Trouble Won't Wait (22 page)

Kenna is the prettiest woman I know, inside and out. She’s from Augusta, Georgia, but wanted to go to college in Colorado, because she thinks we have funny accents here. She’s another marvelous find Mark made that fateful last month of school. Kenna has a soft southern accent like the ladies on
Designing Women
, and everything she says sounds lovely.

The worst swear word I’ve ever heard her say is “damn,” and she was very angry because the kids and Mark were rough-housing and broke a crystal picture frame she’d received as a wedding gift. Her photo should be next to
Southern Belle
in the dictionary. I love her like the sister I’ll never have, so I take her into confidence with my big plan.

Her eyes shine with excitement as she says, “Tell me how Ah can help you teach that mothahfuckah a lesson.”

My hands clap over my mouth, and I’m as shocked as if the Catholic priest had said those words to his audience on Sunday. “Kenna! Oh my God!” Mark would die laughing if he heard his sweet, proper wife talking like that.

“Well, that’s just what that lyin’ hound dog is!” She crosses her arms and then puts her pretty nose up high. “Oh please, Mandy. It’s not the first time you ever heard me with a potty mouth. Tell me how to help.”

I used to think Mark would eventually corrupt her, but I’d begun to despair of it ever happening. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll let you know, okay?” I’m still too shocked to think straight, feel like I should go home and mark this day on my calendar. I can see the words scribbled with a Sharpie,
Kenna says motherfucker
. “Um, Kenna, don’t say anything except to Mark, because I don’t want Mike to know I’m onto him.”

“Okay, Mandy. Leave the kids as long as you need to, you hear?”

She must feel very strongly about what Mike did. Doesn’t everybody? And it’s not so much what he did, but what he’s continuing to do, which is truly despicable. Almost anybody can screw up once. But to keep it up, while portraying a contrite and guilt-ridden, reformed man? Hmmph!

* * * *

Using my handy dandy e-account, I discover Lana and Mike have chatted twice this morning already, and he’s sent her a text message. I go upstairs and wrap my gifts to Mike, some nice flannel shirts I know he’ll like, and a Sears gift card. I make peanut butter cookies, which I know he loves. I change the sheets on his bed.

When he asks why, I’ll tell him I knew it had been a long time since they were changed, and I wasn’t sure if he knew where the spare ones were. It will seem like a small consideration on my part, and he’ll think I’m coming around. If things go as planned, this will lead him to be kinder to me, and try harder to make up. From there on out, I’ll have to improvise.

I leave a little early for my walk, but this way I can see Adam sooner. It’s easier this time when I run the whole three miles. I’m winded when I get to his house, but not as exhausted as Thursday, when I couldn’t walk. Adam comes in his front door and sees me jogging in place with joyful anticipation by his back door. He’s shaking his head and smiling when he opens the door for me.

“Be still.” He smiles, pulling me into his arms.

“Can’t,” I pant. “Too excited to see you. Sorry about the sweat.” I’m sure I smell, but I guess he’s not bothered by it. He’s probably used to it, since that’s how I am most of the times he sees me.

“God, you
are
keyed up today.”

I’m bouncing around, high on adrenaline, I guess. High on life, high on my intended revenge… “Show me your car, the Jag.”

He takes me to the garage, and we sit in the car.

I’m slowly winding down, but still feeling strong and exuberant. “How long have you had it?” I open the glove box to snoop around, when he grabs my hands and holds them. I have a feeling he wasn’t only wanting to hold my hand. He didn’t want me seeing something in there.

“I’ve had it since I started driving.”

“Cool.” My eyes search his for the answer.
What’s in the glove box, Mister?
How’d the son of a working-class Aspen family manage a classic Jag? And Harvard?

“Come inside, investigative reporter Amanda. I’ll get you a sedative to calm down.” He clearly wants me out of the garage.

I won’t let it dampen my spirits, though. Not today. I’m Aman with a Plan. Ha, good one! I suddenly have to tell him about Kenna swearing, leaving out the part about my plan. He finds it funny, but not as much as if he knew her. Mostly he’s entertained because
I
find it so amusing.

