Donna Birdsell - Suburban Secrets

She unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.

“Grace?”

Damn. So much for that.

One of the grazers at the table beside hers was leaning so far back in her chair Grace was afraid she’d topple over backward. Motherhood had made her hypersensitive to behaviors apt to result in head injury.

“Grace Poleiski?” the woman said.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Roseanna Janosik, from Chesterfield High.”

“Roseanna! Wow, how long has it been?”

“Since the last reunion, I guess. What, eight, nine years?” Roseanna squeezed out of her chair and came to sit at Grace’s table. “You look great! What’s going on with you?”

“Eh, you know. It’s always something.”

“I hear that. Hey, what’re you doing tonight? Some of the girls are getting together at a club downtown. They’d die if you walked in.”

Grace thought about the salmon and new potatoes in her fridge. “All the way to Philly? I don’t know…”

“Come on. It’s fifteen miles, not the other end of the Earth. Live a little. Leave the kids home with your husband and come out and play. The club is supposed to be a riot. There’s a DJ playing all eighties music. It’ll be just like high school.”

Grace had a sudden flashback to high school. The sausage-curl hair, giant belts, parachute pants. Smoking in the girls’ room. Making lip gloss in science lab. She smiled.

She and Roseanna had been good friends. In fact, she’d had a lot of good friends.

Grace’s mother had always told her those were the best days of her life, but she’d never believed it.

How was that possible when one strategically placed blemish could put you on the pariah list for a week? When the wrong look from the right guy could annihilate your confidence for a month? When there was no bigger horror than having your period on gym day and having to take a shower in front of twenty other girls?

God, she missed those days.

It was hard to admit, but her mother had been right.

Roseanna squeezed her hand. “So, what do you say? Wanna come?”

“Why not?” Grace said. “Sounds like fun.”

“Great.” Roseanna scribbled on a napkin. “Here’s the address of the club. Meet us there around nine.”

Grace pulled her Day-Timer out of her bag and penciled it in and then ordered a salad.

And a margarita. Rocks. No salt.

Friday, 1:30 p.m.

Slow Brenda

“Look at y-o-o-o-u.” Misty Hinkle grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her into a living room the size of a hockey rink, and almost as cold. Six card tables were huddled together in the center of the room. Probably for warmth.

“Look at Gra-a-a-a-ace everybody. Doesn’t she look fa-a-a-abulous?” The women sitting around the tables tore themselves away from the snacks long enough to glance at her.

“Oh, stop it, Misty,” Grace said. “It’s just a haircut.”

“It’s not just a haircut. You went blond.” There was an accusatory note in Lorraine’s voice.

“I needed a change. What can I say?” Grace caught the knowing glances ricocheting around the room and wondered how long these ladies of modest society would continue to invite her to their functions.

There was currently only one divorced woman in the group, and Grace had a feeling they only kept her around to talk about her behind her back. All the rest of the unfortunately uncoupled had been drummed out of the pack within weeks of their divorces being finalized.

Face it. No one wanted a suddenly single woman running around at one of their holiday parties, talking about how hard it was to get a date when your boobs sagged and your thighs jiggled. Why invite the ghost of Christmas Future?

“I, for one, liked the ponytail,” said Brenda McNaull. She pointed to the chair across from hers and motioned for Grace to sit down. “We’re partners today.”

“Great,” Grace said. She should have had a couple more margaritas at lunch. Brenda was the most maddeningly slow card player in the world.

“Pe-e-eople.” Misty clapped her hands. “La-a-adies, ple-e-ease. A couple of announcements before we begin.”

The room quieted. Slightly.

“Tha-a-an-nk you. Once again, Meredith is looking for volunteers for the Herpes Walk—”

“Hirschsprung’s!”

“Sor-r-r-ry—Hirshbaum’s Walk. Kathy needs crafts for the Literacy Fair, and Grace is collecting clothes for the Goodwill again today. Leave your bags by the door. And I don’t mean the ones under your eyes. Haw haw! Oka-a-a-ay, ladies. Let’s play!”

Brenda examined the tiny glass dish of nuts at the corner of the card table. “Can you believe this chintzy spread?” She plucked an almond from the dish between two long, manicured fingernails and popped it into her mouth.

“So what’s the game today?” Grace asked.

“Pinochle,” Brenda said.

The two other women at the table rolled their eyes. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Friday, 4:10 p.m.

Date with Ludmilla

The parking lot at Megan’s school was nearly empty. Field hockey wasn’t exactly a big draw, as witnessed by the fact that the snack bar wasn’t even open.

Grace pulled a couple of grocery bags out of the back of the minivan and looked around. No sign of Tom’s car.

Not yet, anyway. But Grace knew he’d be there. He hadn’t missed one of Meg’s home games since she’d started playing field hockey. Or one of Kevin’s soccer matches, or one of Callie’s band recitals. Grace had to admit, he was a good father. A lousy husband, but a good father.

Grace picked her way to the field, her high heels aerating the grass. She’d forgotten to bring sneakers.

She plunked the grocery bags down on the bench at the sidelines and unloaded the supplies—a giant plastic bag of quartered oranges, homemade chocolate chip cookies, paper cups and two industrial-sized bottles of Gatorade.

Coach Ludmilla, a hairy but not completely unattractive Hungarian woman, winked at her from the center line. Grace waved.

She wondered if theirs could be considered a monogamous relationship. Did Ludmilla wink exclusively at her, or did she wink at every mother who brought cookies and Gatorade? Maybe they were just dating.

Maybe she needed to get a life.

She watched as Megan dribbled the ball down the field and smacked it toward the goal cage. It hit the post and bounced out of bounds. She saw Megan’s gaze search the sidelines. Grace waved, but Megan was looking elsewhere.

Grace looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Tom stood near the risers, alone. He hesitated before heading toward her.

The official blew the whistle to indicate halftime, and Ludmilla trotted over to the bench.

“Sorry I’m late,” Grace said. “My afternoon, uh, appointment ran a little long.” Thank you, Brenda.

“No problem,” Ludmilla said. “Thanks for bringing the snacks again, Grace.”

“Sure. The team’s looking good.”

“You bet.” Ludmilla sidled next to her. “We’re looking for an assistant coach. Someone to carry equipment and keep the stats. You interested?”

“Sorry,” Grace said, handing the coach a cup of Gatorade. “I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Maybe next year.”

Ludmilla looked disappointed. “Sure. Well, I’ve got to get these ladies ready for the second half. Will you pour some drinks for the team?”

“Of course.”

While Grace bent over a row of paper cups, she saw Tom’s three-hundred-dollar shoes approach. Unfortunately, he was in them.

“Grace, how are you?”

She continued pouring. “Same as this morning.”

“Have you thought about what I asked you?”

“You mean how you want me to perform an illegal act that might get me arrested and destroy our children’s lives in order to get what I deserve out of this marriage anyway?”