Happily Ever After? Read online

  “I thought you were going to bed.”

  “I can’t. I’m not tired. Can’t I just stay here with you?”

  At this point, I want to scream. But I’ve got to hold it together. “No, sweetie. You’ve got soccer in the morning. You have to go back to bed.”

  “Can’t I stay here? I promise I’ll be quiet. Please?”

  “No, hon, I’m sorry. You have to get back into bed, okay?”

  At that point, Pete starts poking at the keyboard. I’m trying to type in my account number, and he’s hitting random letters and numbers, and the computer is making this binking sound, and then it crashes. I grabbed Pete by the shoulders and shook him hard, and this growling, guttural voice lurched out of my throat. “I. Told. You. To. Get. Back. To. Bed. God. Dammit!” I felt my fingers pinch the flesh of his upper arms and he winced. He pulled away and started screaming.

  “Ow! You hurt me! You hurt me!” The next thing I know he’s scrambling upstairs with the cordless phone. “I’m calling Dad! I’m calling Dad!” he shrieked.

  I chased him. “You’ll do no such thing! Give me that phone!”

  He wriggled under the bed. Then he realized that he didn’t know Roger’s phone number. He was sobbing now. “I wanna live with Dad! You’re a horrible mother! I hate you!”

  “Well, I hate you too!” I blurted out. “Oh, God, Pete, I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. Sometimes grown-ups say things they don’t mean. Just like kids. We get angry and we say things that hurt, but we don’t mean them.”

  He stared at me and sniffled. His eyes were pink and swollen. He pulled his sleeves and stared at the red marks my fingernails had left. Finally, he said, “I want you to leave my room. Just leave me alone.”

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but Pete had kept the cordless phone under the bed, and somehow he figured out how to get his father’s number. Roger called me at 11:10.

  “What the hell is going on over there?”

  “Nothing that concerns you, Roger,” I told him. I wanted to sound businesslike, but I was shaking.

  “I’m calling Child Protective Services first thing Monday morning. Do you hear me?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Fine. You do that. And I’ll call every theater critic at every newspaper and magazine in the United States and tell them the whole sordid story about Roger Tisdale, the decrepit has-been playwright who bought himself a mail-order child bride.” I slammed down the phone.

  Now I’ve got all weekend to torture myself with the prospect of losing Pete forever.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  May 27

  I woke up this morning convinced that Roger was bluffing. Even if he did call Child Protective Services, it’s unlikely that they’d take Pete away or even file a complaint. I know the sort of cases CPS handles—I dealt with them firsthand when I was an intern at the county mental health clinic. I doubt they’d have much interest in a loving mother who (uncharacteristically) lost her temper and grabbed her son a little too hard.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  May 28

  A good sign: I’ve invited Dale and his partner for a barbecue tomorrow afternoon. I decided that what I really needed was a new cookbook. While Pete and Hunter browsed in the children’s department, I walked past the self-help books and tried not to notice how aptly they described my life. How to Spot a Jerk. His Cheating Heart. Dump Your Husband Today. Surviving Divorce. Celebrating Solitude. Custody at Any Cost.

  As I was drawn into the magnetic field of that last book, I noticed a guy sprawled on the floor at the end of the aisle. I glanced at him and he looked up from his book and smiled at me. His smile was so warm and inviting that I was sure it was meant for someone else. I looked away, absently flipped through the custody book, then stole another glance at him. He had sleepy, sexy eyes and the sensuous, perfectly shaped lips of an Italian male model. A ribbed gray tank top clung to his tan, well-muscled torso. His jeans were slung low on his hips, low enough for me to see an enticing trail of dark hair leading from navel to the nether region below the belt. He must have seen me eyeing him, but instead of straightening up, he leaned farther back, as if to give me a better view of his delicious body. He gave a quick nod. “How ya doin’?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “That’s not a bad book, but Custody Without Battles is better. Helped me a lot.” He was still smiling. “Divorce is hell, huh?”

