Happily Ever After? (23 page)

I told Roger about the Tiger Cub camping trip, and suggested he save his visitation for that weekend. He was ecstatic until
I mentioned that one of my male friends would have to supervise. “What kind of bullshit is this, Valerie?” he jabbed. “You
think I’m going to try to kidnap my own kid?”

“I have no idea what you plan on doing with Peter,” I said.

“Oh, now it’s Peter?” he mimicked. “When did you start calling him Peter?”

“I don’t have time for this, Roger.”

“No. Really. Just tell me. When did Pete become Peter? Was that your idea? Or did that jackass Bill Stropp person suggest
it?”

How the hell did he know about Bill Stropp??? “Roger,” I said, trying to sound light and detached, “One of the great advantages
of divorce is that I don’t have to fight with you anymore. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”

“Look. I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. This is hard for me, too, you know.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Please. Let me take Pete camping without the … supervision. Please. You can trust me, Val.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, and hung up quickly, before he could squeeze another word in.

If being married to Roger was hard, being divorced from him may be even harder.

’Til next time,

V

Michael Avila has agreed to accompany Pete on the Tiger Cubs camping trip. Now I have two weeks to develop some sort of relationship
between them. I’ve invited Michael for dinner tonight. He asked if he could bring a date. I guess he’s still convinced he
can will himself to be heterosexual. Good luck, is all I can say.

Nancy Cooperman called to say that she talked to Tom France, general counsel for the Center. She told him about her anonymous
client who is considering acquiring the Center and he seemed intrigued. He already had the prospectus from the last, albeit
failed, negotiations with the hospital. I’ll have a formal prospectus in my hands next week. “The asking price is about a
million and a half,” Nancy said.

“That’s all? Are you sure?” Maybe I’ve already been jaded by my new wealth, but $1.5 million just didn’t sound like a lot
of money for a whole mental health practice.

“Well, I suppose I could convince them to take more,” she said. It took a moment to realize she was being facetious.

I want to tell Dale but I’ve promised myself I won’t tell a soul, not even my mother. If Cadence knows I’m behind this takeover,
this deal is dead.

’Til next time,

V

Dinner with Michael went nicely. He came bearing Pokémon cards (including the apparently rare second edition hologram Alakazam
card) and won Pete’s heart. His date for the evening was Lorinda, a plump school-teacher with bright blue eyes and a hearty
laugh. She looked more like a beloved great-aunt than a girlfriend. They made an amiable, if bizarre-looking, couple.

’Til next time,

V

One of the tortures of being a parent, I’ve decided, is suffering through all the crap you thought you left behind. It’s like
some cruel karmic trick; just when you think you’ve transcended the teasing and rejection and humiliation (and math homework),
your kid starts suffering
through it himself, and when he suffers, you suffer. Whatever distance you may have gained growing older quickly narrows to
a hair’s breadth and you are transported right back there, back to grade school, back to the time Sharon Finley said you had
the ugliest hair in second grade and, no, you can’t play tetherball with her and Lisa Morgenstern because they’re in a club
and the club is called The Cool Girls Club and everyone is invited to join except Valerie Ryan because she has ugly hair.

And so you try your best to be wise and comforting when your kid comes home crying, but what you really want to say is, Just
give me that brat’s name and I will track him down and beat him within an inch of his life.

Pete came home in tears today. Apparently, Gregory James Martindale is having a serious birthday party— magician, clowns,
ponies—and that little BASTARD invited EVERYBODY in class except for Pete. Gregory handed out his invitations IN SCHOOL, which
isn’t even ALLOWED, and for the rest of the day the kids were in an absolute frenzy.

To make matters worse, the Martindales’ house is within spitting distance from ours; their backyard borders the creek behind
our house, just east of Bill’s property. When the trees become bare, we can see clearly into their yard. I’ll have to make
sure we’re away that day.

When Pete came home crying. I wanted to cry along with him. Then I got mad. What kind of parents would
allow this? I’d sooner cancel my party than allow Pete to deliberately reject one particular child. Then I realized why Pete
had been excluded.

