Secrets of a Shoe Addict (14 page)

Here Abbey and Loreen thought she was this dating machine, with guys sniffing after her because of her amazing sexual knowledge and prowess (obviously not because of her Tiffany-esque looks), and the truth was she hadn’t had a date in . . . Lord, she didn’t even want to think about how long it had been.

She couldn’t let them know what a failure she was with men—that would invalidate everything she was teaching them.

So what she had to do—what she’d been thinking about for a
while anyway—was get a date. Maybe truth would somehow spring from fiction.

So a few nights later, Sandra gathered her nerve, put on her favorite Bruno Magli platforms, with the butter-soft pearlized beige leather uppers, and sat down at the computer and pulled up Match.com. It wasn’t her first visit to the site, and most of them—like tonight—took place around midnight, when she should probably know better than to dive into potentially emotional territory.

But if she didn’t do it now, she’d probably never work up the nerve to do it in the middle of the day.

Plenty of people did this; there was no shame in it these days. In fact, there was
never
shame in finding your soul mate.

The shame she feared was the shame of being . . . disappointing. The shame of seeing her date’s face drop from hopeful expectancy to horror and then, if she was particularly unlucky, pity.

The pity was the worst.

Stupid girl, did you really think you could fool me once we met? It’s one thing to act charming behind the anonymity of your computer screen, but surely you realize I can see you now.

Sandra stopped that line of thought. It was stupid. Unfair, both to herself and to her prospective dates. No one would be
that
cruel. At least no one she’d communicate with enough to decide she’d like to meet him.

She was the one who was making her weight a problem.

She turned her attention back to Match.com and started to fill out the extensive questionnaire.

Female.

28–34.

Nonsmoker.

Social drinker.

Libra.

Go to church occasionally, usually just on holidays.

When the questionnaire got to “physical build” she had to choose between
slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person
and
no answer
. Now, it was theoretically possible to add the Magli heels to her height and come out normal (though on the voluptuous side). The problem, of course, was that after meeting her, anyone might have the idea that
no answer
was more honest than
slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person
, because of that
slightly
, and then she’d just have that whole look of disappointment and pity thing to deal with.

So she put the questionnaire on hold and switched over to Zappos.com, the world’s greatest shoe site. Last week, Zappos had begun carrying the Carfagni fall line. Seeing the shoes she’d helped bring to the United States in glorious color on Zappos made her heart sing.

This called for a celebration. Every time.

She ordered a pair of Carfagni gilded slides, just to support the team, then switched over to the Manolo Blahnik page. She’d been a fan of the designer since well before
Sex and the City
because, at just over five feet two, Sandra needed serious heels. And heels needed serious comfort.

And that translated to confidence. If there was ever a time she needed confidence, it was now.

So a few clicks later, she had three pairs of shoes and one pair of retro kitten-heel boots on the way to her, via two-day express, and she had bolstered her confidence enough to go back to Match and give her honest answer.

If someone was going to be disappointed in her, then he could go straight to hell. She was going to answer this thing the way she felt, not the way she thought someone else felt.

She took a breath and filled in the form. To hell with it.

Slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person.

Brian was at the church, Parker was probably in the school cafeteria eating one of the many variations of pizza that seemed to show up on the menu daily, and Abbey was dappling Parker’s white buttondown shirt from Easter with a Tide stick in her laundry room when the phone rang.

She’d been waiting for this call even while dreading it, so when it came, it was almost a relief.

“Hey, babe.”

“How did you get this number?” she asked Damon, though the point was moot. He’d gotten the number, now he had it, so what else mattered?

He just chuckled. “You’re listed, sweetheart. It wasn’t hard. Got to be able to get ahold of the preacher if there’s a preacher emergency. Hey, is he there? I’d like to have a chat with him.”

So he knew who Brian was and probably assumed—rightly so—he was a peaceful man who wasn’t going to be a threat to Damon. Unless the situation called for it. “Sorry, he’s not here. Would you like to leave a message?”

Damon laughed again. He understood her. She’d give him that: he’d always understood her. “Nah, I think I’ll just settle for you. So how’s the collection going?”

“Collection?” She knew what he meant.

She was right. “My money. Nine g’s. I’ve decided to give you a break and make it nine g’s. You’re welcome.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well, now, you might want to start thinking about
getting
it. Because I’m not kidding around with this. I’ll break your fingers one by one if I have to. Oh, and fingers? That’s a metaphor.”

Oh, crap. This was bad. She knew him well enough to know this was bad. “Metaphor, huh? Where did you learn such a big word?”

“Metaphor,” he restated. “Meaning I don’t mean I’m going to break your fingers; I’m going to break all the things that matter to you, one by one. Is that big enough for you?”

Something about the way he said it ran fear through her veins. It was one thing for her to stand up to him, especially if it was twelve years ago and she didn’t have anyone to feel responsible for besides herself. But it wasn’t twelve years ago, it was now, and this son of a bitch was scary.

“Almost big enough,” she said, trying to maintain her sardonic tone to keep him from realizing how truly nervous he made her. “As is always the case with you. Still, I get your point.”

There was a long silence during which she knew he was digesting her insult and deciding what to do with it. But she also knew
him
well enough to know that he was more interested in recouping supposedly lost money than exacting personal, emotional revenge on someone and risking losing said lost money.

