Window Dressing

“Roger,” I finally interrupted, “why does the house have to be put up for sale at all?”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling before turning back to me. “Lauren, that was the agreement,” he said slowly, like he was explaining something to a child. “I pay you maintenance, child support and pick up the tab for the house until Gordon goes to college. At which time, the house reverts back to me, the maintenance ends and the child support goes into a trust to pay for Gordon’s education and other expenses.”

I stared at him for a moment. Could this be right? I shook my head. “The agreement was until he finished college, Roger. Which means I’ve got four more years until—”

He gave a derisive chuckle. “Delusional, as usual,” he said. “You’ve always lived in your own little dream world, Lauren.”

I gasped. “Me? Are you kidding?” I demanded. “Dream world? I’ve been a single mother for ten years, Roger. I was the one who stayed, remember? I’m the responsible one, while you—”

“Now wait just a minute! If you were really responsible, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d have a career in place and you’d be able to buy the house yourself if you wanted to stay there so badly.”

“My career,” I said tightly, “was raising our son.”

“Fine. But now that’s over.”

“Over?” Okay, maybe I knew that. And maybe I knew that this day was eventually coming. But it made no sense to me that eventually had suddenly become now.

“That house is Gordy’s home, too,” I pointed out. “What do you expect him to do during the holidays? Summers?”

Roger shrugged. “He’ll do what most children of divorced parents do. He’ll spend part of the time at my condo and part of the time at your apartment.”

The word apartment still had the power to make me cringe inside—and not only because, without a job, I couldn’t possibly afford one. The reason I’d fought to stay on at Seagull Lane, fought to bring my son up in exactly the manner he would have been raised had his parents not been divorced, was because he wasn’t going to have my childhood. Not if I could help it.

Roger looked at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to get back to my meeting. This has taken up too much of my time already. I’m sorry the Realtor’s call shook you up, but I think if you check with your lawyer, you’ll see that I’m well within my rights. So don’t try to make me out to be the bad guy, Lauren. I’ve been patient with you long enough.”

After Roger left, I slumped into a chair, fished my cell phone out of my purse and called my lawyer’s office. She was with a client so I asked for her voice mail and left her a message detailing precisely what I needed to know. Namely, was I about to become homeless?

On my way out, I managed to give the receptionist a bright smile and wish her a good day but I was glad once I was back on the street and I didn’t have to hide how scared I was.

I walked without purpose, trying to remember the details of the divorce agreement. Could I have actually gotten wrong something as important as this—a roof over our heads? Bread on the table? Was it possible that my life was about to change even more than I thought it would? Was I going to go from an empty nest to no nest at all?

I started to feel sick. I wasn’t sure if it was lack of food or the humidity or the fear, but when I passed a restaurant, I decided to go in. I didn’t even notice the name of the place. The air conditioner was pumping out cool air and there was food to be had. That was enough for me.

The waitress showed me to a booth and I ordered iced tea. When she left, I opened the menu and immediately honed in on the dessert section. Chocolate Suicide. Yeah, I could use a little suicide, especially if it was sweet. But then I remembered the receptionist’s tight, taupe skirt. When the waitress came back, I ordered the salad of field greens with grilled chicken.

When it came, it was huge and it occurred to me that maybe I should eat half and take the rest home for dinner. I mean, maybe I was going to have to start doing that kind of stuff. Maybe I was going to have to start doling out my food so a loaf of bread would last me a week and a jar of peanut butter would last me a month. I’d have to start putting milk in my coffee instead of more expensive flavored non-dairy creamers. Unless, of course, I ended up living under a viaduct in a discarded washing machine carton where I’d only have refrigeration from October to May.

I nibbled while I thought of the humilities I might have to suffer, but as soon as the food hit my stomach I started to feel stronger.

I was right about this and Roger was wrong. I had four more years to get my act together. Not that I was admitting that I’d been irresponsible. You can’t be irresponsible and serve as PTA president, block watch captain and room mother. You can’t be irresponsible if you tucked your child in every night and made him breakfast every morning.

I stabbed a hunk of something green and ruffly and shoved it into my mouth. I was getting angry again. After all, marriage was a contract. A bargain between two people. Both Roger and I had been up-front before we’d gotten married about what we wanted and expected. I had kept my end of the bargain. Roger was the irresponsible one who hadn’t. It was hard to believe that in the beginning we’d both wanted the same thing.

