An Ex to Grind (8 page)

Weezie nodded. "I feel better now that we've settled this."

"Settled this?" I said, my head spinning.

"Before you leave, I'll give you her number," she said. "You should wait until after the holidays to call her, but don't wait too long. It could take her a few months to find your Ms. Right-for-Ninety-Days, and you want to stop writing those alimony checks sooner rather than later, right?"

"Thanks for trying to help, but there's no way I'm calling her," I said wearily. "Even if I approved of the idea, which I don't, I already told you: I can't afford to hire her."

"You can't afford not to, from the sound of that client meeting," she said ominously. "You've always been a take-charge person, Mel. You need to take charge of this or you'll find yourself out of a job."

"Out of a job? I'm planning on making partner one of these days. So I flaked out for a second or two in the meeting. It was only—"

"You don't want Bernie thinking you're not a hundred percent. He can be a mean little shit, remember? He canned Roberta Chapman when she started losing it after her divorce."

"I'm not losing it, Weezie. I'm just—"

"Call Desiree," she said.

"Yes. Call her," said Nards.

Before I could say another word, my hosts had turned their attention to another subject: whether the goose had been cooked properly.

As I drove back to the city that night, I grew closer to cooking my own goose. No, I didn't make the fateful decision to call Desiree Klein during the trip, but I did mull it over.

What I wondered was this: did I actually have the nerve, not to mention the motivation, to hire her to solve my Dan problem? It was true that she was a matchmaker, not a hit woman, and I'd be committing no crime by engaging her services. Still, to set Dan up with someone—someone to whom he would be forming an attachment, sexual and/or emotional—without his knowledge or permission seemed, well, snarky. I had my issues with the guy, God knows, but he'd always been a straight shooter who hated deception in others. Not a sneak, as I said. Could I really go behind his back and meddle in his personal life simply because I was pissed off about having to scale back my lifestyle while he was scaling up his? Could I justify manipulating him into a three-month relationship so I'd be relieved of the financial burden he'd saddled me with? Did I have it in me to toy with his feelings—his and the woman's—to avoid having to pick up his tab for seven more years? Was my poverty complex that severe? Was my sense of fair play that skewed?

Apparently, the answer to all of the above questions would be yes. Condemn me if you must, but hear me out first. Please.

Dan was late bringing Buster back the Monday morning after New Year's. I was expecting him at eight-thirty. It was eight-forty-five, and there was no sign of him. I called him at the apartment. No answer. I called him on his cell phone. No answer there. I even called him at the dreaded Ernie's, figuring they'd been out together the night before and might be sleeping it off at his place, but no answer there either.

Straining to keep the hysteria out of my voice, I called Steffi, asking her to make my apologies to Jed Ornbacher, whom I was supposed to meet in our conference room at nine-thirty so I could introduce him to our department heads, all of whom would be in attendance, as would Bernie. Even if Dan breezed in right that very second, I might not make it to the office with enough breathing space. I liked to prepare before meetings. That's what top guns do.

"In case I don't get there in time, just say I'm running a little behind schedule, due to a family emergency," I instructed her, She seemed surprised, and why not? As I've indicated, I was never late. But now Dan was causing me to be late. I hoped he had a good reason.

At five after nine—I was having a flat-out panic attack by then—Dan finally put in an appearance at my apartment. Since the Heartbreak Hotel did not have a doorman, he simply materialized at my door.

"Where in the world have you been?" I demanded, fanning my sweaty face with the newspaper. Actually, my whole body was sweaty. I was sure the black silk blouse underneath my wool tweed suit jacket had pit stains. And I'd taken such pains getting dressed that morning. I'd wanted to look smart, neat, and professional for the meeting.

"Should I stand here while you read me the riot act or would you rather say hello to your dog?"

God, he made me nuts. And not just because he'd shown up late. Because he'd shown up late without looking the least bit repentant. In fact, he was looking resplendent. Along with the creamy new white cashmere sweater he wore with his jeans, he had a shiny new watch on his wrist that was the size of my head.

But I would not, could not, let him goad me. Not again.

I bent down and folded Buster into my arms. "Here's my sweetie boy," I said as he licked me. "Such a sweetie boy. Mommy missed you so much." I glanced up at my ex. "Was he okay in Puerto Rico?"

"He was great. I was the one who took the hit."

I studied his face. No bruises that I could detect. No swelling. "What hit?"

"In the casino. A bunch of us stunk it up at the blackjack table."

"You were gambling?" I said, feeling my fury bubble back up. I know, I know. I needed to stay cool and calm, but gambling? Come on.

"That's what people generally do in a casino, yeah," he said. "I was winning there for a while, but then my luck went down the toilet."

What was he thinking? He wasn't in a position to gamble. He wasn't in a position to take an expensive trip. He was in a position to stay home and redo his resume!