Gregory and Pete both play forward in soccer, but Greg never gets much time on the field because, frankly, he’s a bit of a
klutz. In fact, I’d asked Coach to give him more time on the field. This is a kids’ league, for God’s sake. Everyone deserves
to play.

He listened politely, then said, “Soccer is serious business in this town. If you’re looking for something less competitive,
you could always sign Pete up for art classes or something. But that would be a shame, because your son is a damn good player.
So why don’t you just sit back and enjoy watching him play, and leave the coaching to me, okay?”

Last month the team played the Cougars, the best team in the league. Whoever won would advance to the countywide championship.
Greg warmed the bench, as usual, while Pete played, and he played well. Near the end of the game, Coach decided to give Greg
a chance, then yanked him out after two minutes and put Pete back in. Kippy was screaming and Greg Sr., who supposedly was
a varsity basketball star in college, looked like he might rip the coach’s head off.

And then Pete scored the winning goal and the crowd roared. The parents flooded the field and surrounded Pete, who was flushed
with pride. My boy was a hero, while Gregory James had blown his big chance. I felt terrible for Greg.

After the game, I tried to say something to Kippy but she just glared at me while Greg Jr. repeatedly smashed his fist against
the bleachers and wiped the tears off his face. I stupidly encouraged Pete to go over and talk to him, and he tried, but Greg
spun around and waved his fist menacingly at Pete. “Go away,” the boy screamed. “You suck!”

Greg Sr. marched over and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he said, loud enough for me to hear. “Coach
feels sorry for Pete ’cause he comes from a broken home. He doesn’t have a dad to play with him like you do.”

I felt a knot of rage rise in my throat. “Excuse me?” I yelled. “What did you just say?”

He never turned around, but muttered, “You heard me.”

I tried to be conciliatory. I caught up with him. “Look,” I started. “I know this has to be painful for you, and I’m sorry
about that, but—”

“Sorry?” he cut me off. “What do
you
have to be sorry about? Your kid is the biggest hog on the field! He’s ruining it for everyone else!”

I wanted to say, Your kid’s a lame-ass, and that’s why Coach won’t put him in! But as I stared at this sputtering, red-faced,
hulking ex-jock, I knew the conversation was over. Diplomacy was a waste of time and hurling back insults would probably get
me killed. So I took Pete’s hand and walked away.

First I called Lynette to make sure there really was a
party. Yes, she said, Greg was having a party, and yes, there would be clowns, a pony, and a magician. Lynette had already
heard that Pete was the only kid in the class who didn’t get an invitation. “Poor little guy,” she clucked sympathetically.
“Hunter told me Greg made quite a scene handing out those darned invitations. He would never have gotten away with it if they
hadn’t had a sub today.” Okay. That explains why Greg was allowed to pass out invitations during class time. Substitute teachers
tend to be clueless, and also overly acquiescent.

I miraculously found the school directory in the kitchen drawer, which, in one of my organizing moods, I’d designated for
phone books, and called Kippy Martindale. I’d hoped to convince her to reconsider. Pete was a mess. Surely we could put that
silly soccer incident behind us and encourage the boys to be friends. But she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m sorry, Valerie,” she
said, “but Gregory was very clear about this. He doesn’t want Pete at his party. And I can’t say that I blame him.”

I swallowed hard. How I wished I could reach through the phone and strangle that woman. “Fine,” I said. I hung up. I looked
at Pete’s hopeful face. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I told him. “I tried, but Greg and his mom aren’t being very nice right now.”

Pete wiped his eyes. “It’s okay, Mom.”

“Hey,” I said, rubbing his back and wondering what it
would cost to buy Pete a pony, “maybe we can do something fun that day, just you and me. Where would you like to go? You name
it.” Pete started crying again, and with every heave of his bony chest I imagined smashing Kippy Martindale’s highlighted
head into the wall.

Spent all morning in Bill Stropp’s bed, where he fed me strawberries and told me he’d decided to move out west to be closer
to his kids. I wasn’t devastated. I wasn’t even sad. Somehow I always knew that Bill Stropp would be transitory and celestial,
like an angel.

