Better Off Without Him (12 page)

At the end of the afternoon, there were four out of ten of us left. Amanda Witt was one of those women rightfully referred to as a ‘Grande Dame’ of romance, and she played the part to the hilt. She was always perfectly coiffed, dressed to the nines, and accessorized with fabulous pearls. She had been a great supporter of mine for years, and could truthfully be called a good friend. She was, at sixty-eight, sharp and quick as she had been when I first met her fifteen years ago. She was caustic, insightful, and could write a love scene that would make a Bangkok hooker blush.

“So what do you all think of this year's Rita Lifetime Winner?” Amanda asked. Allow me to translate. The Rita Award is the award given annually by the Romance Writer’s of America, the RWA, at their annual conference. The Lifetime Achievement Award goes to an outstanding writer with at least fifteen years of publishing history. This years’ honoree had left the table just minutes before, having to drive all the way back to Greenwich, Connecticut for her grandsons Little League game.

“She deserves it,” said Jan Gleeson, who is just about my age and working on husband number five. “The woman writes like a fiend, and all that research? My God, all those little islands in the Caribbean, not to mention shipwrecks and slave uprisings? Of course, she gets to write off all her trips to Antigua, but still.”

Amanda shrugged. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Mona, I would have thought it was your year. Is that why you’re not coming to Nationals?” she said to me. She signaled the waiter. “You had signed up for a workshop that I was running, and I just heard you dropped out.”

Nationals, or the yearly RWA conference, was in San Francisco that year. I had, indeed, volunteered to one of the workshops, but withdrew from the event just the week before.

“Mona,” Jan gasped, “you’ve never missed a conference.” Jan wrote about romance in the Wild West. Her pairings often involved feisty pioneer brides-to-be who were abducted by handsome Lakota braves. Jan was an absolute stickler for historical detail, and had actually studied Lakota. We often teased her that her elaborate and beautiful-sounding Indian names actually meant ‘Hung Like Buffalo’ and ‘Horny Hottie Seeks Same’.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m missing it this year, and it’s not about the award. I don’t deserve a Lifetime Achievement Award. At least not yet. I don’t have half the output of some of these women.”

Amanda nodded. “True. So, is it about your idiot husband?”

“What about your husband?” Jan also signaled for another drink. “I’ve met your husband. Is he really an idiot?”

“He left her,” Amanda said. “Of course he’s an idiot.”

I shrugged and fiddled with my empty glass. “I just can’t come this year. I mean, seriously. My husband left me for a French blonde fifteen years younger than me. Hasn’t that plot device been used by half the people who’ll be there? ”

Chloe Radisson frowned. Chloe was only twenty-seven, and had a string of successful NASCAR romances to her credit. “You’re right,” she said. “Mary Bancroft used that exact storyline last year. The wife wasn’t a writer, but still.”

“And Lu Chisolm,” Jan said slowly. “Didn’t she have a contemporary stand-alone two years ago? Lawyer husband runs off with client? Blonde client? French blonde client?”

Chloe nodded. “Yes. And MaryAnn had that artist-model thing.”

“Right,” Jan countered. “And Liz Clayton, doctor-nurse.”

“See,” I said loudly. “ My God, I’m practically a cliché.”

“Yes,” Amanda said shortly. “So, your life has become your work, Mona. That doesn’t mean you leave the work behind.”

“I’m not leaving anything behind,” I told them. “I’m just sitting this year out. Besides, I don’t want to leave my girls for a week.” That was a flimsy excuse, since in previous years, Brian came with me and Lily watched them.

Chloe reached over and grabbed my hand. “I’m so sorry, Mona. So, have you started seeing anyone?”

“What? God, Chloe, it’s only been six weeks.”

“Really? Oh.”

Jan make clucking noises. “Give yourself time, Mona. I know how hard it must seem, but believe me, you’ll soon start to take an interest in other men.”

Easy for her to say. She’s had lots practice.

I shrugged. “Right now I’m just trying to stay focused on the new book. That’s my priority.”

Amanda lifted an eyebrow. “New book? Care to elaborate?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I’d be interested in what you all thought.” I took a deep breath and gave them the story line. It took several minutes, as I tried to flesh out several plot points and explain the characters. When I was done, I looked around expectantly.

