Single in Suburbia (15 page)

“Absolutely.” Candace laughed out loud. “I’ll get right on that. And while we’re on the subject, have I mentioned that I really don’t like to be called Candy?”

Showered and de-Solanged, Amanda drove to The House of Dance to pick up Meghan. Slipping through the front door, she followed the sound of music to the main studio where Meghan’s dance company was practicing for their upcoming recital.

Stopping in front of the plate glass window, she watched the eleven girls step into their positions on the scuffed wood floor. Long legged in pink tights and black leotards with lacy little camisoles over them, every one of them wore their hair in a bun and all of them moved with the grace that only came from long years of practice.

Meghan stood in the front, facing the mirrored wall, her arms gently rounded downward, her right leg extended behind her.

The instructor pressed a button on the CD player and the opening strains of Tchaikovsky’s
Les Sylphides
filled the room. All of the girls began to move, but Amanda’s eyes stayed on Meghan as her daughter’s willowy arms floated upward and she began the opening movements of her solo.

Small delicate running steps, jeté, balancé, arabesque.

With fluid movements, Meghan danced through the line of other girls, her long limbs moving effortlessly, her chin high, her neck curved like a swan’s.

Holding her breath, Amanda watched her daughter bend and gather herself then press smoothly up on pointe. Her mind flashed on the memory of the chubby five-year-old who’d first stepped into this studio with her hand clutched so tightly in her mother’s and who had somehow metamorphosed into this graceful creature.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

The male voice so close beside her took her completely by surprise. The fact that she recognized the voice was even more disconcerting.

Turning, she looked into the green eyes of Hunter James, who seemed to be making a habit of showing up at the most unexpected moments and places.

He nodded toward the girls who had separated into two lines and were passing each other in a series of intricate steps. “That’s my daughter Samantha.” He pointed to the tall blonde three girls to the left of Meghan. “She’s addicted, can’t seem to get enough of it. And her younger sister is dancing right along in her footsteps.”

Amanda looked at the man in front of her. His shoulders were broad, his torso gently muscled, and he moved with a testosterone-fueled version of the grace their daughters were displaying on the dance floor.

Without thinking, she glanced down at his ring finger, something she’d forgotten to do the other day at the duck pond, and noticed he wore no ring. Nor was there a telltale white line.

He caught her at it, of course, and she blushed for what felt like the bazillionth time in his presence. But the absence of a wedding ring didn’t confirm the absence of a wife. The fact that he was attractive and friendly didn’t make him available.

Solange de Papillon would come right out and ask him his status and be prepared to act accordingly, but Amanda’s tongue and brain didn’t seem to be working in tandem.

“Sometimes I feel like they should rent out rooms here,” she said.

One of his sandy eyebrows shot up and his green eyes sparked with amusement. “I’m assuming you don’t mean by the hour.”

Amanda blushed yet again. She suspected she was setting some sort of record for cheek suffusion. “Because of all the driving. To, um, save on gas.” She was blathering like an idiot and couldn’t seem to stop herself. Where was Solange when she needed her?

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Amanda said. And Lord knew, no woman would have missed him. “When did your daughter join the company?”

“About a month ago. But our housekeeper’s been driving her. She left yesterday for Jamaica so I’ve got carpool duty.”

Amanda was processing his answer when the girls began to pile out of the studio in excited little knots.

“Hey, Mom, guess what?” Meghan pulled Hunter James’s daughter over in front of her. “Sam’s going to the prom with Brent Means, he’s Joey’s best friend. So we’re going to share a limo with Angie and Sandy and their dates. I asked them all to come over for a picture party before the prom.”

“Gee.” Amanda resisted looking at Hunter James, absolutely refused to check and see how those green eyes were reacting. “That’s great.” She swallowed. “The more the merrier.”

If it had been any other parent, she would have invited them to stop by and be a part of the pre-prom gathering. But she was much too aware of Hunter James as a man to want to watch him in action with his wife.

“Mom?” Meghan nodded none too subtly toward Samantha’s father.

Amanda gave a warning shake of her head, but her daughter ignored her. “Lucy Simmons is having a bunch of kids
and
their parents over for their picture party,” Meghan said.

“Well, I, um…” OK, this was ridiculous. She was NOT going to blush again. “Of course.” Taking a step back, Amanda turned to face Samantha’s father. “We’d love it if you and your wife could join us for pictures before the prom.”

A look she couldn’t decipher washed over his face, but it was Samantha who spoke. “My mother’s dead. That’s one of the reasons we moved here.”

“Oh,” Amanda said.

The girl’s eyes welled briefly.

“I’m so sorry.” Amanda reached out and placed a hand on Samantha’s shoulder then turned back to Hunter James. “I’m sure the girls will want to get dressed together. Why don’t you join us for the big send-off? And bring your camera.

“Will six work?” she asked Meghan.

Her daughter nodded and smiled her thanks.

They walked out to the parking lot with the girls chattering between them and got into their cars. Hunter James’s was big and masculine like the man who drove it, but in reality it was a “mom mobile.” Which was, Amanda decided, the way to treat the unnerving Mr. James—just like she would any other mother of her acquaintance.

She stole one last look as Mr. Mom slid behind the wheel of the black Escalade and knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Hunter James bore absolutely no resemblance to any other mother she’d ever met.

chapter
13

S
he’d heard it said that the eyes were the mirror to the soul. But after a little over a week in the cleaning business, Amanda was pretty certain that a person’s closet was a much clearer reflection.

