Hot Flash (30 page)

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to paint over the signatures on your artwork and replace them with your own. You sign them. They’re good.” Davin’s voice was calm and quiet, but even I heard the steel in his tone. “Claim the work as your own.”

“Why should I?” asked Stephen.

“Because we told you to,” I piped up.

“You’re a gifted and talented artist,” Davin said, “and you’re entering them in the art show coming up.”

“There’s the little matter of entrance fees.” Stephen smirked, as if he had the last word.

Davin pulled his checkbook from his rear pocket. Talk about coming prepared.

But Stephen is my kid. I don’t let other people pay when it’s my obligation. “Put your checkbook away. Stephen, you have birthday money saved up. You’ll pay half and I’ll pay the other half.”

Davin glanced back at Stephen. “How much?”

“Twenty-five dollars per entry.”

“You’ve got six paintings.” Davin turned back to me. “Since it was my idea, how about thirds? Fifty dollars from each of us.”

“Yeah,
Maman
. It was his idea.”

I knew Stephen was thinking about the twenty-five dollars he wouldn’t have to pay, but it was sweet of Davin to offer. He’d feel bad if I didn’t let him participate. I smiled at him. “Okay, but next time dinner is on me.”

By the time I returned to the dining room with my checkbook, Stephen and Davin were chatting comfortably. Stephen looked almost relieved. Maybe he hadn’t
really
wanted to be a forger?

Their topic of discussion was my mom’s anniversary party, which reminded me that I needed an escort or she’d spend the entire evening attempting to fix me up with someone unsuitable. It was an anniversary party. Since my mom would necessarily be attending stag, I’d feel embarrassed to do the same. I needed someone hot. I needed someone charming. And if I couldn’t have that, at the least I needed someone presentable.

I eyed Davin, who was a lot more than merely presentable. He was the answer to my dilemma. But would he agree to come, especially after I’d been so rude to him earlier? I cleared my throat. “So, Davin …”

My voice squeaked, so I tried again. “Since you seem to be into the whole rescue thing tonight, want to help me?

“My hobby is rescuing damsels in distress. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I need an escort for Mom’s anniversary party. I was hoping you’d come with Stephen and me.”

He didn’t say anything right away, so I quickly said, “Never mind. Stupid idea. Besides, you probably don’t dance.”

“Oh,” his voice deepened, “I dance.” He looked at Stephen’s hopeful face, then glanced back at me. “How formal is it?”

“I can get you a discount on tux rental.”

“I have one of my own.” He shook his head at Stephen, then cocked a half smile at me. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d love to come.”

“You’re a true knight in shining armor. Thank you!”

“It’s all in a day’s work, ma’am. Now where did I leave my white horse?” He rose from his chair and turned to Stephen. “Come on. I’ll help
you
paint over the signatures.”

While I did the dishes, wondering exactly what I’d gotten myself into, they went off to remove the evidence.

Which brings me back to where I started when I arrived home. My job was in jeopardy. My new boss was spying on me and starting rumors about me. My Salesman a.k.a. Tuition plan was down the tubes. And now my parenting skills were below the baboon level.

On my birthday, I’d made out a list of my life to date. Little had I known then, but it was optimistic compared to now.

1. A failed marriage. (That was the least of my worries.)

2. My recent breakup. (Screw the Asshole Professor and the sports car he rode in on. My skillet was hopelessly lost to me.)

3. 1,000 in savings and nearly $2,000 in checking. (Now it was more like $500 in savings thanks to the new outfits I bought for my salesman dates.)

4. A wonderful son. (He’s still wonderful, but was he an inmate-in-the-making? He also still needed a fortune in tuition, a fortune I was even farther away from coughing up.)

5. My job as sous chef. (What a laugh. I’d be lucky to be employed at all by month’s end. And I’d found making three thousand identical Southwestern chicken breasts repetitive?)

6. Fabulous friends. (Thank God, I still had them. But that was about all I had left.)

Self-awareness is scary and something I don’t recommend you try at home. Connie’s mention of an empty nest made me feel uncomfortable. Stephen’s barb had hit home. Did I have separation anxiety? Were my attempts at finding a salesman simply methods to avoid facing my upcoming reality?

Was I afraid of being alone?

My life had gone from sucky, sucky, sucky to miserable, miserable, miserable, and now it had reached down-the-toilet, down-the-toilet, down-the-toilet.

I placed the last plate in the dishwasher, set it to run, and then wandered back into the dining room.

The stack of surveys piled on top of my desk snagged my attention. Why had I thought anything like a survey could change my life for the better? I’d totally crashed and burned with the traveling salesmen, and if I valued my job, I’d stop hunting for one.

Gainful employment is mandatory to support my lifestyle, such as it is. I opted for my job.

I grabbed the survey responses and jammed them into the file drawer at the bottom of my desk, then literally and figuratively wiped my hands.

I was forty flipping years old, about to face an empty nest, and was envious of the parenting skills of the-man-who-most-annoyed-me—and he wasn’t even a parent.

C’est la vie, non?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SURVEY COMMENTS:

Honey, what you want to look for in a man is an ability to support you in the style in which you wish to be supported. He needs to be good with kids and know when to obey you and when to stay out of your hair.

Men want sex. Men look at car parts and think sex. They look at a basketball and think sex. A man wants sex with the most attractive woman who’ll agree to it. He wants sex with the woman other men want to have sex with. He wants to be seen with you, this desirable woman, by his side because other men will respect him more.

So here’s what you need to do. Once you find Mr. Right, you want him to believe you’re incredibly desirable to other men and
not
easily available. Then you let him know he’s the exception! After he’s wrapped around your little finger, don’t push him to commit. Instead, make sure he’s aware that if he doesn’t commit, some other man will be happy to take his place. He’ll spend the rest of his life looking after you and trying to please you.

