Donna Birdsell - Suburban Secrets

Grace snorted. “He should have thought of that before he decided to audition for the role of mascot for Skippy’s porn division.”

Tom pushed away from the table and stormed out the door.

Grace rubbed her temples. “Can we just get this over with?”

Bigger Prick slid the latest draft of the divorce settlement across the wide conference room table.

“Will you leave us alone for a few minutes?” Debra asked Bigger.

The other lawyer nodded and followed Tom from the room. Grace could see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting just outside the door.

Upon closer inspection, Tom didn’t look well. The bags under his eyes matched the gray suit he was wearing. Maybe the strain of the divorce was catching up to him, too.

Yeah, right. More likely he and Marlene had been dressing up in condiments all night.

A vision of Marlene’s bony ass, covered in ketchup, flashed in Grace’s mind. Blech.

“Grace, I don’t think we’re going to do much better than this,” Debra said. “The terms are shitty, but you did sign a prenup. He gets all property and monies generated by his inheritance, including the house. You get half of what you’ve both made since you got married.”

“You mean half of what he’s made. He wouldn’t let me work, Debra. God, I was so stupid.”

Debra reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “The child support is good. Some would argue that he’s being generous.”

“Generous? Listen, I don’t give a crap about the money. Well, okay, maybe a small crap. But I’m going to lose the house. My kids are going to lose their house.”

“Maybe you could offer to buy him out.”

“How? The house is worth three-quarters of a million dollars.”

Debra thought for a minute. “Can you borrow it from your parents?”

Grace shook her head. “They don’t have that kind of money.”

“Do you have anything you can sell? What about stocks? Jewelry?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be enough to buy him out.” For the second time that day, tears threatened.

She’d worked so hard to make that house a home for Tom and the kids. It was a gorgeous, historic colonial manor house, once owned by William Penn’s sous-chef or something. When they’d moved in, it was hardly more than an old pile of bricks. She’d restored it, room by room, over the years, finding authentic fixtures at flea markets and on the Internet. She loved that house, and now she’d never even be able to afford the taxes. But there were more important things than houses.

At least she’d won custody of the kids. Probably because—unlike the house—Marlene didn’t want them.

“Screw it,” she said. “Give me the papers.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She signed the papers, and Debra waved Tom and his lawyer back into the room.

“You did the right thing, Grace,” Bigger Prick said. “The sooner we end this hostility, the sooner you and Tom can get on with your lives.”

Right. Only now, hers would be almost unrecognizable.

Grace rose. “Good luck with Marlene.”

Bigger Prick stuck out his hand. Grace ignored it.

She made it to the door before Tom said, “Wait, Grace. I want to talk to you. Alone.”

Both lawyers looked stricken. But Grace nodded, and Tom held the door open for her as they left.

“What?” she said. “You want to thank me for signing that piece of shit agreement?”

He came closer. “No. I want to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?” She laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Tom closed the distance between them and guided her to an alcove in the lobby. “I need you to do something for me. In return, maybe we could work something out with the house.”

She looked into his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I need you to sign some papers.”

“What kind of papers?”

“Work-related stuff.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you want me to sign work-related papers?”

He reached out, almost touching her hand before pulling back. He whispered, “Not your name.”

Her insides went liquid. “No-oh. No way. Forget it.”

Now he grabbed her hand. His voice was low and quick. Persuasive. His sales voice. “Come on, Gracie. You’re the only one I know who can do this for me. You’re the best.”

“Are you crazy?” Her voice rose, and she made a concerted effort to quiet herself. “Are you nuts? Do you want to send me back to jail?”

“You won’t get caught. I promise. It’s a one-time deal.”

She pulled her hand from his.

“Think about it, Gracie. Five minutes of your time and the house is yours.”

“What about Marlene? I thought she wanted the house.”

“Yeah, well. She’ll just have to live without it.”

He must have known how tempting this all would sound to her. He’d always been a great salesman, finding just the right carrot for the mules.

He’d found hers, alright. But it wasn’t a big enough carrot.

“I’d want the ’Vette, too,” she said. Tom’s white 1976 Corvette was basically a fifteen-foot extension of his penis.

He frowned. “Grace—”

“Okay, then.” She started walking toward the elevator, and he grabbed her arm.

“Wait. Alright. The ’Vette, too.”

She realized then that he was really, truly desperate.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think fast, okay? I need this done quickly.”

She nodded.

Before she could figure out what his intentions were, he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll call you.”

She got almost to the elevator before she remembered to ask him about Megan’s field hockey game.

“Hey,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You know Megan has a game today?”

“Of course. I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Grace walked out of the building and into the sunshine. She’d made a decision.

She didn’t need meditation. She needed a margarita.

Friday, 11:45 a.m.

Wild Card

Pete Slade popped another Tums and stared out the window of the Melrose Diner in South Philly. He had a bad feeling.

Hell, he’d had a bad feeling since this whole mess began. And the fact that he now had to rely on a sharp-looking kid with a hundred-dollar haircut and a different girl for every night of the week didn’t help matters.

Nick Balboa wasn’t what you’d call reliable. Not even a little bit. He was a low-level thug with big plans.

A wild card.

And he was gonna screw everything up.

Pete chugged his coffee and threw a couple bucks down on the table for the waitress.

Out on the street, he flipped open his cell phone and called Lou.

“Hey. I got a funny feeling.”

“Yeah?” said Lou.

“Yeah. I’m gonna swing by the airport, maybe watch Balboa’s car.”

He imagined Lou rolling his eyes. But Pete had been doing this long enough to know when to follow his gut. Even when it was rebelling against him.

“Anything you want me to do?” Lou asked.

“Just sit tight. I’ll call you if I need you.”

Pete disconnected the call and popped another Tums.

Jesus, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.

Friday, 11:56 a.m.

Grazing

Beruglia’s was packed, as usual. Businessmen in athletic-cut suits lined the bar, hunched over low-carb beers and plates of South Beach–acceptable protein. Groups of women crowded around tables, grazing on giant bowls of lettuce and sipping water with lemon wedges.

The hostess led Grace to a table against the window. It had taken her awhile to get used to eating alone in restaurants, but as long as she didn’t see anyone she knew, it was okay.