Donna Birdsell - Suburban Secrets

“Your friends leaving?” Nick asked.

“Apparently.”

For a split second Grace thought maybe she should leave with them, but when she tried to stand up, the room spun.

Nick kissed her again, stroking her arms with his palms. It was like kissing Vinnie Barbarino, Scott Baio and Rob Lowe, all rolled into one. Just a teeny bit surreal.

Nick slid his hand down to hers and linked her fingers in his and—

Stopped.

He stopped kissing her.

He brought her left hand up between them and looked at her fingers.

The diamond band Tom had given her for their tenth anniversary refracted the spotlight above them like a disco ball.

“Nice ring. You married?” Nick asked.

Damn. Why had she worn it?

Oh, yeah. To discourage this very thing. After all, she was a sensible lady. A mother. A woman who wasn’t quite divorced. She shouldn’t be picking up strange men in bars.

The momentary wave of guilt she felt was quickly replaced by drunken defiance.

She slid the ring off her finger and dropped it into Nick’s drink. “Not anymore. Now kiss me.”

Saturday, 12:49 a.m.

Lady in Red

Who was the babe?

Pete watched Balboa with the blonde in the red jacket for almost twenty minutes. He’d never seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. Balboa always had a roll of cash in his pocket and a girl on his arm. Often, both appeared from nowhere.

Problem was, this one didn’t quite look like Balboa’s type. His recipe for the perfect woman was forty-five percent silicone, forty-five percent collagen and ten percent ink.

This one, while the clothes she wore weren’t exactly conservative, they didn’t come close to some of the anti-apparel he’d seen before. Her breasts actually looked real, too, and she didn’t have one visible tattoo.

Something was up.

As time went on, the crowd at the bar began to thin. Pete moved to a spot behind Balboa and the female. The woman stood to flag down the bartender, and Pete watched as Balboa’s hand cupped her rather spectacular ass.

Life could be so unfair.

Pete ordered another club soda from the waitress and leaned against a column.

If he had to guess, he’d say that Balboa had the memory key on him. According to Pete’s sources, Balboa had come straight here after meeting with the Russian’s competition, Johnny Iatesta, in Trenton. The asshole. Two years of wheeling and dealing, and the guy was going to screw him? No way.

All Pete had to do was stick close until the horny couple left the club.

He yawned. When in the hell were these two going to get a room?

Just then Balboa slipped something into the pocket of the woman’s red jacket. Drugs? Money?

The memory key.

Balboa whispered something in her ear, and they sucked face for another five minutes before she broke away.

She headed straight for Pete, brushing his arm with her breasts as she squeezed by him on her way to the can. She smelled fantastic. He thought she might have a pretty face, too, but it was dark and he’d been distracted by the rest of her.

He watched the ladies’ room, looking forward to her return trip.

She emerged from the bathroom, but instead of coming back toward him she headed for the door.

Pete hustled after her, pushing through the ranks of ultrahip boys and girls pretending not to notice each other. He’d almost reached the door when a guy resembling a woolly mammoth in a tuxedo plowed in.

“’Scuse me.”

“No problem.” Pete tried to get around him, only to discover six more just like him pouring through the door. Seven equally large women in ruffled bridesmaid gowns followed close behind the men.

Pete got caught in the undertow and was pulled back into the club, surfing a wave of Aqua Velva and powder-blue taffeta. Somehow he managed to squeeze through the wedding party and reached the door just in time to see a cab pull away from the curb.

Pete smacked the door with the palm of his hand.

Now what?

He turned and went back into the club. No way was he going to let Balboa disappear.

But by the time he fought his way back into the bar, the only thing left sitting at Balboa’s bar stool was a lipstick-smudged margarita glass and an ashtray full of butts.

“Shit,” Pete muttered.

It really wasn’t his day.

Saturday, 7:54 a.m.

Turning Japanese

Someone was sticking needles into her eyes. Not sewing needles, but long, thick hypodermics.

Wait. What was that? The smoke detector? The kids!

Grace leaped out of bed and ran for the door, slipping on the silk jacket that lay on the floor, smacking her head on the ceramic cat at the end of the bed.

She lay on her back, staring up at the frosted glass light fixture on the ceiling.

That noise wasn’t the smoke detector going off. It was her alarm clock.

“Crap.” She winced at the sound of her own voice.

She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto all fours. Just the thought of standing left her weak with nausea.

She crawled into the bathroom on her hands and knees and laid her cheek on the cool Japanese porcelain tile floor. Her tongue felt like one of Kevin’s gym socks and, she imagined, smelled like it, too.

What have I done to myself?

Her hand bore an ugly blue ink blot—the stamp for the club. And on her palm she’d written a number—1767. 1767? What the hell was that?

A high, wavering voice echoed in her head. “In 1767, the Townshend Acts were implemented by the British on the American colonies…” It was Mrs. Dietz, her ninth-grade American History teacher.

Grace squinted at the numbers again. Why in the hell would she have written the date of the Townshend Acts on her hand?

She debated taking a shower but imagined the water would probably feel like Niagara Falls beating down on her head. She managed to pull on a sweat suit and comb her new pain-in-the-ass haircut without throwing up.

She took three aspirins and staggered downstairs to check her Day-Timer.

Meals on Wheels, the Goodwill drop and then Tom’s.

She’d signed the papers he’d given her. No, she’d forged the papers (why not call a spade a spade?), and she just wanted to get rid of them and get on with her life.

Crap.

She dragged a giant green trash bag full of clothes from her closet. In a moment of pique over the bump on her head and her prick of an ex-husband, she stuffed the red silk jacket into the bag.

Saturday, 9:11 a.m.

Mrs. Beeber and Mr. Pickles

“Who is it?” Mrs. Beeber peered at Grace through the smeary film coating the window of the storm door. Her head resembled a small dried apple nestled atop the collar of her purple turtleneck.

“Meals on Wheels, Mrs. Beeber.”

“I didn’t think you were coming today. You’re late.”

“I’m not late, Mrs. Beeber. Will you open the door?”

Mrs. Beeber squinted at her watch, and shook her head. “You’re eleven minutes late.”

One cup of instant coffee—made with hot tap water and consumed while standing over the sink—had not prepared Grace for this day. She took three calming breaths. Nadi shodhana. Her yoga instructor would be proud.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Beeber. I couldn’t find my car keys.”

In fact, she hadn’t been able to find her purse. She’d scoured the whole house, with no luck. She must have left it at the club.

She’d allowed herself a few minutes of heart-thumping panic. Her cell phone was in there, along with her car keys and house keys (which explained why the panty hose she’d worn last night had been covered with mulch, and the spare key she hid under a rock in the flower bed was now on the table near the back door).