I met Roger the summer before my junior year of college. I was working at a day-care center and I’d taken a group of seven and eight year olds on a field trip to the Milwaukee Art Museum, perched on the edge of Lake Michigan. We’d brought bag lunches and eaten them on the lawn near some huge, metal sculptures. Afterwards, I’d passed out little disposable cameras, given the kids a quick lesson and told them to get snap happy. It was such a joy to watch them decide what they wanted to shoot. I was grinning ear to ear when Roger came up to me and told me that he’d never seen anything as beautiful as how I was with those children. I was speechless. I mean, here was this terrific-looking man dressed in a gorgeous suit, looking at me like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. He handed me his business card and asked me to please give him a call so he could ask me out to dinner. I watched him walk away then looked down at the card.

An engineer. And at a firm I’d heard of. A firm everyone had heard of. You bet your life I called.

He wanted a traditional wife, he’d told me on our first date. Someone who would stay at home and raise his children. Someone who would care about his career, which was just starting to take off, as much as he did. It sounded like heaven to me. Raised by a single mother, I was a latchkey child before the term was even coined. Being a stay-at-home mother was exactly what I dreamed about being someday. I loved kids. I was only twenty-two, but my biological clock had been ticking ever since I’d started babysitting at fifteen.

After six dates, Roger declared himself enchanted and proposed. How could I refuse? He was offering me everything I ever wanted. This handsome, ambitious man wanted to take care of me and our offspring for the rest of our lives? Blame it on fiercely independent mother backlash, but I was more than happy to let him.

I became pregnant with Gordy when we were married less than a year. We bought the house in the Cove. Bought the minivan and the infant car seat. Life, as far as I was concerned, was beautiful.

Until Roger made partner. The youngest ever in the firm. He started to travel more on business. He started to buy more expensive suits. He started to complain about how I dressed. But the real fighting began when he enrolled us in a wine-tasting club. I just couldn’t get behind the idea of spitting out deliciously expensive wine once it was in my mouth.

By the time Gordy was six, Roger was no longer enchanted. Two years later, we were divorced.

Just as I was signaling the waitress for more iced tea, my cell phone rang. I dug in my purse for it and flipped it open. It was my lawyer.

“So, I’m right, aren’t I?” I asked in a rush of certainty that I really wasn’t feeling in my belly anymore. “I still have four more years.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Lauren, maybe you should make an appointment and come in so we can discuss this.”

I closed my eyes. “No, give it to me now.”

She sighed as the waitress refilled my glass.

“All right,” she said. “No. You don’t have four more years.”

My mouth went dry. I looked at the retreating waitress in a panic. I didn’t have enough spit to call her back, so I took a gulp of iced tea then yelled, “Excuse me? Miss?”

She turned around and I said two words. “Chocolate Suicide.”

CHAPTER 2

Buzzed from the caffeine in two orders of Chocolate Suicide, I ran up the stone steps of Moira’s Tudor and jabbed the doorbell.

“Door’s open,” Moira yelled.

I found her in the living room, wearing only a pair of French-cut panties, rolling around on a Pilates ball.

“Jesus, Moira, what if I’d been the UPS guy or something?”

Moira jumped off the ball, her breasts bouncing with enthusiasm. “Then I guess I would still be getting some exercise,” she said with a smart-ass grin.

Moira was always alluding to other men and rumors were rife among the neighbors on Seagull Lane. I’d taken a “don’t ask, don’t tell” attitude and had no idea if the rumors were true.

“Geeze, honey,” she said as she took in my appearance, “you look like hell. And what’s that all over your shirt?”

I looked down. “I’ve just done two rounds with Chocolate Suicide.”

“Well, it obviously didn’t kill you, but, sweetie, you sure look wounded.”

For one harrowing moment I thought she was going to hug me. I don’t consider myself to be all that narrow minded, but that didn’t mean I wanted to feel Moira’s bare breasts against my T-shirt. Thankfully, she grabbed a kimono off the sofa and slipped into it. But not before I had enough information to put another Seagull Lane rumor to rest. Not an ounce of silicone on that body. I’d never seen them in action this long before. They were real, all right.

Heavens, was this any time to focus on another woman’s breasts? My world was crumbling. What did I care about silicone? “Something terrible has happened—” I began.

“Well, I’m here to listen and help but you seem awfully rattled. Before you start spilling your guts, you need a martini.” She peered at me again from under her false eyelashes. “Or maybe three.”