Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (29 page)

His chatter is light, but he doesn’t fool any of us. He’s depressed as hell. In two days he’s got to move out, and DeeDee gets possession of it all for now: the house, the furniture, the kids, and the dog. Harry takes a swig of his water. “You know, I may just move into Costco. I can live in one of those tents they leave open for display. Do you think anyone will notice?”

I’m relieved to see that he’s not drinking now. It’s a positive sign that his binge the other night was a one-of-a-kind abomination.

Except for the kiss, of course.

An abomination, I mean. I have to be honest with myself that it was anything but.

But, yes, it was one-of-a-kind, because I know it won’t ever happen again.

Or I’m doomed.

Cal has taken Harry’s Costco question to heart. “Security guards, probably. Don’t forget security cams. Oh, and they may have sensor devices.”

“To hell with the tent.” Pete throws down a bad card. “Without any money coming in from you, DeeDee will have to put the house on the market anyway. I’ll buy it from her, and you and the kids can move in and pay me rent.”

Harry’s water glass freezes in midair. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope. I like real estate. Particularly in the Heights. Great ’hood, great investment.”

“Thanks, Pete. I’ll keep it in mind. I hope it won’t come to that, but let’s face it: the writing’s on the wall. Between Jake’s shenanigans on my watch and the loss of my job, DeeDee has all she needs to make her case against my having full custody. And she’s right about one thing: the kids come first.” He grimaces. “Even if that means I’ll be supporting two households: my tent, and hers with her boyfriend.”

I sigh. “So, Jake is right about what he saw?”

“I believe him over her any day of the week.” Harry takes the dirty dishes to the sink. “He may be having a rough time, but he’s not a liar.”

“That sucks.” Pete picks up another card. “You’re the better parent. Even the kids have said that.”

“Well, no one is listening to any of us. And in this case, actions really do speak louder than words.”

“You’ll build up your practice again in no time,” insists Pete. “In fact, we’re looking for someone to help on my company’s merger
with ICA Tech. That’s right up your alley.”

“Hell, yeah, it is. Are you for real?”

“As real as these two pair.” He throws down his cards with a flip of his wrist.

I fold.

Cal follows. “What if you prove that she’s, you know, unfit? Will that help?”

“I think that, at the very least, I’d get partial custody. And that’s only fair.”

It’s Pete’s turn to shuffle. “Even if it turns out she was having an affair the whole time, and that’s the reason she walked?”

“She’s not the only wife who’s left during an affair. According to my lawyer, what the judge is trying to determine is who’ll provide the best home for the kids. And in the majority of cases, the mothers win.” Harry turns toward the sink so that we can’t see his face. “In that regard, I’m not out for blood. And I certainly don’t want to start a war. If I failed DeeDee in any way, then what happened to us as a couple was meant to be, and nothing I do now will stop the divorce. But I’m not out to destroy the mother of my children in order to hold on to them.”

“Jeez, guy, that’s turning the other cheek, for sure. Boy, if it were me . . . I’m just saying I wouldn’t let any guy get the better of me.” Pete shakes his head in wonder.

All three of us stare at Pete, but no one wants to point out the obvious. We all know he wouldn’t see it anyway.

Harry turns to Cal. “So, what are you suggesting, that I play I Spy? Detectives aren’t cheap.”

Cal frowns. “A lot of it is simple deduction, even without electronic surveillance. Of course, it would be easier if we knew more about her regular habits, like when she goes out, where, and why.”

“Or her lover’s.” Pete throws down the deck. “If what Jake says is true, we do know that he lives here in the Heights. Maybe there’s a way to narrow the field.”

Harry quits drying the dish in his hand. “How do you propose doing that?”

“Simple process of elimination. Comings and goings. Phone calls and e-mails. You know, that kind of thing.” Now Cal’s excited. “I could certainly write a program that tracks cars leaving the Heights and memorizes their known characteristics—you know, make, model, color, license plates. If any of them move toward her place, then I can train a SATCOM eye to stay on the most obvious suspects. Even if this dude is smart enough to stay away from her place, another program for the satellite will track her comings and goings as well. Eventually their two cars will be at the same place at the same time.” He pauses, lost in thought. “Another consideration is cross-referencing any calls made to her, or e-mails sent.”

