Happily Ever After?
Read Happily Ever After? Online
Authors: Debra Kent
… for Victory!
I stole a sidelong glance at Michael and wondered what I had done to deserve this magnificent man as a dinner companion. The
rest of the evening was perfect. The handsome detective was by turns funny and shy, and seemed to get better looking as the
night wore on (I wasn’t drinking, by the way). But the truth is, I’m not ready for a relationship. Seriously. No, really.
I’m not. I mean it.
Michael insisted on walking me to my Jeep. I felt the heat radiating off his hands as he slowly drew the belt across my body
and clicked the buckle into place. “It’s the law, you know,” he said, staring at me.
“Thank you, Officer.” My lips tingled under his gaze.
He was still staring at my mouth. “Can I call you?”
When I got home I found a new message on my machine….
’Til next time,
V
“You’ll absolutely love V—in fact, you’ll wish you were her friend. But since that can’t be arranged, you’ll happily settle
for reading her diary and discovering her most private thoughts and all the outrageous things that happen in her life.’’
—Kate White, editor-in-chief,
Cosmopolitan
The Diary of V: The Affair
The Diary of V: The Breakup
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
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First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56688-9
Contents
For Jeff
Chronicling the life of Valerie Ryan was a solitary endeavor, yet the final product wouldn’t exist without the help and support
of many good people.
Deepest gratitude goes to my agent, Sandy Dijkstra, whose energy never falters even when her cell phone battery does; Amy
Applegate, treasured friend and scrupulous counsel; editor Beth de Guzman at Warner, talented and insightful and funny as
hell; Jennifer Woodhouse at
Redbook,
who has kept a keen editorial eye on V’s life online; Elisabeth James at The Dijkstra Agency, for her tireless work and for
standing at the finish line with comfort and encouragement; Kate White, for launching Valerie Ryan and for her faith in this
project; Andy Mallor, for his help with the legal details in Val’s complicated life; John Applegate, Betsy Birch, Richard
Balaban, Julie Bloom, Lisa Kamen, Carolyn Lipson-Walker, Jane Mallor, Lorraine Rapp, Steve Scott, Linda Scott, Alisa Sutor,
George Walker, and Donna Wilber for their friendship; Linda Alis, Mara Lea Rosenbarger, Carole Holton, and Thomas Sharp for
their insightful guidance; and Diane Weidenbener for putting groove in my life.
I am inspired daily by Jeffrey Isaac, an exceptional
husband, true intellectual, community activist, and faithful president of the Mark Jackson fan club; Adam Kent-Isaac, who
is smart and funny and strong enough to open any damn jar in the house; Annelise Ruiz Kent-Isaac, already an intuitive writer
and greater singer; Martha Spitzer, for teaching me that a little lipstick is a good thing; Brian Kent, a true Mac’o through
and through; Richard Spitzer, a great musician and really cool guy; Terry and Jerry Coleman, who have found their tropical
paradise and are generous enough to share it with me; Hy and Sylvia Isaac, the best in-laws in the free world; and Poe, Coltrane,
and Joseph P. Kendicott, for their unconditional adoration.
When we last caught up with Valerie Ryan, she had revealed her philandering husband’s secret condo hideaway, busted his bogus
marriage to a mail-order bride named Mary, and braced herself to fight for his fortune in a groundbreaking divorce settlement,
with the help of attorney Omar Sweet and private investigator Libby Taylor. Roger found another new and excruciatingly young
girlfriend, Valerie got in touch with her inner Martha, pulled the plug on her affair with Eddie, and became a local hero
when a psychic dream led to a missing woman—and a promising first encounter with Detective Michael Avila.
Now, V’s adventures continue …
Overheard at supermarket checkout: “So I said to my husband, ‘Look, if you’re going to cheat on me, you’d better do it now
so I can divorce you before I hit forty. I want to leave you while I’m still marketable, and nobody’s going to want me once
I’m forty.’”
Spring is here. The air is balmy, the trees are flowering, and I feel fat. Comfort dictates what vanity prohibits: sleeveless
blouses and shorts. I always get depressed when the weather warms, because I can’t fully engage with the season. Of course
I could if I wanted to. God knows, lots of women around here wear what they want with no apparent regard for rippling flubber,
and I admire them even as I stare in disbelief. But I don’t have that kind of nerve. So I suffer silently in long pants and
quarter-length sleeves.
I suppose I could get cosmetic surgery, but with my luck, I’ll be one of those horror stories you see in
People
magazine. Either I’ll wind up with my ass grafted to my face, or I’ll never come out of the anesthesia. I’m not sure which
is worse.
I’m meeting with Omar and Libby tomorrow.
’Til next time,
V
Libby has more evidence on Roger. Hunting through his trash can, she discovered deposit slips and statements from offshore
banks. “I’m afraid I’d miscalculated your husband’s net worth,” she told me.
“Ex-husband,” I corrected.
“Your ex-husband.” She released a small but sincere smile. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Go on, please.” I was sure she’d tell me that he’d squandered all his money in the stock market. I braced myself
for the worst.
“Ms. Ryan, your ex-husband is worth considerably more than our original estimate. Unless I’ve missed something, his holdings
are valued at approximately one hundred and three million dollars. Give or take.”
I stopped breathing. I looked at Omar, then Libby, then Omar again. “Are you kidding?”
“Ms. Ryan, you’re not paying me to kid around.” Libby slid a black binder across the table. “Copies of everything. Yours to
keep.” I distractedly flipped through the pages. My heart was hammering in my ears. One hundred and three million dollars.
That tightfisted philandering bastard was the richest man I’d ever met.
Omar slapped his binder. “Ha-hah!” He was beaming. “We’re bulletproof, kiddo. We’re going to nail Roger Tisdale for every
penny.”
