, no. But neither do I want to take Libbie away from her father, now that he’s shown up and appears to be trying his damnedest to be a real dad.” “Does Kirk know this?” my father says. “I think he looks at you with lust in his heart.” I snort. “Kirk has lust in his heart for anything that’s human, female, and alive.” “Still, you should make your lack of interest clear to him.” “I thought I did,” I say, but I pull out my cell phone anyway. “Hey, Sun,” he says when he hears my voice. “Uh, this might seem odd, but, um, you’re not interested in getting back together, are you?” “Are you?” His tone is guarded. “No, Kirk. I’m not. Are you?” His voice is soaked with relief. “God, no. I’m glad we feel the same way. I didn’t know how to tell you, but, well, I found someone.” “In less than two weeks?” “I’m living with Lily.” Lily was the former coworker he was bonking when he moved out. I guess they hooked up again. “Were you living with her Halloween, when you came by? The night you refused to stay in the bus?” “Sunny, don’t be mad, please.” Ah, that old, familiar plea. If I had a dollar for every time he used that tone with me, I’d have, well, a lot of dollars. The thought makes me laugh. 219

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“Not at all. I’m happy for you, and happy things are working out. You coming by tonight to see Libbie?” “If that’s okay with you. Seven?” “You bet. Kirk, I need to ask you something else.” His tone switches back to wary. “Yeah?” “If I move someplace like, oh, say, Phoenix because I’m offered a great job, how do you feel about that?” “But I came back here to be with our daughter.” “I realize that. But if I have to move, can we work it out, somehow?” “Whatever’s best for her,” he says. “Is it best for her to move with you to Phoenix?” “I don’t know yet. But we’ll work it out if I do move, right?” “Right.” I hang up. “Kirk’s living with someone. He’s not the least bit interested in a romantic reunion.” “So why does your face look troubled?” Daffy says, patting my hand. “He made me reconsider what’s best for Libbie, and whether moving just for a job is a bad idea.” “He has a point, kiddo,” my dad says. “How about Ben?” my mom says. I concentrate on my suddenly-fascinating mug. “We’ll get divorced, I guess. What else is there to do? I won’t need health insurance any more. The new place’s coverage is quite good.” “Sunshine. Stop using your head and open up your heart.” “Why? He has a girlfriend. I saw her. A gorgeous redhead.” Tears spurt out. I obliterate them with my shirtsleeve. Daffy cocks her head. “I’ve never seen him with any other woman. You sure about this?” “One night a redhead answered his door, dressed in a towel and a 220

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smile.” “But are you sure they’re lovers?” she presses. “What’s to be sure of? She was damp and dewy and exuded recent good sex. Besides, why was she running around his place nearly naked if they’re not lovers?” “Maybe her apartment’s shower was broken. Maybe they’re very old friends, or ex-lovers. Maybe she’s a lesbian. Maybe all of the above.” My mother forces me to meet her eyes by holding my chin. “Sunshine, you must talk to him. You can’t make a major life decision on where to work and live until you’re certain he’s not interested. He is your husband, even if it’s in name only. After all, you trusted him enough to forge a legal link.” What she says makes sense. It also makes my heart pound with fear and, okay, lust, too. Daffy pushes the cell phone I placed on the table toward me. “Go see him while Kirk is with Libbie tonight. Call him to set it up. If you don’t, I will.” *

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At 7:06, I raise my fist to knock on Ben’s door. I’m afraid I’m going to faint from a mixture of panic and excitement. Suppose Mom is right, and Kitty Katz is not his lover? Yeah, and suppose the Red Sox win the World Series. Wait, that really happened. He opens the door at my first rap. “Come on in. You want some Coke?” “Yes, please.” “I made us a bowl of popcorn. Help yourself.” He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks like he’s ready to endure a root canal without Novocain. I grab a handful of popcorn, munching it mechanically. I have no idea what I’m going to say first. 221

