Skeletons in the Closet (3 page)

“Francesca!” Mrs. Kline snapped at the newcomer. “Your behavior is completely inappropriate. What on Earth do you think you are doing?”

Francesca flipped a scarlet tress off her glistening forehead. “Having fun, Sandra. You should try it some time.” She turned her back on a seething Mrs. Kline and smiled at me.

“Francesca Carmichael, but please call me Frannie.” She extended the hand that wasn’t clutching her shoes.

“Maggie Phillips. I’m pleased to meet you, Frannie.”

“Phillips?” Are you related to the beefcake with the stellar glutes?

That would be Neil and his butt. I nodded. “He’s my husband.”

Frannie didn’t look surprised in the slightest, which soothed my battered pride.

“Your boys are adorable. I could eat them up.” She eyed me more closely. “They seem to take after your husband.”

How right she was. “They’re his children from his first marriage.” Don’t ask me why I felt the need to clarify this. I’d raised Kenny from infancy and Josh from diapers, and in every way that counted, the boys belonged to me.

Her smile appeared genuine and made her even more strikingly beautiful.

Here’s the thing about gorgeous people. You can easily separate them into two categories. First, there are the nice ones, who will mingle with us mere mortals without condescension. They’re the types who are beautiful inside and out like a double-layer chocolate cake. Then, there are the attractive people who believe their looks set them apart from the rest of us. I call them the cow pies because the golden brown exterior doesn’t make up for the fact that they’re filled with their own…. 

“Francesca is my sister,” Mrs. Kline’s disapproving tone cut across my inner monologue.

Sylvia didn’t miss a beat. “Well then, Francesca, you can talk your sister into hiring Maggie here to be her new cleaning service.”

   
“
What!
”
Conversation dimmed around us, and my outrage took on a banshee-like quality.

“Actually, I think that is a terrific idea,” Francesca said as if she hadn’t heard me. For all I knew, my outrage had hit that pitch reserved for dog whistles so perhaps she hadn’t.

Mrs. Kline eyeballed me with that same expression Neil had when picking out major appliances: concern for efficiency overridden by boredom.

“Sylvie, could I speak to you for a moment, over there?” I jerked my head toward an unoccupied corner. Good thing she hadn’t started this when we stood in Mr. Kline’s office because I felt the need for a torture device or two.

“Come on, Maggie, this place needs a little livening up.” Frannie tossed back her head and gave Mrs. Kline a knowing look. “Sandra, you know you will never be satisfied with that cleaning service because they can’t get here until after ten and they won’t work weekends. Maggie here is perfect. She could be, like, on call for you.”

I sputtered at the indignity. An on call cleaning lady? What the hell was that?
A maid?
A freaking business degree in hand, and these people wanted me to scrub their
toilets
?

“You know, Francesca, you should really settle your own affairs before nosing into mine,” Mrs. Kline said a little too sweetly.

“Truly, Sandra, I have no interest in your
affairs
.” The double entendre hung in the air, punctuated by Frannie’s arched eyebrow. We were in a seriously hot passive-aggressive kill zone, and I looked frantically around for Neil and the kids, hoping to make my excuses and leave this mental institution before someone showed up with the straightjackets and decided I fit right in.

Mrs. Kline had taken over my irate sputtering, and I wondered if a vein throbbed between my eyes when I did that. Her anger overruled her Botox treatments, and I thought I saw some fine lines.

“My dear, is something wrong?” Doug Kline put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she snapped her mouth closed. Her gaze shot Scud missiles at Frannie before turning to me.

“Be here Thursday at nine sharp.”

“
I
won’t do it Sylvia; I won’t be some plebeian servant to Mr. Nut-ball and Mrs. Stick-wedged-so-far-up-her-ass-it-tickles-her-esophagus.” I shook the sweatshirt I was folding so it made a vicious crack and knocked a lampshade off kilter.

Sylvia straightened the shade without comment. The early afternoon calm of my house, sans boys or Neil, contrasted my chaotic mood.

“I mean it, Sylvie, I’m not going.”

“All right,” Sylvia said.

“What do you mean
all right
? How can I possibly blow them off after that scene last night? I have to go; you made damn sure of that.”

“Then go.” Mother Teresa couldn’t have been more serene. That’s what five hours of yoga a day will get you.

“I can’t go! I have to make lunch for the boys and put them on the bus, and Neil works a full day on Thursday, so I have to pick them up after school and take them to karate.”

“Make their lunch the night before and get them up before you leave. They’re old enough to get themselves on the bus, and you’ll be right up the road if they need you for anything. And you’ll be done in plenty of time to pick them up for karate.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? Well answer this: why did you do it? Why did you throw me to the wolves like this? And not just the wolves, but the starving rabid wolves!” I had given up on the laundry and used my hands to illustrate my anger.

