Lovers and Liars (21 page)

She found her mother in the powder room. “Mom, let me in. It’s me, Belinda.” She could hear her weeping through the door.

Finally the lock turned, but Nancy barred the entrance, her makeup streaked. “Belinda, please, not now …”

She was a pitiful sight, and Belinda was stunned. “Mom, what is it?”

Nancy crumbled anew.

Belinda shoved into the bathroom and stood, unsure, wanting to hold her mother, but she’d never comforted her before. So instead she laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Mom? Do you want to talk about it?”

“I hate him,” Nancy raged through her tears. “I hate him!”

“What has Abe done now?”

“Not Abe! Him! Jack Ford!”

Belinda stared, shocked.

The story of their brief love affair tumbled out amid Nancy’s sobs.

Belinda still, for the life of her, could not picture them together, even though she had seen them together. And now, thinking back, she remembered how he’d looked her right in the eye when she’d barged in on them as they were fucking. Now, thinking back, she saw his eyes the way she had at the party, and there was no more doubt as to the chauffeur’s identity.

Nancy had fallen in love with him.

Belinda clasped the steering wheel, now wet beneath her hands. Impossible to believe, another facet of the betrayal. Her mother in love with Jack Ford? Carrying on her secret affair? And what about Abe? It was one thing to screw around, it was another to love someone else. That was the ultimate violation.

But didn’t Abe deserve it?

God! Imagine if Abe ever found out—he would kill Nancy! He would probably kill Ford too!

Belinda wasn’t heartless. Despite her shock, she had
tried to understand at the party, just as she was trying to understand now. But for some damn reason compassion was elusive. Though she could empathize with Nancy’s loneliness and imagine how Ford would be impossible to resist on a daily basis, she almost hated them both. Maybe she did. Thinking of them together made her sick.

If only she hadn’t gone to the North-Star party, she wouldn’t be in this damn spot!

Thank God she had learned the truth. Thank God. Because she had been anticipating the evening ahead with more enthusiasm than she’d felt in a long, long time. Now, knowing how close she had come to sleeping with her mother’s ex-lover, well, she couldn’t handle it. She expected a man to want her exclusively, just as she expected him to walk away and remember how good it had been. Belinda did not try and fool herself. She knew it was not ego, not really, but more of an insecurity. After she’d been so badly screwed over by that faithless prick, Rod, the aftershocks still rippled and demanded an extreme opposite effect. She had thought Rod had loved her, but one night he had just disappeared without a word. Six months later he had married. The betrayal had been devastating. She knew that was why she had avoided relationships ever since. But Ford attracted her so strongly that she would want him for more than a night or two. Even though she knew that the last thing in this life she needed was to get involved with a man like Ford, her instincts warned her that if she slept with him, she’d be lost. And if she had gone to bed with Ford and
then
found out about her mother, it would have been another terrible betrayal.

She almost missed the exit for the construction site. As Belinda whipped off the freeway she said a short prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening, for the fact that she hadn’t slept with Ford, that she had stood him up. She resolved to be completely professional with him, no matter how unprofessional he was with her. She would not lose her cool; she would not show contempt; and she would pretend that she had no idea that he and her mother had once been lovers. If she had to, to keep her job, she would kiss his ass.
No matter how much she hated doing it. Yes, that would be her operating principle—kissing his ass. Because seeing this production through to the end was the most important thing in her life.

At least she had learned the truth before it was too late. And at least the truth had doused all her desire for him.

If she looked at it that way, she was one lucky broad.

33

M
ary had been down to the job on several occasions. Now she parked in front of the open chain gates, next to a red Toyota. She stepped out of her car, clad in jeans and a sweater and sneakers. The sweater was tight, and sure enough, she got a few interested looks from the carpenters as she walked up to the house. She had chosen it especially for Vince; it was one of his favorites.

She kept running a dialogue in her head: Vince, honey, I’ve invited Jim and Barbara over for dinner Saturday, and I want to really do it up. I need a hundred dollars …

He was going to wonder why she needed so much.

Worse, even if he gave it to her—what would happen when there was no dinner party?

“Where’s Vince?” she asked a man fitting Sheetrock across diagonal supports.

“Inside,” he said.

She stepped into the house, over a pile of debris, glancing past two carpenters banging nails in a corner.

It was her
. She knew it the minute she saw them, Vince looking upset and angry, a woman with a Raquel Welch body clad in a red knit dress, talking to him with her back to Mary. A blonde. Superb.

Her.