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“Here,” he says, handing me a tall glass of fizzy cola. I hold it with both hands, desperate for something, anything to hold on to as I navigate the tricky waters ahead. “Ben, we need to talk.” “Yep,” he says. “About the sex.” “About that, too.” “Too?” Hold on. I’m not ready to talk about Phoenix yet. “I mean, yes, let’s talk about why you don’t want to have sex with me,” I say. My heart is beating itself to death against my ribs. “Why wouldn’t you talk about it with me before now?” His stare unsettles me, forcing me to slide my eyes to the saxophone in the opposite corner. “I wasn’t ready.” I chew my lip. He leans back in his chair. “It’s not that I don’t want to. And I didn’t mean to hurt you by making you think that. I’m sorry. I screwed up.” He stands, paces briefly, then sits back down. “I haven’t had sex in a very long time. There’s a good reason why.” “Define long time. I saw the redhead in the towel who answered your door.” “Kitty? She’s an old friend. We met when I was in grad school, and were off-and-on again lovers. But I ended it two years ago. No one likes to be a pity fuck.” “You? A pity fuck? Bullshit,” I say. He laughs, a cheerless bark. “Believe me, for a woman of Kitty’s beauty, I am. Was. Whatever. The reason I haven’t had sex in years is, ah, shit, this is difficult.” He scrubs his face with his palms. “I’ll just say it. More than one partner has told me I’m a lousy lay.” His words pop my eyes wide. “What?” 222

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“I said, apparently I’m not very good in bed.” He’s casting his glance around the room, everywhere but at me. “I heard you. Who would say something so crude and insensitive?” He shrugs. “My last lover, for starters.” “And this is why you start with me, then stop?” “That’s one of the reasons.” He still won’t look at me. “What are the others?” “I’m a physics geek. I can be distant when I’m turning a problem over in my mind. I’ve been called cold.” I think about what he did with my body, and the memory makes me sweat. “Cold isn’t a word I’d use. You were pretty hot when you, um, touched me.” Now I’m the one not meeting his gaze. “I figured the best way to avoid disappointing anyone else was to go without,” he says. “It’s easier to be the best friend.” He leans forward, his attention focused on the floor. “Ben,” I say, “that’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard since that night.” He jerks his head up. “You calling me a liar?” “No, no. What I mean is, in my experience, you’re quite good.” My breathing hitches, and my last three words come out way too breathy. “You’re so hot.” He stares at me a moment before shaking his head. “No. Two different women told me I wasn’t able to, you know, make them happy.” “But you did with me.” “I know. However, I started something I couldn’t finish, and you thought I was rejecting you. I wanted you a lot, then I got scared when I thought we might actually do it, and that I’d be terrible at it. So those thoughts gave me problems with, um, my ability to follow through.” I’m blowing air through my nose like a racehorse. “Tell me one 223

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thing, Dr. Hart. Do you want me now?” “God, yes.” I walk to him, take his hand. If a moment ever screamed for me to take a risk, it’s now. But if he rejects me, it’s over. I’ll just die, after which I’ll move to Phoenix. “Let’s go, Ben.” He regards me as if I’ve sprouted horns. Which, in a sense, I have. “Go where?” “Duh. To bed.” “I told you, I’ll only disappoint you.” “Let me be the judge of that.” I pull on his hand until he comes to his feet. Current is arcing between us like over an open gap between connectors. I swear I can see sparks. And then our bodies touch. Even through the clothing it’s, well, amazing. I’ve never been bold in bed. But if we’re going to have sex, I know I have to make the first moves. I run my hands the length of his chest and stomach, stopping just south of his belt buckle. He responds to my touch. “Sunny, please—” “Shut up and kiss me.” I throw my arms around his neck, bringing his head to mine. Our lips meet, and it’s like the first kiss I ever received, back in college. (I was a late bloomer. So sue me.) Know how your stomach flips and thrills on a roller coaster? Ben’s kissing sends that same thrilling sensation coursing through my body. But mostly it’s concentrated in the core area where I ache to feel his hands, his lips, his all. Especially his all. He tries to pull away, to talk, but I won’t let him. I keep one arm locked around his neck, and he’s too much of a gentleman to push me 224

