Breaking the Bank (38 page)

“You sound busy.”

“Sorry about that. Yeah, I
am
busy. So I'm going to go now. But you'll be here later, right?”

“Later. Of course.”

“One more thing,” said Fred.

“Sure.” Would this conversation ever end? “Could you feed the cats before you go? I forgot to do it this morning.”

“The cats,” Mia said. “Right.”

“Not that it would kill Dudley to do without dinner. But I just can't bring myself to starve the guy, you know?”

“I know, Fred,” said Mia, desperate to get off the phone. Patrick was staring laser beams into her breasts, and, believe it or not, he was getting hard again.

“Besides, when he's mad at me, he goes and shits in one of my shoes. Damn cat.” Fred chuckled affectionately.

“I'll feed them. You can count on me.” Oh, she hated herself for this, she really did.

“Thanks. Food's in the cupboard to the left of the sink.”

“Got it.”

She said good-bye and stared at Patrick, who was now standing beside her. He took her hand and placed it on his erection. She may have hated herself, but that wasn't about to stop her.

“You got time for a quickie before you have to meet the boyfriend?” he asked, and, with that, gently tugged her back into the bedroom.

E
VEN THOUGH
M
IA
had already showered once today, she didn't want to walk into Juicy reeking of infidelity and sex, so she stood under the hot spray for a long time, lathering her body and sudsing her hair. Patrick appeared while she was toweling off; the bathroom was a tight fit for two, so he waited just outside the open door. He was wearing his white jeans but no shirt, and she could see the blue-tinged veins under his milky skin.

“You want to shower?”

“Nah,” he said, bringing his fingers to his nose and inhaling deeply. “In fact, I don't think I'm going to shower ever again.”

Mia said nothing but felt herself getting red. “Oh, come on,” he said, tilting her chin up with his hand. She could smell herself on his fingers; it was both arousing and terrifying. “After what we've done to each other today, you're suddenly going to get all coy on me?”

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I'm not.” She knotted the towel around her body, just above her breasts, and began combing her hair.

“So you're meeting him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You going to let him fuck you tonight?”

“That's not fair,” she said, comb poised above her head.

“Sorry. Let me rephrase that. When he fucks you, is it like it is with me?”

“No,” she said. “It isn't.” That seemed to satisfy him, and she resumed the combing.

“What's this?” he asked, touching the locket she had not taken off from around her neck.

“Something I bought for myself. Though maybe I shouldn't have.”

“Why not? I liked that you kept it on; it's sexy.”

“My lawyer told me that the police are interested in it.”

“Is it hot?”

It took Mia a second to realize he meant stolen.

“I'm not sure.” She told him, then, about Gerald Mofchum and the shop that had just vanished.

“Maybe I can help,” he said.

“You? How?”

“I told you: I know people, and those people know other people. You want to find out what happened to your jeweler? I'm your man. Now, where did you say his shop was again?” Mia gave him the information, and Patrick nodded slowly, as if the motion of his head would imprint the information into his brain.

M
IA DRESSED QUICKLY
. She had to get over to Fred's place to feed the cats; she would try Eden again while she was there. From Fred's, she could walk over to Juicy, ring in the New Year, though she hardly felt like ringing in anything.

“I'll be going now, College Girl,” Patrick said. Mia looked up to see that his parka was on and zipped.

“I don't know what to say . . .”

“Try saying good-bye.”

“Not good-bye forever, is it?”

“I think that's up to you.”

“I don't want it to be forever.” She came close, and inhaled the scent—both infinitely familiar and infinitely new—that was uniquely his. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and then walked to the door while she trailed behind. She watched him lope down the hall
and disappear when he turned into the stairwell. Mia closed the door and stood against it for a minute. Bringing him back here was one of the most ill-considered, impulsive things she had ever done—and she had done many ill-considered and impulsive things in her life—yet she didn't regret it at all. But she couldn't stop to think about any of that now; she had to get into gear. She called a car service, applied her lipstick in the backseat, handed the coal-skinned driver a lavish tip.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, the island cadence of his voice following her as she hurried into Fred's house. “Thank you very, very much.”

