Totlandia: Spring (2 page)

Instead, the traitor had the audacity to smile triumphantly at her…

And to hand Bettina
a paddle
, implying that she used it on Art.

Art liked to be beaten? How disgusting!

How tempting.

As Bettina stepped into the
Ooh Là Là
French Cleaners to pick up her Irish lace lingerie and Lily’s ballet skirts, she was almost afraid of what else the voice would say to her. Would it chastise her for being oblivious to the crumbling state of her marriage? Would it hint at other disasters to come?

Would it remind her that, had their roles been reversed, Bettina would have blackmailed Lorna?

But no, this time the little voice’s counsel was inspiring. “Don’t forget.
You are Bettina Connaught-Cross
. Your people made their fortunes during the San Francisco Gold Rush. You got rid of Kelly. Without the club, she’s nothing. You’re married to a partner in one of the city’s most prestigious financial firms. Now you have something you can hold over him. You’ve founded a club in which other women fight to join. And you can also keep Lorna from betraying you by pretending to give her the only thing she ever wanted from you…acceptance.”

By the time the
Ooh Là Là
’s clerk handed Bettina the hangers holding her lingerie, she felt invincible again.

She was just about to walk out the door when she noticed she was missing something. “Excuse me, but my claim ticket included my daughter’s ballet skirts.”

The clerk’s blank stare earned her a snarl from Bettina. “I don’t have all day. Go back and find them. Chop chop!”

The woman scurried away. Within five minutes, the line for pick-ups was out the door. The grumbling from the store’s other patrons might have earned them an apology from anyone else, but not Bettina. Lily’s tiny chiffon wraparound skirts were priceless, not just because they had been specially fitted and imported from Paris, but because of the joy it gave her precious child.

Finally, the clerk reappeared, box in hand. Bettina practically ripped it from her. She lifted off the lid, perused its contents, and slammed it shut again. “What are you trying to pull? These aren’t my daughter’s!”

“But…you said ballet skirts!” To prove her point, the woman lifted the lid and pulled out a tiny pink skirt.

Bettina glared at the woman. “Yes, but my four-year-old would never wear
pink
! She is serious about her art. Her skirts are black.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t seem to have them.”

“If you don’t, it’s because you’ve carelessly handed them over to someone else. Or maybe you’ve sold them. I presume, then, you know how much they’re worth.”

The clerk shrugged. She’d had enough of Bettina’s guff. Considering she also had a wrestler’s girth while Bettina sported a minus-two frame in designer couture, no doubt if push came to shove, she could take Bettina three out of three times.

Instead, she pointed to the sign over the doorway, which read:

THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS NOT RESPONSIBE FOR ANY LOST, STOLEN, OR DAMAGED ITEMS.

Bettina crooked a finger at the woman. The clerk hesitated, but the rumbling from the restless crowd left her no choice but to lean closer. The room went dead silent as Bettina declared, “If I find out you’ve given my daughter’s skirts to some other little girl, I
will
hunt you down. No matter where you go tonight after you leave this dreary little job—to the Mission, perhaps? The Outer Richmond or the Tendernob? No matter. I will follow you to your slum hovel. And when the time comes for you to pick up your measly belongings and make the inevitable move in your little hobo existence, I will find you. Look over your shoulder because I will be there, too, making your life miserable.
I. Will. Haunt. You
.”

The woman didn’t shudder in fear or even blink.

Instead, she smiled.

Then she tapped her nose with her middle finger.

The crowd behind Bettina roared with laughter and applause.

Despite this, Bettina walked out with her head held high.

She waited until she was a block away before collapsing onto the doorstep of a Victorian walkup.

I’ve lost it,
Bettina thought as she sobbed.
I’ve lost everything! If I can’t scare a dry cleaning clerk, how will I be able to keep the PHM&T members in line?

Worse yet, how would she break the news to Lily that she’d lost the little girl’s most prized possessions?

Despite the pep talk from her internal voice, the discovery of Art’s affair had devastated her. Most assuredly, the upheaval in her life was
his
fault. To top it off, he wasn’t even an attorney. If he had been, she could have at least threatened to sue the cleaners for every dime it was worth.

