Million Dollar Road (3 page)

Suppressing his memory of the dancer from that last visit to Rick's, her train wreck of an apartment in dawn's gray light, the messy scene afterward when she'd actually demanded cash, Con crossed the cool marble of the bathroom floor to wrap his arms around his wife. He was a tall man and the top of her head came to just under his jaw, but he noted Liz's mutinous eyes were averted, her arms still folded tight to her chest. He put a fingertip under her chin, lifting it so the oval perfection of her face tilted up to his. Okay, Obi-Wan—once more with feeling, Con thought, hiding a weary grimace.

“Sweetheart, you
know
I love you.”

With a deep sigh of defeat, Liz rested her forehead on his broad, sandy-haired chest.

Ah, that was better. “Hey, Mrs. MacBride-Costello,” Con murmured, his voice husky and tender. “Guess what? In a couple of months I'm going to take you with me to Paris for the leather show—the Semaine de Cuir. We'll stay at the Plaza Athénée, eat oysters and caviar, drink champagne. We'll go shopping on the Avenue Montaigne. I'll take you to Prada and we'll have a ball.” He would. Lizzie's slim-hipped, full-breasted figure was made to wear Prada. And Armani, and Cavalli, and all the other high-end Italian designers. When the French deal was in the pipe he'd be getting a bonus. Hell, they could sure use it. Liz spent money like a Saudi prince and the old bank account would breathe easier for the extra cash.

“So don't worry about Rick's, babe.” Con kissed the top of her head absently.

With a sniff of disgust, Liz pulled away from him and stalked out of the bathroom.

Expressionless, Con watched her rigid, retreating back for a second before he went into the walk-in closet to get dressed for the evening.

A ringing clash of metal sounded all the way from the other side of the house—Lizzie, in the kitchen, banging pots and pans with undisguised fury. It sounded like she was unloading the dishwasher, a job he knew she loathed, and she wanted him to hear it. Liz was turning into a real handful lately.

Con shook his head and picked out a tie, debating where he'd take Jennifer, and making a mental note to himself.

Be home before dawn this time.

A
rugula. Baby leeks. Cipollini onions.

On Friday afternoon, Lizzie MacBride-Costello dropped a mesh bag of key limes into her shopping cart and wondered what the hell to cook for dinner tonight. Enoki mushrooms, heirloom tomatoes, watercress. She wasn't drawing much inspiration from Maestri's produce department, so she maneuvered the cart around the corner of the narrow aisle to head off into the meat section.

The claustrophobic old grocery store had undergone a recent transformation along with the rest of downtown Covington, a newly fashionable suburban enclave just forty minutes from the outskirts of New Orleans. Before its upgrade, a year ago Maestri's produce had consisted of a few heads of wilted iceberg lettuce, heaps of dusty Idaho potatoes, and bruised apples in plastic bags. In the meat department's cold cases, opaquely frozen foam trays of mysterious animal parts labeled only “service meat” and family-sized packs of turkey necks and hog maws had lurked like suspicious characters. Grimy-linoleumed Maestri's could still use a real face-lift, but in the last month or so the merchandise had certainly stepped up to the plate of the town's upwardly mobile expectations. Liz had only just consented to shop there instead of the Winn-Dixie.

Cornish hen, lamb chops, a beautiful pork crown roast. Lizzie picked up a vac-packed tenderloin selling for $48.98 and studied it without much enthusiasm.

“You'll do,” she muttered to the meat and dropped it into the cart. Since giving up her job as a law associate at Milliken-Odom's satellite firm in Covington, she'd come to employ the remarkable, storm-like energy she'd spent drafting litigation into learning to cook for Con, an arrangement growing increasingly onerous. This venture into the culinary arts was an expensive endeavor—scandalous, really—the cost of which was exceeded only by Lizzie's clothing bills.

Well, why not buy the best? To Lizzie, the sight of a refrigerator and pantry stockpiled with exotic foodstuffs (some of which she'd no idea how to prepare and would never get around to cooking) held at bay her memories of the canned soup aisle and all those Lean Cuisines she'd endured before marrying Con. Shopping the sales at the Ann Taylor outlet, T.J.Maxx, and discount shoe stores on her associate's salary had been equally demoralizing. Forty-five thousand a year had sounded like a lot of money—until Liz actually had to live on it. Graduating from law school with a mountain of student debt had guaranteed that she'd be wearing designers' mistakes, clothes other women had passed on the first time, and cheap shoes well into her forties.

When Lizzie was growing up there'd never been enough money for anything, much less clothes. The youngest of four girls whose ages were separated by only six years, she'd even had to wear the same dress her big sisters had already worn to their own proms. As a consequence, it was unfortunately memorable. Lizzie still cringed, remembering the snide comments of the other girls who'd seen that dress making an appearance under the gym's crepe-paper streamers three times before. Even her date had recognized it. No wonder she'd been a depressed kid.

