The Girls of Mischief Bay Read online

  “You wouldn’t have a nickel?”

  “Something like that.”

  She smiled. “Your profile said you’re divorced?”

  He nodded. “Nearly a year now. We were separated before that.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t anything dramatic. We were married young and over the past few years realized we didn’t like spending time with each other.”

  There was something about the way he spoke that had her leaning forward. As if there was more to the story.

  “That’s no fun,” she said quietly.

  “Tell me about it.” He looked at her, then swore softly. “Hell. Okay, she cheated. I don’t like to say that because it makes me look like an idiot. I didn’t know. She came to me one day and said she’d been having an affair and that she’d fallen in love with the guy. She didn’t want to marry him or anything, but she’d realized that if she could be in love with someone else, she wasn’t in love with me anymore.”

  He moved his glass back and forth on the table. Tension pulled at his mouth. “I was shocked and hurt and didn’t know what to do. I grabbed some stuff and moved out that night. About a month later, when my pride and ego weren’t so much in the way, I realized we’d been growing apart for a long time.”

  “That must have been hard,” she said, thinking that if he was telling the truth, then she was liking him more by the second.

  “It was. We have two kids. Charlotte is nearly nine and Oliver is six. We share them. One week on, one week off. Tabitha and I live about two blocks away from each other. Slightly awkward for us, but easy for the kids.” Humor returned to his eyes. “Of course, my parents and three of my siblings live in the neighborhood, too, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s way more awkward for her than for me.”

  “As long as it works,” Shannon told him.

  “And you?” he prompted.

  Yes, the inevitable questions. “No kids, no ex-husband. I was engaged twice, but never quite made it down the aisle.”

  “Who made the decision?”

  “One time him, one time me.”

  She’d also had a long-term on-again, off-again relationship with a music producer, who’d been very bad for her, but there was no reason to mention him. At least not on the first date.

  “What do you do for fun?” Adam asked.

  “I love to travel. Take two or three weeks and go somewhere I’ve never been.”

  “Like?”

  She smiled. “I’ve been on every continent except Antarctica. I was thinking of taking one of those ships there, but after one got stuck a couple of years ago and made headlines, I changed my mind.”

  “What’s your next trip?”

  She laughed. “You’re going to be shocked.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Okay. Machu Picchu.”

  His eyes widened slightly. “Remind me to listen to you next time. That’s Peru, right?”

  “Yes. I’m going with a girlfriend and it’s going to be great. We’ll be hiking the Inca Trail. The ruins are at seven thousand feet above sea level so I’m a little worried about my athletic ability. I’m—”

  A familiar ringtone drifted from her purse. She reached for her bag.

  “Sorry,” she said as she pulled her phone out of its pocket and glanced at the screen. “It’s work. I need to take this.”

  She was already standing and heading out of the restaurant. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she pushed Talk.

  “This is Shannon.”

  “Len Howard in the Seoul office. Sorry to bother you but we have a problem with the South Korean finance minister. He’s insisting on speaking with you.”

  Shannon glanced back at the bar and saw Adam glancing her way. Adam, who appeared to be pretty darned close to perfect.

  “Based on my other conversations with him, I’m guessing he wants me to phone him in the next few minutes.”

  “If possible.”

  Because he was a man of power and she needed his help with some banking regulations. Nolan, her boss, wanted their Asian headquarters in Seoul, which meant Shannon had to make nice with the finance minister.

  “Please tell him I’ll call him back in fifteen minutes,” she said. “From my office.”

  “Will do.”

  She walked back into the restaurant. Adam rose as she approached the table.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I have to get back to work. There’s a crisis in South Korea and I need to be on the phone in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping we could grab dinner. Should I wait?”

  She wanted to say yes. He was an unexpected find. But once she was done calming things down, she would have to call her boss and do paperwork.

  “It’s going to be a late night.” She gave him a smile. “But I enjoyed meeting you.”

  She wanted to say more. She wanted to ask him not to be intimidated by what she did. She wanted to say it would be great if he mentioned he wanted to see her again. Instead, she reached for her wallet.

  “No way,” he told her. “I’ve got this. Go make your call.”

  “Thank you.”

  She waited a second, hoping he would say more. When he didn’t, she smiled. “It was so nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  She walked to the door and out into the cool evening. Her office was only a few blocks away. She would make it back in time with no problem.

  Thoughts swirled and competed for her attention. If only, she thought, then pushed the words away. She’d wanted her career. She’d wanted to be successful and know that she could always take care of herself, no matter what. And she had that. There was no way she was going to feel bad about what she’d accomplished.

  It was just that sometimes, she found herself wanting more.

