Laura Childs - Photo Finished

“This is good,” she said, slathering on butter and munching a piece. Yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a carbo freak, too. Hard to keep a lid on it.

“You sound surprised.” Shamus sounded hurt.

“Actually, I’m astonished,” said Carmela. “I had no idea you could cook, let alone bake.”

“Well, I did reside in a frat house for three years.”

“Sure, but you had a housemother. Mrs… what was her name… Warlock.”

“Murdock,” amended Shamus. “Mother Murdock.”

“Right,” said Carmela, deciding that poor Mother Murdock probably should have been canonized for putting up with all those stinky socks and stinky jocks.

“Honey, I’ll have you know that at Tri Delt we had a housemother, two maids, and a handyman.”

Carmela shook her head, thinking back to her own college days. It had been your basic four girls crammed into a one-bedroom apartment experience. Endlessly jockeying for the phone and the bathroom, someone always using the last tampon or bit of toilet paper but never owning up to it.

CARMELA’S GOOD HUMOR WAS ONCE AGAIN PUT to the test when it was time to turn in.

“Jammies?” asked Carmela, eyeing Shamus’s hastily packed overnight bag.

“Pardon?” said Shamus, not understanding. Or pretending not to.

“Pajamas,” said Carmela. “Did you bring them?”

“Well… yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” said Carmela, ducking into the bathroom. “You change while I take off my makeup and brush my teeth.”

Somewhere between the toning and the cleansing routine Carmela heard the phone ring. She tossed her tissue into the trash can and listened, heard Shamus talking in low tones. Had he given out her number? she wondered. She straightened up and stared at her bare face in the harsh fluorescent light, thinking, If this doesn’t scare him off, nothing will. And knowing in her heart that installers of bathroom lighting surely must harbor intense feelings of hostility toward women.

“Some guy named Quigg called,” Shamus snorted when she emerged from the bathroom clad in a modest floor-length nightie. “Said you could call him back tomorrow. Quigg.” He gave a second disdainful snort. “Sounds like somebody’s coonhound. Hey there, Quigg, old buddy, sniff around by that cypress tree and see what you come up with.”

Carmela climbed into bed, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be productive.

“Say, do you have a date or something with that guy Quigg?” asked Shamus. “Is that why you don’t want to, or can’t, sit at our table?”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela.

“Not exactly,” repeated Shamus, suddenly looking very wounded.

Carmela stared at Shamus in wide-eyed amazement, wondering about the green-eyed monster that was suddenly crouched on Shamus’s back. She surely hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him. Maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. But certainly not out-and-out jealousy. Hmm.

“Where are your pajamas?” Carmela asked him, but Shamus was still reveling in his full-fledged snit. He peeled down to his T-shirt and jockey briefs, then clambered into bed next to Carmela.

Was this, Carmela wondered, what was meant by the phrase brief encounter?

She patted the bed and Boo immediately jumped up and snuggled in between them, a modern-day Shar-Pei bundling board.

Shamus frowned, lifted himself up on one elbow, and peered across Boo’s furry form. “You really owe me for this, you know.”

Carmela gazed back at Shamus and shifted about uncomfortably, amazed that a forty-five-pound dog could occupy such a sizable amount of real estate. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Don’t play cute with me,” said Shamus. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Saturday night. Glory’s table. Quid pro quo, baby.”

Carmela considered this. Shamus had come to her rescue tonight, so it was probably only right that she return the favor. On the other hand, didn’t Dr. Phil continually lecture on the danger of married people “keeping score”? You did this, so I get to do that. Except she and Shamus weren’t exactly your typical married couple. They were your typical on-the-verge-of-divorce couple.

“Okay, Shamus. You got it,” said Carmela, trying to stifle a yawn.

Shamus thumped his pillow, flopped over, and let loose a long sigh. “Thank goodness that’s settled,” he mumbled. As Carmela began to drift off to sleep, the last thing she was aware of were Boo’s wet snorts mingled with Shamus’s mumbled snores.

Is this the real meaning of family? she wondered. Maybe. Hard to tell.

THE interior of Spa Diva looked like it might have taken some of its divine inspiration from the gentlemen’s clubs of yesteryear. A leopard print love seat and chairs were clustered around a black ebony cocktail table. Chinese lamps with silk shades of saffron yellow and mandarin red cast a glow against gold leaf wallpaper. A white flokati rug seemed to undulate on the floor and two life-sized ceramic Chinese warriors from an indeterminate dynasty stood guard on either side of the reception desk. “Obviously not a glitter-free zone,” remarked Carmela as they strolled up to the front desk.

But Ava was never adverse to a little glitz. “I like this,” she said. “Very glam-o-rama.”

“Very Jade Ella,” whispered Carmela.

The receptionist, a skinny, leather-clad blond, accepted their gift certificates and led them each to a treatment room.

Ava had finally decided upon the Banana Frango facial, while Carmela had opted for the full-body mud mask. The brochure, the one with her photo adorning the cover, touted the full-body mud mask as a “hedonistic indulgence guaranteed to sleek and slough the skin.” She didn’t know how much sleekness one could attain in forty-five minutes, but she figured her body could probably do with a little sloughing.

Carmela was shown to a treatment room with gleaming marble floors and walls, recessed glass panels adorned with etched nudes, and a large adjoining shower. Shucking out of her clothing, Carmela climbed onto the vinyl padded table and pulled a sheet about her modestly.

Within moments, a determined-looking woman with gray hair pulled back in a stiff bun entered the room. She carried a pail filled to the brink with green mud.

Uh-oh.

“I am Greta,” the woman said by way of introduction. “Roll over, please.”

Carmela obediently rolled onto her tummy. The word please had been filled with lots of sibilance, but not much warmth.

“The mud draws out impurities, ” explained Greta tersely, slapping a handful of cold, wet goo on Carmela’s backside. It smelled earthy and slightly minty. Carmela shivered as she wondered about Greta’s accent. Was the inscrutable Greta Swiss? German?

“This is special mud?” asked Carmela, trying to make the best of what suddenly seemed like a slightly embarrassing situation. Maybe that Brazilian wax would have been preferable.

“Mineral mud,” Greta told her as she patted the goo all across Carmela’s back, then turned her attention to Carmela’s legs. “Imported from France.”

“Ah,” said Carmela. “ France.” It felt like a stupid retort, but she couldn’t think of anything better to say as Greta grunted and groaned and tossed handfuls of mud onto her.

“Turn,” Greta finally ordered.

Carmela struggled onto her right side, then managed an ungainly flop. Already the mud had begun to harden and form a crusty shell. The treatment table she was reclining on seemed to be heated and she felt like she was slowly becoming a human puff pastry.

More mud was slathered and slapped atop her chest and breasts and when the procedure was complete down to the tips of her toes, Carmela found herself on her back, fully entombed in mineral mud. Greta positioned Carmela’s arms close to her sides, then covered her with what looked like a vinyl-coated electric blanket.