Well, Liz was now a firm believer in money's magical powers to combat depression. And whatever his many faults, at least Con always paid the bills without question.

That tenderloin would be perfect with an asparagus risotto, she decided, forgetting the last attempt that had turned into a pot of burnt-black rice. Back to the produce department. While she was picking up the asparagus, she threw a couple of globe artichokes and a carton of champagne grapes into the cart, too. Risotto was such a pain in the ass—all that stirring—but Con loved it. And to think that once there'd been a time she actually looked forward to cooking for him. Liz's artificially plumped lips thinned at the thought. Last night, even though he
knew
she'd hate it, he hadn't gotten home until four a.m. She'd been huddled under the duvet on her side of their king-sized bed, pretending to be asleep when he came in, listening as Con stripped off his clothes. Then he'd stealthily eased under the covers without touching her, obviously hoping she was so sound asleep she wouldn't wake up. Liz had hated that even more.

It was a little over a year since they'd married and the bloom, as it were, was distinctly off the proverbial rose in the sex department. In the beginning they'd been so hot for each other. Before, Con would have swept Liz into his arms and made incendiary love to her no matter what time he got in, but these days he acted like she was a goddamned IED in their bed. These days, she only changed the sheets once a week.

Maybe some of it was her fault. Lizzie tried the idea on grudgingly. She probably hadn't been as supportive of Con's job as she might have been. Maybe all those evenings out with clients in New Orleans, schmoozing, drinking, and hanging out in strip clubs, was as much of a chore for Con as doing the cooking and cleaning had turned out to be for her.

“Fat chance.” Lizzie denied the notion, knowing it simply wasn't possible. She moved on to the dairy section.

Organic milk, heavy cream, a thick slab of French brie. She'd need to hurry home to get the groceries in the Sub-Zero before they spoiled in the heat of the car. Lizzie was debating the merits of sour cream versus crème fraîche when someone tapped her on the back of her white linen sundress.

“Liz!” It was Sally Rayne, one of her erstwhile coworkers at Milliken-Odom. Raw-boned Sally cocked her pinkly blond head, an unmistakable home-cooked dye job gone wrong.

“Haven't seen you since the wedding, girl,” Sally said. “What're
you
up to?”

“Just grocery shopping,” Liz replied. Hell, that sounded lame—especially since it was true.

Sally nodded though, her no-color eyes blinking behind those narrow half-glasses that, in Lizzie's opinion, had never done anything for her horse-like face.

“Lord, me too,” Sally said brightly. “These days, there's never enough time except to pick up a couple of things. Maybe you've heard, but the shop's still a madhouse with the zoning lawsuits—remember those? The world and his brother hell-bent on bulldozing some scrawny pine trees to throw up strip malls, and all the tree huggers wanting them shut down yesterday? Too bad for the tree huggers. No money there, just a few old ladies and hairy granola-freaks. They ain't the Sierra Club, babe.” Sally rolled her eyes at the idea of the hapless environmentalists. She shifted the grocery basket on her arm holding only a bag of coffee and a box of Splenda.

“But hey, you know how
that
goes,” Sally added.

But the truth was, Lizzie didn't know. Not anymore. She was a housewife now, not a litigator.

When Con had persuaded her to give up her job last year (“Just take care of me, darlin', be my baby. I want you all to myself and I'm making plenty of money at the alligator farm.”) she'd never imagined the stay-at-home-wife thing could get so old, so fast. Life might be lush, but this . . .
domesticity
wasn't turning out the way she'd expected it to. Keeping house was a bore, almost an insult, after having been a leading light among the firm's herds of associates. She'd worked hard to become a lawyer, damned hard, and now it was as though she'd been reduced to a glorified maid. Liz had always longed for a maid, but now that she'd married Con and could finally afford one, this arrangement meant she was trapped inside a big house that needed a lot of cleaning.

And even zoning lawsuits would be preferable to grocery shopping.

“Oh, right—can't forget,” Liz said, looking down into her full cart and playing with her gold bangles. “One screaming asshole after another.” An awkward silence fell as Sally blinked at her. “Those were the days,” Lizzie managed with a weak laugh. “Believe it or not, sometimes I wish I was still a part of the ol' Milliken-Odom grind, you know?”

“Well, the shop's not the same since you left.” Sally shrugged. “Nobody's out to mop the floor with the other side, not like Lizzie MacBride. Queen of the Carpet-Bomb Discovery Motions, we used to call you. Quite the move, girlfriend, getting out of the rat race, getting married. Tons of green-eyed associates wishing they were you.” She glanced at her watch. “Yow, look at the time. Let's get together after this cruel war is over. Have lunch, maybe.” “Yes, let's. That would be
great
.”