“Well? What do you think?” I asked.

Amanda looked thoughtful. “So, you’re leaving the fold?”

I sighed. “No, I’m not. Honestly. I love writing romance, you know that. I was going for a stand-alone contemporary, but got sidetracked. I just couldn’t bring myself to write about happily-ever-after.”

“I don’t understand, Mona,” Jan said. “She doesn’t end up with one of the men? How is that even possible? The first rule of romance is a happy ending.”

Chloe sniggered. “I thought the first rule of romance was sex by page thirty.”

Amanda actually reached over and smacked Chloe’s hand. Then she turned to me. “There’s nothing wrong with writing straight fiction. And it sounds like a good story. I bet your editor is giving you hell.”

I nodded. “She’s a little resistant. Romance is such a strong sell. I don’t think they want to take a chance on upsetting the fan base. She’s already told me I’ll be writing as Mona Quincy, not as Maura Van Whalen. She’s protecting the brand, I know. Anthony has started working on a new website.”

Chloe tapped her fingers against the table. “What about feedback on your old website?” she suggested. “Have you put out anything about this new book yet?”

“No.” I thought for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea,” I said slowly. “I could have Anthony throw out a few feelers, see what the fandom reaction is.”

Amanda smiled. “Good. Now, what else are you working on?”

Amanda knew me well. I wasn’t happy unless I had the next book somewhere in the back of my head.

“Well,” I said, leaning in and lowered my voice, “I was thinking about a spoiled younger sister who’s promised to an Irish lord, but since she doesn’t want to leave London, she talks her bookish but beautiful older sister into going in her place.”

Chloe nodded. “Very nice.”

Amanda beamed. “That’s my girl.”

On the divorce front, David West assured me that everything was going along just fine. The state of New Jersey had very liberal divorce laws, with none of that eighteen-month waiting period or sleazy photos needed to prove adultery. All that had to be agreed upon was a financial settlement, so it appeared I would be a free woman by the fall.

While I was trying to find a rhythm for the summer, the girls slipped right back into their old patterns. Miranda refuses to expose her skin to the sun because of wrinkles, cancer, and other ozone-related hazards, so she tends to sit on the beach in the smallest bikini I’ll let out of the house, under a huge beach umbrella and a big hat and Jackie-O sunglasses. She has her I-Pod in her ear and her eyes on all the cute guys. She spends a fortune on artificial tanning products and moisturizers, and eats like a bird. She’s very happy.

Lauren plays softball every morning and volleyball most afternoons. She also slathers on the sunscreen, but her skin turns naturally golden and her hair gets bronze glints and her teeth seem to sparkle and boys are all over her all the time. She’s also very happy.

Jessica, believe it or not, has found a group of black-clad, sun-and-sand hating friends who walk all over the island in Doc Martens and old canvas army hats. I don’t know where they go, but I think pinball and other video and arcade type games are involved. She smells of tobacco occasionally, but never of pot, so I tend not to get too excited. She isn’t really happy, but then, she never is.

The only thing that has ever thrown a kink in all the wonderfulness that is summer is rain. Rain at the Jersey shore is a cruel and killing thing. Luckily, the Keegans have so many video games that my girls can hang out there for the day with little or no interruption of mood. But this year, it started raining on the third day after our arrival, and it rained for four days straight. I knew that something had to give. And it did.

They approached me as a group. Never a good sign. They sat in a row on the bench in the kitchen, the rain outside pouring down the sliding door behind them. Miranda, the natural leader, spoke first.

“Mom, we’ve been doing some talking during the past few days.”

Talking. They’d been talking. I cursed the rain and smiled at them. “And?”

Lauren cleared her throat. “Well, it’s just that it’s been about three months since Daddy moved out.”

I nodded encouragingly. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe they wanted to finally talk about their feelings of anger and betrayal. Maybe they wanted to tell me how they really hated visiting their father because they realized what a horrid man he was. Maybe they wanted to thank me for being such a fabulous mother.

“Yes, honey. Three months. That’s about right.”

They all nodded. No one spoke.

“So?” I prompted.

Miranda straightened up. “So we think you should start dating again.”

