Happily Ever After? (2 page)

C.J. Patterson wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had all the beauty money could buy: surgically enhanced breasts, laminated
teeth, a resculptured nose, bottle-bronze skin, blue-tinted contacts. Her highlighted blond hair was tucked beneath the hat,
which could mean only one thing: She was overdue for a root job.

“Want a cup of Crystal Light?” I watched her pour the pink liquid into a plastic tumbler. “How are you? It’s been forever.”

“I know,” I said, trying to return her enthusiasm. “It’s been ages.” I didn’t want to talk about Roger or the divorce or my
psychic encounter, or anything else she had surely heard about me. “Listen, C.J.,” I began. “What do you think of Jerry? The
coach.”

She squinted at me. “What do you mean?” Based on that squint, I was sure she shared my qualms. I was thrilled to have a sympathetic
listener. I moved closer and lowered my voice. “I think he has a little too much interest in Pete. I mean, I think he likes
him a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

“For your information, Jerry Johansen is the pastor of the junior congregation at our church! You couldn’t
find a more decent man!” She pulled her knitting to her bosom as if to shield herself from my demonic aura. “You see? This
is how rumors get started! You start spreading these little innuendoes and you wind up ruining another human being. Is that
what you want? To ruin Jerry Johansen?”

By the end of the game, I saw that C.J. had been joined by Eric’s mom, another Junior Leaguer. They were huddled close and
at one point I thought I heard C.J. say, “Like she should talk.”

’Til next time,

V

I’ve decided to keep Pete in soccer. He loves the game, and I want him to be happy, especially now. But I am committed to
going to every practice, every game, and every team party. No camping trips. No private locker-room pep talks. And if Jerry
tries anything with my kid, I will blow his goddamn brains out, I really will.

’Til next time,

V

I go out to get the mail, and what do I see? Roger, parked across the street with his surfer girlfriend.
They’re staring at me, so I stare back. Then all of a sudden, the girl leans over and dips her head down over his lap. It
takes me a minute to realize she’s blowing him! He’s got his hand on the back of her head as she rises and falls. And he’s
looking straight at me. Smiling. She lifts her head, gives me a drooly-mouth smile, flashes a peace sign, then goes back to
work on him. I walked back into the house and called the police. Told them there was a guy exposing himself in his car. But
they were gone by the time the cops showed up. Damn.

’Til next time,

V

I’m in a great mood. Here’s why:

1. Omar had all of Roger’s accounts frozen. Except for the money from our old checking account, he has access to nothing.
Ha!

2. I just received the second installment of the Zoe Hayes reward money. When I saw the first check, I assumed that the money
was being distributed among several informants. I had no idea that I’d be receiving the total $100,000. It turns out that
there were no other successful leads. I’m entitled to the full amount, but it will be sent in $25K installments, which is
fine with me.

3. I bought the herbal diet stuff. Took my first dose
today. Waiting for the miraculous results. So far, I’m still fat. But hopeful.

4. Made an all-day appointment at the Indulgences Day Spa. This will include Swedish massage and hot paraffin packs, full-body
exfoliation, deep hair conditioning, broken capillary zapping, a
gentle
facial (no squeezing or popping, they assured me), aromatherapy, manicure, foot massage and pedicure, and makeup. I can’t
wait!

’Til next time,

V

Oh, God. I can’t believe this is happening. I just got off the phone with Roger. Oh, God.

I had been online tonight, trying to access my bank account. It was 9
P.M.
I’d already spent an hour getting Pete settled for the night. I gave him a bath. I read
Frog and Toad.
I played three rounds of war. I read
Frog and Toad
again. I sang “Sweet Baby James.” Twice. I brought him a glass of water. Then another. Then tucked him in. And tucked him
in again. By the time I got to the computer, I was ready to collapse. Then Pete was at my elbow, asking, “What are you doing,
Mom?”

“I thought you were going to bed.”

“I can’t. I’m not tired. Can’t I just stay here with you?”

At this point, I want to scream. But I’ve got to hold it together. “No, sweetie. You’ve got soccer in the morning. You have
to go back to bed.”

