Not Your Everyday Housewife (7 page)

“What kind of nurse?”

“ER.”

“Do you like it?”

Ah, the proverbial question. “No, actually, I hate it.”

“Then why don’t you do something else?”

“Because I have responsibilities.”
Children, a husband, a baby...

“Don’t you deserve to be happy?”

It was the casualness in his voice that really irritated her. She jerked her head up and glared at him from the mirror. “Spoken like a person who has nothing to worry about but himself. And who said I wasn’t happy? I’m fine. Perfect.”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, his face serious. A second passed, two, then his lips slid into an easy smile and he said, “Live and let live, huh? Let’s see what we can do with this color.” He lifted the bottom strands of undyed hair. “Your natural color is a mix of strawberries and oranges. Why would you want to be Liz Taylor when you are so clearly Ann Margaret?”

Cyn flipped a page of
Good Housekeeping
, stared at the forty-something woman holding a shiny frying pan in one hand and a bottle of Dawn in the other. Victory smeared the woman’s face.

As if life’s challenges could be determined by scouring pans and dish detergents. Cyn flipped another page.

A distinguished, fifty-something, professor-type male face stared back at her from the top of an article entitled, “Blessing or Curse: The Truth About Online Trading.”

Next page. “Are You Addicted to the Internet?” by Dr. Ralph Laminger.
It starts out innocently enough. People want to connect with the outside world in the comfort of their homes. They can engage in nameless, faceless pursuit, where, with the click of a button, they share secrets, thoughts, hopes and dreams all via a computer modem. For these people, life away from the computer blurs, and the only palpable existence is the one connected to a keyboard, a mouse, and a cursor.

Until, one day, the computer isn’t enough.

Cyn slammed the magazine shut, sucked in several gulps of sea air.

“Damn, I’m glad I’m not that magazine right now.” Derry stood in front of her, wearing a red bikini top and short, cropped white shorts. “What’s got you so pissed?”

“Nothing. I was swatting a bee.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was, and he almost got me.” She hated lying, but the truth was an even bigger lie.

“Okay, whatever you say.” Derry sank into the rocking chair next to her. “What are you working on?”

“Just making a few notes.”

“Like?”

“Nothing important. Just little reminders.”

Derry snatched the notepad from Cyn’s hand and read, “‘Pick up slacks at cleaners. Remove meatballs and sauce from freezer and place on dish towel on kitchen counter. Take out recyclables.’ What the hell is this?”

“I just had a few things I wanted to tell Sam and the girls before I forgot.”

Derry flipped to the previous page. “‘Remind Kiki of midnight curfew. Stay up until she gets home. Janie has a one o’clock hair appointment on Saturday. Coach Finley needs volunteers for next month’s competition.’ Cyn,
what are you doing?
”

“I can’t just totally abandon them, Derry. I’m not like you. I have to take care of these things.”

“And if you don’t, then what? Is Sam going to fall apart? Are the girls going to shrivel up?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what? Are you afraid if you let go, they might actually make it without you and then you won’t be so indispensable?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”
Yes?
“I know they need me. I just feel a little guilty for leaving them, that’s all.”

“Christ, Cyn.” Derry fell back into the rocking chair beside her. “
This is your time.
You should be figuring out what you want to do with your life instead of making friggin’ lists. Haven’t you done anything these last three days?”

“I tried.” Snips of agony pinched her voice as she confessed, “But I can’t stop thinking about them and feeling guilty. And then Kiki called and asked me where I put the lint brush, and—”

“They’re calling you for shit like that?”

“She needed to brush her sweater.”

“No. No, Cyn.”

“Don’t you miss Charlie and Alec? Don’t you want to still be part of their lives?”

Derry flipped her sunglasses over her eyes and leaned back in the rocker. She might be pretending to relax, but she wasn’t. Cyn could tell by the way she gripped the rocker’s arms.
She misses them, even if she won’t admit it.

“Derry?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think about it. I talk to Charlie every night, ask him about school, if he ate all his peas and broccoli and did his Grandma Vivien read him
Good Night, Moon
.”

