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Still, those little moments helped when her day was tedious or she was annoyed by always having to take care of everyone.
But now she was less sure of her crush. Did Dr. Ingersoll see her as a sexy, slightly older, vital woman? Or was she simply Lulu’s old and wrinkled pet mom?
“How’s the new skin cream working?” the vet asked. He stroked Lulu as he spoke.
“She’s scratching less.”
“Her skin looks clear.”
Pam watched him pet her dog and noticed that while the backs of his hands were smooth and taut, she’d developed a few age spots on hers. She held in a sigh. She didn’t like this, she admitted to herself. Not the questioning or the concerns. Not the self-absorption. She’d always considered her life to be one that was blessed. She was lucky. Lucky people didn’t get old and wrinkly, did they? Which brought her back to what the AARP really should be doing for their future members—warning them about the coming apocalypse of old age.
* * *
Shannon finished the quarterly reports and hit the send button. She would meet with the CEO later to discuss the actual results, but she wasn’t worried. The numbers looked good.
She’d recently revamped the timetables and discounts in accounts payable. Cash flow was better, which meant the company’s expansion could be funded internally. When interest rates were low, taking out a loan made sense, but she had a feeling they were going to start climbing. Better to keep the money at home.
While a lot of finance people saw the products their companies produced as interchangeable “widgets,” she didn’t agree. Every company was different. The challenges to produce a physical good varied between industries and even within them. Cars were different from furniture and software was nothing like envelopes. Her attitude had been the key reason she’d been hired nearly five years before. Nolan could have hired any one of a dozen applicants, but he’d chosen her. She had a feeling her rant on the fact that manufacturing products shouldn’t be reduced to the pejorative term “widget” was a part of the reason.
She glanced out the big window by her desk. The sun had set a while ago. There was no hint of light coming from the sky—not counting the bright lights from around the office building, of course. She’d been at the office since six thirty and except for taking a class at Mischief in Motion during her lunch break, she’d pretty much been chained to her desk.
She saved her files and began to shut down her computer. She would stop for some Thai food on her way home and spend a quiet evening by herself.
Because she didn’t have a date. Certainly not with Adam, who had yet to call after their single meeting.
She’d been hopeful, she thought as she watched her computer move from saving to shutting down. Hopeful that he was man enough to accept her success, her career demands, to respect them, even. But he hadn’t and that meant he wasn’t for her. But being logical didn’t help the dull ache she’d learned to recognize as loneliness.
Sure there were friends she could call. With Eric so busy with his screenwriting, Nicole was often up for dinner out. Tyler came with her, which was fine with Shannon. She enjoyed hanging out with the charming, happy little boy. Or she could see if Pam and John wanted some company for an after-dinner glass of wine. No doubt there would be delicious leftovers for her to dine on.
But while she loved her friends, she wasn’t lonely because of them. Every now and then, she wanted to find “the one.” That ridiculous concept she’d been unable to shake, no matter how she tried. Sometimes Shannon worried that all the talk about pair bonding in humans just might be true.
She pulled open the bottom desk drawer and removed her handbag. She reached for her cell only to have it buzz with an incoming call.
The screen flashed with the icon she’d linked with the name. A skull and crossbones. Humorous, but also a warning. Because hearing from Quinn was never good.
She considered letting the call go to voice mail. Mostly because that was the safest action. He wouldn’t leave a message. No doubt she wouldn’t hear from him for weeks. But if she did answer…
She grabbed her phone and pushed the talk button.
“Hello?”
“Gorgeous.”
That was all it took. A single word in that low, smoky voice. Her tension eased, her breathing slowed and between her legs she felt the telltale combination of hunger and dampness. She could talk all the successful-career, self-actualized crap she wanted, but at the end of the day, she was little more than Quinn’s bitch.
“Hey,” she murmured, even as she glanced at the clock on the wall and calculated how long it would take her to drive to Malibu at this time of the evening.
“Come over.”