D
UDLEY WAS DELIRIOUS
when he saw her, pressing his face against her feet and rolling over to expose his wide, soft cat's belly.

“Who's my boy?” she asked as she stroked him. Who, indeed.

Mia was only about three steps from Juicy when her phone rang and there was Eden, her beloved Eden, on the other end. Mia promised herself that she would not break down, would not let Eden know just how much she had missed her. Upbeat, that was what she was determined to be.
Think Donna Reed, Betty Hutton, Jane Wyman,
she told herself.
Think of all those spunky Hollywood gals, emanating good cheer and a positive outlook from every pore of their apple-cheeked, squeaky-clean faces.

“Hi, Mom,” Eden said. Her voice had a tremulous sound, as if she might be ready to cry.

“Hi, Baby Cakes,” Mia said. “Have you been having fun?”

“Lots of fun,” Eden said. The quivery moment passed, and she seemed to regain her self-possession. “Daddy took me to a play and shopping and to this really neat vegetarian restaurant, where all the furniture is made by hand, and they get the milk and eggs and stuff from animals they raise themselves.”

“I'm so glad that you're having a good time.”

“And we had a really great Christmas; Nana and Pops got a huge tree, and we used real candles on it and it was so, so pretty. I wish you could have been here to see it.”

“I know, darling. I know.”

“But Mom—” Her voice changed again; Mia could tell she was moving into emotionally charged territory. “Daddy's been saying that he doesn't want me to come back home in January. He thinks I should stay with Nana and Pops for a while. He said there's a school down here that he can enroll me in, and that I'll have a really nice new teacher.”

“Would you like that?” Could Eden hear the sound of her heart breaking, being sawed in two, over the phone? Because to Mia, the noise was deafening.

“Well, sort of. I love hanging out with Nana and Pops. And their new house is very cool. There's like this forest out back, a real one, you know? I've seen all these great birds, and a deer walked right up to me and took a piece of bread right from my hand.”

“That
is
cool,” Mia agreed. She should be getting an Oscar for this performance, she really should.

“I know. But I miss you. A lot.” She took a breath, let it out. Mia swore she could feel the faint puff of the exhalation on her own cheek. “Why can't we all be together, anyway? Why did you and Daddy have to get divorced?”

Desperately, Mia looked around. Great lurching buses, the whales of the avenues, glided along; buildings and cars, fire hydrants and street signs were the urban backdrop for the bands of revelers, many drunk already, stumbling in and out of Juicy's door.

“Eden,” she said slowly, as if everything depended on these next words, getting them right. “Eden, you know I have to go to court in a few days, get some things straightened out, right?”

“Right,” said Eden in a tiny voice.

“I'm going to be very busy with that until it happens, and I think maybe Daddy is right: it would be a good idea for you to stay with Nana and Pops until it's all over.”

“You mean you don't want me to come home?”

“No, that's not it at all. I love you, and I miss you like crazy. But I
want to respect Daddy's wishes.” God, how was she even
uttering
such words? “So if he says he wants you to stay there, well then, maybe you'd better stay. And when it's all over and settled, he can bring you back.”

“Promise?” asked Eden. She was crying now; Mia could tell.

“Just ask Daddy, okay?” she said, not wanting to promise what was not in her power to deliver.

“Okay,” Eden said.

“And you can call me anytime you want to, all right? Anytime at all.”

“Okay,” repeated Eden. There was a resignation in her tone that was almost worse than the crying. “Happy New Year, Mom.”

“Happy New Year to you, too.” They talked for another minute before she said good-bye and tucked the phone back into her bag. Then she blew her nose—luckily, Stuart's handkerchief was still jammed in her pocket—and walked into Juicy. She caught sight of Fred right away, but he didn't see her—a short reprieve. Guilt was a dead thing around her neck, but there was no shaking it off.

“Hey, aren't you Eden's mom?” Mia turned to see a guy with a goatee and wire-rimmed, John Lennon–type glasses standing next to her.

