Donna Birdsell - Suburban Secrets

He sighed. “I’m not trying to screw you.”

“Really?” She straightened. “Well that’s a relief, because I’m pretty sure you got the K-Y in the settlement.”

They both clammed up as the girls filed past the bench, inhaling oranges and cookies and Gatorade. In seconds they were gone, leaving nothing but empty plates and crushed cups in their wake.

Tom stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know what’s going on, Grace. You don’t know what my life is like. I just want—”

“I’m not really interested in what you want, Tom. At this moment, I’m just trying to be here for one of my kids. I hope we can be civil for their sakes, but as far as your wants and needs—well, I guess that’s what you’ve got Marlene for.”

Tom’s jaw twitched.

Grace wondered if he and Marlene were having problems. So, why should she give a damn? She had her own relationships to worry about.

Ludmilla waved to her from across the field.

Okay. So maybe it was time to reconsider her definition of relationship.

She looked over at Megan, chatting with her friends, watching her and Tom out of the corner of her eye. She’d been through so much the past year. They all had.

She didn’t want to put the kids through a move, on top of everything else.

“Alright,” she said, forcing a smile for Megan’s benefit. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, God. That’s great, Gracie. I knew I could count on you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.

“You brought them with you?”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Just in case.”

She looked around nervously, expecting the cops to be waiting for her just outside the fence. But there was no one there.

The game had resumed, and Ludmilla and the team moved to the far end of the field, leaving her and Tom pretty much alone. She spread the papers out on the bench, studying the signature he wanted her to forge.

“Roger Davis,” she read. “Isn’t that your boss?”

He nodded but didn’t offer any more information. And she didn’t ask.

She had the feeling she wasn’t signing an authorization for an extra day of vacation, but she figured the less she knew about all of this, the better.

“I’ll have to practice the signature a few times before I sign them. I’ll get them back to you.”

“When?”

She pulled her Day-Timer out of her purse and flipped through it.

“Will Marlene be home tomorrow morning?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. I’ll bring them over then.” She shoved the papers back into the envelope and stuck them in her purse. “The kids will be at my Mom’s this weekend if you want to get in touch with them,” she said. “Kevin has a soccer game tomorrow.”

“I know,” Tom said. “I’ll be there.”

“How about if we also meet at the notary office Tuesday morning?” she said. “You can bring the papers for the house, and the title to the ’Vette, too.”

He gave her a sickly smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be relatively painless. We’ll get it all over with at once. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

He opened his mouth as if he might say something, but he didn’t. He just walked back toward the bleachers, hands in his pockets, his three-hundred-dollar shoes sucking mud.

Friday, 5:58 p.m.

Roadkill

The asshole drove right past their meeting place.

According to the plan, as soon as Balboa arrived in Philly, he was supposed to drive straight to the gym and call from a pay phone. Shit. He was gonna screw them.

Pete had followed Balboa’s rented green Taurus all the way from the airport. Balboa’s own car, a cherry 1959 Buick, still sat in the VIP parking lot at the airport.

If Pete hadn’t suspected Balboa was turning on them and staked out the baggage claim, he’d never even have known the guy was back in town a day early.

He flipped open his cell phone. “Lou. He’s back.”

“No shit.”

“I followed him from the airport. He just passed the gym. I need you to go wait at his house. I doubt he’ll show up there, but you never know.”

“Right. I’m on it.”

Pete snapped the phone closed.

In front of him, the Taurus eased into the exit lane. It looked like Balboa was heading for City Avenue.

Pete jockeyed through four lanes of frantic expressway traffic but just missed the exit.

Damn.

When Pete caught up to him, that son of a bitch Nick Balboa was dead meat.

Friday, 7:12 p.m.

Oh, Mother!

As she drove toward her childhood home in Ambler, Grace felt younger and younger until, by the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she was eight again.

In her mind she could hear the sprinklers whirring, and smell the newly cut grass of her youth. She looked across the street, half expecting to see her best friend, Sherri Rasmussen, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

“Okay, guys, everybody out of the car. Callie, don’t forget your flute.”

As the kids dragged their crap up the sidewalk, the door opened and Grace’s mother stuck her head out. “My babies are here! Andrew, the children are here! Come help them with their things.”

“Hi, Mom.” Grace herded the kids into the house and bussed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for taking them this weekend.”

“Well, your father and I can imagine how difficult things must be for you, with the—” she stuck her head out the door and scanned the neighborhood for spies “—divorce.”

Divorce was one of the words in Grace’s mother’s vocabulary fit only for whispering.

“You can say it out loud, Mom. It’s not a dirty word.”

Her mother pulled a face. “Come on in.”

“Actually, I was kind of in a hurry.”

“So you don’t have time for a soda? Come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”

Grace sighed. She knew once she got sucked over the threshold, it would be at least a half an hour before she got out of there.

The kids thumped up the stairs, already arguing about who’d get to play her father’s Nintendo first. Grace followed her mother to the kitchen and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chairs. They were the same chairs she’d sat on as a child, once sadly out of style but suddenly retro chic.

“Look what I made in craft class,” her mother said. She held out a tissue box cover constructed of yarn-covered plastic mesh. God Bless You was cross-stitched into the side in block letters.

“Nice.”

“Here, take it. I made it for you. And you know, you can come with me next week. We’re making birds out of Styrofoam.”

“That’s nice, but I can’t.”

Her mother took a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Why not? Now that Tom is gone, what are you doing with your time?”

Grace got up to get a glass from the cupboard. “I’ve got plenty to do, Mom.”

“Like what?”

“Well, tonight I’m meeting some of my old high school friends for a drink downtown.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath her heavily hair-sprayed bangs. “Really? Do I know them?”

Déjà vu. How many times had Grace seen that look growing up? She felt inexplicably guilty, and she hadn’t even lied about anything. Yet.

“Roseanna Janosik’s going to be there. I ran into her today at Beruglia’s.”

Her mother sat down at the table. “Roseanna Janosik. Isn’t that the girl who got caught smoking at cheerleading camp?” She pulled a face.

“That was Cecilia Stavros. And Jesus, Mom. That was a hundred years ago.”

“You’re right, of course. People change. Look at you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her mother shrugged. “So who was Roseanna Janosik?” She tapped her chin. “I remember! She was the one who was crazy about that band and followed them everywhere.”