She knew it.

Vince grabbed the woman by her shoulders, such an intense look on his face that Mary felt sick. Then he looked up, past the woman, at his wife. He instantly dropped his hands, a look of absolute shock crossing his face.

Her instinct was to turn tail and flee.

Instead, Mary walked over slowly, steadily, trying to breathe naturally—not as if she’d just run a marathon. But her head was throbbing. She desperately needed a drink. “Vince.”

“Mary,” Vince croaked.

Mary looked at the woman, who had turned and was looking at her equally carefully. She was beautiful. Thin. Not thin-thin, but there wasn’t an ounce of flab on her. She had a body like an aerobics instructor. Mary knew she couldn’t compete. Not with this. Sick desperation rose up in her, and she wanted to kill the woman, or at least scratch her eyes out.

“Hello,” the woman said somewhat curtly. “I’ve been admiring this house for weeks, and I was trying to get the foreman to show me around. Are you the owner?”

Mary knew it was a lie, bullshit. This woman was Vince’s lover. This woman and Vince were sleeping together. She knew it. “The foreman is my husband,” Mary said tensely.

“What are you doing here, Mary?” Vince quickly said, taking her arm.

Mary barely looked at him. She couldn’t stop staring at the woman, who was watching them although pretending not to. “Mary Spazzio,” she said. “You are—?” She had to know.

There was a brief hesitation. “Belinda Glassman. Well, thank you, Vince, for the tour, Nice meeting you, Mary.”

Mary watched her leave with a long, strong stride, and then she looked at Vince. Before he had seen her watching him there had been naked hunger on his face—and desperation. She suddenly couldn’t cope, couldn’t be near him—hated him, hated her. Mary turned and hurried after Belinda.

“Wait,” she said as Belinda was about to get into her car.

Belinda stopped and turned.

“Stay away from him,” Mary cried. “Stay away from him, or I’ll kill you!”

Belinda looked at her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said and slid into the Toyota.

“You bitch!” Mary said, but the car was already gone, a red blur through her tears. “You bitch!”

34

W
ith great reluctance—a vast understatement—Vince turned his Ford pickup into the driveway of his home.

He had run over the awful meeting of his wife and lover a hundred times in his head, and he thought Belinda had pulled it off. She had been perfect. She had given no clue. Her explanation had been logical, flawless. Then why hadn’t Mary believed her?

Vince climbed out of the truck and stopped to water the primroses. Methodically he plucked a few dead flowers, not looking at the house, but his ears were burning. Finally, unable to delay the inevitable, he walked in.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red, her face flushed, spitting fury. “How long,” she demanded.
“How long
, you bastard!”

“Mary, what are you talking about?” He tried to bluff. He didn’t know why he didn’t just confess the truth—it was what he had been wanting to do for months. Somehow, though, cowardice and the instinct for survival won out.

“You know what I’m talking about,” she shrieked, standing. “You’re fucking her—Belinda Glassman. Aren’t you?”

“No,” he lied. The instant the word was out he knew she saw the lie.

“I hate you!” she screamed. And before he saw it coming, she had picked up her wineglass and thrown it at him.

He ducked just in time. The glass flew past his right temple and hit the wall behind him, shattering. “Jesus!” he said.

“How long has it been? I want to know how long you’ve been fucking her!” She was screaming, and Vince realized she was heavily sauced.

“Mary … I don’t know what to say.”

“Pig!” She threw the saltshaker. “Cocksucker!” The pepper mill followed.

“Damn it!” he exploded. “I’m glad you found out”

She froze. “So it is true?” Her voice quavered with hurt, and she looked so young and vulnerable that he suddenly felt awful. Hadn’t he loved her once? He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

“I … it just happened.”

“What about me? I’m your wife.” She was sobbing.

“I …” There was nothing to say.

“Do you love her, Vince?”

He hesitated.

She stared.

“Yes.”

“You motherfucker.” Mary stood up unsteadily. “She’s a rich broad. Abe Glassman’s daughter. She’s got millions. What do you think she wants with a carpenter like you? Huh? What? All she wants is your ass, Vince.”

It hurt. He knew she wanted to hurt him, but the fact was, she was right. And the truth, while he had known it all along, was awful. Because he did love Belinda, against all his better judgment. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” she shrieked, and she grabbed a glass from the drying rack and hurled it. He ducked just in time. Missile after missile followed, along with a string of the worst curses he had ever heard. She’s crazy, he thought, frightened suddenly; and he slipped out the door and back into the night.