The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (22 page)

She sighs. “You got it. So now I’m asking people face to face. It’s a small wedding party–just our closest and dearest friends, so I don’t mind.”

“We’ll be there, of course. But it’s…so soon, Emma. Are you sure you don’t want to give yourself more time–I mean, with all that’s going on at work?”

“I know, I know–we’ve put it off this long, so why the rush?” She pushes her bangs off her forehead–a true indication that she’s anxious about it. “But I’d rather do it before Nicky is old enough to ask why we aren’t married. My parents never tied the knot. I feel it made all our lives seem–oh, I don’t know, inconsequential, I guess.”

Emma has never talked much about her parents or siblings. In fact, just accepting Arnie’s proposal of marriage was a big step for her, if only because she never felt worthy of his love, despite her nonchalant attitude toward his outright adulation. But I take her word for it that it means a lot to have those who love her most there with her.

I’m honored to be included as one of her friends.

“Donna, will you be my Maid of Honor? In fact, Arnie is asking Jack to be his Best Man.”

It’s my turn to blush. “I’m honored. But don’t you mean Matron of Honor? I’m married, remember?”

“No, you were divorced. Or widowed.” Reminding me of Carl’s recent demise makes her uncomfortable enough to pretend that it’s more important to fidget with Nicky’s cap as opposed to looking me in the eye.

“Yes of course. Old habits die hard.” So do old husbands. Mine especially. “I’m happy to accept.”

“Wow! Thanks!” She bumps her head as she shifts away from the car in order to envelop me in a bear hug. “Hey, do you think Trisha would agree to be the flower girl?”

I chuckle. “No problem there. Anything that gets her into a fairy princess dress with flowers in her hair is an instant yes.”

She jumps into the front seat of her car, and starts the engine. “Wonderful! Now, let’s all say prayers that whatever happens regarding the mission comes down either before, or after, next Sunday.”

As she drives off, it hits me that if Acme’s mission fails, it may not be the joyous event she envisions.

I pray for all our sakes that this is not the case. That we can all pretend to lead normal lives for yet one more day.

By the time Jack gets home, we’ve already sat down to dinner. He does a double-take when he realizes we have a guest: Evan. With Aunt Phyllis, it’s a full house.

“Evan–here? When did this happen?” he asks, as he bends down to kiss me.
 

“Last night. You got home so late and left so early this morning…” My voice trails off. The last thing he needs is a guilt trip.

“Things have heated up. I’ll tell you about it after dinner.” He reaches across Trisha’s head to shake Evan’s hand, but noting Evan’s relief at his acceptance, it turns into a bear hug instead.
 

Trisha won’t be left out. She throws her arms around both of them. “Group hug!” she shouts.

As Mary watches this, the tension goes out of her face. It’s replaced by a calmness I haven’t seen in quite some time.

Not since before she knew of Carl’s existence, and his role in her life.

I love Jack for so many reasons. His care and concern for my family is one of them. His adoration by them is another. And no man has ever made me feel so alive.

There was a time he could tell me anything. But now that I’m on a need-to-know basis with Acme, the emotional intimacy between us has lessened.

It all feels familiar to me. Why is that?

Oh, yes, now I remember. It’s how I felt, that one day long ago when I picked up Carl’s cell phone by mistake. I would have assumed it was merely a wrong number if Carl hadn’t angrily snatched the phone out of my hand. Instead, at that moment I realized that the husband whom I thought I knew so well was, in fact, hiding something from me. It made me sad to think I’d never feel close to him again because he felt there were things he had to hide from me.

My situation with Jack is different. I know he loves me, and that I can trust him with my life–and have, on numerous occasions.

And yet, I’m just as sad now.

But I set my mouth into a placid smile and keep it that way throughout dinner.

It should be interesting to see what Jack has to tell me.
 

It’s a great night for a stroll. Without any clouds to block its glow, the three-quarter moon gives off enough light so that we don’t need the flashlights we’ve taken on our way to Hilldale Park.
 

Lassie and Rin Tin Tin romp ahead of us. They’re up for a walk any hour of the day or night. Our path takes us right by Gabrielle Mathews’ house. I spot her in one of the top windows. She’s on her cell phone.

I wonder if she’s talking to Jeff.

Jack follows my sight line. “What are you staring at?”

“She’s a friend of Jeff’s. I found the two of them up in the tree house–s
mooching
.”

“Jesus, I’m gone for a few hours and the place goes to hell in a hand basket,” he murmurs.

“You’ve had more important things on your mind.”
 

To show he appreciates my understanding, he swings me around so that he can kiss me.

Sweet.

We walk the rest of the way in silence. When we get to the park, Jack tosses the florescent tennis ball he brought for the dogs. For the next half-hour, they chase it as well as each other. Still, he doesn’t say what’s on his mind.
 

