Waltz This Way (v1.1) (3 page)

“Mr. Hodge? It’s Jackie Bellows, Mel’s friend here in L.A. I’ll make sure she gets to the airport, and I’ll have what that asshole left her, which wasn’t much, by the way, shipped to your house. Don’t you worry about anything but catching her at the other end.” Jackie nodded at the phone, then ended the call with a short goodbye.

Mel curled up in the passenger seat, pressing the side of her face to the window while she watched her house turn to a tiny dot among hundreds and simmered.

Jackie reached a hand over the console, squeezing her knee.

“Stan’s a fuckhead-fuckwad.”

Mel nodded. He certainly had the “fuck” part covered— in all contexts of the word.

Jackie shook her head of spiky, platinum blond hair. “You need a good lawyer.”

That got a reaction out of her. “For?”

“He locked you out of your house, Mel, and took the studio away. How can he do that shit? No warning. No nothin’? He just blindsided you. Not okay. Not legal by California law, either. This is a community property state. You need a lawyer to straighten this out.”

Mel let her head sink to her hands. Where had this come from?

Stan might not have been the most supportive, loving husband in the world, but he’d never been cruel.

Jackie slapped her hand against the steering wheel. “But it is legal— if you signed a prenup, that is. You didn’t …”

Oh, but she had. “I did. At the beginning of our marriage. I thought you knew that.”

“Then we got trouble.”

Mel’s smile was watery and grim. “Right here in River City.”

“You could always come stay with us, Mel. We have plenty of room.” And they did. Jackie and Frank had eight thousand square feet, a guesthouse, four kids, two rabbits, a snake, five dogs, and a tarantula. All on three glorious acres.

Helpless rage sank to the pit of her stomach. “And do what? I have nothing, Jackie. No money. No job skills. I don’t suppose you know of anyone hiring chubby one-time ballroom and Latin champions, do you?”

Jackie grunted at her. “You let that shit make you think you’re fat. I’ve only told you a thousand times, Mel. You’re not fat. But Stan is a fathead. Yes, that fucker is.”

Yes. That fucker was.

“And you don’t have to work, honey. It’s not like we’d charge you rent. It’s not like we’re not filthy rich, you know. Why don’t you just come to the house— let me baby you for a little while. I’ll make pasta alla vodka,” she cajoled, mentioning one of Mel’s favorite dishes. “In the meantime, maybe Frank can talk to one of his lawyer buddies while they play the stupidest game on earth, golf, and we can figure out a way to squeeze something out of Stan’s pocket. Nothing’s ironclad anymore.”

She used the corner of the collar on her sweater to wipe more tears from her eyes. “I think I just need to see my dad, Jackie. But I appreciate the offer.” No way was she leeching off her rich friend while she hunted for a job at Target and planned Stan’s homicide. The fewer people involved in the crime, the less she’d have to worry for their safety.

“I can’t believe he put his shit out there on national TV like that. I didn’t like Stan from the moment I met you two, and you know it, but I never thought he’d do something this craptacular.”

That much was true. Jackie had never hit it off with Stan when they’d met at a function twelve years ago for a children’s cancer charity. She hadn’t been afraid to share that they’d never do couple things together, but she and Mel had been almost inseparable since.

“Do me a favor, would you?” Mel asked her friend.

“Just ask.”

“You’ll probably travel in the same circles as Stan, you know, being married to a big television producer. The next time you see Stan at some party or charity event, flip him the bird for me. In fact, use both hands when you do it.”

As they pulled into LAX, Jackie growled, “You got it, BFF. Now you do me a favor?”

“Because I have so many to give.”

“Don’t rule out coming back to L.A. Living with your dad in a retirement village is not the place for a forty-something, beautiful woman who has hips that should have been registered as lethal weap-ons back in the day. I’m just not a Jersey, The Situation, Snooki kind of girl. New York I can do— there’s shopping. But I’m not sure I love you enough to fly to Jersey just so we can grab a hamburger and mar-garitas at some diner for BFF night.” Jackie followed her joke with a warm grin.

Mel wanted to chuckle. She just couldn’t. “I’d say I’m hurt, but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left on me to hurt.” Mel popped open the door before Jackie could feel any sorrier for her, reaching back in to grab Weezer’s leash and her wallet. The first step she took made her teeth clench.

