Waltz This Way (v1.1) (6 page)

Mel sank to the captain’s-style kitchen chairs, resting her elbows on the table. If Stan having all the control meant he had his business manager, Jerry, handle everything financial, then, yes, he’d been in control. If never making it her business to know what that included was at best naïve, then stupid her.

Yet in all the years they were married, Stan had never withheld money— he’d never threatened to take away her credit cards because she’d overspent. Though to her credit, she wasn’t much of a shopper to begin with. Her studio had been her passion.

“I think you should stop watching all those talk shows. It’s easy for Oprah to say, ‘Have your own checking account apart from your spouses, ladies’ because Oprah probably owns at least ten financial institutions. It wasn’t like Stan would have told me I couldn’t. I just didn’t feel like I needed control of our finances because Stan never, ever made money an issue.”

And he hadn’t, which made leaving her with nothing so much more painful. She’d been a good wife— supportive, low maintenance.

A real Suzy Sunshine in a world where wives of rich men spent more on Botox injections than they did on a year’s worth of groceries.

“Don’t you defend him, young lady! I think you don’t like hearin’ the truth, but that’s too bad. Twinkle Toes stiffed you the first opportunity he could.” He shook his stout finger at her.

“I …” Yeah. Stan had stiffed her. There was no defense she could summon for the truth. No matter how good he’d been to her in their marriage. In the end, he wasn’t living with her father in a two-bedroom retirement home.

Joe gave her a pointed look. “Exactly. So now you have to go out and get your own life, Mel— and your own checking account—and start all over, but in the process, I don’t want to see you mopin’ around. You never leave the house unless you have to walk Weez or help Maxine at the rec center. I know it’s been tough trying to find a full-time job in this economy with no work skills, and I know you and Maxine have been lookin’, but there are other things you could do in between— things you enjoy.”

She had agreed to let Maxine do some job searches for her and make inquiries into some college courses she might be able to take in order to find a job. God, being broke sucked, and even if she had money, she was still a little fuzzy on how to handle it without Stan’s accountant.

That was another reason she didn’t want to attend any of the group meetings they held at Trophy Jobs, because the titles alone for each self-empowerment class made her feel pathetically naïve.

“Discover Is the Name of a Credit Card— Not a Shopping Journey: How to Establish Credit in Your Newly Single Life Without Falling into the High-Interest Trap.”

“I don’t have any money to spare to enjoy anything right now, Dad. I have just enough to buy Weezer’s food and contribute for some groceries.”

Clearly, her Father was accepting no excuses. “You don’t need money to take a walk in the animal park. You don’t need money to go to those singles get-togethers they have at the VFW hall every month. You don’t need money to dance. But you don’t dance anymore, Mel. I remember when I used to have to climb over you to get past you doing all those stretches in the living room of our old house. I haven’t seen a single stretch since you got here. Won’t you lose all those pretzel moves you do, if you don’t keep those muscles limber?”

Who cared if her muscles stayed limber? She had no students to be limber for. So her muscles could just eff off. “Listen, Mr. Answer for Everything, I’m still trying to adjust to not being half of a couple. Almost all my adult life I’ve been half of a couple. I don’t know how to be any other way. It’s kind of taken the wind out of me, and somewhere along the way, I can’t find a reason to dance, okay? And not a chance I’m going to some singles get-together.”

Her father went to the fridge, pulling out a plate he’d covered in cling wrap. “That’s part of the problem. You’re not supposed to be half of anything. You have to be a whole you all by yourself.” Joe dropped the plate in the microwave and pressed some buttons.

“I think you should quit hanging around Maxine.” Please, please, please quit hanging around Maxine.

“I think you should quit bein’ resentful because she has it together and you don’t,” he retorted with a stern tone and a frown.

Ow. Yet, there was a niggle of truth to what he said, and she found herself resenting the hell out of it. She’d heard all the stories about how Maxine had one-upped her ex-husband and begun her employment agency. She was legend here in the Village, and if Mel was honest with herself, a nice lady and easy to work for. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m being petty.”

“You sure are,” he agreed, dropping the plate of soggy noodles slathered in red sauce in front of her. “Now eat something decent for a change, or you’ll hurt my sensitive feelings. I’ll get your salad.”