When the dogs go off in search of other critters, we sit there for what seems like an eternity, but it’s not really. Finally, he says, “Because of the timetable of this mission, Ryan and I spent the last twenty-four hours combing through the personnel files of Acme operatives and agents who we could pull in from another office, if only temporarily.”

“Any luck?”
 

He contemplates my question for a moment. Finally he nods. “In a way, yes. A currently inactive agent came to mind. You might have heard about her–Mara Portnoy.”

“Nope, can’t say I have. Our paths have never crossed, as I remember.”

“She was my idea. I’d worked with her years ago, when we both were based in Paris. Eventually, she transferred to our office in Sofia, Hungary. The last I’d heard, she had retired. But she’s ready to come back. Mara is a nice person. You’ll see, when you meet her.”

My snort scares a robin out of its nest. “Do you seriously think Ryan will let me within a hundred feet of her?”

“Don’t be silly. Let’s not forget that your perspective is the most relative one, given her position. If anyone knows that, it’s Ryan.”

“She’s a known quantity, and therefore ready for active duty,” I counter. “Jack, seriously–she doesn’t need my blessing.”
 

“She’s been out of the game for too many years. A lot has changed. Even if she’s a good fit, she won’t go out into the field until she’s ready.” He turns my head so that our eyes meet. “Besides, I’ve already told Ryan that she has to get ‘your blessing,’ as you call it, if she’s to work on my team.”

He’s right. It’s his team. Not ours. Not mine. Not anymore.
 

And if she’s the right woman for the job, I can live with that.

Jack has handed me a gift. He’s allowing me the chance to ensure that whoever takes my place is the best person to have his back. I hope he’s right about Mara and that I like her too, so that he will have someone else by his side, maybe when it matters most to him: when he’s in danger.

It’s all I can ask for. “I’ll look forward to meeting her.”
 

“Good. Why not drop by the office during lunch then, the day after tomorrow?” His kiss is one of gratitude.

No, it’s more than that. It is filled with sweetness and promise.

It tells me what I long to know: he already misses me when I’m not at his side.

He will always be happy to come home to me.

He will always come home.

Chapter 14

Make Your Invitations Special!

During any busy party season, all invitations begin to look alike. To assure that the invitation to your bodacious shindig gets read, considered, and answered (hopefully, positively), follow these fail-proof tips:

Tip #1: Make sure that the invitation is elegant. Use a font that is subtle, but stands out. (In other words, stay away from any font used by car dealers, porn sites, or traveling circuses.)

Tip #2: Have the invitation delivered in a noteworthy manner. Perhaps the packaging should be three-dimensional! Your missive can come in an elegant box, or attached to a champagne bottle (write the details on the label).
 

One way your invitation will get the attention it deserves is to have it hand-delivered, perhaps by a hooker. Better yet, send it via the party’s bouncer. Make sure he brings a bat with him, so that he gets the point across that you’re serious about their saying yes.

Tip #3: As a last resort, send it with a bribe. Checks are déclassé. Consider cash instead. Last one accessing the Swiss bank account is a rotten egg!

By most standards, the Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia, is considered a country club. Or, because it houses only women, more like a girl’s reform school.
 

Before Catherine arrived, Martha Stewart was considered its most notable alumnus. Her few months of incarceration were spent knitting a couple of sweaters, teaching a few cooking classes, and doing macramé. If she had any stock tips, she kept them to herself.

From what I can tell by how toned and tanned she is, Catherine is viewing her time there as a fitness spa.
 

When she realizes that “Jane Smith,” the Federal agent who requested the meeting, is really me, her cackle roars through the visitor room. “Well, well, if it isn’t my old high school bestie!”

“You’re looking good, Catherine.”

She coils her right arm into a muscle pose. “What were you expecting–a straightjacket and a Hannibal Lecter mask?” Her middle finger rises from her fist. “Sorry to disappoint you! If you must know, I’m the belle of the ball.”

She taps the guard on the shoulder. “Get me out of here.”

I call out, “Catherine, wait! It’s about Evan.”
 

She stops and turns back around. “What about him?” she growls.

“He’s safe–for now. But it hasn’t been easy for him.”

“Join the club,” she mutters. Despite her attempt to freeze me out, I see that her eyes are glazed with tears.
 

I don’t say anything. I wait until she can’t stand it anymore and blurts out, “Why won’t he write me?”

“He…he’s ashamed. And scared, and emotionally depressed, and lost, and…well, he’s no longer at Overton.”

“Why not? His tuition is paid up–”

“They used the drop in his grade point average to terminate his studies there. When he wasn’t accepted at any of the other private schools, he tried public in Washington D.C., but it didn’t work out.”

“Ha! I can imagine.” Her frown curls into a grimace. “He’s soft, like his father. All he had to do was hire the biggest bullies, and his problems would have been solved. Survival of the fittest.”

It was a strategy she’d used all of her life. I know firsthand. As a child, I was one of her casualties.