“What about Alec?”

“What about him? He knows this is a break, he doesn’t expect to talk to me.”

“Do you expect to talk to him?”

“This really falls into the ‘no psycho-drama bullshit’ we talked about avoiding.”

“I think of it as more like a friend talking to a friend.”

Derry lifted her face to the sun. “I haven’t called Alec, and he hasn’t called me. Okay?”

“If Charlie were
your
biological child, would you have told Alec, knowing how hard the two of you were trying to have a baby?”

“Don’t make what he did all right, Cyn.”

“I’m not, but sometimes people do the wrong things for the right reasons.”
I should know.

“Cyn, really?”

“Okay, he should have told you but I can see why he didn’t. He never even knew he was Charlie’s father, Derry, not until the woman showed up two years ago.”

“That’s what I can’t take, Cyn. Marriage is supposed to be about trust, isn’t it?”

“He was afraid.”

“The irony is that he’s the only man I ever trusted. What’s that say about me, huh? Not a very good judge of character, I guess.”

“You’re going to have to get past this.”

“Or not.” She jumped up from the rocker and stretched. “End of discussion. What’s your ‘something new for the day’?”

“Tula Rae’s going to show me how to make spring rolls. You?”

Derry checked her Rolex. “Earl Gray is picking me up in forty minutes to go check his lobster pots.”

Earl was Tula Rae’s beau, half Jamaican, half black, half her age. Okay, maybe not quite half, but at least three quarters.

“Where’s Shea?”

“Who knows?” Derry fluffed her bleached hair with her fingers. “Probably waiting for that asshole to call.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “Do you know she called Tanya Madison’s house last night?”

“Oh, God. No wonder she didn’t come back downstairs last night.”

“You thought it was because of the poker?”

“And the cigars.”

“Did you see Tula Rae going to town?”

“After the fifth puff, it wasn’t bad.”

“See? The next time Sam takes you out to celebrate, tell him you’ll bring the cigars.”

Cyn laughed and said, “I’m sure he’d appreciate that at his next dinner party.”

“Who knows? Pass them out at the door like party favors. You could start a new trend. Hey, why should men have all the fun?”

“I could just make up little goody bags, a cigar, matches, mints for later...”

“Might as well throw in a condom or two while you’re at it.”

“Derry, yuk. Not in my house.”

“You think nobody’s ever done it during one of your blowout Christmas parties? Check the bathroom garbage next time for condoms and goopy, crumpled up tissues, but wear gloves.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

“Any time. Listen, you get going on your list for
yourself
, and I’m going to find Earl Gray.”

“What about Shea? Should we check on her?”

“Give her time.” Derry’s smile slipped. “It’s not easy to face up to the end.”

***

Tanya Madison’s words leached into Shea’s brain, infusing her belly with the unimaginable.
I’m pregnant, Shea. With Richie’s baby
.

Richie?
Couldn’t she at least have the class to call him Richard, or even Rich?

Wouldn’t Derry have a blast with this one? Maybe Shea and Tanya could get a joint discount on baby announcements. Pink cigars, blue cigars, Hershey bars two for one. Why not?

Shea wandered along Main Street, peeking in shop windows, trying to decide what she should eat. She wasn’t hungry, hadn’t eaten since Tula Rae’s shrimp gumbo last night, but there was the baby to consider. She glanced up and spotted a very pregnant brunette sharing an ice-cream cone with her husband. Then again, maybe he
wasn’t
her husband. Shea looked away, right at another very pregnant woman, this one a blonde, who waddled along wearing a jean jumper and flip flops.

She eyed the man walking with the jean jumper blonde.
Is she your wife?
she wanted to ask.
Do you know some men get their wives
and
their girlfriends pregnant? You didn’t know? It’s true.

What was she going to tell Kyle and Kirsten? They hated Richard and they hated the idea of a little brother or sister. Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell them for a while, at least until she started showing. But what if Richard never came home? What if he cleaned out his closet and moved in with Tanya?

What a mess. All she’d ever wanted was a normal home, and now look.