  “And sometimes marriage is hell, don’t you think?” I returned the smile.

  “Absolutely.” He chuckled, stood up and extended a hand. “Mark. Mark Henshaw.”

  “Valerie Ryan. Nice to meet you.” I glanced down and saw that he was reading one of those huge medical tomes. At the top of the page: Managing Genital Herpes. On the facing page: Coping with Genital Warts.

  Either way, I decided it was time to go. “I think I hear my kid calling me.”

  “Sure. See you around.”

  As I wended my way toward the kids’ section, I drew up the pros and cons. Pro: hunky, handsome, nice, single, likes kids. Con: probably has a significant sexually transmitted disease. I extrapolated from this that he’s probably slept around, or cheated on his wife; the type of man I’m trying assiduously to avoid. Of course it’s also possible that he contracted the disease from his slutty wife. Or maybe he’s a doctor and he’s doing research for a paper he’s presenting at an upcoming panel. (Unlikely.)

  ’Til next time,

  V

  May 29

  I managed to clean the house using the Hefty method (sweeping everything into trash bags and shoving them into the hall closet). It’s been so long since I cooked outside that I’d almost forgotten how to use the gas grill. When I lifted the lid, I saw the charred, curled skin of a salmon fillet stuck to the grill. It must have been two years old. I must add a new grill to my ongoing fantasy list.

  I will say this much for that jackass Roger: He was a damn good cook. In fact, I remember this particular meal—salmon in tangy sauce with fresh tomato-cilantro salsa, roasted new potatoes with dill, steamed broccoli, and warm, crusty semolina bread.

  I remember that Roger urged me to eat the dessert—rich chocolate mousse cake with fresh whipped cream—even though he knew I was trying to lose weight. I remember thinking, as I lifted the first forkful to my lips, that it was okay to eat the cake because Roger made it, Roger wanted me to eat it, Roger loved me exactly the way I was. Now I realize that he was sabotaging my diet. He didn’t want me to look too good. He didn’t want me to look better than him or good enough to attract other men. He wanted me fat and sloppy so he’d have another reason to screw around. In the meantime, he was lifting weights and running the treadmill and doing his Ab Roller contraption.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  May 30

  No one from Child Protective Services called. I guess Roger was bluffing. But just to be sure, I called CPS myself. I told the social worker I was calling on behalf of my friend. “There’s probably no cause for concern, unless there’s a history of abuse,” she told me. “It sounds like she lost her temper. Lord knows, I’ve lost it with my own kids more than once.” After a pause she added, “First Presbyterian runs a really great support group for stressed-out parents, by the way. It’s open to everybody, and it’s free. Maybe you—I mean, your friend— should check it out.”

  “I’ll pass along the information,” I said, vainly hoping to preserve the ruse.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  May 31

  The phone rang as I was getting out of the shower. “Hello, this is Jeanette and I’m with the Psychic Friends Network.”

  I was poised to activate my anti-phone-solicitor gadget when it occurred to me that this could be a career opportunity. Perhaps they’d read about the Zoe Hayes discovery. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I understand that you have psychic abilities, is this true?”

  My gut told me that this call wasn’t exactly kosher. �
�Who did you say you were with?”

  I heard suppressed giggles. Then Roger was on the line. “Okay, psycho girl. I mean, psychic girl. Can you predict what I’m going to do to my gorgeous young girlfriend as soon as I get off the phone with you?”

  More giggles, then a muffled sound and a playful shriek.

  “Grow up, Roger,” I told him.

  “Oh, I’m growing, believe me. Right before my very eyes.”

  I could hear his girlfriend laughing hysterically, and then heard her say, “Roger, you are awful!”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I asked him.

  “Hey, you’re the psychic. You tell me.”