“Don’t think I’m bipolar, or manic, or anything. I just finally see a light at the end of this tunnel, you know?” I pace around his living room, talking a mile a minute, while Adam watches me warily. “Hey, how come you don’t have a Christmas tree? Or lights? You want me to go get you some? Don’t look at me like I’m on speed, dude! I’m just buzzing from my walk. Run. I can run all the way without stopping now! Me, Mandy, who never ran a mile she didn’t hate.”

My second wind has kicked in and I’m truly fighting the urge to jog in place. Poor little Rascal tries to hunt-chase me, and my zigzaggy pacing does not make me the optimal stalking prey.

“Anyway, want me to get you a tree? We can’t get busy under the tree this weekend if there
is
no tree, you know what I mean? God, maybe I should go run around the neighborhood again. I feel
good
! What did I eat this morning? Hmm. Oatmeal? Yeah, must be that. I’m really hungry now, though. You got any more of that garlic bread?”

“If I kiss you, will you shut up?” His eyes are wide. He’s probably afraid I’m losing my marbles. Or wondering if I’m like this often.

“We can try it. Hey, put your running shoes on, I’ll race you to the back of the cemetery.”

“That’s like sacrilege or something. Running over graves?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I still can’t believe Kenna swore like that. Man! It’s probably gonna storm or somethin’. Wait ’til you meet her. She’s way pretty, I always feel ugly as a redheaded stepchild next to her.”

He hands me a nuked slice of garlic bread.

“Thanks. Mmm. God, this is like a five-star restaurant you run here. Okay, I’m slowin’ down some now. I’ll probably be draggin’ my tired butt up the hill after this, huh? Tomorrow’s our last session with freakazoid Baldwin.”

He looks over a slice of bread at me, brows raised in question.

“Geez, I’ve never told you about him, have I?” It always seemed wise to avoid the topic of my marital counseling with him. I tell Adam all the funny things I can think of about Baldwin, which he finds as hilarious as I do. That is, except the thing about Baldwin making a pass at me. I have a really big mouth about the wrong things, don’t I?

“He should lose his license for that.”

“Well, it would be my word against his, wouldn’t it? I guess if enough women filed complaints against him… But in my case, my husband wouldn’t even back me up.” Oops.

“What? He liked that guy coming onto you?” His face is red.

“No, he didn’t believe me. Remember when he called me and I told him I was here? He never believes me about another man wanting me. Even when his guys whistled at me at the Christmas party. Why do you think that is? I’d really like to know.”

He squeezes the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. “Because he’s an imbecile? That would be my guess, for multiple reasons.” He takes his hand down and meets my gaze. “Actually, I bet he believes other guys find you attractive, but he’s such a prick that he tells you he doesn’t, to wreck your self-image. If you feel unattractive, you’re less likely to give him the heave-ho.”

“You think he’s that calculating?”

“A guy who plans all-day hunting trips to cheat on his wife? Yeah, he’s that calculating.”

I hadn’t told Adam what I know about the hunting–he’d drawn his own conclusion. But I won’t acknowledge that he called it. I’m looking out the window. All the talk of Mike has finally leached most of the happy energy from me. How can I get my mind back to that joy-filled place?

“Mandy.” Adam cups my face with his fingers and gently turns my head so I’m facing him.

I won’t cry. This is a good day, and I’m happy, dammit, happy. “It’s just humiliating that I could so badly misplace my trust, you know? Have you ever been betrayed like this?”

His head shakes no.

“It sucks big, hard, shit-covered, fungus-growing rocks, man.” There, I cracked myself up a little with the bad rocks. Enough to pull out of the slump. “Hey, don’t try to call me on my cell tomorrow, okay? I’m trading phones with Mike for the day.”

“Why?” He’s suspicious. Of course he knows something is cooking on my back burner.

I’m pretty transparent, especially to him. “Just seeing if I get as good reception with his phone as mine.”

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re gonna intercept her calls to him? What will you say to her?”

“Nothing. I’m letting it go to voice mail, then I’ll listen to her message, delete it, erase only it from the call log, and he won’t know she called at all.”