The sorrow and the pity of her predicament left her hollow. Or maybe it was the fact she hadn’t eaten all morning. She craved something. Appreciation, perhaps. Love, most definitely. No, something else…

Cake.

She remembered passing a bakery just a block up on Union Street.

While she baked Martha Stewart-worthy delicacies for her family, all of her life she had eschewed sweets, knowing full well that allowing even one tempting morsel to cross her lips would wreak havoc on her mannequin-thin frame.

To hell with that. She was always sacrificing for others. Marrying Art had been a sacrifice. Having a child had almost sacrificed her figure, but she discovered a Method Nazi to whip her quickly back into shape within a month. And she couldn’t count the number of sacrifices she’d made for PHM&T.

So why should she care if no one else did?

Bettina practically ran to the bakery.

“A cupcake, please. The chocolate one, there.” Bettina jabbed her finger at the top shelf of the glass bakery case.

The jacked twenty-something manboy behind the bakery counter did a double-take. “You mean the carob ‘pupcake’ right? And like I said, it’s carob, not chocolate. Cocoa can kill your dog. Your breeder should have told you that.”

Bettina frowned. “
Dog?
No, the cupcake is for me, and I’d like a chocolate one.”

The clerk laughed appreciatively. “Yeah, I know! The stuff in here looks good enough to eat, doesn’t it? Take a peek at this one.” He pulled a cake box off the shelf behind him and held it open for her. The round cake’s caramel-hued icing had been whipped into stiff waves and was inscribed:
Happy Birthday, Wags!

For the first time since New Year’s Eve, Bettina laughed out loud.

She turned back around to read the signpost protruding from the shop’s bay window:

She took a good look around the shop. Her mistake was an easy one to make. Small tables bore trays of what looked like bonbons and cookies. One open box was labeled “ruffles” and held what could have easily passed for chocolate truffles. Tins of delicacies that looked like biscotti and bags of tiny pretzels filled the shelves along its sweet pink- and coco-hued striped walls.

Granted, the number of patrons with fluffy little dogs tucked lovingly in the crux of their arms should have been a giveaway, but this was San Francisco, where pet-friendly merchants were the rule, not the exception. And in most cases, four-legged friends were treated better than some people.

Deservedly so was Bettina’s opinion.

The clerk’s grin was tantalizingly flirtatious. “Still want that pupcake?”

No,
she thought.
Instead, I want someone to play with, someone to cuddle.

Someone worthy of my love and devotion. I want someone who will love me unconditionally. And forever.

“Maybe,” she answered him in the coy, breathy voice she hadn’t used in ages.

Not since she’d set her sights on Art.

I sure know how to choose ’em, don’t I?
she thought, as the vision of Art rose in her head.

Yes, it was Art alright.
Making lust to Kelly.

Right then and there, she decided she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

At that moment, a man walked into the shop. The dog with him was a grand beast, long-snouted, tall, with a massive chest and a thick, bushy coat, the color of rust. Had it not been walking on all fours, it could have passed for a bear.

Bettina glanced at the clerk. As tempting as he was, males with four legs were much more loyal than those with two.

And easier to discipline—and neuter.

As for getting a female dog, no way. Bettina knew there was room for only one bitch in the Cross household.

Bettina honored the clerk with a come-hither smile. “I’ll need a puppy first, won’t I? So, tell me. Where do you think I’d find one like that big boy over there?”

The clerk nodded appreciatively. “Caligula? Yeah, he’s a beaut, alright! A Tibetan mastiff. In fact, I know his breeder. And you’re in luck. Mama’s got a litter due any day now.”

Bettina watched as he scribbled a name on one of the bakery’s order forms. His fingers were large and thick.

Nothing like Art’s.

But as tempting as the manboy was, Bettina knew a puppy was a much better way to go.

Less
merde
to clean up after.

Besides, she couldn’t wait to tell Lily they were getting a dog. It wouldn’t make up for the lost ballet skirts, but hey, it was time Lily learned that life was filled with tradeoffs.

