David and Shelley were going to have cows, Jaine thought. Well, they probably needed the milk. "What the hell," she said.
"What the hell," Luna seconded.
They looked at each other, grinned, and Marci whipped out her pen and pad. "We might as well get started, give them a story worth printing."
T.J. gave a rueful shake of her head. "This will really bring the crazies out of the woodwork. Did any of you get any weird calls last night? Some guy – I think it was a guy, could have been a woman – whispered, 'Which one are you?' He wanted to know if I was Ms. A."
Luna looked startled. "Oh, I got one of those. And a couple of hang-ups that I thought might be him again. But you're right; the way he was whispering, you couldn't really tell if it was a man or a woman."
"I had about five hang-ups on my answering machine," Jaine said. "I had the phone turned off."
"I went out," Marci said. "And Brick threw the answering machine against the wall, so I'm temporarily messageless. I'll pick up a new one on the way home this afternoon."
"So probably all four of us got calls from the same guy" Jaine said, feeling a little uneasy and grateful that she had a cop living next door.
T.J. shrugged and grinned. "The price of fame," she said.
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."
He stared at her as if she had grown two heads. He and Steve Rankin had been best buds since junior high. They went to see the Tigers during the summer and the Lions during winter. They did major male-bonding stuff. "You're crazy!" he burst out.
"That I'd ask you to give up your friends? Fancy that. If I have to, you have to."
"I'm not the one tearing our marriage apart with stupid lists about who you think is the perfect man!" he yelled. "Not 'who'," she corrected. " 'What.' You know, things like consideration. And faithfulness." She watched him closely when she said the last, wondering suddenly if Galan's two- year suspension of affection had a more basic reason than simply growing apart.
His gaze flickered away from her.
T.J. braced herself against the crippling pain. She pushed it into a little box and tucked it away deep inside so she could function through the next few minutes, and days, and weeks.
"Who is she?" she asked in a tone so casual she might have been asking if he had picked up the laundry. "Who is who? What she?"
"The famous other woman. The one you're always comparing me to in your head."
He flushed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I haven't been unfaithful to you," he muttered. "You're just trying to change the subject – "
"Even if you haven't been physically unfaithful, which I'm not certain I believe, there's still someone you're attracted to, isn't there?"
He turned even redder.
T.J. went to the cabinet and took out a cup and a tea bag. Placing the bag in the cup, she poured boiling water on it. After a minute she said, "I think you need to go to a motel."
"T.J. – "
She lifted a hand, not looking at him. "I'm not making any hasty decisions about divorce or even separation. I meant you need to go to a motel for tonight so I can think without you around trying to turn things around and blame everything on me."
"What about that goddamn list – "
She waved a hand. "The list isn't important."
"The hell it isn't! All of the guys at work are riding me about how you like monster cocks – "
"And all you had to do was say, yeah, you had me spoiled," she said impatiently. "So the list got a little risque. So what? I think it was pretty funny, and evidently so do most people. We're going to be on Good Morning America tomorrow morning. People magazine wants to do an interview. We decided we're going to talk to whoever asks, so the thing will die a quicker death. Some other story will come along in a few days, but until then we're going to have fun."
He stared at her, shaking his head. "You're not the woman I married," he said in heavy accusation.
"That's okay, because you're not the man I married." He turned and left the kitchen. T.J. looked down at the cup of tea in her hand, blinking back tears. Well, it was out in the open now. She should have seen what was going on a long time ago. After all, who knew better than she how Galan acted when he was in love?
Brick wasn't asleep on the sofa the way he usually was when Marci got home, though his old pickup was in the driveway. She went through into the bedroom and found him stuffing clothes in a duffel. "Going somewhere?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said sullenly.
She watched him pack. He was good-looking in a beer- drinking kind of way, with too-long dark hair, an unshaven jaw, slightly heavy features, and his usual costume of tight jeans, tight T-shirt, and scuffed boots. Ten years younger than her, never good at holding down a job, oblivious of anything that didn't involve sports – let's face it, he wasn't the catch of the century. She wasn't in love with him, thank God. She hadn't been in love with anyone in years. All she wanted was company and sex. Brick provided the sex, but he wasn't much company.
He zipped up the duffel, hefted it by the handles, and brushed past her.
"Are you coming back?" she asked. "Or should I forward the rest of your stuff to wherever you're going?" He glared at her. "Why're you asking? Maybe you got somebody else all lined up to take my place, huh? Somebody with a ten-inch dick, just the way you like." She rolled her eyes. "Oh, jeez," she muttered. "Lord save me from injured male egos."
"You wouldn't understand," he said, and to her surprise, she detected a note of hurt in his rough voice. Marci stood blinking as Brick stormed out of the house and slammed into his truck. He slung gravel as he peeled out of the driveway.
She was astounded. Brick, hurt? Whoever would have thought?
Well, either he would be back or he wouldn't. She gave a mental shrug and opened the box containing her new answering machine, deftly hooking it up. As she recorded an outgoing message, she wondered how many calls she had missed because Brick had thrown the other answering machine against the wall. Even if he had bothered to answer the phone, he wouldn't have taken any messages for her, not in the mood he was in.