When Love Goes Bad Page 16

  “Because I have friends there—”

  “Who?” he demanded. “Customers? The manager? How about that bartender?” He glared at me. “Quit that job. Today, Kelsey. If I find you’ve gone back to the Pendleton—”

  He left the threat hanging.

  “What am I supposed to do with my time?”

  “Go back to school. Join the Junior League. Volunteer at the country club.”

  “The country club? But, Becker—”

  He pushed away from the table. “I’m late for the office.”

  Without a word, he picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

  I watched from the living room window as his BMW pulled out of the drive. I heard dishes rattling in the kitchen and remembered Mrs. Holtz’s expression earlier. She was loading the dishwasher as I entered.

  “What did you tell him?” I asked.

  She continued to work. “Nothing but the truth.”

  “Why?”

  She turned on me, her face twisted with hatred. “Because he deserves better than you. You’re nothing but a trollop!”

  I glared at her for a long moment. “You’re fired.”

  She straightened, and that snide smile returned. “You can’t fire me. I work for Mr. Jordan. Anyway, you’re only a temporary ornament in his life. When he tires of you, you’ll be out of here so fast that—”

  I turned away, storming off for my bedroom.

  Now who was humiliated?

  And, I was terrified that what she’d said was exactly true.

  Later, I drove to a payphone to call the restaurant. I didn’t want Mrs. Holtz listening in on my conversation. I told the manager that I had a family problem and wouldn’t be able to come in for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t promise to hold the job for me, but I thanked him, anyway. Then I went shopping, wandering the malls for hours. Funny, but I couldn’t find a thing I wanted to buy. Nothing seemed to hold meaning anymore. And I was determined that I wouldn’t go home until I was sure that Mrs. Holtz had left for the day.

  Becker came home late that evening; I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. We saw very little of each other during the next week, and slept back to back through the long, silent nights. It was my turn to hide behind the newspaper now during breakfast every morning.

  “I have to go to Mexico to check on the new factory,” Becker announced one Tuesday, finishing his second cup of coffee and rising from the table. “I’ll only be gone a few days,” he said as he gave me a perfunctory good-bye kiss on the cheek.

  I was almost glad when the days dragged into weeks.

  I did a lot of thinking during the long, lonely nights in that big, empty bed. Staring at the ceiling in the wee hours, I examined my life, realizing I’d married for all the wrong reasons. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with wanting security, but Becker and I had nothing in common. We’d never really been able to talk—using sex to fill our time together, instead. Sadly, we didn’t want the same things in life—not by any means.

  Worst of all, I’d turned my back on everything that my parents had ever taught me.

  Becker called only once during that time, and when he finally returned to Little Rock, he found me gone. I took some money from our joint account—just enough for a few months’ rent on a modest apartment—and bought myself those ruffled curtains and a stereo. I had to downscale my life considerably, but it wasn’t really that hard.

  Becker didn’t even want to attempt a reconciliation—saying I’d played him for a fool—and quickly filed for divorce. His attorney presented me with a settlement more generous than I’d anticipated. I didn’t want his money, but I took enough to pay for one more year of schooling, and donated the rest to the local food cupboard to benefit the workers he’d so callously laid off.

  When the new semester rolled around, I signed up for classes once again. I’d graduate one semester behind my classmates, but I’d graduate—the first in our family, just like my parents had always hoped.

  I was lucky and got my job back at the Pendleton, where my friendship with Matty, the bartender, blossomed into something much more. We talked about the future—about how Matty had been saving money to open his own bar and restaurant someday, and how my business degree could help him achieve that goal.

  We dated for more than a year before he asked me to marry him. It was a modest wedding. Matty looked so handsome in his black, rented tux, and I wore an ivory, tea-length gown ordered from a catalog. Clutching a simple bouquet of daisies, I walked down the aisle of that little Baptist church on Daddy’s arm. This time, all of my friends and family attended.