  I hung up and called the police. I left a message in the general voice-mail box. I’m still waiting to hear back from them.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 1

  It looks like Mom is in the matchmaking business. She called to invite me to Bellamy’s for dinner on Saturday night. She said she was bringing a friend, a man.

  “Oh, this is a first. I can’t believe that you’re trying to set me up!”

  “Don’t be silly. Think of it as a little diversion. You need a grown-up night out. Please don’t say no. Please?”

  “What about Dad?” I asked.

  “It’s all taken care of. The nice young woman from hospice will cover for me. Sandy, her name is. I need a break too, you know.”

  I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “In that case, you go out to dinner with this guy, your mystery man, whoever he is.”

  “Bellamy’s at seven. Get a sitter. Wear something pretty.” And then she hung up on me.

  I am extremely curious about this guy my mother dug up for me. Now, what the hell am I going to wear???

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 2

  I never registered Pete for camp this summer. God help me. Now I get to put my single mother survival skills to the test.

  June 3

  These days, there is nothing quite as exhausting or demoralizing as getting dressed. I’ve got plenty of clothes, but nothing fits. So much for those great DKNY pants I bought on sale last year. One glance at the waistband and I knew they would never make it up and over my ass. I finally settled on my old standby: black stretch jeans, white scoop-neck top, and black blazer for MBC (maximum butt coverage). Putting on makeup was another ordeal. I smeared layer upon layer of concealer to cover the dark circles and sun spots and emerging zits, and by the time I was done I looked like a mime. I wiped it all off and settled for a more natural, albeit hideously flawed, look. As for the hair, suffice it to say that I could probably get a job on the Weather Channel. Who needs Doppler radar? I’d just point to my frizz and say, “Eighty-five percent chance of rain.” If I couldn’t look good, I might as well smell good. I spritzed myself with perfume and inhaled deeply. It’s yellow jacket season. It has been weeks since I last wore any fragrance.

  When I brought Pete next door, Lynette whistled through her teeth. “Wow, Val, you look gorgeous.” Lynette’s house looked as if it sprang from the pages of Country Living magazine. I could smell something cinnamony and homemade baking in the oven, and I could hear Lynette’s husband greet my son heartily as he ran into the family room. I wanted to live in that house. Maybe they could adopt me.

  By 7:15 I was pulling up into the Bellamy’s lot. I took one last look in the mirror and decided Lynette was right. I looked good. I wended my way through the people waiting to be seated and scanned the restaurant for my mother. She was at a table in the back, waving happily, but the fronds of a showy palm obscured her companion. I said a quick prayer (God, don’t let him have genital herpes) and moved toward the table aiming for a sleek stride. I was afraid to look.

  “I’d make introductions,” my mother said, “but I believe you two already know each other.”

  The man stood and extended a warm, freckled hand. It was Detective Avila!

  I was stunned. “Yes, of course.” I reached for his hand and he pulled me in for a completely unexpected hug. He smelled delicious. He was taller and broader than I remembered him.

  “How are you, Detective?”

  “I’m better now that you’re here. And please, it’s Michael.”

  My mother was beaming like a flashlight. It was surreal, sitting there with the two of them. “How do you two know each other?”

  “Through hospice,” Michael answered, filling my mother’s water glass. “My mom has non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I went to an open house for caregivers. That’s where I met your lovely mother. We started talking and discovered we had something in common.”

  “You mean, hospice?”

  “No.” His eyes twinkled. “You.”

  I stole a sidelong glance at Michael and wondered what I had done to deserve this magnificent man as a dinner companion tonight. He was the kind of guy who looked more confined than comfortable in suits; I enjoyed seeing his big arms strain against the sleeves of his blue jacket. He wore a cream-colored shirt and silk maroon tie, and there were a couple of shaving nicks on his Adam’s apple. I felt a pang of tenderness imagining him preparing nervously for his big date.