“Let’s face it, Mom,” Jessica leaned forward. “Dad and Dominique are a sure thing. They’re getting married as soon as they can. You can forget about happily ever after with Dad, okay? And you’re not getting any younger. We figure if you start now, maybe you can get somebody before it gets too late.”

“Dating?” I said again.

Lauren gave Jess a very dirty look. “What she means is,” she said meaningfully, “that we don’t want you to be alone. In the next few years we’ll all be out of the house, and, well, we don’t want you to be living with just Aunt Lily and the dog and the cat.”

“Dating?” I was having a bit of a hard time with this.

“Mom.” Miranda spoke again. “Yes. Dating. As in, going out with men. We think you should start. I know you’re not really divorced yet, but we thought you could just, you know, practice. This summer, I mean. Here at the shore house. So when the divorce is final and you’re serious about finding Mr. Right, you’ll know what to do.”

“You want me to practice dating? Before the ‘Looking For Mr. Right’ dating?”

“Exactly,” Jessica said happily. “That’s just what we want you to do. It’s been a while, right? Since you dated? And it’s a whole new world out there, Mom. Men your age are usually looking for hot young babes, so you need to polish the old charm before you get out there. Otherwise, you won’t have a chance.”

“Really?” Her faith in me was touching. “So I need to practice? And whom, exactly, am I supposed to practice on?”

“Mr. Keegan,” Lauren said.

I frowned. “Who?”

“Mr. Keegan, Mom,” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Across the street?”

“Doug Keegan? You want me to practice dating on Doug?”

“It makes great sense, Mom.” Lauren stood up and started pacing up and down the kitchen. “First, he’s an old friend, so there’ll be none of that awkward first-date stuff. He’s funny, and he’s really good at dating because Devlin is always talking about all his girlfriends.” Devlin is the oldest of the Keegan boys, followed by Liam and Mike. “Not only that, he’s safe. I mean, he won’t try to pull any funny stuff, and if he did, well, I mean, I like Mr. Keegan and all, but he’s kinda ugly. You’d never want to do anything with him anyway.”

I had no idea how to respond to all this. The fact that my daughters were not only eager to have me find a man but were even planning elaborate scenarios to prepare me for the actual hunt floored me. They had obviously spent too much time unattended.

“Lauren,” I began, “first of all, I see Doug Keegan almost every day. He’s either here or at the Wilsons’ next door, or I’m at his house or at Scott and Steve’s.”

“See?” Lauren said excitedly. “You’re with him all the time anyway. He’s perfect.”

“Honey, what I meant was, since I see him all the time, why would he ever ask me out? Why would he want to?”

“He thinks it’s a great idea.” Jessica said. I could tell she was getting bored because she began twirling her hair around her index finger.

“How do you know that?” I asked cautiously.

“Well, we asked him,” Miranda said. “We told him our idea and he said he’d be happy to be your guinea pig. All you have to do is give him a call.”

“Oh?” Doug also thought I should start dating? More interestingly, practice dating? Practice for Mr. Right? Who the hell was he anyway? He of the many women and no commitment?

I cleared my throat. “Well, I think I’ll just go over there right now, if he thinks it’s such a good idea.”

“Mom,” Lauren said. “It’s raining like crazy outside. Why not just call him up?”

I smiled down at her as I headed for the door. “You’ll understand some day,” I told her, and hurled myself into the rain.

I was a real idiot, because by the time I’d crossed the street and hit Doug’s porch, I was drenched. I pounded on the screen door, and when he yelled to come in, I banged it open and dripped puddles all the way to the kitchen.

His house is the twin of mine, and his was also remodeled into an open floor plan on the first floor, but off the back of his kitchen is a large family room with two flat screen televisions hooked up to various gaming systems and lots of bean bag chairs on the floor. It reminds me of a frat house game room.

Doug took one look at me and began unrolling paper towels. “You’re dripping. Is something wrong? Are the girls all right?”

“They want me to start dating,” I said, my voice low, because his three sons were looking at me instead of the TV screens.

“Ah,” he said. Soaking wet I did not feel charming and vulnerable like Kate Winslet in Pride and Prejudice. I did not feel sexy and mysterious like Gene Tierney in Laura. I felt chilly and wet. I needed to be wrapped in soft, scented towels, swept in front of a roaring fire and handed a snifter of very fine brandy. I did not need to be patted down with crumpled Bounty.