  When he placed the plain gold band on my finger, I held Matty’s hand in mine and gazed up into his deep brown eyes, remembering Mama’s words on the day of my first wedding: There’s nothing in this world more rewarding than sharing your life with the man you love.

  Darned if Mama ain’t always right. THE END

  THE CRUISE SHIP CON JOB EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW ABOUT

  He’s tall, dark, handsome—and a freeloader!

  I can’t believe I’m in this fix. I’ll never understand how I fell for his scam. I’m a sixty-eight-year-old woman who’s always prided herself on her good sense, but for some reason, when I met Luis, my good sense flew right out the window—along with over eighty thousand dollars. I can’t tell anyone about this—especially not my daughter. I don’t want her to know what a foolish woman she has for a mother.

  You see, I just got back from a trip to Bermuda—a trip that was supposed to be a dream come true. Before it was even over, though, all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die.

  I must have seemed ripe for the picking—a lonely, old widow starved for attention. I should have gotten out earlier; there were warning signs all along the way, but I didn’t see them. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see them. I should have known that no handsome, charming, twenty-five-year-old man would be seriously interested in me. If I looked like Sophia Loren, it might be within the realm of possibility, but I am not so blessed. I am just an ordinary looking woman. I’m not a candidate for the dog pound, but I’m not spectacular, either. I have my share of sags and bags; I’m a bit on the plump side. I look decent when I fix myself up, but let’s face it, I’m no competition for some of the Barbie dolls I’ve seen Luis with. Of course, he said that I was a “real woman” and that they were just fluff. And I was stupid enough to believe it. Or desperate enough to want to believe it.

  I was skeptical when my friend, Lois, told me about the Starry Night Dance Studio. I hadn’t gone dancing in years. My late husband, Harold, had been notorious for his two left feet. “It’ll be fun,” Lois insisted. “You’ll learn how to rumba, samba, whatever you want. And the dance instructors are divine.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Come on, everybody’s going to be there. When’s the last time you went out, had some fun?”

  “It’s been a while,” I admitted.

  “You can meet Fabian, my dance instructor. That man is H-O-T, hot!” Lois enthused.

  “Hot, huh?” I laughed.

  “Sizzling.”

  As it so happened, I was free that Saturday night—when was I not free on a Saturday night?—so I decided to give it a whirl. For the first time in months, I made an appointment with my hairdresser. I dug my lavender chiffon out of the mothballs, strapped on a pair of shiny black heels, and spritzed on some perfume. “It might be fun,” I admitted to myself as I surveyed my reflection in the full-length mirror. “What have I got to lose? Just a date with a big bowl of popcorn and the Saturday night movie on cable—a repeat, no doubt.”

  The other “girls” were already there, decked out in their finery. We admired each other’s dresses, giggling like schoolgirls. One by one, the others were paired with their instructors, all young, handsome Apollos of differing nationalities. They were some of the best-looking men I’d seen in decades, especially considering the fact that most of the men I’d had contact with were wrinkled old prunes next to the
se young specimens. I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when a hunk named Andy, a Brad Pitt clone, strolled up to claim Diane. Lois winked at me when a Latino with smoldering eyes—the famed Fabian—swept her into his arms and they did a mean mambo on the dance floor. Sheila giggled and blushed when a handsome black bodybuilder named Jake sank down on one knee and asked if he could have this dance.

  I stood to the side, feeling like a fifth wheel. I wondered who my instructor would be. Of course, my friends were regulars, so they probably got the cream of the crop. I realized I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Rodney Dangerfield coming out to greet me.

  “Elsa?” a silky voice purred. He had a thick accent, really sexy.

  I looked up, startled, and caught my breath. How could I have been so lost in my reverie that I’d missed seeing this godlike creature coming toward me? “Thank you, Lord,” I said quietly. I saw Lois give me the thumbs-up from the dance floor. Rodney Dangerfield, indeed!

