Honey (10 page)

“Don't tell me, let me guess—
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.”

“Why yes, that's right,” she said, surprised. “How did you know that? I thought you've never seen an Audrey Hepburn movie?”

Expression sheepish, he admitted, “I maybe saw part of it flipping channels or something.”

Honey hid a smile, brushing a light kiss atop Cat's head. Forget not-entirely-perfect. Dr. Marcus Sandler—Marc—was as flawless as mortal men might come.

“I believe in pink. I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and … I believe in miracles.”—Audrey Hepburn

 

Twenty-four hours later, Honey was a mother—a
cat
mother, and only temporarily. Still, she reasoned, it counted.

Yawning, she drew the feeding bottle nipple from Cat's mouth. “Good boy,” she praised, setting him down and giving him a nudge toward the litter box, one of several cat-related Petco purchases she—Marc—had made before leaving Union Square the other day.

Sleeping in two-to-three hour snatches wasn't the same as logging in a solid night's rest, but the sense of accomplishment, not only of doing a “good deed” but of being truly loved and needed, more than made up for any grogginess. Having a pet to care for seemed to really ground her. Tired—okay, exhausted—though she was, she'd made really good progress in studying for her GED exam.

A
ding
announced that a text message had just landed. Assuming it must be Marc, and excited to compare schedules for when she might come over for a look at his place, she hurried across to where she'd left her phone charging.

The text message wasn't from Marc. It was from Drew.

On way, prepare to celebrate.

Oh, no!

She eyed the time. If only she had more of it, she would call up one of the FATEs and ask them to take Cat for a few hours, if not the whole evening. Liz's Jonathan was crazy about cats, seeking out any excuse to go downstairs and play with their neighbor's two. Who knew, maybe after several hours of kitten-sitting, Liz might consider keeping Cat permanently. Now that her chemo treatments were well over, she no longer had to panic about possibly being scratched. At least that way, Honey would get to see him once a week.

But she was getting ahead of herself. There wasn't time and unfortunately there was no one in her building she could call on for a favor. Because of her embarrassment over several loud fights with Drew, she'd made a point of ducking her neighbors. In retrospect, she saw just how isolating being a mistress, and an abuse victim, could be.

Panicked, she paced the apartment, gathering up any “evidence”—cat toys, dishes, and stray tufts of fuzzy orange fur. There was no help for it. Cat and his accoutrements were going to have to go into hiding until Drew left.

Picking up the kitten, who'd just dutifully done his business, she carried him toward the pantry closet, not a walk-in but roomy enough. “Don't take this personally, Cat, but you're going to have to go in the closet for a few. But don't worry. Mr. Pinky will take good care of you.”

*

Drew showed up forty minutes later in an uncommonly good mood, bearing a bouquet of calla lilies and a takeout bag of Chinese. Honey had just finished checking on Cat, tummy full and curled up fast asleep around her stuffed animal.

Praying that he would stay that way, she pasted on a smile. “You said we're celebrating. What's the occasion?” she asked, carrying the flowers into the kitchen.

“Can't a man bring his girl flowers without there being an occasion?” he asked, shooting her a wink.

He really was in a good mood. Still, to be safe, she prefaced her reply with an apology. “Sorry,” she said. “These are lovely. Thank you. It's just that you texted something about celebrating—or did I maybe misunderstand?” she added quickly. With Drew, she'd learned not to take any chances.

Still smiling, he came toward her, joining her at the sink. “Remember I told you about that Investor Day I wanted to throw? Well, the funding came through and it's happening: a blowout bash at the Waldorf for my key out-of-town investment clients, and I want you there.”

Caught off guard, she nearly dropped the vase she'd just finished filling. “Me? Really?”

For years she'd prayed to the Powers That Be to be more involved in his life, not only set on the sidelines of it. Now that it seemed he was prepared, even excited to include her, she wanted no part of any of it—especially him. Arranging the flowers, she only hoped that the date wouldn't conflict with her Monday night FATE meeting. Or the online GED study group she'd joined. Or, above all, her meet-up with Marc. Decorating his apartment was something to which she was truly looking forward. Who knew, maybe she'd even confide in him about taking her GED. She'd recently bit the bullet and told the other FATEs. Predictably, they couldn't have been more thrilled for her.

