John Lutz - The Ex

“Going to rain all day, Michael,” Julia said, lifting him from his stroller and hugging him. “But not on us.” He seemed to enjoy the irony of that and grinned.

Molly turned up the collar of her yellow raincoat and adjusted Michael’s waterproof miniature windbreaker when Julia set him down. She kissed him. “Be a good boy for Julia.”

“Michael’s always good,” Julia said. Her gaze went beyond Molly to a black minivan that had pulled to the curb. A woman climbed out and opened a sliding door in the side of the van to reveal three preschoolers strapped into their seats.

“Two of them are mine,” Julia said, possessive about her young charges. “I’ll get the littlest one next year.”

For a moment Molly and Julia watched the woman lean into the van and begin struggling with safety belts, rattles, and galoshes.

“Family must be a wonderful thing,” Julia said, watching the woman and her children.

At first Molly thought she might be kidding, but when she saw the longing on Julia’s face, she knew better. Julia actually envied the woman.

“It is wonderful,” Molly said. “Someday you’ll know, Julia.”

“That’s what my husband and the doctor tell us. I guess I might as well believe them. And you.”

“You’ll see that we’re right.”

“We keep hoping. That’s what there is to life-hope and family.”

“That sounds about right,” Molly said.

She kissed Michael again and went down the steps to where she’d left the stroller.

As she pushed the stroller along the sidewalk, away from Small Business, she felt the light rain work its way beneath her collar. She paused and opened her umbrella, then continued on her way, not looking back.

Behind her, Deirdre, in a yellow raincoat, had approached Small Business from the opposite direction. She patted Michael on the head and chatted for a few minutes with Julia and the woman from the van. Then she lifted Michael, kissed him, and handed him back to Julia.

Later that morning, in Midnight Espresso on Broadway, Molly sat across from Traci at one of the small, round marble tables. The coffee shop was crowded, especially around the counter and displays of gourmet brands, but Traci had managed to get a table in a corner, away from the press of other patrons, where there was elbow room and it was relatively quiet.

Both women had ordered espressos. Molly took a sip of hers and glanced out the window. The rain had stopped and the hot summer street was steaming. Pedestrians streamed past, many of them with folded umbrellas, their raincoats open and flapping, or draped over an arm. Traffic lurched forward a few feet at a time, with intermittent bursts of horn honking. Though it was crowded, the coffee shop was cool and pleasantly filled with the aroma of its product.

Traci rested a hand on the final portion of the Architects of Desire manuscript on the table. Its pages were bristling with yellow Post-it flags, revisions of revisions.

After a few minutes, Molly and Traci had forgotten about the manuscript as Molly filled Traci in on some of the agonies of the last few weeks.

Now Traci slipped the manuscript into her attache case, then placed the case on the floor and said, “So, it turns out you’re not all happy under one roof.”

“We’re not going to be under one roof much longer,” Molly said. “David and I are searching around for another apartment. In fact, the management company gave me the keys to two that I’m going to look at when I leave here. Want to come along? Help me figure where the furniture’s going to go?”

Traci laughed. “No, thanks. I’m not very domestic and wouldn’t be much help. My idea of good furniture is something you can hose down.”

Molly rotated her clear glass cup on its coaster. “How’s it going with the novel?”

“Novel? Oh, the one where the ex-wife enters the picture and the wife becomes dog food or compacted trash.” She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it ends the same way, Mol. Bad news for the wife. But like you said, life doesn’t always imitate art. Or vice versa. In fact, I think I can guarantee you that certain reviewers probably won’t even regard this novel as art.”

“But you do?”

“Yes, it’s very good. It just happens to be about a subject that’s sticky with a lot of people.”

“Do you know much about the author?”

“Sure. He’s a kind and simple man who’s been married to the same woman for thirty-five years.” She finished her espresso and smiled. “Case in point. This guy doesn’t even have an ex-wife to conspire with, and probably the thought of murdering his own wife never seriously entered his mind.” She reached for her attache case and grinned. “‘Probably,’ I said.”

Molly laughed and shook her head. “I always feel better after talking with you. Once I get over my terror.”

Traci gripped her attache case and stood up. “We all know life’s a dangerous road,” she said. “And if it weren’t, the safe, smooth stretches wouldn’t be nearly so enjoyable.”

“Well, that’s a comforting thought to hold on to while the potholes are jarring the fillings out of my teeth.”

“Anyway,” Traci said, “I’ve gotta get back to the office and meet one of my ego-inflated writers.” She shifted her attache case, heavy now with the manuscript pages, to her other hand. “By the way, were you at Link looking for me yesterday?”

“No, why?”

“I thought I might have seen you down in the lobby a little before noon.”

“Not me,” Molly said.

Traci reached into her purse with her free hand, fished out some bills, and dropped them on the table.

“This one’s on the publisher, Mol. You look like you need a break.”

Molly smiled. “Thanks, I do.”

She watched Traci push through the crowd near the door, leave the coffee shop, and join the throng of pedestrians on the other side of the window. Within seconds she’d passed out of sight.

Molly drew a slip of paper from her purse, unfolded it, and reread the addresses of the two apartments she was going to inspect in the West Eighties.

They were a short cab ride away, but since the rain had stopped, she decided to walk life’s dangerous road and save the fare.

Molly stood across the street and stared at the six-story prewar brick building that was the first address on the slip of paper she carried. It wasn’t unlike the building she and David lived in now, or most of the others that lined the avenue, stone or brick structures with ironwork at the windows and balconies, many of them with stone steps leading to stoops and tall doors. Here and there were canvas awnings, and flower boxes dotted with colorful and fresh-looking blossoms thriving after the recent rain.

She crossed the street and entered the building, finding the vestibule small but clean, with blue-tiled walls free of graffiti. She rode the elevator, also small, with wood paneling that seemed to be closing in on her, to the third floor, then walked down a narrow corridor to 3E and used the management company’s keys to unlock the paint-checked door. There was a lock near the doorknob, and above that a heavy deadbolt lock.

She pushed the door open, then tentatively stepped inside and looked around. It made her uneasy, examining these apartments by herself. She wished David were there, in case…Well, she didn’t know spectfically in case of what, but in this city there were plenty of dreadful possibilities.

But she soon forgot her fear as she concentrated on the apartment. The living room was freshly painted an off-white except for one wall, which the painters hadn’t gotten to with a main coat but had prepared with plaster-patch and primer. A white plastic paint bucket and a paint-speckled, folded drop cloth sat in a corner. The smell of fresh paint made the place seem clean and acceptable.