  “Elsa, I’m very pleased to be your instructor tonight. My name is Luis Morales.” He bowed low. I caught a whiff of his cologne, a heady, masculine scent.

  “I’m not very good at this,” I said as he swept me out onto the dance floor.

  “Nonsense,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re a natural.”

  I’m not doing too badly, I conceded to myself. I only stepped on his toes twice.

  “Is this your first visit to the Starry Night?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We are honored that a lady of your beauty graces our hall tonight.”

  Deep down, I knew that it was a load of bull, but he was so charming, so sincere when he spoke, looking deep into your eyes and making you feel like you and he were the only two people in the room—in the universe even—that you wanted to believe every word he said—and you did believe it, against your better judgment. For with Luis Morales, there was no better judgment, only his mesmerizing eyes and his tantalizing smile.

  Luis disappeared for a break—and, I suspected, some liniment for his feet—and I joined Lois, who flagged me down at the bar.

  “What did I tell you?” Lois said. “Is he hot, or is he hot?”

  “He is a nice looking young man.”

  “Nice looking, my foot!” Lois snorted. “He’s almost as hot as my Fabian!”

  Luis and I shared a few more dances. We even tangoed, which was something I’d seen in movies but had never done in real life. I felt like Carmen Miranda. All I needed was a rose in my teeth. It was getting easier to follow his lead. The steps were complicated, and I was not as spry as I’d used to be, but I was a willing pupil and the time flew by.

  After a while, we took another break. I was sitting at one of the little, round tables near the dance floor, catching my breath, when Luis strode up to me. “Excuse me,” he said, “but they’re telling me I have to dance with another pupil of mine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Old Mrs. Finklebaum. Of course, I would much rather dance with you, but . . . duty calls.”

  “Certainly,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. Of course he had other pupils. I couldn’t monopolize him the whole night.

  I watched as he bowed before Mrs. Finklebaum, a white-haired, bejeweled matriarch. He was right—she was pretty old; she’d probably grown up with the dinosaurs. She wobbled in his arms. He winked at me behind her back.

  “That’s Gertrude Finklebaum,” Lois said as she sat down beside me. “She’s worth a mint.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to sound disinterested.

  “Boy, he’s really playing up to the old broad, isn’t he?”

  I took a closer look. Luis did seem to be a little too attentive for my liking, but maybe he had to do that. She was probably an important client. He couldn’t seriously be interested in her. After all, she was a hundred if she was a day.

  “Well, he’s got to be nice to the customers. . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, especially if they’re loaded.” Lois gave an unpleasant little laugh. “And if they’re that old, it’s a bonus, ‘cause they’ll drop dead sooner and leave you their estate.”

  I was glad when Lois left in search of Fabian. I liked Lois, but sometimes she could be a bit on the blunt side. At long last, Luis gingerly returned Gertrude Finklebaum to her seat and bowed before me. I glided into his arms, trying to ignore the disturbed feeling that was rising in the pit of my stomach.

  I should have run for my life, but of course I didn’t know that at the time. I was caught under his spell, achingly aware of his strong arms around me, his breath in my ear. I could have sworn that he nibbled the back of my neck.

  All too soon, the night came to an end. He brought me my wrap, bowed low, and kissed my hand. “I hope I see you again, Elsa,” he said.

  I had just climbed into my pajamas and was watching That Touch of Mink with Doris Day and Cary Grant when the phone rang. I recognized his voice immediately.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said. “Forgive me for calling so late.”

  “Oh, no. I’m just watching an old movie on TV.”

  “Which one?”

  “That Touch of Mink.”

  “One of my favorites.”

  “It’s a good one,” I agreed. I lapsed into silence, wondering why he had called.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called. I hope you don’t think me too presumptuous.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I was wondering if you enjoyed the lesson.”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “You caught on very quickly. You have taken dance lessons before, no?”