  Three

  Nicole turned on the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter to wait for it to work its magic. It was early still. Quiet. The time of day she liked best—­except when she was exhausted, which was most of the time.

  She told herself that eventually the situation would get better. That she would figure out a schedule that worked, that Tyler would get older and need her less, that Eric would get a real job and start helping support the family again.

  The last thought made her feel both guilty and angry. Not a happy combination. Because as much as she loved her husband, there were times when she didn’t like him very much.

  No, she thought. She didn’t like what he’d done. There was a difference.

  Back before he’d quit his well-paying, very steady software development job to write a screenplay, things had seemed more balanced. She’d been comfortable in their roles. But lately…not so much.

  She told herself she had to be fair. That he had the right to follow his dream. Only it wasn’t the dream she minded as much as the fact that he hadn’t asked her first. Instead, he’d announced what he was doing. And that announcement had come two days after he’d already resigned.

  She closed her eyes against the memory, but it crowded into the kitchen, anyway. It had been a Friday morning. She’d been standing in the kitchen, just like she was now. Eric had walked in to the room, wearing shorts and T-shirt.

  “Don’t you have to get dressed for work?” she’d asked.

  He’d taken her hand. “I have to tell you something. I’ve quit my job. I’m going to write a screenplay.”

 
There had been more talk. She was sure of it. But she hadn’t heard anything beyond the keen screaming of fear that had filled her head.

  Quit? How could he quit? They had a mortgage and she was still paying back her old boss for buying out the exercise studio. They had a four-year-old and college to save for and nearly no savings. They’d put off having a second kid because they couldn’t afford it.

  The coffee flowed into the mug Nicole had left in place. She waited until it was nearly full, then expertly shifted the mug out of the way and the carafe into its spot without missing a drop. She inhaled the perfect earthy scent before taking her first sip of the day.

  “Mommy?”

  She took another quick sip, then turned as Tyler walked into the kitchen. He was tousled and still half-asleep. One hand held his battered, red stuffed toy, Brad the Dragon. The well-loved plush dragon was based on the popular series of children’s books. The author must make a mint from all the merchandising, she thought as she put her mug on the counter, then bent down to scoop up her son.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist. He settled his around her neck, while hanging on with his legs. She pretended to stagger as she lifted him.

  “You grew!”

  He giggled at the familiar comment. “I can’t grow every night,” he told her.

  “I think you can.”

  She kissed his cheek and breathed in the scent of his skin. Whatever else went wrong in her day, Tyler was always right.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Good.” He snuggled close. “Brad had bad dreams, but I said he was safe with me.”

  “That’s very nice of you. I’m sure he appreciated having you to protect him.”

  She carried Tyler over to the table. He released her to stand on his chair. With a quick, graceful movement, he settled into a sitting position.

  Based on how athletic he was and how well he did in preschool, Tyler seemed to have inherited the best from her and Eric. Nicole could only hope. She’d wanted to enroll him in a dance class, but Eric had nixed the idea. For a while he’d wanted his son to attend a computer camp. But that interest had faded when he’d started writing his screenplay last year. She supposed they could agree on drama camp or something. Assuming Eric didn’t stop writing his screenplay to follow another surprise dream.

  She walked over to the pantry. “Oatmeal and berries?” she asked.

  Tyler looked at Brad the Dragon, then nodded. “We like that.”

  Because Brad was consulted on most decisions.

  Nicole would have been worried about her son’s constant companion, except Brad stayed home when Tyler went to preschool or day care and from everything she’d read, his attachment was completely normal. She was sure having a couple more siblings would ease his dependence on the stuffed toy, but there was no way that was happening anytime soon. She was barely able to keep them financially afloat as it was. If she got pregnant… She didn’t want to think about it.

  Not that it was much of an issue. She barely saw Eric these days. They passed in the hall and their brief discussions were generally about logistics regarding Tyler. Sex wasn’t happening.

  As she measured out the oatmeal, she mentally paused to wonder if Eric was cheating on her. He was by himself every day. She didn’t know how much time he spent writing. She wasn’t here to see for herself and he didn’t volunteer the information. Once he was done surfing for the day, he could be seeing anyone.

  Her stomach tightened at the thought, then she turned her attention back to getting breakfast for her son. She had to get Tyler fed and dressed with one eye on the clock. Once she got him to preschool, she had a full day of classes to teach, payroll to run for her two part-time instructors, groceries to buy and life to deal with. Worrying about Eric’s possible affairs was way down on her list.

  As she carried the oatmeal over to Tyler, she thought maybe her lack of concern was the biggest problem of all. The question was: What, if anything, did she do about it?