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away hard. My other hand goes wandering in search of what I need so badly. I come up for air long enough to say, “Bed.” “You sure?” he says. I am going to slap this man. “No, I want to redecorate the bedroom. Of course I’m sure.” “Sunny,” he groans, “oh, God, I want you.” Suddenly, we’re on the bed, clothing is flying everywhere, and he gives me what I want, and not sweetly or gently. But it’s exactly what I need. “About goddamn time,” I gasp as the ache at my core builds, hurting and yet deliciously, maddeningly wonderful. His fingers touch me, urge me the way they did that night in the living room. I float to another plane of existence, hearing him whisper my name. Oh, Lord, I think I’m in love. We’re engaged in more than just sex, if my feelings are any judge. My world narrows to him and me and the beauty of a bond that’s so intense, I weep. After a mutual satisfaction perfect enough that I can’t recall it without a fluttering heart, we’re tangled together, skin slipping against skin. “Wow,” I say, kissing him lightly on his chest. “What was all that bullshit about your not being any good in bed? You’re not good, you’re stupendous.” “So, it was good for you?” His tone is light, his eyes unreadable. “If you have to ask, I guess I wasn’t loud enough. Let’s do it again so you can be sure the next time.” He stops my kiss. “Seriously, you had a good time?” His vulnerability is breaking my heart, so I open mouth, insert foot. “I may be in love with you.” “I may be in love with you, too. Though the logical side of me says 225

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it’s too soon to know that.” This isn’t what I want to hear, but when his arm pulls me close and we snuggle, it’s heaven. “Hey, you never told my why Kitty was at your place that night.” I push myself up on one elbow so he’s forced to look me in the eye. “We talked on the phone. I told her about you and me. She came over to restore my confidence, shall we say.” “So you were planning to do it with her!” I try to get out of bed, I’m so pissed, but he won’t let me. His hands hold my upper arms fast. “But I didn’t. I swear it. Cross my heart and hope to die.” “Stick a needle in your eye?” “Yes. Kitty and I never even started, not even one little kiss or touch. You showed up at the door, and once I heard your voice, I realized I didn’t want anyone but you.” I touch his stubbly cheek. “You really didn’t do it with her?” “I really didn’t. I admit men can be pigs. But not this time. Not me.” I’m mostly reassured by this, so we resume snuggling. I try to ignore my brain, which is screaming, What about Phoenix?

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CHAPTER 16 Dulcie, good friend that she is, has left work early to consult with me. Five P.M. today is my deadline for accepting or rejecting the job, and I’m still undecided. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s make a list of the pros and cons. Maybe that will help.” “Done that,” I say. “Pros: good job with great future, eases money worries. Cons: takes Libbie away from Kirk, and Phoenix may suck. It’s the devil I know versus the one I don’t. Oh, and con: you live here, not Phoenix.” “Another con,” she says. “Ben’s here. He confessed his love for you.” “Correction. We both professed that we think we might possibly be falling in love. Lots of wiggle room in there to back out.” “The sex was incredible, wasn’t it?” “Incredible sex isn’t everything. Sex was incredible with Kirk—at 227