“You bet, babe.” Stepping behind her, he glided his hands lightly up and down her upper arms, caressing her as he'd used to. Still, she steeled herself not to flinch. “I want to show you off. Together we'll show those schmucks what real success looks like.”

“That is a lot to celebrate. I'll just … pour us some wine.”

She turned away and went to the refrigerator, mostly as an excuse to break free and put some space between them. On opening the side door, she spotted Cat's formula—crap! She shoved it into the vegetable crisper and brought out the bottle of pinot.

Carrying it to the counter, she decided she might as well take advantage of Drew's good mood to test the waters on another subject. “So I was thinking of maybe taking a class.”

A class would serve as an excellent cover for those times when she needed to spend time at Marc's. Feeling as though she were scheming her escape from Alcatraz, she turned to the cupboard and took down two blown crystal wineglasses. Circa 1960, smoky-hued, and striped with 24 karat gold, the set of six had been a housewarming present picked out by her and paid for by Drew. With his drinking escalated to hard liquor, the glasses hadn't gotten much use these last few years. Averting her eyes, she poured out the white wine and handed him the fuller goblet.

“What kind of class?” he finally asked. He took his wine and the carryout bag and headed into the main room, leaving her to follow.

Passing by the pantry closet, she caught Cat's meow. He must have heard their voices and awoken.

Drew looked back at her from where he'd plopped down on the sofa. “What was that?”

Honey's heart thudded. “What was what?”

Scowling, he tilted his head to the side. “I thought I heard a cat.”

“Oh, that,” Honey said, striving to smooth out any tremble from her tone. “The neighbor may have mentioned something about getting a kitten.”

He turned away toward the TV but not before she spotted him scowling. “Well, she'd fucking better keep it quiet, or else I'm complaining to the management company. With the rent I pay on this place, I'm not going to put up with the building being turned into some kind of pet hotel.” He slugged down a gulp of the wine. “A cat, Jesus. Where's the rat poison when you really need it?”

Rushing across the room, Honey picked up the TV remote. “Why don't you relax and watch something while I set dinner out?”

She turned it on and punched the volume-up arrow several times. Takeout dinner with minimal conversation (for them both), scotch (for him), and sex (also for him), Honey had their “date night” drill down pat. If only she could find a way to speed things up. Cat would need to eat in another two hours. She needed to get Drew out in time before hunger prompted the kitten to start crying in earnest.

“Not so fast.” Drew swiveled to look back at her. “What kind of class?”

Of all the times, did he really have to pick tonight to finally show some interest in her as a person? She shrugged, as though she was still figuring things out. “Oh, I don't know, maybe something to do with … interior design or—”

He rolled his eyes. “Baby, you're hardly Parsons School material.”

Once the demeaning comment would have prompted tears, but she was past caring what he thought of her. Used to him beating her down emotionally as well as physically, she sometimes felt as if her soul wasn't only scarred—it had grown calluses.

Modulating her tone to meekness, she said, “Well then, what about photography?”

“What about it?”

She shrugged again. “It might be fun to learn to take better pictures.”

One sandy brow lifted. “And who's going to pay for this hobby?”

“I could get some sort of part-time job.”

It was ironic how flipping burgers had once been a fate she'd been willing to do just about anything to avoid. Considering all she'd since done to survive, asking “Fries with that?” no longer seemed like such a monumental humiliation. Instead she'd let herself be seduced into taking the ultimate dead-end job: mistress. She had absolutely no security—no medical benefits, no savings, and no job security. At any time, he could announce he'd grown tired of her and turn her out. Just please, God, let her get her GED first.

Finished with the wine, he got up and went over to the bar to pour himself, what else, a scotch. “Just what kind of … job do you think you could get?”

