Suburban Secrets. Donna Birdsell
want the ’Vette, too,” she said. Tom’s white 1976 Corvette was basically a fifteen-foot extension of his penis.
He frowned. “Grace—”
“Okay, then.” She started walking toward the elevator, and he grabbed her arm.
“Wait. Alright. The ’Vette, too.”
She realized then that he was really, truly desperate.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast, okay? I need this done quickly.”
She nodded.
Before she could figure out what his intentions were, he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll call you.”
She got almost to the elevator before she remembered to ask him about Megan’s field hockey game.
“Hey,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You know Megan has a game today?”
“Of course. I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Grace walked out of the building and into the sunshine. She’d made a decision.
She didn’t need meditation. She needed a margarita.
CHAPTER 1.5
Friday, 11:45 a.m.
Wild Card
Pete Slade popped another Tums and stared out the window of the Melrose Diner in South Philly. He had a bad feeling.
Hell, he’d had a bad feeling since this whole mess began. And the fact that he now had to rely on a sharp-looking kid with a hundred-dollar haircut and a different girl for every night of the week didn’t help matters.
Nick Balboa wasn’t what you’d call reliable. Not even a little bit. He was a low-level thug with big plans.
A wild card.
And he was gonna screw everything up.
Pete chugged his coffee and threw a couple bucks down on the table for the waitress.
Out on the street, he flipped open his cell phone and called Lou.
“Hey. I got a funny feeling.”
“Yeah?” said Lou.
“Yeah. I’m gonna swing by the airport, maybe watch Balboa’s car.”
He imagined Lou rolling his eyes. But Pete had been doing this long enough to know when to follow his gut. Even when it was rebelling against him.
“Anything you want me to do?” Lou asked.
“Just sit tight. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Pete disconnected the call and popped another Tums.
Jesus, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 11:56 a.m.
Grazing
Beruglia’s was packed, as usual. Businessmen in athletic-cut suits lined the bar, hunched over low-carb beers and plates of South Beach–acceptable protein. Groups of women crowded around tables, grazing on giant bowls of lettuce and sipping water with lemon wedges.
The hostess led Grace to a table against the window. It had taken her awhile to get used to eating alone in restaurants, but as long as she didn’t see anyone she knew, it was okay.
She unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap.
“Grace?”
Damn. So much for that.
One of the grazers at the table beside hers was leaning so far back in her chair Grace was afraid she’d topple over backward. Motherhood had made her hypersensitive to behaviors apt to result in head injury.
“Grace Poleiski?” the woman said.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Roseanna Janosik, from Chesterfield High.”
“Roseanna! Wow, how long has it been?”
“Since the last reunion, I guess. What, eight, nine years?” Roseanna squeezed out of her chair and came to sit at Grace’s table. “You look great! What’s going on with you?”
“Eh, you know. It’s always something.”
“I hear that. Hey, what’re you doing tonight? Some of the girls are getting together at a club downtown. They’d die if you walked in.”
Grace thought about the salmon and new potatoes in her fridge. “All the way to Philly? I don’t know…”
“Come on. It’s fifteen miles, not the other end of the Earth. Live a little. Leave the kids home with your husband and come out and play. The club is supposed to be a riot. There’s a DJ playing all eighties music. It’ll be just like high school.”
Grace had a sudden flashback to high school. The sausage-curl hair, giant belts, parachute pants. Smoking in the girls’ room. Making lip gloss in science lab. She smiled.
She and Roseanna had been good friends. In fact, she’d had a lot of good friends.
Grace’s mother had always told her those were the best days of her life, but she’d never believed it.
How was that possible when one strategically placed blemish could put you on the pariah list for a week? When the wrong look from the right guy could annihilate your confidence for a month? When there was no bigger horror than having your period on gym day and having to take a shower in front of twenty other girls?
God, she missed those days.
It was hard to admit, but her mother had been right.
Roseanna squeezed her hand. “So, what do you say? Wanna come?”
“Why not?” Grace said. “Sounds like fun.”
“Great.” Roseanna scribbled on a napkin. “Here’s the address of the club. Meet us there around nine.”
Grace pulled her Day-Timer out of her bag and penciled it in and then ordered a salad.
And a margarita. Rocks. No salt.
Friday, 1:30 p.m.
Slow Brenda
“Look at y-o-o-o-u.” Misty Hinkle grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her into a living room the size of a hockey rink, and almost as cold. Six card tables were huddled together in the center of the room. Probably for warmth.
“Look at Gra-a-a-a-ace everybody. Doesn’t she look fa-a-a-abulous?” The women sitting around the tables tore themselves away from the snacks long enough to glance at her.
“Oh, stop it, Misty,” Grace said. “It’s just a haircut.”
“It’s not just a haircut. You went blond.” There was an accusatory note in Lorraine’s voice.
“I needed a change. What can I say?” Grace caught the knowing glances ricocheting around the room and wondered how long these ladies of modest society would continue to invite her to their functions.
There was currently only one divorced woman in the group, and Grace had a feeling they only kept her around to talk about her behind her back. All the rest of the unfortunately uncoupled had been drummed out of the pack within weeks of their divorces being finalized.
Face it. No one wanted a suddenly single woman running around at one of their holiday parties, talking about how hard it was to get a date when your boobs sagged and your thighs jiggled. Why invite the ghost of Christmas Future?
“I, for one, liked the ponytail,” said Brenda McNaull. She pointed to the chair across from hers and motioned for Grace to sit down. “We’re partners