“It’s fine, sweets,” Josh reassures me. He runs a finger down my cheek, tracing my jaw, then tilting my chin. “Got to get you another Emmy, right? And get Dorinda Sweeney out of prison. Penny and I will be fine in Truro. And you can be our special treat. Come see us whenever you can. It would be…” He pauses, cocking his head back at Penny. “Well, if someone had unjustly taken me away from her, I’d be unstoppable. Whatever. Do your stuff, Brenda Starr. Truro can wait.”
I glance into the back seat, see the child Josh loves so much. They have such a connection, a bond, a certainty. Right now, she looks sweet, clicking intently on her computer game. And loving. And eight. And what little girl wouldn’t worry about the other woman, essentially a stranger, threatening to take her dad away? How can two be three?
Reaching over, I take Josh’s hand. “I need you to understand, I’m not choosing my job over you two. It’s just-Dorinda. That videotape is a perfect alibi. She should not be spending one more day behind bars.”
Without another backward glance, Josh pulls me toward him, his eyes locked into mine. “We’ll be here for you,” he says, giving me a delicate kiss on the forehead. “Me, and even little Penny. I’m proud of you.”
The complicating combination of a stickshift and an eight-year-old means I can’t melt into his arms. Or slide my hand under his shirt. Or slide his hand under mine. But I trust him. Victoria is completely out of the picture, thousands of miles away, cruising happily with her husband. Penny will come around. And Josh would tell me, I reassure myself, if he was upset. Maybe, maybe it could work.
CHAPTER 6
“Before.” I’m peering into the oversize makeup mirror, illuminated by the unforgiving perimeter of frosted bulbs surrounding it. Maysie, ponytailed as always and hands on hips, is looking at me in the mirror, too. Since she’s the only woman working for Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, she’s claimed this fourth-floor ladies’ room as her private salon, the place where we convene for high-level gossip and general life discussions. Today, it’s face time.
“And after.” I use two fingers on each side of my face to yank up what Mom insists are my worrisomely sagging jowls. “Is it that much better? I mean, don’t I look like a lizard with blond hair and red lipstick?” My voice sounds a little lispy, since pulling on my skin spreads my mouth out of its normal range. I let my face drop back from fantasy-35 into reality-46.
“Well?” I demand, still contemplating the mirror. “Do I need a face-lift?”
Instead of answering, Maysie leans forward toward the mirror, too, trying the two-finger jowl-lift demo on her own actually-35 face. Today she’s back in her trademark black jeans. And I still can’t tell she’s pregnant. I smile at the memory. They hadn’t been trying. Apparently, the impending new kid was just as much a surprise to her and Matthew as it was to me.
“I think I look better, you know? Fixed?” Maysie’s voice now has the fake face lift lisp. “I’d do it in a heartbeat, too. After little whoever is born. Maybe get a tummy tuck, while I’m at it. Bye-bye baby fat. And I’ve got to be on TV soon, after all. My days of hiding behind radio have come to an end.” She focuses on her reflection, first tugging at the corners of her eyes, then pulling up her eyebrows. “Can’t hurt.”
“Margaret Isobel Derosiers Green,” I turn to her, my own face forgotten. “You wouldn’t. Would you?”
“You wear contacts, right? Had braces? And might I ask, in my role as your best friend forever, whether you know the true color of your hair? As my preteen queen Molly so often puts it when she’s angling for pierced ears, ‘what’s the diff, dude?’”
Maysie’s now checking for loose skin under her neck. I check my own. Suddenly I’m envisioning a rhinocerous. Maybe Mom was right.
I tear my eyes away from the mirror and boost myself onto the counter, leaning my back against the wall, knees drawn up, feet on the counter. My mind flashes to Penny in just this position in our booth at dinner. “So like I said,” I say, changing the subject. “Penny acted as if I were invisible. She’s devoted to Josh, and he dotes on her. I felt like such an outsider. I mean, I am an outsider.”
I stare at the toes of my little black suede flats, unseeing. Franklin and I are heading back to Swampscott in a minute. We decided to make it a casual day. The power reporter look can work in the corporate world, but high heels and Armani are sometimes too daunting when you’re trying to extract info from cautious-and potentially suspicious-neighbors. But first I needed to talk to Maysie. And not just about my face.
“So you didn’t study to be a mom, did you? Seems like Molly arrived and you somehow knew what to do next. Sleep, diapers, crying. You just-”
“There was no sleep,” Maysie says with a smile. “For about two years. Then Max arrived. And there was even less sleep.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, waving away her digression. “Do I have a heart-to-heart with Penny? Am I her friend? Do I tell her what she can and can’t do? Do I always have to agree with Josh? What’s my attitude about Victoria? What if Penny, I don’t know, hates me?” I twist my gold-linked bracelet, a three-month anniversary present from Josh, around my wrist. “I hate surprises,” I say. “I’m better at things I can control.”
“You want a real answer?” Maysie asks. She sits across from me in her black director’s chair, leaning toward me, her face earnest. “I didn’t plan on little number three here. Talk about surprises. But I love her. Him. Already. Love is not about control, that’s one of the joys of it.”
She stops, and it seems as though she’s considering her own words. “You’ll never know unless you have your own child.”
My eyes turn teary, emotion unexpectedly washing over me. Of course I’ll never have my own child. Those days are gone.
Maysie jumps up, throws her arms around me. “Ah, my hormones, I’m so sorry,” she says. She steps back and holds her arms out, apologizing. “I sound like one of those Chicken Soup books, I know, and I didn’t mean…”
“Oh, honey, you know I’ve crossed that bridge,” I say, reassuring her. “Years ago.” At least I hope I’ve crossed it. I swing my legs down from the counter and brush the wrinkles out of my black slacks. “But that’s Victoria’s connection to Penny, you know? And Penny’s to Victoria. And I don’t want to change that. Couldn’t. I just hoped I could be Penny’s best friend, confidante, role model, or something. And maybe stepmom. But if last night proves anything, it ain’t gonna happen.”
From inside my tote bag, my cell phone begins a muffled rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Franklin’s and my theme song. He must be ready to leave for Swampscott.
“I’ve gotta disagree with Mick Jagger this time,” Maysie says giving me a quick hug. “Sometimes you can get what you want. Just let yourself love her. And she’ll eventually love you back.”
YOU CAN TELL it’s summer at Swampscott High School even with your eyes closed. No footsteps from packs of students giggling down the halls. No bells insistently clang for classes. No muffled unintelligible public address voices proclaim the day’s schedule over the teenage din.
Not only is the reception desk at SHS deserted, the halls are empty. Some lockers flap open. Hand-lettered “Good luck to the Big Blue graduates” and “Go Seagulls 4-Evah” posters are beginning to untape themselves from the institutional beige walls.
On the counter in front of us, the Swampscott Chronicle’s headlines blare what’s fast becoming the biggest story in Massachusetts. Oz Tops Pols Polls. Franklin picks up the paper, reading the story out loud as we wait for someone to answer the hotel-desk bell on the counter we pinged, hoping for attention.