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first. Who’s to say I can’t find equally incredible sex in Phoenix? Besides, Libbie has to be higher on my scale of concerns than mindblowing orgasms.” Dulcie puts on a thousand-yard stare, which she does whenever her mental wheels are turning. “Con: how can you trust a company that wasn’t upfront with you over the job’s location?” “Good point. But I’m can’t swear they didn’t mention Phoenix. I don’t remember them doing so, that’s all. They claimed they mentioned it.” “I think you would have remembered their mentioning the job’s location. It’s nearly three thousand miles away.” “Damn, it’s after four. I have to call them soon.” I bite my lip before continuing. “My security-seeking side doesn’t want to kiss off the job with no other offers in sight. But you have a point about my remembering a detail like Phoenix.” I sip my drink. “Though the company wins public praise for their ethics. Maybe they told me, and I really did forget.” “Only way to know,” she says, “is to call their bluff. Tell them you won’t take the job if it’s in Phoenix, but you’ll be happy to work for them if the job’s in Boston. Tell them your custody agreement won’t permit relocation. Tell them anything. It’s balls-to-the-wall time.” I pick up my cell phone. I can feel my reluctance to call the company in my stiff fingers. I disconnect before the number rings. “I have an idea,” I say. I tell Dulcie. Her only comment is, “If you can manage to get your answer by five, go for it.” My fingers fly over the phone’s buttons. “Hey, lover,” Ben says in a husky voice that makes me shiver, “Want to drop by my place? Or shall I come to yours?” Best to blurt it out. 228

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“I received a job offer Tuesday.” I hear the frown in his words. “Tuesday, and you’re telling me now, two days later? Never mind, I don’t want to fuss. That’s great news, Sun. And I have a dynamite way to celebrate. I’ll supply the whipped cream.” His voice has gone husky-sexy again. I breathe once for composure before I say, “The job’s in Phoenix.” The silence needs filling. I do so. “Look, it’s no big deal. There are airplanes, and holidays, and vacations we can spend together, and telephones, and the Internet. We could try cybersex. Wouldn’t that be fun?” My good cheer rings hollow in my own ears. “When were you planning to tell me?” “I just did.” “Let me guess. I really was lousy in bed last night.” His audible despair prompts me to rush in with fake-sounding words. “No, no. You were fabulous. It’s not you, it’s me.” “Where have I heard that before? Oh, yes, you told me that was your line when I used it. Guess you couldn’t wait for the opportunity to return the favor.” “Ben,” I say, scouring my brain for the right words, “neither of us has professed undying love. I’m truly grateful you married me so Libbie and I could have health insurance. You’re a good friend, if only for that. I’m very fond of you, and the sex really was fabulous. But I have to think of my child and the future. The money’s excellent, they’re paying part of my relocation, and the job has tons of growth potential. No one in Boston has offered me anything at all. I have to take it. I—” My voice cracks. “I meant what I said about airplanes and phones and cybersex. I want you in my life.” “Just not right now.” “Please, please understand.” “If you’re so concerned about Libbie, why are you moving away 229

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right after her father returns to the area?” “I can’t count on Kirk the Jerk. He could up and leave again tonight.” “What’s this really all about? Why are you running away from the good thing we have?” “I have to go now,” I say. “I’ll come by later.” “Don’t bother.” Click. My throat feels like it’s closing up. “Shit,” I croak. “Sunny, don’t let your security-hungry side push you into taking the job. Knock the ball back in their court. Tell them you can’t move to Phoenix. If they really like you and the offer’s on the up-and-up, they’ll find a job for you in Boston,” Dulcie says. “What century are you living in? They’ll tell me to take a hike, thanks but no thanks. This is the corporate age of doing more with less. I don’t want to kiss off the job.” “In any case, it’s nearly five. Pee or get off the pot.” I call The Corporation, having no idea what I’ll say. “Hello, Sunny. We were worrying because we hadn’t heard from you. I hope you’re calling to take the job,” my HR contact says. Yes. Yes. Yes, I am. “No, I’m not,” I hear myself say. Whatthefuck? my security-seeking side screams. “You’re not?” The woman on the phone sounds surprised. “First of all, I have a child, and my custody agreement doesn’t permit me to relocate.” I cross my fingers over the lie. “Second, I don’t recall being told I was interviewing for a job that’s in Phoenix. I’m pretty sure I was led to believe the job is in Boston. Look, I like the people I met. I want to work for you folks very, very much. But I can’t move to Phoenix to do so.” 230

