Authors: Lisa Logan
Dominique laughed. “Of course not. He’s playing it casual. He’ll wait until he’s kept you out so late that dinner will occur to him as an afterthought.”
Ridelle’s expression bore open skepticism. “Quite the hairy cad. Maybe he won’t bother wining and dining. Maybe we’ll tango over by the home stereos, and he can hike my skirts against a surround system.”
Dominique’s eyes rolled. “Not to brag, but I know a little something about how men operate.”
“
She’s right,” Twyla said, “I’d bet money on a thank-you dinner.”
Frannie’s mouth was set in a firm slash, but she nodded.
“
Okay, fine,” Ridelle said, crossing her arms. “Let’s say he asks me to dinner. Just so we’re clear, I won’t be rubbing my toes against his crotch under the table. So don’t ask.”
Twyla shook her head. “Just be yourself, except for the part where you find Bruce a hairy cad.” She waggled her brows over her glass of tea. “And I do hope he’s wearing that famous cologne.”
“
Well,” Frannie pushed back from the table, “I guess this means my devoted husband will be late getting home. Wonder when he’s planning on telling me that, not to mention that we’re getting some giant screen nuisance? I suppose he suggested Jersey so he won’t get spotted with you locally.”
The girl shrugged. “He just said it’d be easier to meet halfway than trying to rush home from work in New York.” Rooting through the remaining steak strips in her salad with a fork, she sighed, then pushed it aside. “Guess I should duck out early and get ready, since apparently I have to consider hair and wardrobe just to look at televisions. I still think you’re all getting your hopes up too much on this. I hope you won’t be too let down when every minute of my trip was dedicated to the exciting world of high definition television.”
Dominique crossed her arms, setting a skeptical look askew by cocking her head. “You don’t seriously believe this is just because Bruce thinks you’re the whiz-bang expert on home electronics?”
Ridelle sighed, then met Fran’s measuring eyes. “No. No, I don’t.”
* * *
The I-95 across the waterway into Jersey was stacked, but less congested on Ridelle’s side than for the poor souls trying to head for points east and north. Her left elbow was cocked half out the window of her Nissan, hands resting without purpose at the moment on the idle steering wheel. A brief twist of her wrist brought the face of her Seiko watch into view. She was late for the big fishing trip.
Not only had Ridelle changed clothes before the hour and a half journey, but she had showered and put on a fresh coat of makeup as well. Opting for casually presentable, she wore a cranberry Tommy Hilfiger knit with pin tucks and a plunging, but not obscene neck. Skirts didn’t last long in her closet despite how many her mother bought, but she scrounged up a black denim A-line that fell to above the knee. Her open-back clogs read more casual than desperate, and the heels were low enough to assure she wouldn’t find herself looking down on Bruce in fact, if not in principle. The more she thought about it, the more she knew her friends were right. A married man taking a woman other than his wife shopping for a major home purchase had highly questionable motives. Still, if he wasn’t the type, Fran wouldn’t be working this angle to wriggle out of the hole in their prenup.
Traffic picked up its pace, and Ridelle divided her time between navigating the highway and digging in her bag for a hairbrush. Pressing a button to seal the window against further damage to her hair, she slicked tangles out of just-dried locks and dumped the brush back inside the bag. The Lawrenceville-Princeton exit beckoned, and she veered off to put the car through a brief series of turns. Landing on Nassau Boulevard, she obliged a generous coat of rose-tinged lip gloss and a spritz of Curious perfume. For all the snickering over the antics of Britney Spears, the girl’s fragrance rocked on Ridelle. As she pulled into the electronic store’s parking lot, she flipped down the visor and peered at unassuming eyes and super-shined lips. Okay, so maybe her eyes did assume some things, none of which were good at the moment. She hoped they didn’t show it.
