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twelve
Jaine grumbled to herself all the way home, though she did remember to stop at the clinic and pick up a three-month supply of birth control pills. Upper management had decided that milking the situation for all the publicity they could was nothing but good, and things had happened fast after that. On behalf of the others she had accepted an interview on Good Morning America, though why a morning news show would be interested when it obviously couldn’t get into the racier items on the list, she couldn’t fathom. Maybe it was nothing more than network one-upmanship at work. She could understand the print organizations being interested—say, Cosmopolitan, or even one of the men’s monthlies. But what could People print, other than a personal slant about the four of them and the impact the list had made on their lives?
Evidently sex sold even when it couldn’t be discussed.
The four of them were supposed to go to the ABC affiliate there in Detroit at the supposedly reasonable hour of four A.M., and the interview would be taped. They were to be dressed, coifed, and mascaraed before they arrived. An ABC correspondent, not Diane or Charlie, was flying to Detroit to conduct the interview, rather than have them sit on an empty set with tiny plugs in their ears, talking to the air while someone back in New York asked the questions. Having an actual live person doing the interviewing was evidently a great honor. Jaine tried to feel honored, but merely felt tired in anticipation of having to get up at two A.M. in order to dress, coif, and mascara herself.
There was no brown Pontiac in the driveway next door, no sign of life in the house.
Bummer.
BooBoo had cushion stuffing clinging to his whiskers when he greeted her. Jaine didn’t even bother to glance into the living room. The only thing she could do at this point to protect what was left of her sofa was close the door so he couldn’t get into the living room, but then he would transfer his frustration to some other piece of furniture. The sofa already had to be repaired; let him have it.
A sudden suspicious feeling and a trip to the bathroom told her that her period had arrived, right on schedule. She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe from her inexplicable weakness for Sam for a few days now. Maybe she should also give up shaving her legs; no way would she embark on an affair with bristly legs. She wanted to hold him off for at least a couple more weeks, just to frustrate him.
She liked the idea of Sam being frustrated.
Going into the kitchen, she peered out the window. Still no brown Pontiac, though she supposed he could be driving his truck as he had yesterday. The curtains were closed on his kitchen window.
It was difficult to frustrate a man who wasn’t there.
A car pulled into her driveway, parked behind the Viper. Two people got out, a man and a woman. The man had a camera slung around his neck and carried a variety of bags. The woman carried a tote bag and was wearing a blazer despite the heat.
There was no point in trying to evade any more reporters, but no way was she allowing anyone in her stuffing-strewn living room. Going to the kitchen door, she opened it and stepped onto the porch. “Come in,” she said tiredly. “Would you like some coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot.”
Corin stared at the face in the mirror. Sometimes he disappeared for weeks, months, but there he was again in the reflection, as if he had never left. He hadn’t been able to work today, afraid of what would happen if he saw them in the flesh. The four bitches. How dare they make fun of him, taunt him with their List? Who did they think they were? They didn’t think he was perfect, but he knew better.
After all, his mother had trained him.
* * *
Galan was at home when T.J. arrived. For a moment her stomach knotted with nausea, but she didn’t allow herself to hesitate. Her self-respect was on the line.
She lowered the garage door and entered the house through the mudroom, as always. The mudroom opened into the kitchen, her beautiful kitchen, with its white cabinets and appliances and gleaming copper pots hanging on the rack over the center island. Her kitchen was right out of a decorator’s book, and it was her favorite room in the entire house—not because she liked cooking, but because she loved the ambience. There was a small alcove full of ferns and herbs and small blooming flowers, filling the air with freshness and perfume. She had snuggled two easy chairs and a table into the alcove, plus an overstuffed footstool for weary feet and tired legs. The alcove was mostly glazed glass, letting in plenty of light but repelling the heat and cold. She loved to curl up there with a good book and a hot cup of tea, especially during the winter when outside the ground was blanketed in snow but inside she was all snug and comfortable, surrounded by her perpetual garden.
Galan wasn’t in the kitchen. T.J. dropped her purse and keys in their usual place on the island, kicked off her shoes, and put on a pot of water to heat for tea.
She didn’t call his name, didn’t go looking for him. She supposed he was in his den, watching television and nursing his grudge. If he wanted to talk to her, he could come out of his cave.
She changed into shorts and a clingy tank top. Her body was still good, though more muscular than she liked, the result of years on a girls’ soccer team. She would have preferred Luna’s willowy build, or Jaine’s more delicate curviness, but all in all was satisfied with herself. Like most married women, though, she had gotten out of the habit of wearing formfitting clothes, usually wearing sweats during the winter and baggy T-shirts during the summer. Maybe it was time she started making the most of her looks, the way she had when she and Galan were still dating.
She wasn’t accustomed to having Galan home for supper. Her evening meal was usually either delivered or something she microwaved. Guessing that he wouldn’t eat even if she cooked something—boy, that would show her if he went hungry, wouldn’t it?—she went back to the kitchen and got out one of her frozen dinners. It was low in fat and calories, so she could indulge with an ice cream bar afterward.
Galan emerged from his den while she was licking the last of the ice cream from the stick. He stood watching her, as if waiting for her to jump in with an apology so he could proceed with his rehearsed rant.
T.J. didn’t oblige. Instead she said, “You must be sick, since you aren’t at work.”
His lips thinned. He was still a good-looking man, she thought dispassionately. He was trim, tanned, his hair only a little thinner than when he was eighteen. He always dressed well, in stylish colors and silk blends, expensive leather loafers.
“We need to talk,” he said grimly.
She lifted her brows in polite query, the way Jaine would have done. Jaine could accomplish more with the lift of a brow than most people could with a sledgehammer. “You didn’t have to miss work just for that.”
From his expression she could see that wasn’t her scripted reply. She was supposed to attach more importance to their relationship—and his temper. Well, tough.
“I don’t think you realize how seriously you’ve damaged me at work,” he began. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for making me a laughingstock. I’ll tell you one thing, though: we don’t have any chance of working this out as long as you’re still hanging around with those three bitches you call friends. I don’t want you seeing them again, do you hear me?”
“Ah, so that’s it,” T.J. said in dawning realization. “You think you can use this to tell me who I can have as friends and who I can’t. Okay. Let’s see … if I give up Marci, you can give up Jason. For Luna … oh, how about Curt? As for Jaine—well, if I give up Jaine, you’re going to have to give up Steve, at least; though, personally, I’ve never cared for Steve, so I think you should throw in an extra just to keep things even.”
