California Demon (22 page)

That’s when I remembered that I needed an outfit, too. I’m not sure how I’d forgotten, actually. Wishful thinking, I suppose. If I had nothing decent, maybe Stuart wouldn’t take me.

I scowled, annoyed by my train of thought. This election was important to Stuart. Which meant it was important to me, too. And yes, I was irritated (which is the politically correct way of saying that I was completely pissed off ) by his more and more frequent absences from hearth and home. But that was between him and me. The election was between us and the voters. Because, whether I liked it or not, I was a political wife now. And I wasn’t about to let my spite ruin his chances of getting elected.

In other words, my mission was to buy a dress. A this-candidate-has-a-great-wife-let’s-vote-for-him kind of dress. With matching shoes. And, just because I wouldn’t mind having my husband home on time for a change, I figured I’d take a page from Laura’s book and swing by Victoria’s Secret as well.

The perfect dress came in every size but mine, but the almost-perfect dress fit beautifully. A twist on the little black dress, this number sported a tight waist accentuated by a red belt, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that swished when I walked and flared when I turned. I’m by no means a clotheshorse, but put a couple of these in my closet, and I might be willing to convert.

Of course I bought the thing. I even bought a pair of matching black pumps. I considered buying a new wrap, but decided I’d done enough damage to our credit card. And, yes, I was injuring
our
credit card. My original plan to spend my
Forza
money on a dress dissolved in a puff of smoke about the time that Stuart announced he was a no-go for Allie’s beach party. And when he wasn’t there after the robbery? Well, that’s when the shoes were added to the tally. Highly unreasonable, but it felt really, really good.

So good, in fact, that a full two hours passed before I caught up with Allie and the munchkin.

Even buying for herself and Timmy, Allie’s splurge totaled significantly less than mine. We stopped at the cookie stand, then parked ourselves on a bench as she gave me the rundown of her purchases (with the notable exception of the Christmas goodies). Although she went through each item in intricate detail, it all boiled down to clothes and toys. The toys being the far more interesting, where I was concerned.

“You bought him an arsenal?” I asked looking up from the shopping bag into which I’d been peering.

“I thought it would be fun,” she said. “Water pistols for Timmy and Stuart. And the super-squirter things for you and me.”

I pulled out one of the pistols and tested the action. Not bad for a cheap, cartoon-licensed plastic toy. And I had no doubt that these purchases would provide the family at least an hour of entertainment. After that, I imagined they’d get lost somewhere in the backyard, then broken by the lawnmower come summer. I’d been through this before.

But I didn’t complain. An hour is an hour, and the idea did sound like fun.

As soon as Timmy finished his cookie, we toted our shopping bags to the car, Allie pushing the stroller and complaining about how difficult it was to shop with Timmy underfoot. I kept silent. Somehow, I thought that was best.

We hit the furniture stores next, and while Allie tried hard to keep Timmy from bouncing on every single cushion, I hijacked a salesman and seriously upped his overall sales average. By the time we were back out the door and into the van, starvation was looming. We pulled into the first McDonald’s we saw. Not exactly thrilling for either Allie or me, but it made the munchkin (who’d been slowly descending into crankiness) happy. Considering how loud the boy can wail, I’m all about staving off crankiness.

The line for the drive-through was insane, so I pulled into a slot, foisted my purse on my daughter, and told her to get me a Big Mac, Timmy a cheeseburger Happy Meal, and her whatever she wanted. She left, seeming perfectly happy about that plan.

When she came back, though, I couldn’t help notice that she seemed significantly less happy. Downright moody, actually. Since frequent mood shifts are par for the course when one lives with a teenager (my moods and hers), I didn’t think too much about it. I did ask, though. But she cut me off neatly with a surly, “I’m fine. I’m just tired. It’s no big deal.” Then she stuck her feet on the dash, sank low in her seat, and closed her eyes.

Great. Fight crankiness on one end and get hit with it on the other.

The rest of the afternoon was spent much more pleasantly. Allie wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, but she wasn’t moping around, either, and I attributed her earlier morbidity to falling blood sugar.