Jackie was out and around the car in seconds, wrapping her slender arms around Mel’s neck. The scent of her perfume made more tears sting Mel’s eyes. “Make sure you ice that toe— it’s broken. It’s broken because of that fuckly fucker,” she snarled.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve broken worse than a toe before.”

“Yeah, but now you’re old and fat. Takes longer to heal,” Jackie joked.

Mel gave her one more squeeze, forcing back the bitter flow of tears threatening to fall. “Thanks, Jackie. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come to check on me.”

Jackie leaned down and gave Weezer’s big head a scratch. “You take care of Mommy, ’kay, pal?” Then she whipped around, her finger pointed. “And you,” she yelled to a man, hovering in the departures area with a camera around his neck. “If you take that picture, you’ll find out how yoga gives this woman a strong core.” Turning back to Mel, she said, “Hurry up and get out of here before I have to embarrass Frank all over Tinsel Town.”

Mel gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll call you.”

“You’d better.”

She gave Weezer’s leash a tug, hobbling behind him before turning one last time to wave goodbye to Jackie.

And every single thing in her life as she knew it.

Six months later . . .

“Myriam Hernandez!” Mel skidded to a halt at the exit door of Leisure Village South’s rec center, wincing when her still-sore toe caught on one of the vacant chairs left at table number nine. Her breathing was irregular, and her heart beat a dance in her chest so harsh, she thought it might pound out of her.

She really needed to build her endurance back up— or maybe actually move occasionally. When a seventy-year-old could beat you in a sprint from one end of the room to the other, it was time to reevaluate your mattress time versus your upright and awake time.

Taking a gulp of air, she bellowed, “Myriam!”

Myriam’s silver head cocked at the sound of Mel’s voice for only a moment, clearly considering an escape route, then she made a break to pop open the door and flee her bad behavior.

But Mel was too quick for her. She planted herself in front of the steel door on a stumbling skid, crossing her arms over her chest, and cocking an eyebrow in inquiry.

Myriam gave her a brief guilty look, but her thinning, coral-glossed lips said she knew her sharp tongue was going to have to atone. She narrowed her dark eyes at Mel, preparing her defense.

“Who was it? Damn Nancys, the lot of them,” she grumbled.

“You mean who nearly knocked me over to tell me your latest madcap entry to the Pillage and Plunder Diaries?”

Myriam grunted, her smile begrudgingly tinted with a hint of admiration. “You’re funny.”

“You’re work.” Mel blew a lock of her hair out of her face with a tired breath and fought a smile. Stern. She must not feed the beast in Myriam. If she let Myriam know her razor-sharp tongue and lightning-fast wit made Mel chuckle herself to sleep at night— she was doomed.

Myriam cackled, slapping her on her arm. “I like that you’re a ‘take no horseshit’ gal.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind giving me no horseshit. You know, sort of as a gift for all the prior horseshit you’ve given me?” Mel teased.

“C’mon,” Myriam cajoled. “Who was it?”

“Who do you think it was?”

Myriam shrugged with indifference, hoisting her prim shoulder bag with the butterflies on it to the front of her body in a defensive stance. “I don’t know. There’re at least a dozen stoolies in this place. Bunch of namby-pambies, they are. Could have been anyone who ratted me out.”

Mel hid a smile, one of the first genuine smiles she’d experienced since she’d come to Leisure Village. “So, what you’re saying is, you didn’t tell just one available male senior, but a dozen, they had wilted winkies and couldn’t handle the likes of all your womanliness?”

Her bottom lip curled with indignation. “I did not say ‘womanliness.’ I said ‘my feminine curves,’ and I’d bet my Celebrex it was that sissy Norm Peterson. He’s always talkin’ like it’s the size of a blue whale’ s— those are the biggest winkies on record, by the way”—she made a wide gesture with two hands—“but Mildred Stein says different.”

Mel sighed. She just wanted to go home and sit with her dad and Weezer and watch Yard Crashers. “So why do you antagonize? If you keep being so cantankerous, I’ve heard talk about a petition to ban you from all social activities. Tonight it’s senior speed dating— last week it was sunset shuffleboard. You can’t just whack someone over the head with your shuffleboard stick and expect to get away with it. Do you know how many complaints I got in the suggestion box after that? In fact, it’s not even a suggestion box anymore— it’s the ‘What Myriam Did to Me Today’ box.”

“Bet no one put their name on the suggestions,” she sneered, cracking a sinister smile like she was head gangster senior and the resident seniors were all her gangster minions.

