An Ex to Grind (12 page)

"Have you seen the hottie who just moved into 3F?" she said, having calmed down considerably after her second glass of merlot.

"No," I said. "And I thought you were off men after your experience with Jason."

"I am, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a hunk when I see him." She sipped more wine while I went for another helping of cheese. "This one's very Viggo Mortensen."

I shrugged, drawing a blank.

"The actor from
Lord of the Rings
," she said as if I were a complete blockhead.

I never went to the movies anymore, so the reference was lost on me. I'd been too busy working. Even as a kid I didn't take up movies or any other activity that would qualify as a hobby. There wasn't time. Not with debtors' prison looming.

"He's got these deeply set eyes," she said, "and wild dark hair, and a body that's lean and mean and—"

"Are we talking about the guy in 3F or this Viggo person?" I said.

"Both," said Patty. "There's one big difference though. Viggo's rich. The guy in 3F is hurting for cash, judging by the torn jeans and the cracked leather jacket."

"Dan paid thousands for his cracked leather jacket. It was Ralph Lauren."

"Yeah, well this guy's not buying designer clothes any time soon. When he was moving in, he hardly had any cartons. Just a bunch of canvases."

I rolled my eyes. "Painter?"

"Laid-off-book-editor-turned-painter. His name's Evan Gillespie and he specializes in water."

"You mean he's a watercolorist?"

"No, I mean he paints oceans, rivers, streams, whatever."

"Don't tell me. His wife kicked him out because his 'art' wasn't paying the bills."

"Bingo. They just separated, and he's camping out here until the divorce comes through and he finds a place of his own. He told me when we were down in the laundry room."

"He's probably waiting for the alimony checks to start coming in."

She nodded. "What is it with these men? Didn't they used to be able to support
themselves
, never mind
us
?. Is there an epidemic out there? Something in the air? Some odorless, colorless toxin that renders them incapable of earning a living?"

"My friend Nards says it's our fault."

"Oh, you mean the whole bit about if we hadn't stolen their jobs and performed as well as they did, the natural order of things would be restored? What a crock."

"I know. What's wrong with us being on top?"

"Amen to that. Who needs the missionary position?"

"Yeah. Why should we shrink just to make them feel bigger?"

"Some women are doing that, you know."

"Doing what, Patty?"

"Having vaginal reduction surgery. To shrink, so the guy will feel bigger."

"I wasn't talking about sex." Were women really doing that? "I was talking about how men are paralyzed by our success. Look at Jason. He's a photographer who stopped taking photographs because he couldn't compete with you. And this Evan is probably a painter who's—"

"Different. I'm not interested in him, trust me, but he's a painter who actually paints. I saw his stuff."

I rolled my eyes again. "Just what the world needs. Another masterpiece of a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Patty wiped the red wine off her mouth with the back of her hand and got up to answer it while I dove for more cheese. God, food was wonderful.

"Who's there?" she said, peering through the peephole.

"Evan Gillespie from 3F," said a male voice. "I just wanted to return the Tide you lent me in the laundry room. I bought you a new box."

I stood up to leave. "And they say chivalry isn't dead."

"Don't you want to meet him?" said Patty, who had already opened the door.

There, in the threshold, was a tall, lanky, shaggy-haired man in his thirties with the aforementioned deeply set eyes, plus the jeans and the leather jacket. He had a long face and thin lips and cheekbones so prominent he looked as if he was sucking on something. Patty was right: he was striking. Dan had swept me off my feet with his golden, ail-American, comic-book-hero beauty, but this guy was handsome in a darker, more subtle way.

"Hey, sorry to barge in," he said to Patty, ducking a little as he entered her apartment. His voice was raspy, whispery, soft. "Here's the detergent. Much appreciated."

"Thanks," she said, taking the Tide. "Melanie and I were having some wine and cheese. Want to join us?"

He glanced at me and gave me a friendly smile. "I'm Evan Gillespie."

"Melanie Banks," I said, walking around him so I could make my escape out the door. The last thing I needed was to get trapped having to make conversation with another bumbo. The one I was forced to make conversation with every other Monday morning was more than enough. "Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel."

"Melanie's ex-husband is Dan Swain," Patty blurted out for a reason known only to her. Maybe she thought that dropping the name would impress Evan.

"Traffic Dan Swain?" he said. So he was impressed.

"Yes," I said. "Let me guess. You're a Giants fan."

"To be honest, I hate football," he said with a shrug. "But if you live in New York, you know the city's sports heroes. Your ex-husband was one of them."

"Ah, so true," I said, hoping to avoid having to listen to Dan's accomplishments on the gridiron, entertaining though they were. I wasn't in the mood. I stepped closer to the door and __.

found myself wedged between Evan and a chair. His eyes, now that I could see them up close, weren't just dark. They looked black, thanks to pupils that were huge.