Finding an empty spot, she stepped out of the car and looked around for Bruce’s black BMW convertible. Not spotting it right off, she wandered to the glass front entrance and wondered what she was doing here. Why did he want her company, really? Was he as interested in her as everyone seemed to think? What if the television was a surprise for Frannie, and he merely wanted the opinion of one of her friends?
Another glance at her watch showed it was twenty after. No doubt traffic down from the city had hung him up. As if her thoughts caused him to materialize, a 325ci whipped alongside her. The top was down, yet Bruce’s hair somehow managed to escape the slightest ruffle. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” The accompanying smile lacked apology, but did a fair imitation of movie star dazzle. “Let me park this beast.”
Suddenly feeling conspicuous, Ridelle dug through her bag as he drove off, flipping open a mirrored compartment in her wallet. She angled the bag to catch her reflection without being so obvious as to whip it out and primp. The expression was a bit deer-in-the-headlights for her taste, but she was otherwise still presentable.
He sauntered up wearing two parts of a three-piece gray pinstripe suit, the crisp white shirt underneath his vest rolled halfway to the elbows that were bent as he rested his hands on his hips. Both wrists were adorned in precious metals—a Rolodex on the left and an Italian gold, marine-link bracelet on the right. What a pair he and Fran must make these days, what with him now in possession of all the family jewelry.
“
Three car accident on the turnpike,” he said. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
Ridelle nodded, mouth losing moisture and syllables by the second. “I saw the mess coming the other way.”
“
Thanks again for doing this. Fran hates this stuff, and I figured I could use the opinion of someone who’s seen one of these in action.”
Ridelle offered a smiling nod in reply, and their eyes held for a bit longer than necessary. Was it her imagination, or was there a telepathic we-know-what-we-really-want-here message in that glance?
“
Well,” he said, breaking the moment. “I think I’ve held you up long enough. Shall we?”
Without awaiting a reply he strode to the front door, pulled it open, and gestured Ridelle inside ahead of him. As she crossed the threshold into the bustling two story warehouse, she got hit by an unexpected blow of his scent. He’d not only worn
the
cologne, but had apparently reapplied it within the past hour.
Damn. This was going to be a long trip.
Frannie, her fists lodged under her armpits, shook her head as she listened to the message for the third time.
“
Hey, babe.” Her husband’s voice sounded uncharacteristically accommodating. “I’ll be late tonight. Don’t bother cooking for me. I’ll grab a bite in town. See you later.”
Dominique had been right about dinner. The time stamp on the message meant he’d left it just after talking to Ridelle at lunch. He’d already planned to be eating away from home. With Fran’s best friend, which of course wasn’t mentioned in his chipper little message.
Things were shooting along even better than she could have hoped. Just a few short weeks since the girls had hatched this plan and he was ready to plunge deep into Miss Walters. At the rate it was going, maybe the big plunge would be tonight. She frowned. There would be no photo-op capturing the moment if it happened now. Still, maybe it would be better if he had her more than once. It would be more damning if it were an ongoing affair. Then there could be no argument of it all being some horrid misunderstanding. “Oh my, was that my penis inside her? I had no idea!”
Either way, the obvious warming of his loins for Ridelle made her the perfect choice, just as Dominique had thought. Her friend was not only brilliant, she was downright MENSA material—an unsurprising thought considering the first three letters of the organization spelled out her specialty. Still, they all thought this plan would take months to implement, and yet the seeds of betrayal they’d planted were already preparing to blossom. Even Dominique seemed surprised at how readily Bruce took the bait. Just like sperm to an egg. “The bastard better be taking precautions,” she muttered to herself.
Angry thoughts swirled through her head. Oh, how Bruce must be splaying his peacock feathers over the life he thought he had going! His dutiful wife sat at home, cooking and scrubbing and unable to spend a dime while he stepped out to shop and bang a young, hot goddess. Why, his dick must feel twelve inches tall. That Bruce was such a willing participant in his own undoing was an embarrassment to her in front of her friends and truly reinforced just how much he deserved what was about to come his way.