Why do I feel they’re getting carried away? “But isn’t that kind of tracing illegal without a search warrant? The last thing Harry needs is to do something that gets him in dutch with the bar, not to mention the law. Then he’ll never get custody.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll never be able to trace it back to Harry. Or to any of us.”

I start to open my mouth again, but the looks on all three of their faces—determination on Cal’s, excitement on Pete’s, desperation on Harry’s—tell me it’s no use to try to talk them out of any harebrained schemes.

They are on a mission. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s lead, follow, or get out of the way.

I will pass. I have no choice. DeeDee and I have the same equipment.

And I certainly don’t have an ulterior motive.

So that they can plot and scheme without my angsting over them like some mother hen, I take what’s left of the meat loaf into the great room so that the kids can finish it off.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. Works for me.

While they eat, I busy myself straightening up the room. I can just
imagine what DeeDee would say if she saw it now, what with Temple’s toys tossed helter-skelter around the room. As I gather my children’s coats and hats, I notice that Jake’s have been carelessly tossed on the floor, followed by a pair of muddy sneakers. When I move the coat onto a hook, a baseball cap falls out of its pocket. It is a replica of those of San Francisco’s original baseball team, the Seals. I hang it on a hook beside the coat.

It will be interesting to see how fast DeeDee can retrain her children.

Not that I’ll be privy to life in this house, ever again.

“Marriage is like a bank account. You put it in,
you take it out, you lose interest.”

—Irwin Corey

Tuesday, 17 Dec., 11:38 a.m.

It isn’t until our yoga instructor has barked out the next pose—downward dog—that Brooke notices me folded awkwardly behind her. She lifts one hand to wave, and almost topples over.

I snicker at this, and that starts her giggling, and the next thing we know we’re being shushed by all the yoga Nazis in the room, but that only makes us laugh all the harder.

By the time we’ve snatched up our mats and our hoodies and headed out of the studio, I realize how much I’ve missed Brooke.

And I know the feeling must be mutual, because it’s she who suggests we grab a bite to eat. I’m all for that, Margot be damned. Besides, I want to hear if Colleen is right, and someone is spreading rumors about Harry and me.

12:05 p.m.

The Max’s Diner by the expressway has a great matzo-ball soup and tall booths: perfect for our rendezvous. No, I don’t mind that we’re meeting on the sly. As of this moment, I view this as a covert op, and I need an inside woman.

I need Brooke.

And apparently she needs me too, if for nothing else than to grouse about Margot’s rabid imperiousness. “You got out right in the nick of time. I tell you, Lyssa, it’s a bloodbath! Besides you, Tammy was her most natural successor. But Margot doesn’t want to turn the presidency over to her. Behind her back, Margot calls her ‘power-hungry.’ Ha! Now, is that the pot calling the kettle black or what?”

“I’ll say.”

“But instead of just coming out and saying that, she’s been meeting with each of us on the sly, trying to sweet-talk us into running against Tammy. Do you know how she wants to choose her successor? Get a load of this: each of us is supposed to come up with a strategic plan—on PowerPoint, no less—for how we’d personally run next year’s events!” She sticks a manicured finger down her throat. “Yeah, well, she can whistle ‘Dixie’ for that one. I came onboard for the cocktails and gossip, not the grunt work.”

“But what do you think is her endgame? I mean, someone has to be president, right?”

Brooke rolls her eyes. “Frankly, I think she wants us all to vote her in for another term, but she’s trying to come off as being democratic about the whole thing.”

“She’s pitting you all against each other so that she’ll become the logical choice yet again? Man, that is brilliant.” Margot truly is a Machiavellian genius. “If that’s the case, I’m surprised she was even going to nominate me in the first place.”

Brooke looks up from her matzo ball. “
Au contraire, mon amie.
You were the perfect choice. First off, you’re an uncomplaining workhorse. And besides, with you she could play puppet master. You know, be the power behind the throne. Heck, you’re so starved for attention that all she’d have to do was give you a pat on the head every now and then, and you’d be good for another event or two.”

I almost choke on my soup. “Oh, get real! I’m not
that
needy . . . am I?”