“With God’s help,” I added.
“You don’t need God’s help, kiddo. I’m your lawyer. That’s enough.”
Libby nodded her head. “He happens to be right.” She slid her file folders into a neat black satchel. I noticed then that
she was pregnant. I felt a flicker of envy. She was young and pretty and smart, all that promise and happiness, and it all
lay ahead.
’Til next time,
V
Got the Zoe Hayes reward check. Yippee. Now I can pay my bills. I found an online diet support group. I read a message from
a woman who said she’s tried everything to lose weight. She put on seventy pounds with each pregnancy. At her heaviest, she
weighed one sixty-one at five foot four. She said the only thing that worked for her was something called Butt Buster by LiteZone
Herbals. These supplements actually adjusted her metabolism, so she burns fat and calories more efficiently. I e-mailed her
right away. I wanted to know what was in the stuff, whether it could kill me. She e-mailed back. “It’s all natural. All herbs.
It’s not cheap, but well worth the money.”
Well, pennyroyal is an herb too. That doesn’t make it healthy. But I’m intrigued. I think I’m going to try it.
She said I could order through her. Maybe after I pay my bills. I have to see how much money I’ve got left.
’Til next time,
V
Big Head, aka soccer coach Jerry Johansen, took the liberty of registering Pete for soccer, and given my suspicions about
him—that he has entirely too much interest in my son and may, in fact, be a latent child molester—this doesn’t make me happy.
“You don’t think I’m going to coach this team without our best player, now, do you?” he says.
“That was very kind of you, Jerry,” I lied.
“Well, I figured you’ve got your hands full, being a single mom and all. You can drop a check in the mail whenever you have
a minute.”
I felt oddly comforted. If he were intent on getting his hands on my kid, would he have reminded me to pay him? Wouldn’t he
have said something like, “Don’t worry about the money. It’s the least I can do to have Pete on the team”?
’Til next time,
V
I paid my bills. I have nothing left over. I guess I won’t be getting those miracle fat pills after all.
I hate being broke, especially in this neighborhood. Lynette’s been trying to get me to join a women’s investment club. “Even
if we don’t make a lot of money, it’s so much fun to sit around with the girls,” she told me. “We’d love to have you join
us.”
“Now’s not a good time.” But someday, I hope to have enough money to join Lynette’s club, maybe even start one of my own.
I’ll have to add that to my ongoing list of things to do with Roger’s money, a docket that now includes:
1. Buy that historic villa in Tuscany, the one advertised in the back of the
New York Times
magazine. Fully restored. Nine bedrooms. Expansive balcony overlooking ocean. Private beach. Golf course (I’ll learn to play).
Horses and stables (I’ll overcome my fear of massive animals). Indoor and outdoor swimming pools (I already know how to swim).
Pricetag: $3.4 million (pocket change).
2. Hire a live-in masseuse. Have a massage every morning and another before bed. Since it would be too weird to have someone
living in the house, I’d have to build a separate guest house in the back. But because I
don’t really have enough room for a guest house, I’ll have to buy the Stropp property behind my house. It’s worth about $285,000.
I’ll offer $400,000 so they can’t refuse. I’ll let the masseuse live there.
3. Since the Stropp house is too big for just one little masseuse, I might as well hire a full-time house-cleaner, cook (Bobby
Flay would be ideal), and gardener, who will plant and tend to hundreds of gorgeous flowers and blossoming trees, and a little
vegetable garden for Pete.
4. Fly in all of Pete’s favorite soccer players for a private party: Davor Suker, Dennis Bergkamp, David Beck-ham, George
Best, Edgar Davids. I’ll pay them whatever they want, but they’ll have to leave their wives and girlfriends at home. I’ll
let Pete choose one to be his private coach.
5. Spend an afternoon in Nordstrom’s shoe department, try on hundreds of cool-looking shoes, and buy them all. Pay to have
them shipped to my house. Have my full-time housecleaner put them away.
6. Buy my parents an all-expenses-paid deluxe cruise to the destination of their choice, and pay a private physician to accompany
them in case my father needs medical help.
7. Take singing lessons with Whitney Houston.
8. Hire the best Chinese chef in Manhattan and build a restaurant so this town can finally experience a real Chinese restaurant,
instead of those fake Chinese buffets designed to cater to gluttonous Midwestern
white people, the kind that offers white bread and fried chicken wings and Oreo cookies.
’Til next time,
V
I guess I won’t be winning any popularity contests among the soccer moms after my gaffe this afternoon. I was watching Pete
on the field. Actually, I was watching the coach watching Pete, and was aware of a churning queasiness (aka gut feeling, that
instinctive visceral reaction everyone says you’re supposed to heed). The look in Jerry Johansen’s eyes was adoring, but also
predatory. Sitting there on the splintery bleacher, I debated pulling Pete out of the league. But Pete would hate me for it.
He loves soccer. He loves Jerry. He has refused to try any other sport. I struggled with the possibility that I’d imagined
everything, and that maybe Jerry Johansen really was a kind man and dedicated coach who likes my kid because he’s a talented
soccer player.
At that point, I decided that ruminating alone was futile. I needed more input. I scanned the bleachers and spotted C.J. Patterson,
one of the nicer Mushroom Heads. She was sitting on her portable padded bleacher seat with a big red jug on her left, a knitting
basket on her right. As usual, C.J. was dressed like a one-woman Fourth of July. She was wearing crisp nautical blue capri
pants, a red sleeveless cotton top, white crew socks, blindingly white leather Keds, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I called
out her name, and she smiled benevolently and gestured for me to sit beside her. She moved the knitting basket to her feet.
I saw that she was knitting a sweater, an elaborate masterwork in varying shades of indigo chenille.