Suburban Secrets. Donna Birdsell
2.5
Friday, 5:58 p.m.
Roadkill
The asshole drove right past their meeting place.
According to the plan, as soon as Balboa arrived in Philly, he was supposed to drive straight to the gym and call from a pay phone. Shit. He was gonna screw them.
Pete had followed Balboa’s rented green Taurus all the way from the airport. Balboa’s own car, a cherry 1959 Buick, still sat in the VIP parking lot at the airport.
If Pete hadn’t suspected Balboa was turning on them and staked out the baggage claim, he’d never even have known the guy was back in town a day early.
He flipped open his cell phone. “Lou. He’s back.”
“No shit.”
“I followed him from the airport. He just passed the gym. I need you to go wait at his house. I doubt he’ll show up there, but you never know.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
Pete snapped the phone closed.
In front of him, the Taurus eased into the exit lane. It looked like Balboa was heading for City Avenue.
Pete jockeyed through four lanes of frantic expressway traffic but just missed the exit.
Damn.
When Pete caught up to him, that son of a bitch Nick Balboa was dead meat.
CHAPTER 3
Friday, 7:12 p.m.
Oh, Mother!
As she drove toward her childhood home in Ambler, Grace felt younger and younger until, by the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she was eight again.
In her mind she could hear the sprinklers whirring, and smell the newly cut grass of her youth. She looked across the street, half expecting to see her best friend, Sherri Rasmussen, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
“Okay, guys, everybody out of the car. Callie, don’t forget your flute.”
As the kids dragged their crap up the sidewalk, the door opened and Grace’s mother stuck her head out. “My babies are here! Andrew, the children are here! Come help them with their things.”
“Hi, Mom.” Grace herded the kids into the house and bussed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for taking them this weekend.”
“Well, your father and I can imagine how difficult things must be for you, with the—” she stuck her head out the door and scanned the neighborhood for spies “—divorce.”
Divorce was one of the words in Grace’s mother’s vocabulary fit only for whispering.
“You can say it out loud, Mom. It’s not a dirty word.”
Her mother pulled a face. “Come on in.”
“Actually, I was kind of in a hurry.”
“So you don’t have time for a soda? Come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”
Grace sighed. She knew once she got sucked over the threshold, it would be at least a half an hour before she got out of there.
The kids thumped up the stairs, already arguing about who’d get to play her father’s Nintendo first. Grace followed her mother to the kitchen and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chairs. They were the same chairs she’d sat on as a child, once sadly out of style but suddenly retro chic.
“Look what I made in craft class,” her mother said. She held out a tissue box cover constructed of yarn-covered plastic mesh. God Bless You was cross-stitched into the side in block letters.
“Nice.”
“Here, take it. I made it for you. And you know, you can come with me next week. We’re making birds out of Styrofoam.”
“That’s nice, but I can’t.”
Her mother took a diet soda from the refrigerator. “Why not? Now that Tom is gone, what are you doing with your time?”
Grace got up to get a glass from the cupboard. “I’ve got plenty to do, Mom.”
“Like what?”
“Well, tonight I’m meeting some of my old high school friends for a drink downtown.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath her heavily hair-sprayed bangs. “Really? Do I know them?”
Déjà vu. How many times had Grace seen that look growing up? She felt inexplicably guilty, and she hadn’t even lied about anything. Yet.
“Roseanna Janosik’s going to be there. I ran into her today at Beruglia’s.”
Her mother sat down at the table. “Roseanna Janosik. Isn’t that the girl who got caught smoking at cheerleading camp?” She pulled a face.
“That was Cecilia Stavros. And Jesus, Mom. That was a hundred years ago.”
“You’re right, of course. People change. Look at you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her mother shrugged. “So who was Roseanna Janosik?” She tapped her chin. “I remember! She was the one who was crazy about that band and followed them everywhere.”
“Right. Mullet.”
“What? What’s a mullet?”
“A bad haircut. And the name of the band Roseanna followed.” Grace chugged her soda. “C’mon, tell me. What did you mean I’ve changed?”
Her mother got up from the table and took Grace’s empty glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grace, I didn’t mean anything by it. Is that what you’re wearing?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” Grace tugged the hem of her black skirt, but it refused to budge. She buttoned the red Chinese silk jacket Tom had given her the Valentine’s Day before last. It had been the only thing in her closet remotely resembling club attire.
Her mother raised her eyebrows again. “Well, have fun. Tell Roseanna I said hello.”
“Right.”
Grace stalked to the bottom of the stairs. “Megan, Callie, Kevin. I’m leaving now!”
Megan and Kevin shouted a muffled goodbye. Callie stuck her head over the second-floor railing. “Bye, Mom. Have fun without us.”
Grace tamped down a sudden attack of guilt. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Can we make brownies when I come home?” Callie could sense Grace’s subtle vibrations of guilt like a fine-tuned seismograph.
“Sure.”
“Grace, are you still here?” her mother called from the kitchen.
If she didn’t get out of there soon, her mother would be dragging her up to the guest bathroom to show her the decorative fertility mask she’d made out of half of a bleach bottle.
Grace wiggled her fingers at Callie and slipped out the front door.
Friday, 8:08 p.m.
Killing Me Softly
Grace sped down the Blue Route in the eight-year-old BMW that used to be Tom’s but was now hers. He’d insisted on getting a manual transmission, and now she was stuck with it—a real pain in the butt while she was trying to wipe noses and juggle juice boxes.
She much preferred the minivan, but she’d be damned if she was going to pull into a club driving the family taxi.
She fiddled with the radio. Why were all the stations in her car set to soft rock? When, exactly, had her eardrums surrendered?
She searched