Which wasn’t totally off the mark. Myriam Hernandez struck fear in the hearts of all Leisure Village seniors. Mel was responsible for policing all of Elder-Landia, and Myriam didn’t make walking this beat easy.

“That’s because they’re all afraid of you.” Mel shook her finger under her most difficult senior’s nose. “Now, this can’t go on, Myriam. I have people to answer to if I have any hope of keeping this job, a job I can’t afford to lose.” She winced, fighting a tone of desperation.

Trying to keep her private life private was virtually impossible, not just in the Village, but in town— at the Krispy Kreme, at the diner, in the Stop & Shop. The list went on and on.

“Because you’re married to a crusty wiener.”

Her stomach turned. “Well, technically, I’m not married to him and his crusty wiener anymore.” It just felt like she was still married to him because the press wouldn’t let her not be married to him since he’d informed her they were getting divorced.

On television.

In an exclusive interview.

After he’d been caught in a picture taken by a random fan, kissing the fabulously rock-hard Yelena with no last name.

At a cheese fest.

“Shoulda taken a cue from me and hit him with the shuffleboard stick. Woulda served him and his Ring Dings right.”

Heat flushed Mel’s face. Yeah. His Ring Dings definitely needed checking. She’d spent many nights watching reruns of CSI in the hopes she’d find the perfect way to kill Stan without getting caught.

“Violence isn’t the answer, Myriam.”

“It is if you want to win at checkers.”

“Yeah. Speaking of checkers— what’s this about you taking all of the red checkers from the rec center, anyway?”

“Nobody would let me play.”

Mel gave Myriam’s arm a squeeze to soften the blow. “Nobody lets you play because you get angry and throw things. Now, enough’s enough. No more hijinks— no more hitting people with that suitcase you call a purse and absolutely no more mocking some man’s”—she leaned in to Myriam and whispered—“penis. Okay? How about we make a deal. You play nice for the next month— not a peep—and I’ll pretend I never saw the zillion suggestions to boot you to my boss lady Max. I’ll throw them all away.” She stuck her hand out, likely making a deal with the devil herself. “Deal?”

Myriam took it and gave it a firm shake. “Fine. But if Norm brags one more time, I’m gonna give it to him but good.”

Mel pushed open the door, ushering Myriam out into the warm August air. “No. You’re going to ignore him and smile secretly to yourself because you know he really doesn’t have a penis the size of a blue whale.”

“Really, who does have a penis the size of a blue whale these days? I hear it’s rare,” a man’s voice remarked with a hint of laughter in it from behind Myriam. “Aunt Myriam?”

Mel’s eyes moved from Myriam’s small frame upward to the larger one blocking out the floodlights of the rec center.

“Ah! There’s my boy!” Myriam, usually sour of face unless she was in the height of a prank, softened until she was almost unrecogniz-able. She introduced him like he was visiting royalty, there was such pride in her voice. “Mel, this is my nephew. Honey, meet Mel with the stupid last name and our part-time social director here at the Village. She’s helping Maxine. You know the lady who married that sweet piece of booty Campbell Barker?”

Mel covered her mouth with her forearm to keep her snort to herself.

A tall, broad-chested man with a navy blue T-shirt and faded jeans stuck out his hand after sending his aunt a look of warning.

“Nice to meet you, Mel with the stupid last name.”

Myriam snickered, latching on to her nephew’s thickly corded arm.

She gave him her hand. “Do you have a stupid first name?” she inquired sweetly.

“I do.” He smiled then— a smile that was dashing. The white of his teeth gleamed, the bronze of his skin glowed. “It’s Drew. Drew McPhee.”

“A fine Irish name,” she commented, refusing to be awed by his thick, chocolaty hair with sun-kissed gold highlights and his light blue eyes in a shade so unusual they held her mesmerized.

“He’s only half Irish,” Myriam snorted. “The other half of him’s Puerto Rican— just like his aunt.”

He let go of Mel’s hand, and she realized her palm had become sweaty when the humid breeze hit it. “Aunt Myriam’s still holding a grudge that my mother married a McPhee instead of a Lopez or a Suarez. Any ez’ll do, right, Aunt Myriam?” he said on an indulgent chuckle, squeezing Myriam’s hand, then giving it an affectionate pat.

Myriam made a face up at her nephew. Clearly, her discontent with the male population at large extended to family, too. “Selena marrying your father is all-out war as far as I’m concerned. No good Puerto Rican wants to marry an Irishman. None.”