Quinn didn’t ask. He instructed. He took charge. It was the same in bed, where he decided what they were going to do and who came first. She should have resented it, but she didn’t. There was something to be said for a man who took charge. She relaxed around him because there was no point in fighting the tide.
“I can’t stay,” she said—a feeble attempt to take control. But she’d learned the hard truth. Better to get what she wanted and escape than spend the night.
“No problem.”
There was a soft click. She knew the call had been disconnected.
She dropped her cell into her handbag, then crossed to the private bathroom that came with her C level title. After using the bathroom, she freshened her makeup and brushed her teeth. Then she left and headed for her car.
The drive to Malibu was simple. Head north on Pacific Coast Highway, which became Sepulveda and a half dozen other streets through Marina del Rey and Venice. She picked it up again in Santa Monica, then followed the road until she reached Malibu.
When people thought of that town they pictured beachfront mansions and star sightings. Both were plentiful, but much of the community was also old and a little worn around the edges. Tiny restaurants favored by locals nestled against the larger, more famous attractions, like Gladstone’s.
Shannon turned onto a small street. In one of those weird L.A. ironies, the most beautiful homes often had completely deceptive entrances. There was a garage, a secured gate and what looked like the beginning of a modest thousand-square-foot bungalow. All of which concealed eight or ten million dollars’ worth of luxury living and incredible views.
Quinn’s house was similar, although his gate kept anyone from pulling into the driveway. Shannon punched in the code. In that split second before the heavy iron gate swung open, she wondered if it would. Because she knew there would come a day when her code would no longer work. She often told herself that would be a good thing. Some days she even believed herself.
But it wasn’t tonight, she thought as she drove into the open garage and parked next to his Maserati.
She got out and walked inside.
Quinn’s house was built on the side of a cliff. The tri-level home was probably about five or six thousand square feet with an unobstructed view of the ocean from all three levels. During the day, the rooms were filled with light. At night, electric blinds protected the privacy from those who would try to capture a glimpse of how the beautiful people lived.
Shannon left her shoes in the foyer by the garage door and walked barefoot through the living room. Music played. She didn’t recognize the man singing, but she was sure he was one of Quinn’s latest finds.
A couple of lamps had been left on to guide her, but she could have found her way blindfolded. She ignored the elegant furniture, the expensive artwork, the too casually arranged throw pillows and headed for the stairs.
Down a floor was the kitchen and another living room. This was where Quinn spent most of his time. The upper floor was for entertaining. A dumb waiter allowed whatever catering service he was using to deliver food quickly and easily.
Instead of elegance, this level was all about comfort. Oversize leather furniture and a giant TV on the wall dominated the room. The electronic equipment could probably intimidate a NASA scientist. Being a successful music producer paid well.
Shannon circled to the final staircase and took it down a floor. She passed a small guest room and walked into the master.
The glass doors were open. Cool night air and the sound of the ocean mingled with the scent of wood burning in the fireplace. There was a large, custom bed, a couple of chairs and a man. Her attention zeroed in on the latter.
Quinn had been reading. He put down his e-reader and rose as she approached. His blond hair was too long, his blue eyes slightly hooded. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted and he looked the part. Despite the loose cotton shirt and chinos, he was dangerous. Like a beautiful, yet venomous snake—the more appealing the appearance, the more you had to beware.
She dropped her bag onto the carpet. He removed his shirt by simply pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. His pants followed. Being Quinn, he didn’t bother with underwear.
Shannon studied the honed lines of his body. Defined muscles swooped and hollowed. The man was pushing forty and yet could have easily been hired as a butt double for stars half his age.
He was already aroused.
She hesitated. Just for a second. It was like being in the first week of a diet when cravings were insistent and tempers ran high, and someone offered you a brownie. Did you accept it and promise to start again tomorrow, or did you do the right thing, take the empowering step and walk away?
She knew she’d already made her decision. Answering the call had been the equivalent of picking up that brownie. Now all she had to do was take that first bite.
She walked over to him. Quinn drew her close and kissed her. With the stroke of his tongue, she surrendered to the inevitable and promised herself she would do better tomorrow.