  The rest of the evening was, in a word, perfect. Michael was by turns funny and shy, and seemed to get better looking as the night wore on (I wasn’t drinking, by the way). One problem: The handsome detective has never been married. And while I don’t disagree in principle to the idea of bachelorhood, I also can’t understand how a man this lovely can make it to his thirty-eighth year without getting hitched at least once. But the truth is, I’m not ready for a relationship. Seriously. No, really. I’m not. I mean it.

  Michael insisted on walking me to my Jeep. After I sat down behind the wheel, he reached in and his hands seemed to move toward my breasts. I stopped breathing. God, what was he doing? Then I realized he was reaching for my seat belt. I felt the heat radiating off his hands as he slowly drew the belt across my body and clicked the buckle into place. “It’s the law, you know,” he said, staring at me.

  “Thank you, Officer.” My lips tingled under his gaze.

  “So.” He was still staring at my mouth. “Any predictions about the future?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was referring to my supposed psychic abilities. “Too soon to tell.”

  He made a little pouty face. “Fair enough. Can I call you?”

  When I got home I found a new message on my machine and assumed it was he. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The message was from Lynette. “Don’t panic, but you’d better get over here just as soon as you get home.”

  We’d arranged for Pete to sleep there, so I quickly concluded from her message that he must have been overcome by a bad case of homesickness. I put my hand on the door knocker, a shining brass eagle holding a ring in its impressive beak. I pulled back on the ring and let it snap against the smooth red door. Lynette opened it at once. Her house had the soft, dim, shuttered-up look of a home and family unaccustomed to late-night activity. Most of the lights were off and the only noise was the grinding of the dishwasher. “Lynette, what is it? Is everything okay with Pete?”

  There was restrained panic in her face. She seemed to be trying to telegraph some message to me through her bugged-out eyes. “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure. I wanted you to hear this for yourself.”

  I followed her into the living room. Her husband and the boys were sitting on the couch, a constrained floral affair with nary a grape stain or crayon mark to be found. They all looked bleary-eyed. I moved toward Pete and he wrapped his arms around my legs and leaned his head sleepily against my thigh (“Mommy’s built-in cushions,” he likes to call them.) “I want to sleep at home tonight,” he muttered.

  “Sure you can,” I told him. “But first I want to hear what Lynette has to say.”

  Lynette kneeled down next to Pete. “Let’s talk to your Mom about what you were telling me before, okay? And then you can get home and
get snugly in your own bed.”

  Pete shook his head in reluctant agreement.

  “Go on, Lynette,” I said. “Let’s just cut to the chase, please? You’ve got me in suspense here.”

  “Well, we were reading a bedtime story, Knights of the Kitchen Table. What a great book!” I could tell that Lynette was trying hard to sound lighthearted, which only intensified my urge to scream.

  “Then Pete happened to ask me a question. A very interesting question.” She was cuing him. “Can you tell your mom what you asked me, hon?”

  Pete kept his head on my legs and squeezed a little harder. I pried him off and coaxed him back onto the sofa. I held his face in my hands. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Sure you do. You can tell me.”

  At this point, Lynette’s husband led Hunter away. “Too many distractions for the Petester.” He hoisted Hunter onto his shoulders. “Come on, chief. Let’s hit the hay.”

  “Pete,” Lynette prodded, “remember what you said? About your name?”

  “I wanted to know why you named me the same thing as penis and why you couldn’t just give me a regular name like other kids.” He blurted it out in one breath, then recoiled and shoved his thumb in his mouth.

  At this point I was absolutely hating Roger. I had insisted on a tease-proof name, one that wouldn’t easily lend itself to some cruel nickname. But he’d demanded we name our son after his great-great-grandfather, some old codger who did something of historical distinction, I don’t remember what. Roger was a genealogy buff, and he loved comparing his blue blood branches to the twigs on my own lowly family tree.

  “Oh, honey, did someone in school pick on you because of your name?” I asked, thinking it had to be that brat Gregory Martindale.