Even though she was taking positive steps to fix things, she mentally kicked herself for not sticking around Omaha long enough to complete high school. New York wasn't going anywhere. Another few months of living under Sam's tyranny wouldn't have mattered in the long run. But all the shit going down at home took its toll. Her grades bottomed out. Being held back and made to repeat her sophomore year had badly battered her self-confidence. Instead of finishing, she'd fled, arriving in the Big Apple with no diploma and no job skills. GED or not, she wasn't qualified to do anything lucrative, at least nothing legal. Getting her feet wet in the workforce with a part-time job wasn't just about money. It was about freedom. Like her weekly FATE meet-up, a job would be a safe haven, an outside place where Drew couldn't control or intrude.

“Oh, I don't know, darling, something in retail, perhaps. It would just be a few days a week.”

“A few days a week!”

So much for his good mood! Feeling her panic kick in, she hurried to smooth things over. “Drew,
please
, forget I ever mentioned anything.”

“I provide you with—” he flung his open arms wide, presumably to encompass the bounty of the apartment “—all this, anything you want, and still it's not enough.”

He slammed the glass down, sending scotch lopping the sides. The wet ring would leave a permanent stain on the wood if it wasn't wiped up. Were she a normal woman in a normal relationship with a normal man, she would have whisked away the spillage and reminded him to use a coaster, all without worry of being backhanded—or worse. Her situation was nothing if not ironic. Growing up, she'd yearned for a glamorous life, an existence far removed from the tool-belt-wearing brute her mother had married. Being poor and getting hit had seemed to go together, like Forrest Gump's peas and carrots. Looking back, she supposed it made sense that
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
had been her favorite show even if she had watched it in syndication.

But now she knew that brutes came from all walks of life, from those living below the poverty line to others pulling in eight-figure salaries. She no longer yearned for “champagne wishes and caviar dreams,” but a normal life where she felt loved and cherished, respected and safe.

Normalcy was what she had with Marc. It was impromptu picnics in the park, and picking out kitten toys together, and squabbling over how long he had to stand posing. Meeting Drew's glaring gaze, she was yet again struck by the contrast to Marc. His eyes were hazel, thickly lashed, and deeply kind—so kind that even after several months, Honey sometimes still found it difficult to meet them. More than anything, those eyes told her what kind of man he was, the kind of man who might have been hers if only she'd had the character and courage to hold out for him.

“If I find that you've pawned so much as one piece of the jewelry I've bought you over the years—”

“I would never part with a piece of it.”

That was another lie—a whopper. Though she hadn't sold anything yet, she had gone so far as to take a few of the glitzier pieces to be appraised. High-end jewelry was touted as an investment—until you went to sell it. Once she left, pawning her jewelry would be a stop-gap measure, a way to keep the wolf from the door for a few months at most—long enough to figure out her life?

The house buzzer had Honey whipping around. Who could it be? Other than Drew, no one ever came over, especially not Marc, not after that first day.

Drew followed her to the call panel. “That would be Frank,” he said, shifting her aside.

“Frank?”

He nodded. “Frank Dawes, a work buddy of mine who really wants to meet you.”

*

“Honey, meet my main man, Frank. Frank, this is Honey.”

Paunchy, red-eyed, and wearing the remains of his dark hair in a Donald Trump comb over, Frank openly ogled her. “Wow, Drew, she's all you said and more.”

Honey knew that look—and she knew she didn't like it. Behind the scenes, finance guys, so-called suits, were ruder than any construction worker. Wolf whistles and cat calls were at least honest. Men like Drew and Frank weren't only skanky—they were shameless hypocrites.

“Figures Ole Drew here would keep you all to himself,” Frank went on, jabbing Drew with his elbow. “You always were a selfish son of a bitch, Winterthur.”

He had that much right.

Drew grinned back. “Consider this me making it up to you.”

Honey marveled at the uncharacteristic joviality. Always so touchy with her, Drew certainly seemed to take his colleague's ribbing in stride.

Frank peeled off his suit jacket, handing it to Honey to hang. “You give me this, and we're even.”

So they'd struck some sort of deal or, more probably, a bet, and Drew apparently had lost. Stomach sinking, she wondered what he'd wagered. Searching for clues, she glanced over to him, but for once he couldn't seem to look her in the eye.

“I'm going out for a while,” he announced, his gaze on the apartment door. “I promised to pick up some … stuff for the kids.”