“Can’t I stay here? I promise I’ll be quiet. Please?”

“No, hon, I’m sorry. You have to get back into bed, okay?”

At that point, Pete starts poking at the keyboard. I’m trying to type in my account number, and he’s hitting random letters
and numbers, and the computer is making this binking sound, and then it crashes. I grabbed Pete by the shoulders and shook
him hard, and this growling, guttural voice lurched out of my throat.
“I. Told. You. To. Get. Back. To. Bed. God. Dammit!”
I felt my fingers pinch the flesh of his upper arms and he winced. He pulled away and started screaming.

“
Ow!
You hurt me!
You hurt me!
” The next thing I know he’s scrambling upstairs with the cordless phone. “I’m calling Dad! I’m calling Dad!” he shrieked.

I chased him. “You’ll do no such thing! Give me that phone!”

He wriggled under the bed. Then he realized that he didn’t know Roger’s phone number. He was sobbing now. “I wanna live with
Dad! You’re a horrible mother! I hate you!”

“Well, I hate you too!” I blurted out. “Oh, God, Pete, I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. Sometimes grown-ups say things
they don’t mean. Just like kids. We get angry and we say things that hurt, but we don’t mean them.”

He stared at me and sniffled. His eyes were pink and swollen. He pulled his sleeves and stared at the red marks my fingernails
had left. Finally, he said, “I want you to leave my room. Just leave me alone.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Pete had kept the cordless phone under the bed, and somehow he figured out how to get
his father’s number. Roger called me at 11:10.

“What the hell is going on over there?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Roger,” I told him. I wanted to sound businesslike, but I was shaking.

“I’m calling Child Protective Services first thing Monday morning. Do you hear me?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Fine. You do that. And I’ll call every theater critic at every newspaper and magazine in the United
States and tell them the whole sordid story about Roger Tisdale, the decrepit has-been playwright who bought himself a mail-order
child bride.” I slammed down the phone.

Now I’ve got all weekend to torture myself with the prospect of losing Pete forever.

’Til next time,

V

I woke up this morning convinced that Roger was bluffing. Even if he did call Child Protective Services, it’s unlikely
that they’d take Pete away or even file a complaint. I know the sort of cases CPS handles—I dealt with them firsthand when
I was an intern at the county mental health clinic. I doubt they’d have much interest in a loving mother who (uncharacteristically)
lost her temper and grabbed her son a little too hard.

’Til next time,

V

A good sign: I’ve invited Dale and his partner for a barbecue tomorrow afternoon. I decided that what I really needed was
a new cookbook. While Pete and Hunter browsed in the children’s department, I walked past the self-help books and tried not
to notice how aptly they described my life.
How to Spot a Jerk. His Cheating Heart. Dump Your Husband Today. Surviving Divorce. Celebrating Solitude. Custody at Any Cost.

As I was drawn into the magnetic field of that last book, I noticed a guy sprawled on the floor at the end of the aisle. I
glanced at him and he looked up from his book and smiled at me. His smile was so warm and inviting that I was sure it was
meant for someone else. I looked away, absently flipped through the custody book, then stole another glance at him. He had
sleepy, sexy eyes and the sensuous, perfectly shaped lips of an Italian male model. A ribbed gray tank top clung to his
tan, well-muscled torso. His jeans were slung low on his hips, low enough for me to see an enticing trail of dark hair leading
from navel to the nether region below the belt. He must have seen me eyeing him, but instead of straightening up, he leaned
farther back, as if to give me a better view of his delicious body. He gave a quick nod. “How ya doin’?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“That’s not a bad book, but
Custody Without Battles
is better. Helped me a lot.” He was still smiling. “Divorce is hell, huh?”

“And sometimes marriage is hell, don’t you think?” I returned the smile.

“Absolutely.” He chuckled, stood up and extended a hand. “Mark. Mark Henshaw.”

“Valerie Ryan. Nice to meet you.” I glanced down and saw that he was reading one of those huge medical tomes. At the top of
the page: Managing Genital Herpes. On the facing page: Coping with Genital Warts.