“So where’s the money?” Damon asked, getting down to business just as she knew he would.

“Ask the police.”

“You didn’t call the police.” There wasn’t even a shade of uncertainty in his voice. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm. From what I gather, you don’t want anyone in your little church to know what you used to do. Dealing drugs, sexing for bucks—” He gave a hard laugh. “—blowing cops to get out of charges. Man, you were lucky I kept you around as long as I did.”

She swallowed hard. Thank God Parker wasn’t here. Thank God no one was here to pick up the phone, or stand nearby asking for Oreos and overhear what Damon was saying.

Would she deny it?

Could
she deny it? Any of it?

“So I’ll ask you again, where’s the fucking money?”

“I’m working on it,” she demurred.
Play it cool, play it cool, don’t let him know he’s gotten to you.
“How does that grab you?”

“It grabs me right in the nuts, how do you think it grabs me?” he said. “What, do you have the law involved?”

She gave a snort of fake laughter that she hoped he’d think was real. “You think I want to pay a lawyer to get rid of the likes of you? No thanks. I’m working on coming up with some equitable payment that will get you off my aching back, okay? In the meantime, why don’t you give me a number where I can call you when I’m ready?”

“Oh, and you’ll just do that, huh? Call me when you have my money?” She could imagine the dark scowl that tightened his features. “No thanks, sweetheart. I’ll give you a little more time, and a few more warnings, then I’m going to take something from you that will make up for what you took from me.”

His words struck terror in her heart. What kind of warnings? What did he think she had that could “make up for” his “loss”? Damon had never had a proper sense of proportion, so he’d probably end up aiming for her heart,
thinking
it was equivalent.

She had to come up with money for him. Much as she hated the
idea, and even though she’d given the necklace away years ago, before she had anything like a family or even a single loved one to protect, now she had to recoup that loss—karmically
taking away
from charity—and give it back.

The very thought made her ill.

But she knew if she showed fear, if she showed any hint of vulnerability at all, Damon would up the ante, and she couldn’t afford the ante as it was.

“Damon, you know damn well it’s not like I can just go to the ATM and get that kind of money.”

“You could give me the necklace.”

“I told you I don’t have it anymore.”

“That’s what you said.”

“Do you think I’m
lying
?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth and was glad he couldn’t see the way her hand shook as she held the phone to her ear. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“I know you better than you think.”

Wrong. “Then don’t you know that if I had it, I’d give it to you just so I’d never have to see your vile face again?”

“I thought I saw a little spark of desire in your eyes when you saw me. A little of that gleam you used to get before we’d get down and—”

“Shut up.”

“Hurts to remember what you lost, huh?”

“Just tell me where to find you when I have the money.”

“I told you, I’ll come to you. How should I put this? Mmm . . . you’ll feel my presence around you all the time. When you’re ready, just whistle.” He laughed and hung up the phone.

Immediately she dialed *69, just in case he’d slipped up, but he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t.

She sank to the floor, holding the phone against her chest, and felt the tears come like a tsunami she was powerless to stop or escape.

She didn’t ask herself how her life had come to this. She knew. It had been coming to this for years. How stupid she was to think that just because a few years passed without it catching up with her, she had gotten away with it all scot-free. She’d
thought
she’d turned her life around.
Thought
she’d made up for her past mistakes, or at least made up for
some
of them, but no—here she was right in the thick of it.

It was as if the past twelve years didn’t mean a thing.

Brian was an illusion.

Parker was an illusion.

It was the thought of Parker that really got to her. A montage of images raced through her mind—the first ultrasound in which he was declared “normal” despite her past with drugs; the day he was born; the first Christmas; the first day of school; the first lost tooth; and a million days in between—and disappeared into the ether like they’d never happened.

What would happen if Brian found out about her? Would he leave? How could he not? And how could he leave Parker with a woman like her?

Abbey clutched the phone with white knuckles and sobbed until her chest ached. Then she did something she hadn’t done in years. Something she’d never thought she’d do again.

She dialed a number she’d tried since high school to forget.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice trilled.

“Mom?”

“Becky, where
are
you? I thought you and the kids were coming over to go for a swim!”

Becky had kids now? How could that be when she was just a kid
herself? Except that she wasn’t. Thirteen years ago, she’d been eleven. Now she was a grown woman.

“It’s not Becky, Mom.” The silence between her words seemed to echo. “It’s Abbey.”

The chill that came across the line was nearly palpable. “I told you never to call here again.”

The pain was extreme. “Mom, I—”

A heavy sigh. As if they’d just had this conversation five minutes ago and she was fed up with it. “What is it, Abigail? Have you been arrested again? Did one of your
johns
beat you up again?”

Abbey should have felt shocked, but she didn’t. These accusations had come before. “I’m not a hooker, Mom; I never—”

“You don’t wait ten years and call out of the blue unless you want something. I know your type.”

Thirteen years. It had been thirteen. What kind of mother didn’t know something like that? And what kind of mother was so hard, so cold, that after thirteen years of silence and uncertainty she didn’t have one single soft impulse toward her own child?

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I have a good life. I’m married, I have a son—” The words caught in her throat. “You have a grandson, Mom. His name is—”

“I have two grandsons. Trent and Kurt, and they’re on their way over here now, so I don’t have time to argue with you, Abigail. Now if you’ll excuse me—”