“I can see why you were voted most dramatic in your senior class.”

“So can a blind man, but that isn’t an answer.”

“You need something beyond this house, Maggie.”

I took one of those calming yoga breaths, but it ended up as more of a wheeze. “I have you and Eric. I have my family. Look, I appreciate what it is you’re trying to accomplish here, but I’m not in danger of Empty Nest Syndrome anytime soon.”

“Face facts, Maggie, you’re bored and depressed.” If there had been any sympathy in her voice I might have strangled her with Neil’s jock strap. Sylvia remained calm, as if stating fact, a slim, blonde, all-knowing Buddha trying to better mankind. And it appeared she was starting with me. Neil sometimes takes a similar approach, and it drives me friggin’ bananas. There’s nothing worse than seeing the craziness in a calm person as they ask for something completely ridiculous and then to have them look at you as if you’re a shovel shy of a tool shed.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” I warned Sylvia in my most lucid voice.

“You’re overreacting,” Mahatma Gandhi informed me.

I clenched my jaw. “I do
not
overreact!” That was a flat out lie. I make time in my day to overreact. Overreacting keeps my head from exploding.

I picked up the laundry basket and stomped down the hall to my bedroom, hoping Sylvia took the hint. Even though I’d only known her for six months, Sylvia was the kind of friend I really appreciated. She didn’t create unnecessary drama, like some of the navy wives I’d known. (I know what you’re thinking, that I admitted to overreacting on a regular basis, but that is necessary drama. Remember the whole exploding cranium bit.) She always told me her opinion, even at the risk of my feelings. If I looked truly horrible in a new outfit, Sylvia would tell me, without hesitation or spectacle. She lets me know where I stand, and I usually appreciated it.

But not this time.

I still felt shanghaied from the night before. Bad enough everyone on the street had seen Mrs. Kline begrudgingly offer me a job I didn’t want it to look like she was doing me a favor. Getting out of the house and making more money would be nice, but I’d hoped to find something a little less demeaning. It wasn’t like I thought the cleaning position was beneath me. I may be a little touched in the head but I love to clean. Not if it meant being treated like a second-class citizen, however well I would be compensated.

I shoved Neil’s boxers and sweat socks into the dresser and unloaded my undergarments into another drawer.

Sylvia appeared in the doorway. “Look, I have a class at one-thirty, so I have to head out. I didn’t mean to upset you, Maggie. I thought you might need a push out the door.”

I stowed my under things and turned to her. “Just tell me this, Sylvie, why them? You were in the room with me last night; you saw the freak show in Armani. Why would you want me to deal with that?”

Sylvia grinned. “At least you wouldn’t be bored. Not to mention, there aren’t too many decent paying jobs in the area right now. It would be a place to start.”

I nodded. Truth was, I didn’t have much in the way of options. My business degree gathered dust in the garage, mostly because I lacked the killer instinct necessary in business. Most of the positions I did qualify for didn’t leave me with the option of being home for my family. I’m an old fashioned girl at heart. My mom had worked in our school lunchroom so she would be free to put her family first, and I prided myself on following in her footsteps.

I walked Sylvia to the front door. She turned and gave me a quick hug. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll call you later.”

“Talk to you later.” I shut the door and watched her
cross our scraggly patch of lawn to her own pristine one before driving
off in her sporty white Mustang convertible. A sigh escaped my lips. Sylvia was the type of friend I couldn’t help but envy. Completely happy with her life, herself, and the people around her. Sylvia embodied what all women wanted to be. I made a habit of counting my blessings, but there were times where I felt less than content.

The phone trilled, and I scooped the portable from the charger.

“Hello?”

“Maggie dear, it’s Laura.”

I swallowed. Laura, a.k.a. Neil’s mother, must be the most intimidating woman on the planet. She’s not the baking, housekeeping type like my mother had been. She had made grown men wet their pants in terror whenever they came up against her in court. Back in the early 70s, she’d been an icon of women’s lib, taking life and coworkers alike by the balls. She’d been some sort of child prodigy, graduating from law school at the tender age of twenty-two. She’d gotten pregnant, and the gravy train had come to an abrupt halt—and she never let Neil or Ralph forget it. Years of cutthroat practice had killed any sense of humor or tenderness the woman ever possessed. To Laura Phillips, my idea of home and hearth was “positively primitive”.

“How are you, Laura?” I kept my voice low and steady because Neil had advised me time and again to show no fear. His mother could smell weakness, even over AT&T.

“Terrible dear, simply dreadful. I have this baboon’s ass of a CEO trying to tell me how to do my job. It’s bad enough that he thinks he knows how to manage a business and runs the company into the red on a quarterly basis, and then he argues with me over a leveraged buyout, which is, in fact, his only hope of staving off bankruptcy. I wish I could let loose and tell him exactly what an imbecile he is, but he’s been dumping truckloads of money into the firm and he’s the son of one of our other long-standing clients. He’s incompetent. I know it, his father knows it, and the stockholders know it. But you can’t
say
anything, because he’d take offense. I think I’ll clip out a help wanted ad for the convenience store down the street and mail it to him. Maybe he’ll take the hint.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. Laura didn’t need a response.