“Like a puppy. If someone scratched your belly, you’d never leave
their lap.” She examines a nail. “Speaking of delectable laps, how is our sweet boy Harry?”

I pause too long for any lie I could tell at this juncture to be credible. “He’s moving. Today, in fact. DeeDee’s attorney did an end run for the house, based on Jake’s latest transgression and the fact that Harry’s lost his partnership at his firm.”

Brooke nods. “Yeah, he was spotted tossing a few suitcases into his car this morning. An hour later, DeeDee’s car pulled up.”

Why am I not surprised that Brooke already knows this? Suddenly I have my hackles up. If they’re still stalking Harry, then surely I’m on their radar too.

Smile pretty for the cameras. . . . 

“Will he be staying in the Heights?”

I try to make my nod as nonchalant as possible. “He was looking at a couple of places, yes.”

“I hear he’s going to rent Pete Shriver’s cabana house. I guess that will put a damper on Masha’s poolside trysts.” She scans my reaction to this. “Unless Harry’s her type. Ha! What man isn’t?”

Brooke proves once again that she’s put together the best network of spies in the Heights. I don’t know whether to be impressed or repulsed.

One thing I am for sure is determined to identify DeeDee’s lover before Harry and the boys do something stupid that costs him his kids for good. “If DeeDee is having an affair with someone, it’s going to make it easier to spot the guy, what with her living here in the ’hood again.”

Brooke’s demure sip of her wine doesn’t fool me. Apparently she’s already thought about that.

However, the couple now being seated in one of the corner booths may make her reconnaissance a moot point:

It is DeeDee with local realtor Max Karloff, better known around the Heights as the Listing Lothario.

His motto isn’t Satisfaction Guaranteed for nothing.

I nudge Brooke, but she’s already spotted them in one of the restaurant’s many dizzying mirrors, which turn its nooks and crannies into a Peeping Tom’s paradise.

“Well, well, well! I guess DeeDee’s already figured out that it’s not going to be easy to make the house payment with Harry being unemployed.” Brooke twists her neck to get a better view. “I’ve always liked that tricked-out media room. I wonder what the asking price will be? Oh, my God!”

“What? WHAT?” From where I’m sitting, I can’t really see a thing, now that they’ve sat down.

“He’s got his arm around her shoulders . . . and he’s playing with her hand! But she doesn’t seem to like it. Maybe she really is frigid.”

Brooke is poised to jump up for a better look, but I yank her back down. “I don’t think you should let her see us.”

“Yeah, darn it, I guess you’re right. If I get whiplash, I guess this is worth spending a week in a neck brace.” Even as she rubs the back of her neck, she is smiling. “Well, this is certainly the scoop of the year! What do you say we order some champagne to celebrate?”

“Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”

—H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

1:03 p.m.

My heart jumps into my throat when I see all the police cars blockading my street. I pull over as close to home as I can, what with all the neighbors standing in the middle of the street, trying to figure out what’s happening at the Lonely House.

Mickey came up with that name, and it hits the nail on the head. Rarely does anyone come or go. In fact, I’ve only seen the owners once, while walking Harvey at night—a young couple who drove up in a van with dark-tinted windows. They never park in the driveway, but pull into the garage. In the fleeting few seconds when the garage door was open, I noticed that the interior of the garage was empty except for their van.

The house, too, usually has its blinds down, and they never entertain there. I’m guessing they’re both workaholics, or that they travel all the time. Or maybe it isn’t their house at all, but belongs to some relative who’s on an extended stay somewhere else, and they just check up on it periodically. A yard service shows up every other week to trim the grass and the shrubs.

In other words, the house is lonely.

Now it seems we’ll know why.

The house is swarming with men in black zip-up sweatshirts with
the letters DEA stamped large on the back. The sidewalk is taped off so that pedestrians have to cross the street in order to keep moving forward. Not that anyone wants to do so. Why should they, when the action is right here?

Our chief of police, Officer Fife, is using his bullhorn to detour cars that, like mine, need to reach the other end of the street. When he gets to me, I give him a wink and a smile in the hope that it will loosen his tongue. It should. The world of rumor and innuendo is free. In the world of fact, however, deep-dish apple pies are the coin of the realm, which I gladly tithe twice a year: July Fourth and Christmas.