Either way, I decided it was time to go. “I think I hear my kid calling me.”

“Sure. See you around.”

As I wended my way toward the kids’ section, I drew up the pros and cons. Pro: hunky, handsome, nice, single, likes kids.
Con: probably has a significant sexually transmitted disease. I extrapolated from this that he’s probably slept around, or
cheated on his wife; the type of man I’m trying assiduously to avoid. Of course it’s also possible that he contracted the
disease from his
slutty wife. Or maybe he’s a doctor and he’s doing research for a paper he’s presenting at an upcoming panel. (Unlikely.)

’Til next time,

V

I managed to clean the house using the Hefty method (sweeping everything into trash bags and shoving them into the hall closet).
It’s been so long since I cooked outside that I’d almost forgotten how to use the gas grill. When I lifted the lid, I saw
the charred, curled skin of a salmon fillet stuck to the grill. It must have been two years old. I must add a new grill to
my ongoing fantasy list.

I will say this much for that jackass Roger: He was a damn good cook. In fact, I remember this particular meal—salmon in tangy
sauce with fresh tomato-cilantro salsa, roasted new potatoes with dill, steamed broccoli, and warm, crusty semolina bread.

I remember that Roger urged me to eat the dessert—rich chocolate mousse cake with fresh whipped cream—even though he knew
I was trying to lose weight. I remember thinking, as I lifted the first forkful to my lips, that it was okay to eat the cake
because Roger made it, Roger wanted me to eat it, Roger loved me exactly the way I was. Now I realize that he
was sabotaging my diet. He didn’t want me to look too good. He didn’t want me to look better than him or good enough to attract
other men. He wanted me fat and sloppy so he’d have another reason to screw around. In the meantime, he was lifting weights
and running the treadmill and doing his Ab Roller contraption.

’Til next time,

V

No one from Child Protective Services called. I guess Roger was bluffing. But just to be sure, I called CPS myself. I told
the social worker I was calling on behalf of my friend. “There’s probably no cause for concern, unless there’s a history of
abuse,” she told me. “It sounds like she lost her temper. Lord knows, I’ve lost it with my own kids more than once.” After
a pause she added, “First Presbyterian runs a really great support group for stressed-out parents, by the way. It’s open to
everybody, and it’s free. Maybe you—I mean, your friend— should check it out.”

“I’ll pass along the information,” I said, vainly hoping to preserve the ruse.

’Til next time,

V

The phone rang as I was getting out of the shower. “Hello, this is Jeanette and I’m with the Psychic Friends Network.”

I was poised to activate my anti-phone-solicitor gadget when it occurred to me that this could be a career opportunity. Perhaps
they’d read about the Zoe Hayes discovery. “Yes, can I help you?”

“I understand that you have psychic abilities, is this true?”

My gut told me that this call wasn’t exactly kosher. “Who did you say you were with?”

I heard suppressed giggles. Then Roger was on the line. “Okay, psycho girl. I mean, psychic girl. Can you predict what I’m
going to do to my gorgeous young girlfriend as soon as I get off the phone with you?”

More giggles, then a muffled sound and a playful shriek.

“Grow up, Roger,” I told him.

“Oh, I’m growing, believe me. Right before my very eyes.”

I could hear his girlfriend laughing hysterically, and then heard her say, “Roger, you are awful!”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked him.

“Hey, you’re the psychic. You tell me.”

I hung up and called the police. I left a message in
the general voice-mail box. I’m still waiting to hear back from them.

’Til next time,

V

It looks like Mom is in the matchmaking business. She called to invite me to Bellamy’s for dinner on Saturday night. She said
she was bringing a friend, a man.

“Oh, this is a first. I can’t believe that you’re trying to set me up!”

“Don’t be silly. Think of it as a little diversion. You need a grown-up night out. Please don’t say no. Please?”

“What about Dad?” I asked.

“It’s all taken care of. The nice young woman from hospice will cover for me. Sandy, her name is. I need a break too, you
know.”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “In that case,
you
go out to dinner with this guy, your mystery man, whoever he is.”