Mel twirled her fork in the pasta and, while her father wasn’t looking, held it under the table for Jake, and then Weezer.

You couldn’t drown your sorrows properly in soggy pasta— even when it was made with love and the wish for you to hurry up and heal.

Chocolate frosting made everything almost bearable.

That it had so generously given her back the ten pounds she’d been down just before her divorce was neither here nor there.

Who cared what her ass looked like?

Maxine Barker smiled her perky, meant to inspire motivation smile at Mel as she made her way across the tiled floor of Trophy Jobs Inc.

“Mel! I’m so glad you came. I love that color on you.” She pointed to the deep turquoise of Mel’s sadly pilling sweater. “It’s starting to get chilly enough for a sweater. Can you believe it’s this cool on the last day of August?”

Mel contemplated Maxine, trying to remember her father was her biggest fan, but was hesitant to show anything in the way of enthusi-asm for fear Maxine would take it as a sign she was an all-systems-after-divorce-therapy go. “It’s definitely cooling off.”

Max hitched her jaw to the left, putting a relaxed hand in the pocket of her tailored taupe slacks. “Let’s go talk in my office.”

Without waiting for an answer, she took confident strides toward a door along a white hallway strung with pictures of seniors from the Village who donated their time to Trophy.

One plaque in particular made Mel pause momentarily to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. It had a cracked tiara on it and read “Suck it up, Princess.”

Max ushered Mel in, waving her hand at a pair of leather chairs.

One was filled by a woman with wavy auburn hair and a chubby baby in blue overalls slung over her shoulder. On the couch positioned at the other side of the room sat the most perfect female Mel had ever seen— and coming from L. A., she’d seen.

“Mel? This is Frankie Antonakas, her baby Nikos Junior, and Jasmine Jones. Both Trophy Jobs success stories.”

Well and fuck. This was one of those ambush interventions, and she’d walked right into it like someone had told her there was a case of Suzy Q’s in Maxine’s office.

Mel didn’t know what to do. Because she loved her father, she didn’t want to be rude to these women. She also didn’t want to be harpooned by the divorce spear and left to bleed out on the shore while they chanted their speeches of empowerment and danced around her fat ass in a circle.

“You want me to block the door while you run interference, Frankie?” the beautifully surreal creature named Jasmine asked.

“She doesn’t look like the kind who’d take out a woman with a baby, but you just never know.” Her bright red lips, the perfect color to compliment her creamy features, curved into an amused smile.

Frankie tipped her head full of gorgeous auburn hair back and laughed, stirring the baby who stuck a thumb in his mouth and nuzzled against her neck. “Come sit down, Mel. What you suspect is right. We’re here to help. All you have to do is listen. If you don’t like what you hear, you can go back to sulking and pouting. We’ve all done it. It was all kinds of awesome. Well, except for the smell. I thank God every day Max made me finally shower.” The women all giggled together while Mel frowned, perplexed by her comment.

Maxine sat behind her desk and motioned for Mel to sit, too. The clink of Maxine’s bangle bracelets sang in the air that had become suddenly oppressive. “Sit down, Mel, and relax. I know you’re reluctant to participate in anything, much less listen to a bunch of women who you think want to advise you on how to Krazy Glue your life back together, but that’s not the only reason I asked you to come.”

Mel slid into her chair, her glace at Max wary. Maxine was her boss. She didn’t have much of a choice but to sit and listen if she hoped to buy Weezer more food. Saint Bernard’s ate buttloads of food. “Does it have to do with the Village and the rec center?”

“It’s better,” Max declared, flashing Mel another brilliant smile and folding her hands on top of the files on her desk.

Well, what could be better than herding seniors with attitude on a part-time basis? “Okay …”

Frankie rolled her eyes while laughter slid from her lips. “Quit looking like we just invited you to join our coven. Sit down and at least listen. If you don’t like what you hear, then you can go home to Joe and be honest when you tell him you at least heard our shtick, okay?”

“But the catch is, you absolutely have to listen,” Jasmine added, uncrossing her graceful legs and straightening the multicolored scarf she had draped elegantly over her shoulder.

“What exactly am I listening to?”

“The speech I give all ex-trophy wives before I hook them up with potential employers,” Max said.