Even more significantly, the day passed blissfully demon free. Allie and I made a dent cleaning the disaster that was the house while Timmy proceeded to add to the mess in his room. Eddie made a show of helping, but I had to give him such specific directions that I didn’t object when he announced that he was heading for the library, which opens at two on Sundays. (I’m pretty sure his ignorance of basic vacuum-cleaner operation was a ruse, but I decided not to call him on it.)

About four, Laura and Mindy came over and we all went for ice cream. Or, rather, Laura and I ate ice cream. I’m not entirely sure Timmy ingested any, but if anyone ever determines a connection between an ice-cream facial and perfect skin, then I can safely say that my boy is going to have the world’s best complexion. The girls both ordered teeny-tiny scoops of sorbet, then proceeded to take teeny-tiny bites, ultimately throwing most of their scoops in the trash when we finally left.

“Why not just drink water?” I asked.

My daughter and Mindy shared a pitying look. “Cuz then we wouldn’t get the taste, Mom. I mean, it’s not like we’re into deprivation or anything,”

Like Allie would say,
Whatever.

I dropped everyone off at Laura’s house before heading home. I hadn’t discussed the evening’s arrangements with Allie, but she didn’t raise a protest. After last night’s robbery, I didn’t expect that she would.

Eddie was a different story, as he had earlier insisted on staying home, and promised to “kick the sorry ass of any demon-loving freak who’s unlucky enough to try to break in.” Since that sounded just fine to me, I didn’t argue with him.

Neither Eddie nor Stuart were home yet, so I had the whole house to myself as I showered, and went to work on my makeup. My hair tends to hang limp around my face. That’s one of the reasons I pull it back in a ponytail so often. At least then it’s hanging limp, but out of my face.

I can, however, force it into submission when I really need to, and I had a feeling that a Tabitha Danvers gala fell into that category.

So I spent the next twenty minutes putting all manner of goop in my hair, then blow-drying it. An altogether humbling experience, I might add. I’m the woman who once cleaned out a nest of vampires while wielding a wooden sword in one hand and a crucifix in the other. But none of that matters in the hair-care arena. Because I am apparently genetically unable to wield both a blow-dryer and a round brush.

Despite my ineptitude, my hair did manage to dry. And it even had some body, which basically means that it wasn’t hanging as limp as it normally does. I resisted the urge to pull it back into a familiar ponytail and instead heated up my curling iron. I might not have a clue what the demons in this town were up to, but by God I was going to beat my hair into submission.

Thirty minutes and half a bottle of hair spray later, I looked pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. My face was surrounded by a sea of curls, my eyes looked even wider with the three layers of mascara I’d applied, and my lips were red and full. I expected the makeup to slough off within half an hour and my hair to fall by the time we reached the museum, but at least my husband could see the results of my efforts.

I pulled on the dress, then checked the time. A quarter to seven. In another lifetime, I would have expected Stuart to get home early. No more. Which meant I had fifteen minutes to kill, and I needed to do it in a way that wouldn’t crinkle my dress, make my nose sweat, or rumple my hair.

I clicked on the television and channel surfed, but despite the fact that we have more than three hundred channels, I found absolutely nothing interesting. I gave up and turned the thing off. Then I grabbed my purse and pulled out the note from Eric.

I read through it once, then again, my heart aching as I did. Both for Eric and the life we’d lost, and for Stuart and the life we had.

I closed my eyes, the note pressed against my chest as I thought about Stuart. As much as I hated to admit it, for all the time that I’ve been married to Stuart, I’ve compared my marriages. Not overtly. Not really even consciously. But how can you help it? I certainly couldn’t. And one simple fact always stood out: Eric had known my secrets. He’d known my past. Hell, he’d lived it with me.

Stuart didn’t know that part of me, and that made me a little sad. Because in my first marriage there hadn’t been secrets. And I think I’d put my first marriage up on a little pedestal. A representation of some marital perfection that Stuart and I could never reach.

Horribly unfair to Stuart. I know that. But feelings and fairness don’t always go hand in hand.

Now, though, I had to wonder if maybe that pedestal was crumbling. Because the world I’d imagined with Eric was an illusion. I’d believed we’d had no secrets. But that wasn’t true. The safe-deposit box had shown me that.

