“When do you expect him?”
I set all of the food on the closest end table and tried to work the bite of sandwich off the roof of my mouth so I could swallow. I washed the biggest mass down with milk. Sounding like a boxer who forgot to take out his mouth guard, I said, “Want to leave him a message?”
She smiled the way clean people smile at panhandlers when she asked, “Who are you?”
“The maid. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Flint.”
I thought she was too young to be Mike’s mother. And far too good-looking; his mother had been dead for three years. That left two possibilities. I said, “Mrs. Flint number one, or Mrs. Flint number two?”
She said, “I’m number two,” and laughed when she heard the way that sounded.
“You’re Charlene,” I said. Here was the source of all the gray carpeting. “I don’t expect Mike for another hour. Would you like to come in and wait?”
“If you don’t mind. I should have called, but I found myself on a job not far from here and thought, hell, no time like the present. If it weren’t so damn hot, I would go sit by the pool and wait.”
I stepped back to let her in. “No time like the present for what?”
“I heard Mike is planning to move. I thought I should make arrangements about picking up my things.” She seemed a bit wistful as she looked around the living room, and not very happy as she watched the wet ring grow around the milk glass on the table. “Do you know where he’s moving?”
“He’ll tell you about it.” I closed the door behind her. “Look, I have some serious housekeeping to do before Mike gets home. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. I’m sure you know where the kitchen is. Help yourself to a drink or something. I’ll be a few minutes.”
“Fine.” She ran her hand slowly, possessively, over the back of the gray-tweed sofa. “Needs recovering.”
I said, “Excuse me,” picked up my sandwich, and left her. If she absconded with the furniture, I wouldn’t mind.
A shower, hair wash, quick blow-dry, some blush and mascara, fresh white denim shorts from The Gap, and a sleeveless shirt knotted at my waist, the black leather thongs I bought in Italy several years ago, and I was ready for a second face-off with Charlene.
She was sitting straight-backed on an ottoman in the middle of the room, holding a glass of white wine. Her slim ankles were crossed, her toes pointed. I am not jealous by nature, and I have no interest in cat fights. But, as I said, she was small. All it would have taken was one good shove.
As I walked into the room, she gave me a wide-eyed appraisal. “I knew you weren’t the maid, but…?”
I offered my freshly lotioned hand. “I’m Maggie MacGowen.”
“I should have called,” she said again. She was embarrassed. Or maybe she wasn’t so cocky once our hairdos reached parity; I will match haircuts with the best of them.
I heard the back door. Bowser bounded into the living room first, panting, his heavy fur littered with leaves, his nose brown from digging in fresh earth. He gave me a token hello nudge on his way past and headed straight for Charlene, she of the pastel linen suit. She did her best to get out of his way, but Bowser is good at his work. He sampled her crotch and lapped his tongue across her mouth in one fluid sweep.
I said, “Sit, young man.” Instantly, as always, he obeyed and dropped back onto his broad haunches. He stayed, but he kept his eyes on Charlene.
Casey, Michael, and Mike had all stopped for cold drinks on their way through the kitchen. They came into the living room like an electric surge, the three of them laughing and talking at once. Casey still wore dance clothes. The men were in filthy work garb, covered with dust and paint chips that left a trail on the gray carpet.
Mike saw Charlene first. He registered only mild surprise. Exactly the right reaction, from my point of view.
“Char,” he said, acknowledging her with a lift of his chin. I got his sweaty arm draped around my shoulders. “So, you two have met?”
“Yes.” Her smooth exterior couldn’t cover the apparent rush of strong emotion that passed through her when Mike walked in. It wasn’t peanut butter that caught in her throat.
Michael, uncharacteristically awkward, pointedly stayed back, beside me. He said only, “Hello.”
“You’ve grown so tall, Michael,” Charlene said, smiling at him in the formal way adults smile at very young children. “You’re as tall as Daddy now. Maybe taller.”
Michael’s only response was to turn a furious red. I reached through that uncomfortable silence for Casey’s hand. “Charlene, this is my daughter, Casey.”
The exchanged hellos and a handshake as light as the collision of two falling leaves.
Casey backed up toward Michael. She gave his shoulder a thump to get his attention. “You want the first shower?”
“Go ahead,” Michael said, watching Charlene. “I’ll use Maggie and Dad’s bathroom.”
On their way out, I overheard a whispered, “stepmother.” Casey turned her head to make an amended appraisal of Charlene before she went through the hall door with Michael.
“What an attractive pair,” Charlene said. “Casey is lovely.”
Mike said, “What brings you out to the Valley?”
“A decorating job. I heard your name on the news. Are you all right?”
“Sure. It’s nothing.”
“Same old departmental bull, right?” Her laugh was unconvincing. “Mike knows so many ways to find trouble.”
“I like trouble about as much as the next guy,” he said. There was nothing friendly in his tone. “But even trouble has some rules. How’s what’s-his-name?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, dropping her eyes.
I chimed in, “Charlene wants to pick up her things before we move.”
“Like what things?” he said, cold steel.
“I’m sorry.” She set her glass down. “I’m really sorry, Mike. I should have called.” She looked around with sad longing in her gaze. “This is such a lovely room.”
“A real showplace,” Mike said. “Talk to Maggie if you want any of this custom-made junk. It doesn’t fit the new house very well. We’ll probably dump it at a garage sale.”
He kissed my cheek. “I need to get in line for a shower. Nice to see you, Char.” He left the room.
Chapter 21
“What rule did Charlene break?” I stretched a Band-Aid around a cut on Mike’s thumb.
“You don’t fuck your husband’s partner.”
“That’s a good rule,” I said. “How’d you cut your thumb?”
“Drapery hook. We got rid of all the drapes and pulled out the old carpet. House looks better already. Tomorrow, a couple of the guys are taking a few days off to help me strip the walls. We’ll start painting Saturday. What color?”
“Guess we should have asked Charlene’s expert advice while she was here.”
He curled his lip. “I want a home this time, not some fucking model house. I want furniture I can sit on, put my feet on, get potato chip crumbs all over without someone getting all pissed. And I want some color. I learned how to spell monochromatic, but I never learned how to like it.”
“In that case, I see very soft, neutral peach for the walls and off-white for all the moldings and wood we decide not to strip down to its natural color.”
He smiled. “You decided that in a hurry.”
“That’s how I see it,” I said.
“Come to the paint store with me and show me what you have in mind.”
“I don’t have to go with you.” I put the Band-Aid box back in the medicine chest. “Just drop your pants and show the paint man your naked behind. Most beautiful color in the world.”
“The things that come out of your mouth,” he said with a laugh. I caught him stealing a peek at his rear in the mirror.
“Nice to hear you laugh again,” I said.
Then from the nether regions of the house, I heard, “Mo-om.”