Mel’s spine stiffened. “I hate that label. Ex-trophy wife,” Mel muttered. It implied she’d married Stan for all the wrong reasons—like money reasons. Absolutely untrue.

Had she been blown away by his interest in her? Definitely. Had she fallen madly in love with her Svengali-like mentor? Unequivo-cally. Had she devoted her every waking moment to him? Yes. Had he asked her to? She couldn’t remember. It had just happened. Still, the term made her squirm in her chair.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Jasmine interjected with a drawl, pushing her long blond hair from her face. “But that’s what you are. A beautiful woman who married her much older, very rich husband at a tender age and got ditched when her goodies got stale. Own it.”

“I didn’t marry Stan for his money.” She said that a lot lately— in defensive mode. She’d said it to the seniors, the pet store manager, and the drive-thru cashier at Wendy’s when she was getting a chocolate Frosty with the change she’d found in her father’s couch cushions.

Jasmine waved a hand with perfectly polished nails in the air.

“Whatever. Most of us truly fell in love. Doesn’t change what society calls you. Though, now I’m an ex-trophy wife slash cougar. Again, own it.” Jasmine’s smile held no malice— she was simply a straight shooter. For someone who hadn’t been able to scream her rage at Stan while she hunted him down with her sledgehammer and night-vision goggles, Mel admired that trait.

Max waved a finger of admonishment at Jasmine, her hair catching the light from the window when she shook her head. “Easy on the newb until we break her in. Anyway, it’s like I said. I have a speech I give before I hook you up with a potential employer, and tag, you’re it.”

Mel was remiss in hearing the part about potential employers and instead focused on the speech. “The speech?”

“Yes. The one where I give you a packet with all sorts of information in it that you’ll make faces about behind my back before you consider pitching it in the garbage. The packet includes, among other things, a divorce journal— typical and cliché, but believe it or not, a way to really vent instead of letting things build up. It’s also the speech about not letting this disgusting piece of shit you were married to own the rest of your life by suppressing your reasons to live.”

Mel’s eyes widened at Max. Now, ex-husband bashing she could probably get on board with. Maybe these were the women to trust with the Hefty bags and bleach after she killed Stan in the most heinous manner she could concoct.

Max winked a lovely green, perfectly coal-lined eye in response.

“Yes. I called him a disgusting piece of shit. It’s unprofessional and only allowed once in the ‘speech’ conversation. After that, we go all adult on you and tell you not to hold grudges because they’re unhealthy.”

“I love the ‘piece of shit’ part of the speech,” Jasmine murmured her delight, her eyes twinkling.

“Nah, my favorite part’s the part where you find a way to beat down the piece of shit by being self-sufficient and confident all by your lonesome. Sometimes, Max swears in that portion. I love to hear her say the word ‘fuck’—it cracks me up,” Frankie snickered, running soothing hands over Nikos Junior’s back.

Mel’s head had been sinking into her chest with disinterest until she caught sight of Frankie’s face in full view. “You’ re—”

“Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife. That’s me.” She grinned like she wasn’t at all displeased by Mel’s recognition.

“I loved his show …” Mel mumbled, then caught herself.

Frankie’s freak-out on Mitch’s show was infamous. There were YouTube spoofs on it, Saturday Night Live had had a field day with it, and the late-night talk show hosts had used her for fodder for months afterward. Instantly, she regretted her words. “Damn, that’s probably not appropriate. I’m sorry. How rude of me.”

“Don’t be sorry, Mel. Just be glad to know you can find your way out of tabloid hell with me as your guide.” Frankie rose, slender in her skinny jeans and layered tank tops, to pass the baby to Jasmine, who cooed her appreciation and ran her nose along the baby’s cheek, inhaling his scent.

Frankie sat back down and faced Mel, her warm eyes and smile reassuring. “Here’s the score. Your husband had the upper hand when you were married. You did whatever he wanted, gave him every last fiber of your being, accepted whatever explanation he offered, and then he took a dump on you by taking the one thing you really love, your dance studio. In one way or another, we’ve all been through it and come out the other end realizing it was never about the cars and the jewelry or the limitless credit cards we had. It was about not being able to breathe on our own when we lost it all. It’s sad and maddening all at once.”