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The HR person sighs. “I’m certain this particular position is in our Phoenix office. However, maybe there was a mix-up. Let me determine what happened, and I’ll get back to you.” What she leaves unsaid is the rest of the sentence: when hell freezes over. “Well, that’s that,” I say after I hang up. “How do you feel?” “Like I just did the stupidest thing of my life, not counting saying ‘I do’ to Kirk.” “Libbie came out of your marriage to Kirk. Something good might come from your refusal to take the job.” Dulcie stands, tugging at my hand. “Five o’clock. Let’s collect Libbie from your parents and go to the pancake house. You need distraction, not to mention pancakes.” “Only if it’s my treat,” I say. “You’ve done too much for me as it is.” *

*

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After a dinner of pancakes and scrambled eggs, topped off with ice cream, my parents take Libbie to see the SpongeBob movie—again—so I can talk with Ben. I’m sitting on the couch, procrastinating like mad over going downstairs, when he knocks on my door. “Hey,” I say, my heart thudding. “Come in.” He marches in like a man on a mission. “Sunny, I was an idiot earlier, on the phone. I can’t say I’m not hurt because you didn’t tell me about Phoenix, because I am. I thought we trusted each other more than that. Especially after last night.” “About last night,” I say, but he shushes me. “Let me finish. Okay, I’m hurt, and I don’t want you to leave, but you’re right, we haven’t made any promises to each other. We got married under the proviso of friendship. You’ll always have that with me, regardless of where we live or where the relationship ends up. I’ll do anything to help you. Pack, load the truck, wave good-bye while my 231

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heart breaks, anything. Okay, I’m done. Your turn.” “Wave good-bye while your heart breaks?” I say. He nods. “My brain tells me it can’t be so, it’s too soon, but I’m sure I’m falling in love with you. Reasonably sure, anyway. Scientists have a hard time with absolutes when it comes to the irrational.” “Nonrational. Love is nonrational, not irrational.” “It’s both. Now, tell me why you didn’t say something about the job before today.” “For one thing, I wasn’t sure I would take it.” “But you did. Right?” “Not exactly.” “How can you not exactly take a job?” His hand steals out to touch my cheek. “Are you staying or not?” “I told them I’d love to work for them, but not if I have to relocate. Ben,” I rush on, fighting the tears roughening my voice, “I don’t want to leave. I love Boston, and you’re right about not taking Libbie away from her father. Even if the jerk skips tonight, at least she’s had some time with him. Besides, Dulcie is here. And so are you.” He pulls me into his arms. Peace like I’ve rarely felt steals over me. “Sunny, I’m so happy you’re staying,” he says into my hair. The tears begin leaking from the corners of my eyes. “Me, too. But, listen. I think we should divorce.” He pushes me back to arm’s length. “Divorce?” “I want to start fresh with you. Let’s divorce. That way, you can keep me on your insurance, but we can take it slowly, make sure it works out between us.” “You’re nuts, Sunny.” His laugh softens the words. “I know I am. Humor me, okay? I just kissed off the biggest job opportunity of my life to be with you.” “Don’t pin that on me. You have a lot of reasons to stay in Boston. You said so yourself.” He pauses. “Wait a minute. The divorce isn’t 232

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your way of saying we have to stop making love, is it?” My spirits soar when he says “making love,” as opposed to “having sex.” “No way,” I murmur, placing his arms around me. His hands drop immediately to my butt, his lips to my earlobe. “Y’know,” I whisper, “Libbie won’t be back for a while. Want to see if we have more fun in my bed than yours? Strictly as a scientific experiment, you know, in the pursuit of knowledge for the greater good.”