"Sorry about what happened," he said, surprising me by not going the highlight-reel route after all. "Tough break for him. For both of you."

"Are you referring to the injury or the aborted TV career?" I asked. It was always interesting to me which aspect of the Traffic Dan Swain legend people remembered.

"I was referring to his current situation. Being a former jock with no other identity," he said. "He's in the newspapers now and then—when he's at a nightclub shaking hands with fans and stuff like that. He looks pretty lost. I feel kind of sorry for him."

Now that was a switch. Most people would do anything to trade places with the golden boy. "He's living very well," I said. "I wouldn't get out my violin on his account."

"Melanie supports him," Patty volunteered, continuing to serve as the provider of information that wasn't hers to provide.

"That's a big responsibility," Evan said, nodding at me. "You must be a very generous person to help him out like that. Especially since you're not married to him anymore."

Well, now that was downright odd. He had completely misunderstood Patty. Surely, he didn't think I was writing Dan checks because I wanted to. Surely his own wife was about to get stuck writing him checks, and it wouldn't be because she wanted to either. Still, his eyes were kind as they took me in, his expression one of admiration. I glanced at Patty and willed her to keep her mouth shut. There was no reason to disabuse this nice man of his good opinion of me.

"Well, I guess I'd better get moving," I said, my hand on the doorknob now. "I've got work to do."

"What sort of work?" asked Evan.

The sort of work that enables me to support that ex-husband you're feeling sorry for, I thought. "I'm a financial planner at Pierce, Shelley and Steinberg."

"She's a vice president," Patty chimed in.

"Great. I wish I could hire you, but I don't have any investments to manage," said Evan with a laugh.

"That'll change," I said, wondering how his wife would handle the burden of making the support payments every month. I made a mental note to get her name and pass it along to Desiree. Another potential client for the new division of Desiree Klein Heart Hunting.

"I hope you're right," he said. "I'm certainly putting in the effort."

"I bet you are." He probably had a good lawyer. They all had good lawyers, and we got stuck paying their legal bills, as if the alimony wasn't enough.

"You really can't stay, Mel?" said Patty, pouring herself another glass of merlot.

"Thanks, but duty calls," I said. Duty always called. Every night. That's how it was. Ever since the separation and even before it.

"Maybe you'll stop by my place sometime and take a look at my paintings," said Evan. "I'm just down the hall."

"I'm pretty busy," I said. I had both feet out the door at this point. I needed to go home. He was sweet, but my mind was elsewhere. I had paperwork to go over and memos to write, especially since I'd be leaving the office early the next day to meet with Desiree.

"No interest in making a new friend?" he asked in that low, soft voice of his. It was sexy, the way it drew you in and made you listen harder. But he was penniless, for God's sake. I didn't need another drain. What I needed was a ninety-day wonder woman for Dan.

"Look, Evan," I said, backing out now, "I don't mean to be rude, and I did enjoy meeting you, but I'm really focused on a special project these days. I don't have a lot of time to look at paintings or anything else. Okay?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "Your loss."

I waved good night to both of them and went back to my place, thrilled to be alone. I closed and locked the door, kicked off my shoes, then dumped my keys, purse, and briefcase onto the foyer table, pausing to give myself a cursory glance in the fake-pewter mirror that hung there. I was about to walk away when I noticed there was something on my—

I leaned in, took a closer look at my face. Yes, there was a piece of—

I planted myself even closer and squinted at my reflection to try and figure out what—

Great. It was a small crumble of the blue cheese I'd been wolfing down at Patty's, and it was clinging to my skin, right underneath my left nostril. How the hell it had landed near my nose instead of in my mouth I can't tell you, but it looked exactly like a booger. I stood there staring at it for a second or two, then flicked it off in disgust.

No, of course I didn't care what Evan Gillespie thought of me. I'd probably never run into him again, and I certainly wasn't planning on seeking him out.

"Jelly? That's her name?" I said as I studied an eight-by-ten glossy of an extremely pretty young woman whose brown hair was a mop of corkscrews.

"It's Jill, but people started calling her Jelly when she was a kid and it stuck," said Desiree, who was wearing another wig—a short dark one that curled under her pointy chin. She was in another caftan too—purple again but with black stripes—and the same fuzz ball slippers as before. I couldn't decide if she was one of those people who enjoys being different or if she didn't get that she was.

"Dan's not a fan of women with ringlets," I said. He likes long, wavy hair, I thought, remembering how tenderly he used to comb mine with his fingers after we made love.

"Don't be ridiculous. She's a beauty," Desiree said, the way you'd say it about a boat or a racehorse or a piece of salmon fillet. "She jogs, goes hiking, all that outdoorsy stuff. He'll love her."

"How about her personality?"

"Friendly. Upbeat. Lots of energy. She won't have any problem making the first move with him. She's the type who marches right up to people and tells them to have a nice day."