“Yes,” she said, not placing him right away.

“I'm Kyle—Caitlin's dad,” he said, transferring his wineglass to his left hand and extending his right for her to shake.

“Oh, of course,” said Mia. “I knew you looked familiar.”

“Suzy will be here in a little while. Can I get you a drink in the meantime?”

“A drink would be great.”

“What are you having?”

“How about a shot of bourbon? Straight up?” She didn't even know why she asked for that; she never drank bourbon. Maybe it had something to do with Eden's being in North Carolina.

“Whoa, you're serious, aren't you?” said Kyle. Mia just smiled. “Well, why not? It's New Year's Eve, right? I say, go for it.”

Kyle ordered her bourbon, and presented it to her with a flourish. Then he looked toward the door. “There's Suzy,” he said. “I'll bring her over.” But he and Suzy were waylaid, so Mia was left alone with her bourbon. That was all right; she wasn't really up for socializing and was here only because she'd said she would come.

“You look great.” Fred's voice made her glance up from the drink.

“Thanks,” she said. She had made an effort: the stretchy black velour dress; strappy, black shoes; dangly rhinestone earrings. But she could barely face him. “I fed the cats.”

“You're a doll,” he said. Then someone next to her wanted a drink, and he turned. “Later?”

“Sure, later.”

Mia allowed herself to get drunk. It was a calculated campaign, her drunkenness, and she pursued it single-mindedly throughout the evening. She had another shot of bourbon, then switched to sangria when a rowdy group of guys on her left invited her to partake of their sloshing pitcher. Later, she ran into Kyle and Suzy, and the three of them broke out a bottle of champagne near midnight. Mia and Fred didn't get back to his place until after four in the morning, at which point she was fit only to kneel, a humble supplicant, on the bathroom floor, while yielding the booze-soaked contents of her stomach to the stoic patience of the white bowl.

“You've got to learn to hold it better,” chided Fred, putting her to bed with a cool washcloth, an empty ice bucket—so she wouldn't have to get up—and an extra pillow. “Mixing bourbon and sangria—jeez, what were you thinking?” But he was not at all angry. Mia drifted off to sleep, though not before she had the realization that her physical wretchedness was a small price to pay for getting to avoid, entirely, the whole issue of sex with Fred. Somewhere around dawn, Dudley wandered
in and, with a world-weary heave, deposited himself on top of Mia's aching head.

The next day she was massively hungover—of course—and played that for all it was worth. Fred gave her the newspaper and her space. He was disgustingly clear-eyed and chipper this morning; when he tended bar, he never touched a drop. She heard him puttering around downstairs and began to fret. What was she going to do? She liked Fred; she may even have been on the road to loving Fred. He was a sweet guy, a decent guy, the right sort of guy to make a life with. But that was before Patrick. Screwing Patrick was like that stunning moment in
The Wizard of Oz
when the movie switched from black-and-white to full, glorious Technicolor. Now that the scales had dropped and she had seen the light, how was she ever going to go back? She thought about Patrick and she burned; her whole body was hot and feverish. She was tempted to take her temperature, just to check. She wished she could call him, but she didn't dare, not with Fred downstairs—too slutty, too low.

But she also had other problems and conceded that Patrick might be the least of them. Her court date loomed, and she had no idea how her crazy tale would play itself out before a judge. And then there was Eden, miles away from her in North Carolina, forced to listen to— and maybe absorb—all the unalloyed venom that Lloyd was no doubt spewing. It made her sick to think of it. Sick and scared that if things didn't go well in court, she would never get her daughter back. So given all that, Patrick, Fred, and the sudden triangle that was her love life, would just have to wait.

Mia dozed fitfully, sipped some tea, skimmed the paper. She hadn't planned to get up at all until Fred appeared in the doorway of the room late in the afternoon.

“I forgot to tell you—I invited my mom for dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“I can call her and say you're not feeling well,” said Fred. “Make it another night.” But it was obvious he didn't want to do that.