But as Sally disappeared with an airy wave into the paper-goods aisle, Lizzie knew that lunch likely wouldn't happen. After she'd resigned, at first she'd had a few get-togethers with her previous coworkers: big salads and too much wine—as well as having to put up with a lot of probing questions about Con and the alligator farm. How was he doing out there in the hinterland since he'd left Milliken-Odom, gone native as in-house counsel? It was a bold, out-of-the-box move—hitching his future to hundreds of thousands of reptiles, much less working for Hannigan, that reclusive, whack-job entrepreneur. When she'd married Con he was solidly on the partner track, a star in the Milliken-Odom firmament of legal talent, and now he was a rocket launched into a blazing, eccentric orbit. Not so her. Those lunches had tapered off when her old colleagues had soaked up all she had to tell them. Since then, nothing had changed.

Lord help me, Liz thought, who'd have thought I'd ever be envious of
Sally Rayne
?

So . . . where did that leave her? Lizzie fingered a wedge of imported Parmesan without really seeing it. She was thirty-one years old, bored, resentful, and restless. Maybe it was time to have that baby Con mentioned when they'd first married, but lately Con didn't seem to want to discuss that subject anymore. That was fine by her. Lizzie didn't really want a baby—the sickening smells, no sleep, chained like a plantation slave to a howling mess until it finally went away to school.
Be my baby,
he'd said. It definitely seemed like the alligator farm was Con's baby now. One thing was for sure, she wasn't, even though she was faithfully holding up her end of the deal.

The hellish irony of it? Liz had always wished with all her heart to be somebody's baby, somebody's only darling. After a lifetime of hand-me-downs and being last in line for everything, after she'd given Con her life and become the housewife he seemed to want so damned bad, hadn't she more than earned the right to come first with him?

Lizzie tossed the cheese into the cart with a snort. Fine, she thought venomously.
Fine
. Today was Friday, tonight was date night, and Con would just have to take her out. To hell with the risotto and all that stirring, all the tedious prep work, and cleaning up afterward. The tenderloin could keep.

And, Liz thought, planning ahead, she'd make a real effort tonight: she'd surprise him at the door already dressed to go out to that new restaurant, the Lemon Tree. The black Tahari with the low neckline and the big diamond studs he'd given her for her last birthday could work. Liz would put up her hair the way he liked it, too. She'd even flirt with him like a madwoman, just as she'd done back when they were seeing each other on the sly, meeting in New Orleans so his first wife, Emma, wouldn't find out about their affair.

Those had been heady days. Con had moved in on her with such passionate, single-minded intent, and, thrilled at having been chosen by such a powerful player in the firm, Liz soon knew she'd no intention whatsoever of letting their affair end. A part of her had been shocked at how easily she'd dismissed her previous scruples about sleeping with a married man, but nevertheless Lizzie embraced the role she'd always sworn she'd be too smart to play. Mistress to a married man was almost always a losing proposition, but in the end, she won. The fervent, deeply flattering attentions of a powerful man, Con's money, and what that money would buy—that life was hers now. She'd won and Emma had lost. It was as simple and brutal as that, but Con's mistress, now wife, had known for many years that life was often both simple and brutal.

Okay. So I won the role of the little woman in Con's life, but what the hell happened to my own? Liz wondered.

Picholine olives, cornichons, giant caper berries. Dropping the ridiculously expensive, too-precious jars on top of the heap of the day's shopping, Lizzie headed to the checkout. Little women did the grocery shopping, and everybody knew it. Well, after she'd put everything away, before she embarked on the long processes of showering, shaving her legs, blow-drying and arranging her hair, and putting on her makeup, Liz would change the sheets. She'd put a bottle of Cristal in the fridge and meet him at the door with two glasses; wearing a hey-handsome smile, but no panties.

So these days she might be having some buyer's remorse—maybe more than some—but one thing was sure: there were going to be some changes made. Con would just have to understand, and Lizzie meant to make that happen tonight. If there wasn't going to be a maid, she deserved to be the sole focus of her husband's attention. The strip club action had to stop, at least. She was
over
this stupid housewife routine.

Period.

 

Where was Con? It was Friday night,
her
night, and he was late again. Lizzie, made up to perfection and wearing her black dress and a killer pair of heels, had finished half the bottle of champagne. The other half was almost flat and no longer as cold as it should have been, in spite of the silver bucket of ice. It was 9:15 and Con was supposed to have been home over two hours ago.

He'd called at 6:30, just as the sun had begun lowering behind the tall pine trees that surrounded their sprawling house on the golf course. “Running a little behind, hon, but I'll be there by seven. Promise.”

But seven came and went. At 7:45 Liz popped the cork and poured herself a glass of champagne. Then another. The champagne went straight to her head, especially since she'd forgotten to eat lunch again. She'd called his cell phone five times already, but it rolled over to his voice mail as soon as it rang. I'm nobody's fool, Lizzie told herself, her irritation turning to something approaching real anger. His damned phone's turned off, she fumed.