“Anyhow, I’m calling because that idiot contractor is taking his sweet time, and the house looks like a third world country, plaster and sawdust everywhere. He promised the renovations would be finished early next week, but we’ve run into problems with the electrician, and I had to fire him. So we’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner at your house.”

“What?” I staggered out the front door and sat down hard on the porch with my back against the railing.

“I know it is last minute, but I’m sure you’re up for the challenge.”

Thanksgiving was ten days away. I looked over at the doormat, deciding I knew how it felt.

“Now, Ralph and I will be there of course, along with two of our regulars and a potential client who is going through a nasty divorce. Ralph thinks we can garner some good will by inviting him. I’m not so sure, he’s quite the hard ass.”

Talk about the pot and the kettle.

“I’ll be faxing Neil the menu and instructions for place settings and a time table. It’s imperative that you stick to the schedule; hungry businessmen are notoriously hard to deal with.”

Neil parked our blue Ford Escort in the driveway. He climbed from behind the wheel and retrieved his gym bag from the back seat. A frown marred his perfect features as he sat next to me. My eyes rolled up in my head, and I leaned against him. He was so much sturdier than the railing. Laura still prattled away about the importance of homemade pie in business dealings, which I found laughable since her idea of homemade was to have her housekeeper, Leopold, prepare said pie.

Neil’s iridescent hazel gaze searched my face. “My mother?” he mouthed.

I nodded. Without another word, he took the phone from my hand.

“Mom? Hi. Sorry to cut you off, but Maggie and I have an important appointment and we have to get going.” He nodded and said a few cursory salutations before hanging up.

“An important appointment?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s the one thing she’s sure to understand. So what’s she done now?”

“I’ve been assigned the task of preparing and hosting Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You always make Thanksgiving dinner.” Point to the sexy man. For the past nine years, I’ve had to prepare Thanksgiving for Neil, Josh, Kenny, and whatever ragtag bunch of wayward SEALs were hanging around. Cooking for a crowd was nothing new for me, but in this case, more was certainly not merrier.

“I have to follow her menu, her timetable, and her seating chart.”

“You could have refused,” Neil pointed out.

I looked at him. “I can’t say no to your mother.” Bigger and better people have tried to say no to Laura Phillips.

“You can’t say no to anyone.” Neil smirked, and I stifled the urge to smack his handsome face. “Face it, Uncle Scrooge, you’re a pushover.”

He was right, but I’d rather stick the car keys in my eye than admit it. “We can’t all be fearless Navy SEALs.”

“Former SEAL, current fearless Intel electronics technician.” No regret in his gaze, much to my relief. It had taken over a year for Neil to accept that his torn rotator cuff injury had ended his career with the SEAL teams. He could have taught—instructing the men who would then go out into the real world and slink through the night, setting bombs and rescuing hostages while he sat behind a desk—but Neil viewed that life as a bitter pill to swallow. Neil had decided to make a clean break. He wanted to spend more time with his family and return to his New England roots. Honestly, I think I was having more trouble transitioning to life post-navy than he was.

“You’ll always be a SEAL, just one whose wife isn’t developing ulcers from worry.”  

“Oh, come on, I could be electrocuted, or hit by a bus, or suffer a heart attack from your fabulous cooking.”

“Or you could be poisoned by your tormented and mentally unhinged wife.”

He laughed and reached out to smooth my hair. “That’s my little sadist. Why can’t you show some of that spunk to my mother? You know she’d appreciate it.”

“Since she is so full of spunk herself?” I let the sarcasm drip.

Neil stood and helped me to my feet. “My mother ferrets out and exploits weakness. The less you show, the happier you’ll be around her.” He squeezed my hand. “I know it’s hard for you, being so near to them now, and I know you don’t understand them. I hope you never do. Just let me know what I can do to make things easier on you.”

“Teach me how to make that SEAL warrior face so I can scare the crap out of Sylvia.”

“She’s still on your case, I take it.”

I sighed. “You know I’m glad I met her because I really don’t know many other people around here, but why she’d do this….” I trailed off, since I was getting sick of my own belly-aching. Neil had listened to me rant for half the night, and I’m sure he’d had enough too.

“Tell me something, Uncle Scrooge, why are you so against the idea? Is it the ambush or is it something else?”

Neil is way too perceptive for my peace of mind.

I led the way into the kitchen, stalling in a most obvious way by sticking my head in the refrigerator. Neil pulled me backwards against his chest. “What is it Maggie? I know something’s bothering you.”