Four
“And hold,” Nicole said, her tone encouraging. “Five seconds more.”
Pam stayed in the plank position. Every muscle in her body trembled with the effort, but she was determined to make it the entire minute. The image of her naked self still haunted her. The least she could do was give her all in exercise class.
“Time,” Nicole called. “And you’re done, ladies.”
Pam collapsed onto the mat for a second to catch her breath. Her stomach muscles were still quivering. She would be sore well into tomorrow, which was kind of depressing considering she did three classes a week.
She rose and staggered over to the shelf that held the cleaner spray and the towels, and wiped down her mat and the equipment she’d used. The other students did the same. She kept her eye on Shannon, wanting to make sure they had a chance to talk. She figured of all the women she knew, Shannon was the one most likely to have a referral. Or at least be able to get one.
“She’s trying to kill us,” Pam said, moving next to the annoyingly firm redhead.
“I think that, too.”
They collected their personal belongings from the cubbies by the waiting area. Lulu stood and stretched. Pam stuffed the blanket Lulu had been on into her tote, then walked toward the door. Lulu walked along with her.
When they were outside and heading for their cars, Pam scooped up the dog and wondered how exactly she was supposed to bring up such a personal topic.
“Do you have a second?” she asked.
Shannon stopped and faced her. “Sure. What’s up?”
Pam took a second to admire the other woman’s smooth face. No saggy jawline for her. And her skin was really bright. Pam had noticed a couple of dark spots on her cheek and forehead. All that time in the sun when she’d been a teenager was coming back to haunt her. Day by day her complexion was moving from human to dalmatian.
“I don’t mean to imply anything,” Pam began, wishing she’d planned this better. “Or be insulting. It’s just…I don’t know who else to ask.”
Shannon’s mouth curved into a smile. “I suddenly feel like you’re going to ask me if I’ve had a sex change operation. The answer is no.”
Pam tried to smile. “It’s not that. I was thinking about maybe getting some BOTOX and wondered if you knew anyone who ever had or something.”
“Oh, sure. That’s easy. Of course I can give you a name. I have a person.”
Pam frowned. “A person who does it?”
“Sure.”
“Because you get it?”
“I have for about five years.”
Pam’s frown deepened as she studied her friend. “But your face is so smooth and natural looking.”
“Which is kind of the point,” Shannon told her. “I’ve been using it to prevent wrinkles.”
“They can do that?”
“They can.” Shannon moved her hair off her forehead. “I’m trying to scowl. Any movement?”
“Not much.”
“So it works. I’ll email the contact info for the place where I go. They’re very good. The shots hurt—I won’t lie. But after it’s done, it’s no big deal. Then about a week later, you have fewer wrinkles.”
“That sounds easy,” Pam murmured, even as she wondered if she’d left it too long. She was years past preventative care.
“I love it,” Shannon told her. “But I will warn you, it’s a slick road to more work. I’m flirting with the idea of injectable. Maybe a little filler in my lips, that kind of thing.”
“Filler?” Pam’s stomach got a little queasy. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“So start with BOTOX. The rest will be waiting.”
“Thanks.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then headed to their cars. As Pam strapped in Lulu, she sighed.
“I was kind of hoping she would tell me I didn’t need anything done,” she admitted.
Lulu wagged her tail.
“Be grateful,” she told the dog. “You’ll always be a natural beauty.”
* * *
Nicole walked into the house at 6:28 p.m. Not a personal best, but pretty darned good, she thought. She ignored the ache in her back and her legs and how all she wanted to do was sleep for the next twenty-four hours. At least tonight was one of her early nights. Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked until eight.
“Mommy’s home! Mommy’s home!”
Tyler’s happy voice and the clatter of his feet as he raced toward her made her smile. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she didn’t get to see him in the morning. Her first class started at six, which meant she was up and out by five thirty.
She dropped her bag on the floor and held out her arms. Tyler raced around the corner and flung himself at her. She caught him and pulled him close.