Her thoughts were on her pathetic predicament and the uselessness of her life when she noticed a sign with a bright green arrow pointing down a side street that read,
Music and More
. The name intrigued her and she forgot her woes for the moment as she followed the arrow and turned onto a brick pathway. It led to a storefront that housed acoustic guitars, clarinets, violas, pianos, saxophones, all poignant reminders of a past she’d loved and abandoned. The inside proved as captivating as the window—a white Baby Grand piano, a cello, stacks and stacks of music, and in the corner on a red velvet cloth, a flute. She drifted toward the flute, pulled back to age sixteen when she’d been first chair and the music teacher, Mr. Senstren, told her parents Shea McMichael was going somewhere.

But she’d become a nurse instead. And the tragedy of it all was she didn’t even remember why. Shea fingered the flute, moved her mouth in mute imitation.

“Do you play?”

Shea swung around toward the familiar voice, only to find Marcus from Franco’s Salon behind her.

“I…uh, I used to.” She backed away and almost rammed into the flute. “Not anymore.”

He reached around her and lifted the flute from the velvet cloth. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

His fingers were long, graceful, an artist’s fingers. Shea nodded, said nothing.

“Here.” He extended the flute to her. “Try it out if you like.”

“No.” She tucked her hands into her pockets. “I don’t even remember where to place my fingers.”

He lifted the flute, positioned it to the side of his face and played a few notes from Beethoven’s,
Fur Elise
. “I could teach you.”

His eyes were so darn blue. “I…there’s no point. I got rid of my flute years ago.” Sold it to buy her first husband’s wedding ring. Good investment there.

Marcus shrugged and set the flute back on the velvet cloth. “How about the piano?” he asked, playing a few chords on the Baby Grand. “Or the guitar?”

“Do you work here?”

“Kind of. I own this place.”

“But…you’re a hair cutter. Aren’t you?”

“Can’t a person do more than one thing?”

“Usually, they just have one profession and everything else is a hobby. So, which is which?”

His laugh clung to her like warm vanilla. “That’s such old-fashioned rhetoric. Surely, you don’t believe that.”

She blushed. “No, of course not. I was just making an observation.”

“You know red heads can’t lie, don’t you? Their faces turn as red as their hair.” He played a few notes on the piano. “It’s okay. When I first opened the store the whole town thought I was crazy.”

“And now?”

“Now they think I’m crazy to keep doing hair.”

“But you’re very good at it and everyone seems to love you.”

“It’s not about what other people want me to do.” He held her gaze until she looked away. “For now, cutting hair provides the means to run this place. That’s it. Music is for my soul.”

Shea stared at the toe of her sandal, uncomfortable with his honesty, but more uncomfortable that she lacked similar conviction. “I wish I felt that way about something.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.”

“I’m a nurse because my mother was a nurse, my grandmother was a nurse, and I wrote an essay in high school that won me a thousand dollar scholarship to a healthcare profession of my choice.” She let out a high, nervous laugh. “I hate the smell of hospitals. I don’t even really like taking care of patients. I’m good at it, but”—she met his gaze, willing this stranger to understand—“but I’ve never liked it.”

“You need to find something that lights you up.”

“And lose my wardrobe!” She plucked the sleeve of her green scrubs. “That’s thousands of dollars right there.”

“You’re a very attractive woman, Shea Donovan, and you shouldn’t be hiding under a green tent.”

“I like these clothes. They’re functional, cheap, and they hide a multitude of sins.”

“They’re horrible.”

“Well, thank you,” she said, her face burning.

“Let me work with you. We could find the right colors for you. The most flattering styles—”

“I’m not a project. I don’t need fixing.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What way did you mean it? Let me help you because you’re a fat, middle-aged woman in need of an overhaul?”

“Of course not.”

“I like myself just the way I am and I don’t care that some instrument playing
hair cutter
finds me offensive. My husband can’t stand the sight of me either. Maybe that’s why he’s living with his girlfriend, whom I might add, is pregnant. I’m pregnant too, and I am so not in the mood for this shit, so just back off and leave me alone!”