She stood now in the master closet of Sylvia Hardaway, one of Candace’s neighbors, staring into a dressing room/ closet combo that was large enough to house a small country. She was tempted to yodel into its cavernous depths just to see how long it would take for the sound to echo back.

With wonder she contemplated the burnished mahogany built-ins that covered every available inch of wall and in which Sylvia’s clothing had been hung and folded in a rich spill of color and texture that delighted the eye.

A stand of custom-built dressers in the same deep wood and topped with dappled marble anchored the center of the space. At one end, a wall of shelves held a collection of designer shoes that would have made Carrie Bradshaw from
Sex and the City
weep with envy. A sitting area with love seat and chairs cozied up to a minibar and refrigerator at the other end, presumably in case Sylvia worked up a thirst or appetite while dressing, which given the sheer number of choices seemed entirely possible.

The master bath lay through a door to the right. It, too, was divided into His and Hers and was separated by a carpeted hallway from her husband’s slightly smaller dressing area.

Amanda circled Sylvia Hardaway’s closet slowly, taking it all in, and noticed that many of the hanging garments still bore their tags. A glimpse at some of the price tags made her heart race—just returning one or two of them would make a large dent in the growing stack of bills on her kitchen desk at home.

As Amanda turned to leave, Sylvia Hardaway entered the closet, a hanging bag from Neiman’s folded over one arm. She looked to be somewhere around fifty, but had the face and body of a woman who worked full-time on both. With apparent breaks for shopping.

“Madame,”
Amanda said in Solange’s voice, “your closet ees
magnifique
. I am wondering if I might rent a part of zee space to live in it.”

Her client’s gaze was a bit vague, her smile heartbreakingly brittle. “Be my guest,” she said, gesturing into the bowels of the closet. “And bring your family. I don’t think Charles is home enough to even notice.”

“Oh, no,” Amanda/Solange said. “That cannot be true. I’m sure your husband notices
you
. You are a very handsome woman and if I may say so, you dress with a very French flair.”

“Why thank you, Solange,” Sylvia said, her smile warming. “That’s very kind of you. I do spend considerable time on wardrobe selection.”

This, of course, was like saying the Atlantic Ocean was damp, but Amanda didn’t point that out.

“The right outfit can give a woman such a helpful…boost, don’t you think?” her newest client said as she hung the new clothing without bothering to remove it from the bag.

As could alcohol, Amanda thought later when she found the empty vodka bottles buried in Sylvia’s recycling bin.

The more she peered beneath the surface of other women’s lives, the more she questioned the “happily ever after” tales that little girls were raised on. And the more attractive Solange de Papillon’s marvelous sense of self-confidence became.

“Yes, Mother, I know. No, Mother, I won’t.” Candace sat at the desk in her home office, eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the headache that had threatened the moment her mother’s phone number appeared on her caller ID. She allowed her mind to wander for a few moments, hoping that might stop the throbbing, but brought it screeching back when her mother’s words sank in.

“I can’t do lunch on Saturday.” Candace rubbed her forehead, trying to loosen the knot there. “I have a previous commitment.”

“But I promised Minna Jacobs we’d take her son to the club for lunch. He’s only in town until Sunday morning.”

“You shouldn’t have spoken for me without asking.” It was hard to talk with your teeth so tightly clenched, but Candace had years of practice. “I can’t do it. Other people are counting on me.”

Any other mother would have given in then, but “no” was not a word Hannah Bloom accepted from others.

“Whatever in the world could be more important than lunch with your mother and an eminently suitable man?”

Candace knew before she spoke exactly how important her prior commitment was going to sound to her mother. Even she was having a hard time accepting how committed she felt about it. “I have concession duty at the ballpark.”

There was a brief silence.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said. “I must have misunderstood, because I thought you were turning me—and Stanley Jacobs, the podiatrist—down for concession duty at a Little League game.”

Candace sighed. “No, no mistake.” Looking up, she saw Amanda in the doorway. She’d removed all traces of Solange and had tucked her own straight dark hair behind her ears. Candace raised a hand and motioned her in then raised a finger to indicate she’d only be a minute. “I promised to help out. In fact, I want to help out. You’ll have to take him to lunch yourself.”

“This is all about that Donovan person, isn’t it?”

Leave it to Hannah to cut right to the crux of the matter. “This is the second time you’ve canceled with me to do something with him.”

Candace rubbed harder at her forehead, but all she managed to get rid of was makeup. “This doesn’t qualify as a cancellation because I never agreed to the lunch in the first place.” As if her mother was going to fall for semantics.

“Well, how can we make plans if you’re always at that
ball
field
?” She uttered the last words in the same way she might have said “den of iniquity.”

Candace motioned Amanda to the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

“Listen, Mother,” she finally interjected into Hannah’s stream of complaints, “I’ve got to run. Someone just came in.” She closed her eyes again and sighed at her mother’s parting shot. “Yes, Mother,” she replied. “I know
exactly
how old I am. And I realize that my eggs aren’t getting any younger either.”

“Wow.” Amanda winced as Candace hung up the phone. “Does she bring those things up often?”

“You could say that. Doesn’t your mother do the ‘your eggs are drying up, why can’t you hold on to a husband’ spiel?”

Amanda shook her head.

“You don’t know what you’re missing. But then you already have children and your mother probably thinks everything you do is wonderful. What kind of torture does she have in mind for Rob?”

“She’s always been very supportive, both my parents have.” Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “And I, uh, assume they’d be totally on my side if I, um, ever actually admitted that Rob and I were having problems.”

Candace looked at the woman seated across from her. She
looked
like a sane, normal person—except possibly for the whole Solange the butterfly persona—but then appearances were often deceiving.