“How’s my best boy?”
“Good. I missed you. I practiced my reading today and Daddy made sketty for dinner.”
“Spaghetti, huh? Sounds yummy.”
“It was.” He kissed her on the lips, then leaned his head against her cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too, little man.”
She lowered him to the floor. Tyler headed back to the living room and she walked into the kitchen. There were dishes everywhere. The plastic container that had contained the “sketty” Tyler had enjoyed, along with everything from breakfast and lunch.
The pain in her legs moved up to her back. Frustration joined weariness. She walked into the bedroom and saw the laundry she’d sorted at five that morning still in piles. Hadn’t he done anything?
Eric walked into the kitchen and smiled at her. “Hey, hon. How was your day?” As he spoke, he stepped close and kissed her. “I know you’re going to say fine and that you’re tired, but I gotta tell you, you look hot in workout clothes.”
The compliment defused her annoyance for a second. “Thank you and my day was fine. Long, but good. How was yours?”
“Excellent. I rewrote a scene three times but now I have it right. At least I hope so. I’ll find out at my critique group on Saturday. In the meantime, I have class tonight, so I’ll see you later.”
She stared at the man she’d married. He was so similar to the guy she remembered and yet so totally different. He still wore his hair a little too long and had hideous taste in loud Hawaiian shirts. But the old Eric had taken care of the details of their life, while this guy didn’t seem to notice anything beyond his screenplay.
She told herself to breathe. That yelling never accomplished anything.
“I’d love to read the new scene,” she told him.
“You will. When it’s perfect.”
The same answer she always received. Because he’d yet to let her read a word of his work. Which sometimes left her wondering if he was writing anything at all. Which made her feel guilty, which led to her wanting to bang her head against the wall in frustration.
“I gotta run.” He kissed her again, then straightened. “Well, shit. I forgot to do the dishes. Leave them. I’ll do them when I get home. Or in the morning. I promise.”
“Okay,” she murmured, knowing she would do them herself. Something inside of her made it impossible to relax with a sink full of dishes sitting around. “Any chance you got to the sheets today?”
His expression turned blank. “Did I say I would?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate that, but Eric, we need to talk about this. You’re excited about your screenplay and that’s great, but lately it seems you’re doing less and less around here.”
“I’m not. I do the grocery shopping and take care of Tyler when he’s not in day care. I forgot the dishes, but I’ll do them. And the laundry.” His expression tightened. “You have to understand. It’s all about the writing for me. I’ve got to focus. That’s my job. I know it’s not paying anything right now, but it will. When I’m working, I’m as committed as you are at your job. I need you to respect my time.”
“I do.” Sort of, she thought grimly. “I need to be able to depend on you.”
“You can. Trust me.” He glanced at his watch. After picking up his backpack, he headed for the door. “Tomorrow. I swear. I’ll get it all done. Gotta go. Bye.”
And he was gone.
She stood alone in the kitchen and let various emotions wash over her. Annoyance, confusion, exhaustion, regret. They churned and heated until they formed a large knot in her belly.
Respect his time writing while she busted her ass to support them all? She closed her eyes. No, she told herself. That wasn’t fair. He was working. At least she hoped he was.
The changes in her relationship with her husband had started so quietly, in such tiny increments, that she’d barely noticed. Excluding his decision to quit, of course.
At first he’d taken care of stuff around the house. The laundry, the grocery shopping. But over time, that had changed. He forgot to get everything on the list. He put clothes in the washer, but not the dryer. He didn’t pick up Tyler at day care. Now he wasn’t cleaning up the kitchen as he’d promised.
She thought about going after him to talk about what was happening, then shook her head. He would be focused on getting to class. Soon, she promised herself. She would sit down with him and talk about what was wrong. She didn’t want to have a roommate, she wanted a husband. Someone who was invested in their family, and not totally focused on his own dream.
Did he really think he was going to sell a screenplay? The odds against that were what? A billion to one? Talk about ridiculous. And yet there was a part of her that wondered if he would make it happen.