It all boiled down to one inescapable conclusion: My husband had been murdered for a secret.

A flicker of rage burned through me, and I couldn’t help but wonder: If he’d told me the truth—if he’d asked me for help—would Eric still be alive today?

And if so, what would my life be like now?

“YOU look absolutely stunning,” Stuart said, as he held out his arm for me.

We were on the sidewalk in front of the museum, standing just in front of the stairs leading up to the grand entrance. Behind us, the valet put the car in gear and drove away. I hooked my arm through Stuart’s and smiled. “You’ve already said that.”

In fact, he’d already said it three times. First when he’d come home, again after he’d changed clothes, and once again before he’d opened the car door for me.

In all fairness, I’d said it right back to him. Stuart’s not too shabby on any given day, but he’s positively dashing in a charcoal-gray tailored suit, his shoulders squared, and his eyes bright with anticipation.

In fact, he looked so delicious, that I decided to repeat myself, just for the record. “
You
look amazing,” I said.

“And I look even better on your arm.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “That goes without saying.”

We both laughed, and I felt warm and light, the memories of when we’d first started dating washing over me. I’d barely been free of the funk I’d slid into after Eric’s death, and the thing I remember most about those first weeks was the way Stuart had made me laugh. And the way he could always surprise me. A drive down PCH and dinner at Spago in L.A., when I’d only expected a quick burger. A night curled up on the couch with
Monty Python and the Holy Grail,
complete with Chinese food and wine spritzers. A weekend trip to Catalina Island after Allie had mentioned that she’d never been and really wanted to go.

And, of course, the thing that really got me: He’d asked my adolescent daughter for permission to marry me.

“You okay?”

Stuart was studying my face, and I realized that my eyes were brimming with tears.

“Oh no!” I yelped. “Handkerchief! This mascara isn’t waterproof!”

“Did I miss a crisis?” he asked, as I dabbed at my eyes, kicking myself for not going with my Maybelline standby.

“I’m fine,” I finally said, after I’d checked my reflection in my compact. “I was just thinking about the day you asked me to marry you.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, now the tears make perfect sense.”

I lifted myself up on my toes and kissed him, hard. “I love you,” I said. “Now let’s go in there and rake up some serious campaign donations, okay?”

I started to pull open the door, but he stayed my hand. “Thank you,” he said simply.

I turned, looking at him quizzically. “For what?”

“For this. For everything. I know you never signed on to be a politician’s wife.” His mouth quirked, revealing a reluctant dimple. “And I love you for putting up with it.”

“I married the man, Stuart. Not the job. And I love you no matter what.”

I only hoped that if he ever discovered my secret life that he’d feel the same way about me.

l’ll say One thing for Tabitha Danvers—that woman knows how to throw a party. Even I, who tend to avoid these kinds of functions as much as possible, had a reasonably good time. Which is to say that I drank the free wine, made small talk when necessary, then wandered through the museum to look at the various things on display.

Truly, the best part of these parties is escaping the crowd.

The museum was technically closed until January so that the staff could do inventory and set up new exhibits. But Tabitha had opened the place up for us, making clear that we could wander throughout the museum, and even get a sneak peek at some of the coming exhibits.

I greedily took her at her word, wanting to escape the crowd. Most of the guests, though, stayed in the atrium, where they could be close to both my husband and the bar.

I actually know the Danvers Museum pretty well. When I was pregnant with Timmy, I did the obligatory please-kick-me-into-labor-NOW walk around these halls for the entire last week of my pregnancy. (It didn’t work. The little bugger was six days late, entirely blowing that old wives’ tale about second children arriving early.)

After that, I burned off my baby weight by walking these halls with Timmy strapped papooselike to my chest in the BabyBjörn carrier I’d splurged on in a postpartuminduced shopping frenzy. (I also walked at the mall, but those walks always seemed to cost money. With a new baby and a government-salary husband, I figured the least I could do to stabilize the family budget was avoid any enclosed place with a Pottery Barn, a Gap, and a Brentano’s.)