Yes, she should be ecstatic to the point of moistness right about now. She was headed for unmarried bliss at a pace none of them had dared dream possible. Soon, she would be the one out buying expensive toys and sleeping with anyone she chose. Those men would have far more endearing nicknames for her than moron, dim-witted bitch, and the host of others on Bruce’s insult hit parade. And to top it off, her first order of business upon moving out would be to hire a housekeeper to spit shine her new bachelorette pad. She was as ready to divorce the endless marble floors as she was her husband. A happy future, indeed.
Why, then, was she so damn annoyed that their plan was turning into a wild success? Fran would be hardly be standing on the launch pad to freedom if Bruce rebuffed Ridelle’s aggressive advances. Not that her friend had stuck a nipple in the man’s mouth or anything, but the woman must have done more than ladle gravy on his plate to warrant this response. She was grateful, really. But was it too much to expect that he at least show the restraint of a mad bull in Pamplona? Perhaps a five-minute internal struggle before concluding his morals were on permanent hiatus would have softened the blow.
Grabbing her purse from the built-in kitchen desk, she sighed and wandered toward the lingering bubble bath that awaited her. An itchy truth niggled along her spine as she moved through the hallway. Maybe, despite her desperation to cut the jackass loose, Fran had secretly hoped Bruce would surprise them all by remaining faithful to her. Bruce Myers had unleashed an emotional hurricane on his marriage, and dropping back to a whispering breeze now couldn’t undo the resulting damage. Still, she would have been happy to see him leave a building or two standing in his wake.
Climbing the stairs with sudden weights in her feet, Fran’s mind wandered to the way she would love to see the scene play out. It would be just like an old black-and-white matinee. Ridelle, with a sweeping Carole Lombard hairstyle and a cigarette in a sleek holder, would slink over to Bruce on his office sofa. Dropping herself too close beside him, she’d cross her legs strategically to force the slit of her skirt to crevasse open and display far more thigh than was proper in married, mixed company.
Rubbing a stiletto along his calf, Ridelle’s blood red lips would purse to issue a perfect smoke ring. “You know we find each other attractive, Bruce,” she’d say. “I’m a modern woman, and I believe two people can have what they want. I’m here, and the loving’s free. No one ever need know but us.”
Then Bruce, with a Clark Gable mustache and strong resolve, would get straight to his feet. “I’m sorry, little lady, but you’re wasting your time. My passion beats for one woman alone, and that’s my Frannie. Now, may I suggest that you leave before causing yourself further embarrassment?”
Frannie wandered into the master bedroom as the imaginary scenario faded, dropping her purse on the chaise with a sigh. Yes, as much as life tried to demonstrate otherwise, she still believed in fairy tales. Pulling her sheer blouse over her head, she wondered why on Earth she kept winding up with the ogres.
* * *
Though the arrival of summer and daylight savings lengthened the days, night time was still on final approach by the time Bruce and Ridelle burst out of the store in Princeton, laughing like old school chums. Bruce pushed a shopping cart laden with bags for each of them—CD’s and DVD’s for Ridelle, cell phone accessories and an iPod for him. Steering for the BMW, the pair stopped alongside the trunk while Bruce clicked off the alarm with his keychain.
“
God, that was fun.” Ridelle poked through bags, pulling out one of her purchases. “Casablanca, limited edition collector’s set. Haven’t seen this in forever. I can’t wait.”
He hefted the first bag into the trunk. “I love that one. It’s a classic.”
“
A fellow Bogey fan, eh? We should watch it sometime.” The words were out before Ridelle had time to consider the implication.
“
Definitely.” He shot her a wink. “Bet it’d be great on the new TV.”
Ridelle felt an unexpected twinge at the reply. That he’d so readily accepted was a good sign things were headed in the right direction, but to amend that to involve an evening at home with his wife? Maybe he trying to steer Ridelle—or himself—around the danger of something happening between them.