The knot in her stomach didn’t ease. But that wasn’t important right now. She picked up the empty laundry basket. Prioritize, she told herself. She could probably stay awake through two loads, so which were the most important?
Five minutes later their old washer was chugging away. She turned the radio on to an oldies station and danced with Tyler as they worked together to tidy the kitchen. Or rather she worked and he shimmied while “Help Me, Rhonda” played. By seven the dishes were in the dishwasher and the food put away. Tyler had had his bath the previous night so they had a whole hour before his bedtime.
She sank onto the floor in front of her son and smiled at him. “What would you like to do? We could play a game, or watch a show.” She didn’t offer to read a story, because that went without saying. Except for the two nights she worked late, she always read him a story. Usually some adventure about wily Brad the Dragon.
“A movie!”
“There’s only an hour.”
“Okay.”
Tyler took off running toward the family room. His shows and movies were on a lower shelf where he could browse on his own. She walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. Nothing much inspired her, although she knew she had to eat. She picked a blueberry yogurt and an apple.
“This one,” Tyler told her, holding out a familiar and battered DVD case.
Nicole studied the grainy picture on the front. It was sixteen years old. She’d been all of fourteen and this was a copy of her audition performance for The School of American Ballet in New York. For their summer session.
Not the actual audition. No one was allowed to watch, let alone record that. But she’d re-created the dance for her mother. On the same DVD were a half dozen other performances.
“Honey, you’ve seen that so many times,” she reminded her son. “Don’t you want to watch something else?”
He thrust out the DVD—his small face set in a stubborn expression she recognized.
“Okay, then. Dancing it is.”
She put in the DVD, then settled on the sofa. Tyler cuddled up next to her. She offered him some of her yogurt, but he shook his head. On the TV, the picture flickered, then familiar music filled the room.
Nicole watched her much younger self perform. She was all legs, she thought, without the usual gangliness of adolescence. Probably because she’d been studying dance since she’d been Tyler’s age.
She’d made it into the summer program only to be told at the end that she didn’t have what it took to make it professionally in ballet. At the time she’d been both heartbroken and secretly relieved. Because her being a famous ballerina had been her mother’s dream for her.
Nicole’s mother had cried for two days, then come up with a new plan. There were many kinds of dance, she’d informed her only child. Nicole was going to conquer them all. There had also been acting classes and voice lessons. She’d barely managed to get the grades to graduate from high school because she was always attending some coaching session or another.
On the screen, the scene shifted to yet another performance. Nicole figured she’d been about seventeen. It was the year her mother had started complaining of headaches. By the time Nicole had received word of a full dance scholarship at Arizona State University, her mother had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. The funeral had been the Saturday before Labor Day. Nicole had already started at ASU.
So many choices made that weren’t really choices at all, she thought, pleased she’d reached the point of only sadness. For a long time she’d tasted bitterness, too, when she’d thought about her past. Maybe watching the DVDs with Tyler helped. He only saw the beauty of the dance. There weren’t any emotional judgments. No history fogged his vision.
Nicole hadn’t been so lucky. Her mother had wanted her to be a star. The origin of the dream wasn’t clear. Something from her own childhood perhaps. But they hadn’t talked about that. Instead, their most intimate conversations had been about how Nicole could do better, be better. Always strive for more, her mother had told her. How disappointed she would be today.
Sometimes Nicole wondered if she was disappointed, too. How different things would have been if she’d been just a bit better. A hair more talented. Not that regrets helped, she reminded herself. They only wasted time and energy because regrets didn’t change anything.
She stared at the screen and watched her younger self dance with a grace and confidence that seemed to be lacking these days. While she didn’t regret not being famous, she knew that somewhere along the way she’d lost something important. All the elements of a happy life were there—a growing small business, a husband, a wonderful son, friends—but somehow they didn’t come together the way they should. She accepted the exhaustion. That came with the territory. It was everything else—the sense of never having quite found what made her happy, the wondering if she’d made a mistake somewhere along the way. That was what kept her up nights.