The newest members of the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club were about to learn that as well. In hindsight, the Onesie members’ initiation had been a cakewalk. Why else would Lorna have made it through and with flying colors?

Well, no more pussyfooting around. It was time to make the Onesies members prove they were truly worthy of the honor of belonging to PHM&T!

And Art would learn his lesson, too, most certainly the hard way.

The paddle in Bettina’s purse was just one of the ways she could prove her point.

F
riday, 4 January

8:14 a.m.

“What do you mean I don’t qualify for unemployment benefits?” Jillian Frederick’s hand was shaking so hard she could barely hold the phone to her ear.

It had taken her almost an hour to get more than an automated voice on the line, someone who could actually answer her questions about how to file a claim. Within that hour, her cell phone beeped because its battery was low. To top it off, someone had just texted her. No doubt the waiting text was zapping her juice as well.

“Sorry, my dear, but them’s the breaks.” The Unemployment Office clerk practically yawned in Jillian’s ear. “You worked for, like what…two months? And for minimum wage at that. What did you expect?”

“My husband left me and our two babies a few months ago. It was the only job I could find!”

“Seriously, hon, I feel for you. But I’m not Dear Abby, and the Unemployment Office isn’t your parents’ ATM.”

“This is an emergency! I may lose my house! I supported my husband through college, so I’m sure my benefits from back then still count, don’t they? Listen, can you check and see how far back you can go?”

Just then one-year-old Amelia yanked a branch of the Christmas tree so hard that three glass ornaments fell and cracked. Both she and her twin sister, Addison, wailed in union.

As Jillian scooped both girls up into her arms to cuddle them before they grabbed at the glass shards, the cell phone fell out of her hand, hitting the cold marble floor with a loud
crack
.

“Oh my God! Are you—are you okay?” Jillian could barely hear her own voice over her daughters’ wails.

“I think you broke my eardrum,” the clerk finally retorted.

“I’m so sorry! One of my daughters almost pulled down our Christmas tree.” Jillian was trying with all her might to keep the tears out of her voice. “Listen, isn’t there any way to find out if those benefits are still good?”

“Yeah sure. What’s your maiden name?”

“McKeever.”

“I’ll check. Let me put you on hold again.”

“
Hold?
Oh my God, no! My phone battery is dying, and I was on hold for forty minutes before I reached you! Can’t you just call me back?
Wait
!”

But it was too late. She was being serenaded by a symphonic version of the Black-Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.”

Frustrated, Jillian fell back onto the couch. The drop in altitude left the toddlers giggling. They smacked Jillian’s face as if that would relieve her too-early-in-the-morning exhaustion. She sighed, forced her lips into a smile and wiped the tears from her eyes before opening them.

Truth be told, even if she hadn’t been canned, Jillian’s credit card bills were mounting so fast that no amount of generous tips could’ve saved her. She was now four months behind on her SUV’s payments. She hid the car in the alley behind her house so she could dodge the repo man who kept knocking on the door. As it was, she barely used the damn thing, except for Costco and Wal-Mart runs. Having rammed it repeatedly into the Porsche of her philandering soon-to-be ex, Scott, her car’s bumper now scraped her front wheels on tight turns.

Last week she had just managed to scrape together the money to pay the gas and electric bill. To keep them under fifty dollars a month, she closed off the vents in every room of her rambling mansion on Pacific Street except for the kitchen and the nursery, where for the most part Addison and Amelia slept and played, or burned used paperbacks in the old home’s fireplaces.

She had traded the convenience of her pricey local Whole Foods and the neighborhood grocery markets on Union, Polk, and Chestnut streets for Chinatown’s vegetable markets, where produce could be purchased for less than half the price.

The thought of collecting unemployment benefits shamed her. But it was going on three weeks since she lost her job, and she had to do something, anything.

She was too proud to give up the home she had so lovingly restored. Further, it would have been one more intolerable defeat at the hands of her two-timing husband.

A commotion coming from the alley behind her house roused her from where she sat prostrate on the couch. She picked up both girls before walking to the window, just in time to see her SUV being hoisted onto a flatbed truck.