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CHAPTER 17 It’s Thanksgiving, and trite though it sounds, I have much to be thankful for. Like Libbie. Like a job in Boston. Like Ben. Like the ’rents. Like Dulcie, who I’m going to treat to something sinful and huge, like a shopping spree or day-spa visit. I don’t know what I’d have done without her these past months. As I’ve said, she’s my rock. Ray wanted to hold a formal dinner at his place, but I persuaded him to join me in a more casual holiday celebration. We’re making pizzas of all kinds. Ray and Allan are, of course, creating the gourmet pie—artichokes and goat cheese and God knows what-all. Mom and Dad are making the veggie; Ben and I are tackling the meat one, with pepperoni and, for Libbie, sliced hot dogs. Dulcie and Fred are handling dessert—two pizzas composed entirely of several varieties of chocolate, if you don’t count the cookie crusts, one sugar, one peanut butter. Libbie is helping by entertaining us with tales of SpongeBob. That is, until she tires enough for a nap. She’s been buzzed ever since 234

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her Daddy came back. Speaking of Kirk, he’ll drop by later to see Libbie. I know it’s fashionable to be good buddies with exes and all that, but I’m not modern enough to put my ex and his squeeze at the same table as Ben and me. Just call me an old-fashioned gal. When I told Kirk I was married to Ben and that it all started with health insurance, he looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. After a moment’s sputter, he congratulated me. I picked that moment to say that Ben and I were divorcing, in order to get to know each other the way normal couples do. Though I’ve had no luck convincing Ben that we need to do this. I’ll keep trying. Libbie and I are moving downstairs to live with him, mostly because Ben’s place is bigger. Also because, after many exacting and varied experiments, we concluded sex was better at his place. Plans call for his “early Sears” furniture to be replaced by my good stuff, and the extra bedroom he now uses for storage will be turned into Libbie’s room. She’s dying to paint it SpongeBob yellow. And my place? Well, Daffy and Silly will live in it, earning their rent by caring for Libbie while I work and performing the handyman chores. After all those years of remodeling buses, Dad knows more about fixing and rebuilding things than Ben does. The ’rents and I pooled our funds and bought a small used car. But they say they’re not letting go of the bus, though they will park it at their friend Peaceman’s place. Daffy and Silly do hate to be tied down; they’re afraid to sell their escape hatch. Old habits are a bitch to kick, as evidenced by my own continuing struggle to take the occasional risk. But I don’t worry—as much, anyway—that Mom and Dad will take off in the middle of the night. They’re settling down in their dotage. Anyway, the car we share is useful to them when they take Libbie out during the day, and useful to me for grocery shopping and such. I guess 235

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I’m their daughter in that I don’t like to depend on others. Besides, I truly detest driving Ben’s car. In Boston, it’s only a matter of time before someone crashes into his vintage coupe, and I don’t want to be the one driving his beloved toy when the inevitable happens. Speaking of crash, I found out through the city grapevine (via Dulcie) that the cabbie who totaled my car was fined an enormous amount of money. And, the mobsters are in jail with no parole. We all sleep sounder at night knowing that. Otherwise, we might all have moved to Phoenix by now. Which brings me to The Corporation. They called me with another job offer. It’s not quite as cool as Marketing Researcher-Wonk, but it pays the same as my former job, and best of all, it’s in Boston. I commute by T, of course. Only the insane would drive a car from Allston to the financial zone and pay twenty per day to park. Kirk, who has been faithfully coming to see Libbie, has gone on several promising job interviews. Things apparently are going well with Lily, also. I’m not holding my breath, however. Fickleness, thy name is Kirk Stanley. And Heather, the Dragon-Nails-Rental-Queen? Somehow she got wind of my moving out, and was begging Ben to let her list the apartment, within hours of hearing the rumor. The satisfaction of telling her the place was already rented can be compared to a fine stack of chocolate-chip pancakes at the IHOP. As to who leaked the vacancy to her, my lips are forever sealed. But, oh yes, I can be a bee-atch.

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Sharona Nelson penned her first short story, about a racehorse, in the fifth grade. She’s enjoyed several different communications-oriented careers, including working as a radio personality for two Boston stations, and as a technical writer/online help designer for Boston’s banking software industry. Cover Me was inspired by her second marriage. Although she married for love, the timing of the wedding was dictated by her need to obtain health insurance before her ex-husband remarried. She and her family currently live in New Jersey.

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