That, my dear, is how to achieve marital satisfaction.

Shopping exemplifies female bonding at its best. Doing it in person, rather than via cell phone, is even better. If you want to become closer to another woman, go shopping with her. Somewhere between Housewares and Couture, you’ll find yourself sharing Most Embarrassing Moments. Talk about bonding!

There’s one exception to this rule. Never shop with an eight-months’-pregnant woman. Trust me.

The mere act of window-shopping with a very pregnant woman is a subtle form of torture. While I’d like to say this isn’t true of my dear friend, Susan, I’d prefer Chinese Water Torture or announcing my age over the intercom at the Thomas Mack Sports Arena.

“This is like being set loose in a candy factory and not being allowed to sample.” Susan fingered the slinky fabric of a cocktail dress with skinny spaghetti straps and the kind of clingy material that only fashion models or prepubescent girls can wear.

I cringed. I felt for her. We were at the mall, looking for outfits to wear to Mom’s anniversary party. But couldn’t Susan have considered what would happen to her waistline before starting her I-want-another-kid campaign? “I’m sure we’ll find something in the maternity department.”

Susan snorted. “Yeah, right. When was the last time you shopped in a maternity department?”

It was a rhetorical question and I was smart enough to keep my mouth closed. There’s something about being eight months’ pregnant, especially considering the swelling, the inability to see your feet, and the feeling that you might explode at any moment that tends to make a woman … uncomfortable. This discomfort comes out as, shall we say, a certain bitchiness? Bottom line, I didn’t want Susan to go off on me.

At eight months’ pregnant, she was a ticking bitchiness time bomb.

When we reached the maternity department, the offerings weren’t exactly appropriate for a fancy fiftieth anniversary party held in a ballroom. “I see what you mean.”

Susan sighed. “I’m going to have to wear a potato sack.”

“No. We’ll find something. We’ll be creative and come up with something perfect.”

“How do pregnant movie stars do it? At the Oscars and the Emmys, they wear gorgeous designer gowns. Where do
they
shop?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe if you bought that full-length black skirt”—I pointed to a faux satin skirt—”we could find a beaded top to wear with it in the Couture department?”

“That might work.”

“If we can find the right top, you’ll be able to wear it A.B.” We’d long ago established that A.B. stands for After Baby.

A short while later we stood side by side, admiring ourselves in floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

“I want to gag,” said Susan.

“Aren’t you past morning sickness?”

“It’s not morning sickness. I’m as big as Caesar’s Palace. Just look at us.” She indicated our reflections in the mirror. “The Beauty and the Roman Coliseum.”

She had a point, but I wasn’t about to agree with her. If I pissed her off, she might sit on me. “You look gorgeous. Not a day over seven months’ pregnant.”

“You’re a size six, the same size I was before my hubby impregnated and inflated me.” She eyed my image. “You have to buy that dress. It’s awesome.”

The dress was a cobwebby silver, not a color I considered my best until I pulled the silk confection over my head. I extended my arm, revealing the price tag dangling beneath the sleeve seam. “Hold all compliments until you check the price. If it’s over $200, the color makes me look sallow. Got it?”

Susan nodded and looked at the tag. Her eyes got big and her mouth shriveled into a dried-up apricot. “You know, that blue dress you tried on really brought out the green in your eyes.”

“I was afraid of that.” The blue dress was acceptable, but even more acceptable was that its price was well within my budget. I could even afford to buy matching shoes and handbag, if I wanted to. “So how much is this one?”

Susan gulped. “You don’t want to know. You like the blue dress better.”

“The blue dress it is, then. It’ll be perfect for Mom’s party.”

“Are you bringing a date?”

“Kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m bringing an escort, but it’s
not
a date.”

“O … kay. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Davin Wesley.”

“I’m having trouble keeping all your men straight. Is he the one who stiffed you for dinner?”

“Davin is
not
one of my men. He’s Stephen’s ex-teacher.”

Susan’s mouth formed an
O
but she didn’t say anything, which basically meant she had a lot to say but was holding out on me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Spill.”

Susan cleared her throat. “You really think I can wear this beaded top A.B.?”

“Yes, I really think so, but don’t change the subject. What do you have to say about Wesley?”

“From what Connie said—”

I cut Susan off. “Connie blabbed, didn’t she? I told her to keep the teenage back seat sex to herself. It was just a momentary lapse on my part. Lust. One night stand.”

“What teenage back seat sex?”

Shit. Evidently Connie hadn’t blabbed. I flipped my hand in the air. “It’s nothing. Meaningless.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can count your sexual partners on one hand. You don’t have meaningless sex.”

“I could if I wanted to.” I started to object more strenuously, mainly because I so desperately wanted my sexual escapade with Wesley to
be
meaningless, but then I clamped my lips shut. Susan was right. I don’t have meaningless sex. And if that was the case, what did sex with Wesley mean? “I don’t want to talk about this.”

I didn’t even want to think about it. I’d been picturing back seats a little too often.

“Let me get this straight,” said Susan. “You had meaningless sex with a guy who’s not a salesman and now he’s your escort, but not your date, to your parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary party? And you don’t want to talk about it? I think you need a good therapist.”

“Who needs a therapist when I’ve got friends like you guys?”

Susan considered that for a moment. “Did you tell MaryEllen, too? Am I the last to know?”

I shook my head. “Just Connie and now you.”

“Davin Wesley probably knows.”

Shit. “You don’t think he told anyone, do you?”

“Why do you care, if it was meaningless?”

“Maybe it wasn’t meaningless.”