“What if he calls her first, from your phone?”

“Then my little plan falls through, doesn’t it? Then he notices, or she does, that he picked up the wrong phone by accident when he headed to work. So?”

“Why are you doing this?” He must think I’m a glutton for punishment.

“I just wanta know if it’s her he’s been meeting on Saturdays. It’s important I have my facts straight when I confront him.” Because I’m going to break his heart as hard as he broke mine, and then I’ll throw hoochie Lana in his face.

“You might find out things you don’t wanta know.”

“True enough. Trust me, my eyes burned for days after I saw them together that night. Not much can be worse than that. I hope. Okay, Ferris, gotta run. I need to shower, God do I need to shower, and then go pick up the kiddos. Thanks for the snack!” I call back over my shoulder on my way out.

* * * *

I just pulled in a favor with my girl at the salon. I needed my highlights done in a bad way, and she got me in for it tomorrow, plus a wax job. I’m not talking facial hair. I’m talking down yonder, bikini area, hair-free. I did it once before, tenth anniversary surprise for Mike. Drove him wild for a couple of weeks. Drove
me
wild for a few weeks after, when it started growing in. It’s okay, though. Mike will see my reminder on the calendar, and he’ll assume I’m doing it for him. Little does he know who’ll really be reaping the benefits of this one, huh?

I gave Kenna a break and dragged all her kids over here to play when I picked up my own. The twin girls are seven, and they worship everything Rachel does. She enjoys their adoration, and returns the favor by bossing them around mercilessly while they play.

I’m a pacifist–as long as nobody’s complaining, I’ll let them play by their own hierarchy. Would Rachel enjoy having a baby sibling, or resent it? One of many concerns with a blended family, something I didn’t sign up for when I married the love of my life thirteen years ago.

Mike walks in from the garage and immediately spies the cookies on the counter. No matter what his state of mind was before, he’s pleased now. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was wise indeed. Maybe it was Aunt Clara. Mike looks surprised at me as he takes a stack of cookies in the hand that’s not busy shoving one into his lying mouth. Oops, can’t be thinking that way.

I pretend I’m oblivious to his cookie joy, clipping coupons from yesterday’s paper.

“Thanks for the cookies, baby.” Crumbs fly out when he hits the
S
sounds, since he doesn’t have the sense to swallow before he speaks. That’s all right; it means he’s excited by my little unexpected kindness toward him.

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, feigning distraction.

He comes to me, kisses my forehead on the way to his shower, leaving a few crumbs to fall in my eyebrows.

When I can hear the water running, I pick up his cell from the counter, check the call logs. Emptied again. The message log, however, he’s forgotten. He’s saved the one he keeps sending me about how much he loves me. All he has to do is select it and hit Send, and I get the same flippin’ message. Again. Does he not think I’ve noticed it’s always the same? Maybe he thinks if he hammers the same words into my persuadable female mind, I’ll start believing them. And here’s what he sent Lana this morning. For just a second, I pause. Do I really want to read this? I
must
, so I do it. It reads:

THANK U 4 MOST XCLNT BJ SAT
.

Time to sit down for a second. Okay, no question what Mike was up to Saturday, unless BJ stands for bunny jump, brown Jeep, or beet juice. My blood is boiling, but what can I do? I can let this knock me flat, or I can fight fire with fire, and burn Mike’s ass. And hers. I
will
get her too.

I carefully put Mike’s phone back where he left it, and try to put my mind back into forgiving mode. Loving, kind, pushover-Mandy Mode. Like how I feel with Mike’s mom, letting her push and use because it’s easier than fighting. Okay, I’m there.

* * * *

Mike comes out dressed in a thick red flannel shirt I gave him last year for Christmas. I’ve always loved him in red; it makes his eyes even bluer. I’ve told him this, which is why he’s wearing it now. He thinks I’ll fall for him all over again, just from looking at those sexy eyes. The eyes are the windows of the soul, they say. I used to believe I could look into his eyes and tell what he was thinking. Boy, was I wrong.