  “No—not unless you count the waltz in Mrs. Sondheim’s fourth-grade class. She was determined to turn us all into proper little ladies and gentlemen.”

  Luis laughed. “You are very talented.”

  “No. . . .”

  “You are,” he insisted. “I’ll bet your husband takes you out on the dance floor every chance he gets.”

  “My husband passed away several years ago.”

  “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t know. It must be very difficult to lose a mate.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, it’s getting pretty late. I suppose I’d better let you go. . . .”

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “Sweet dreams, Elsa.” And he hung up.

  I tried to return my attention to the movie, but it was no use. I finally flipped it off. My head was buzzing. He called! He actually called, and after I’d only seen him a few hours ago. I felt like I was sixteen again, excited over a phone call from a boy. I felt like doing cartwheels. I knew I was being silly, and I should slow down and get my head on straight. I was old enough to be his mother—his grandmother even. What I was mistaking for ardor was simply kindness, the concern of a dance instructor for a new pupil. I knew that in my head, but my heart—my heart was doing flip-flops.

  “Sweet dreams, Luis Morales. . . .” I whispered to my pillow, hugging it close before I switched off the light. I lay there in the dark for a long time, listening to the beating of my heart, before I finally fell asleep.

  I became a fixture at the Starry Night. I started going there Monday through Thursday nights, and of course, on Saturdays. I even gave up Bingo at the Elks. It was expensive, but it was worth it. I would have gone there Sundays, too, but they were closed, and Friday was Luis’s night off.

  To my chagrin, I never again had him all to myself as I had that first Saturday. The Starry Night was proving to be a hot spot for senior women, and Luis, I soon found out, was quickly becoming one of their most popular instructors.

  There was always a line of women waiting for his services, and he had to bide his time among them. He assured me that he would much rather be with me, but he would be fired if he refused their attentions; so I had to wait and watch while he danced with the other ladies until it was finally my turn.

  He called me faithfully every night after each dance lesson, and he sent me cute little cards and left surprise gifts on
my doorstep. One time it was a dozen roses in a crystal vase; once it was an exquisite ruby ring in a black, velvet box.

  My arch rival for Luis’s attention was Gina D’Angelo, a bleach-blond bimbo who was determined to get her claws into him. When I “casually” mentioned the big bottle of perfume he had left on my stoop, Gina bragged about the gold watch he had left in her mailbox. When I confronted Luis about it, he admitted that sometimes he gave clients little gifts and other trinkets because it was good public relations, but that I was the only one who owned his heart. Besides, he said, he had paid all of two dollars and fifty cents for the watch at the local pawnshop. We laughed conspiratorially over the joke on Gina.

  Still, I didn’t feel like I owned his heart. I didn’t feel like I owned any part of him. I wondered what he did on his nights off. I never heard from him on a Sunday or a Friday. Several times, I noticed Luis and the coat check girl at the club huddled with their heads together, deep in conversation. She was very young, very pretty. Did he go out with her?

  He had my phone number, but he never gave me his. I had no idea where he lived. Maybe he had a wife stashed away somewhere, or a live-in girlfriend. I offered to drive him home one night when I spotted his red Jaguar at the side of the road, but he declined, saying that he’d called a cab with his cell phone and had to wait for the tow truck, anyway.

  He had a lot of trouble with that Jaguar. It turned out to be quite a lemon. Unfortunately, Jaguars are notoriously expensive to fix. Several times, I loaned him money for the repair bills. Of course, he didn’t want to take the money from me, but I insisted. He didn’t know when he’d be able to repay me, but I assured him that there was no rush.

  One night, when he came over to me as I waited on the sidelines until he finished his dance with another client, I could tell that something was bothering him. I asked him what was on his mind.

  “Oh, Elsa, I do not wish to bother you with my problems. Come, let’s dance.”

  “No, really,” I insisted. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, the best of friends,” he agreed fervently. “I would trust you with my life.”