  * * *

  Pam wrapped her towel around her body and reached for the tube of body lotion. While she stuck to a fairly faithful regimen for her face, when it came to body products, she liked to mix things up. Right now she was enjoying Philosophy’s Fresh Cream—a vanilla-based scent that made her feel like she should have chocolate-dipped strawberries for breakfast.

  But for once the thick lotion didn’t make her smile. Probably because she was fully aware that while she was applying it, she was doing her best not to look in the mirror.

  The shock of Jen’s impending ten-year high school reunion hadn’t gone away. It had faded, only to return. Telling herself age was a number and she was a lucky, happy woman wasn’t helping, either. It seemed as if every time she turned around, there was yet another reminder that her days of being a hot thirtysomething were long over.

  She put down the tube, braced herself for the horror and tossed the towel over the tub. Then she stared at her naked self in the very wide, very unforgiving mirror in the master bath.

  She wasn’t fat, she told herself. She’d gained the most weight with Jen when she’d thought pregnancy meant a license to eat. And she had. Yes, her daughter had been a robust eight pounds and the rest of the associated goo had some weight and volume, but it didn’t excuse the seventy-five pounds she’d packed on.

  Losing them had been a bitch, so with her next two pregnancies, she’d only gained a reasonable thirty. Still, her body bore the battle wounds—including stretch marks and a definite doughlike puddle where her once-flat tummy had been.

  Her breasts were worse. More tube socks than mammary-shaped. She got by with a good, supportive bra. Of course at night, when she just had on a sleep shirt, they eased back into her armpits. On the plus side, getting a mammogram wasn’t a problem. Her breasts oozed into place on the tray. Still, there’d been a time when they’d been full and round and damned sexy.

  There were a handful of spider veins on her legs, a distinct lack of firmness to her jaw and—

  “Kill me now,” Pam muttered out loud, then reached for her panties. What was the point in all that self-assessment? It wasn’t as if she was going to get any kind of plastic surgery. She worked out three days a week at Nicole’s studio and walked on the treadmill at least two other days. She was fifty. She’d better get used to not being anything special. She had a feeling it was only downhill from here.

  She finished dressing, then combed her hair off her face. At least it was still thick and had a nice wave. She kept the length just past her shoulders and layered, to take advantage of the waves. Color and a few highlights in summer meant no one had to know about the encroaching gray.

  The thing was, she thought as she applied her anti-aging serum—the one that didn’t seem to be doing its job as well as it had a couple of years ago—there wasn’t any warning. Sure, everyone knew that old age was inevitable. It was that or death and she was willing to admit she was pretty happy to be alive.

  But what about the rest of it? AARP had been chasing her for the past six or eight months. In addition to their chronic invitations to join, they should send a heartfelt letter that told the truth. Something along the lines of “enjoy it now—in ten years, you’re going to look in the mirror and see your grandmother staring back at you.”

  Perhaps not the most effective marketing campaign, but at least it would be honest.

  She patted the eye cream into place, then used her fingertips to pull at her skin. What about a face-lift?


  She studied the results, liking how pulling her skin up and back gave her a nice taut look. She didn’t want to be scary—one of those women who almost seemed plastic. But maybe a little nip and tuck wouldn’t hurt.

  She dropped her arms to her sides and watched her face return to its normal position. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t ever going to have a face-lift. Surgery on her face for vanity? No way. She wasn’t some megarich celebrity. She was a normal woman freaking out about the unkindness of time and gravity.

  She leaned closer to the mirror. Although maybe she could get some kind of injection. A filler or BOTOX. Didn’t everyone do BOTOX these days?

  She left the bathroom and walked into the bedroom. Her morning chores awaited. John had left for the office nearly an hour before, but there was still plenty to do. Make the bed, throw in some laundry, clean up the kitchen dishes. She had a once-monthly cleaning service come in. Those hardworking women always made her feel guilty, but she still let them scrub her floors.

  After preparing the marinade for the chicken pieces they would be barbecuing that night, Pam collected a light jacket for herself and a violet knit shirt for Lulu. She let the dog out for a quick potty break, then picked her up and tucked her under her arm. They had an appointment with the vet.

  While Lulu was a sweet, loving, well-behaved little girl, she came with several expected Chinese crested issues. She had skin allergies and soft teeth, luxating patellas and tummy problems. They were lucky in that her eyes were fine. And her moving kneecap didn’t seem to be a problem yet. John said it was because the dog never walked anywhere.

  “You’re cute,” Pam told her pet as she carried her to her small SUV. “Of course people want to carry you.”

  Lulu was six years old and had a veterinary file so thick, it was broken up into two folders at the vet’s office. Pam had a feeling that a lot of other families wouldn’t have been able to afford her chronic medical costs, but she and John were blessed. For all his complaints that Lulu cost as much as sending any one of their kids to college, the truth was, he adored her.