As I stared at him with a mix of disdain and disbelief, there was an instant when I wished he were still the unspoiled, idealistic young man I'd married instead of this… this… child. But I quickly came to my senses and reminded myself that this was the same man who'd allowed himself to self-destruct in front of a national television audience; the man who was convinced that coaches were losers; the man who was draining my bank account.

"Just curious," I said. "How much did you lose at the blackjack table?"

"Too much."

"But you were still able to afford a new watch?"

"Uh-uh-uh," he said, wagging a finger at me. "Not Melanie's business anymore."

"Just tell me this, Dan: does the watch keep good time?"

"Perfect time. It's a Rolex."

"
Then why were you late this morning
? You were supposed to be here at eight-thirty." Of course I shouldn't have stayed and nagged him. I should have dashed out of there and rushed to my meeting as soon as he'd dropped off Buster, but, as usual, he'd managed to suck me in. There was something about him that
always
sucked me in.

"I got a slow start," he said.

"Lame excuse," I said.

"Fine. I was coming all the way from Ninety-second and York, not from my place. I spent the night at a lady friend's. She worked the flight back from San Juan, we hit it off, and she invited me home with her."

My brain exploded. He'd kept me waiting because he was banging the flight attendant he'd picked up on the way back from Puerto Rico? I was turning over
half
of my salary every month to a person who actually banged flight attendants?

"What? Are you jealous?" he said, smirking at me.

"Oh, please. Did it ever occur to you that it might be healthier for Buster if he didn't have to wake up in strange settings all the time? Even a steady girlfriend would be preferable to your one-nighters."

You know what? I wasn't thinking about Desiree Klein at that moment, I swear. I really did have our dog's well-being at heart.

"A steady girlfriend, huh?" he said, full of skepticism.

"So Buster would be able to sleep in the same bed for a couple of nights in a row."

He found this hilarious. "I know you want out of the alimony," he said between guffaws, "but I'm not about to do you a favor by getting married again. I'm on top of that little loophole, so nice try."

Getting married again? He thought
that
was the loophole? Had he forgotten all about the cohabitation clause?

"Okay, I do want out of the alimony," I said, fishing. "But you're right, Dan; that won't happen unless you take another walk down the aisle." Maybe he really didn't remember what was in our agreement. I was suddenly transfixed by this possibility.

"Then I guess you're stuck with me, because I'm done with marriage," he said.

Well, how about that. The ninety-days thing
had
slipped his mind. I should have known. He'd never paid attention to the fine print of his football contracts, so why should he pay attention to the fine print of his divorce papers? My God, this was incredible news! There was a chance, remote though it was, that I could be off the hook for the alimony forever! No more worries about money. No more living in a fleabag. No more distractions at work.

Of course, the chance of his cohabitating with a woman for ninety days would be a lot less remote if I hired Desiree to find her for him.

No. I couldn't do something as down and dirty as that. Not unless I had no choice.

"Look, I've really got to get going," I said. "Could you please leave, so I can lock up?"

"You're the one who seems to want to talk, darlin'."

He didn't move a muscle. He just stood there with this annoying grin on his face, flustering me.

"Dan. I asked you to leave. I have an important meeting this morning. I'm late enough as it is."

He cocked his head at me. "Do you ever take a day off for no reason? Just to have fun?"

"You're having enough fun for both of us," I said. "Now
go
!"

I literally started shooing him out of the apartment with my hands, like some woman in an old western movie shooing varmints off her land.

Finally taking the hint, he left, but I was so frazzled by then that as I turned to grab my briefcase, my right hand clipped the side of the "I ♥ the Giants" coffee mug that was resting on the little table near the door. The mug was three-quarters full, and I reached for it in midair, hoping to catch it before it crashed and broke, spilling the coffee all over the floor. What I succeeded in doing was to redirect its path; the mug did break as it fell to the ground, but the coffee splashed onto my black silk blouse before it did. And I was worried about sweat stains.

"I don't believe this!" I wailed, gazing down at myself as Buster snorted and sniffed and wondered what all the ruckus was about. I was soaked with Folger's Instant. Yes, Instant. I wasn't a fan of spending time in the kitchen and that included learning how to operate some high-tech brewing contraption. Wasn't making coffee Starbucks's job anyway?

As for the mug, I cursed myself for having saved it. I'd thrown out the rest of my Giants memorabilia when I moved and couldn't imagine why I'd hung on to a stupid cup. But now it was in pieces, just like my sanity.

Frantic that I would miss the meeting entirely, I raced into my closet, found another suit to wear, changed clothes, blew Buster a kiss, and flew out of the Heartbreak Hotel.

Everyone was already in the conference room when I got to the office. The door was closed, but the room was decorated with glass block panels, so I was able to see inside. The four department heads were all accounted for; Bernie was there, nibbling on one of his fingernails as if it were a chicken wing; Steffi was sitting in the chair that was meant for me, covering for me, bless her heart; and Jed was laughing and coughing and winking lasciviously at Steffi.