I told him I was going to take a karate class. He wrapped his hand around my biceps and squeezed. “Mmmmm …” he said. “You’re
going to be a toughie. I like that.” He traced a finger across my lips and then kissed me, a deep and long kiss that made
every nerve ending come alive. We had sex for the third time, lazily, playfully. I’m not even sure I came, but it didn’t matter,
because I felt so good, sleepy and warm and free. We both fell asleep, and when I woke up I kissed him for the last time.
He would be moving and it was time for me to move on.

The second best thing that came of my morning with Bill (sex being the first) was a solution to the Gregory James Martindale
birthday party problem. “Here’s what you do,” he said, pulling his jeans on. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and this small detail
reminded me why I’ve enjoyed knowing Bill Stropp these past few months. “Give Pete his own party.”

“But it’s not his birthday,” I said.

“So what? Give him a party just for the hell of it,” he said. In fact, have Pete’s party on the same day, but make it noon
to three. So what if the Martindales rent a couple of clowns and some loser pony. You hire the whole freakin’ circus. Pete
invites everyone in class,
except
Greg Martindale, who can watch Pete’s kickass party from his backyard. How does that sound?”

I told him it sounded juvenile, but I secretly thought it was a wickedly delicious idea. “You don’t like this kid very much,
do you?” I asked.

“I caught him throwing rocks at my dog. I think he’s a mean little bastard.”

As I pulled out of Bill’s driveway, I glanced at the Martindales’ house, a white Cape Cod with black shutters and a small
guest house at the side, designed to look like a stable. Then I saw her. Kippy Martindale. Standing at an upstairs window
behind gauzy white curtains. She was watching me. Through binoculars! Now I realized how Roger knew about Bill. Kippy, hateful,
vengeful, and bitter, must have told him! But why? Because of a stupid soccer game? Or did she have another reason for hating
me?

I don’t have time to figure this out. I’ve got a party to plan!

’Til next time,

V

Maybe money can’t buy you love, but I’ve discovered that most everything else has a price tag. I called Alexi Chen at Perfect
Parties in Chicago; I’d read about her in
People
magazine. Chen’s clients are celebrities and urban aristocrats, not unemployed suburban soccer moms. Not surprisingly, she
wasn’t particularly solicitous when I called. Then I uttered those four magic words—
Money Is No Object
—and suddenly Alexi Chen was my best friend, chatty and interested and eager to please.

Alex assured me that she’d have some “smashing” ideas by Monday, and if I was willing to pay, the short deadline wouldn’t
be a problem. “Listen, Val,” she said, as if she’d known me her whole life, “remember a certain concert that was canceled
due to the singer’s sudden illness? She wasn’t ill. She was working for me. I paid her twice her fee at the Garden to sing
at Stevie Spielberg’s New Year’s Eve party!”

Stevie Spielberg? I love it.

I can’t wait to tell Pete. And, I’ve got to admit, I’m even more anxious for Pete to tell Gregory James Martindale that he’s
not invited to the mother of all parties.

’Til next time,

V

I changed my mind. It would be small-minded and immature to exclude Greg Martindale. I’ve got to sacrifice my vindictive impulses
and make the responsible choice: the brat will get an invitation.

’Til next time,

V

Two major events today. I heard back from Alexi Chen about Pete’s party, and Nancy Cooperman called with figures for the Center.
I gave the go-ahead on both deals. Barring catastrophe, these are likely to be the two most spectacular purchases of my life.
More later—I’ve got to whip up invitations on my computer.

’Til next time,

V

Gregory James Martindale will have Abner Cadabra at his party, a washed-up drunk whose tricks are so sloppy that even the
youngest kids figure them out, and scream things like, “You’ve got it behind your back!” and most of them lose interest and
wander away.

Our magician, on the other hand, will be David Copperfield.
As for clowns, we’ve got six of them, replete with all their clownish paraphernalia, from the Big Apple Circus. And because
no party is complete without music, Alexi hired Aaron Carter. Total package: $945,000, including airfare and entourage. A
bargain.

I told Pete about his party. He thought I was kidding. Then I showed him the invitation and he went from stunned silence to
hysterical ecstasy. He asked if we could invite his father and I told him yes, which doubled his joy. It seemed like an easy
way to please my son while fulfilling the court-ordered supervised visitation.