Burning Down the Spouse (38 page)

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Authors: Dakota Cassidy

Tags: #Separated Women, #Greek Americans, #Humorous, #Contemporary, #Women Cooks, #General, #Romance, #Humorous Fiction, #Fiction, #Cultural Heritage, #Love Stories

BOOK: Burning Down the Spouse
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“Before or after I became your bitch?” The words slipped out before she was able to stop them. That Mitch was diagnosed with a terminal illness didn’t change the facts. The facts were these: he’d done something awful to her. Then he’d left her broke and a YouTube sensation. But she was letting her old anger surface when it was of the utmost importance she keep it in check.
So checked.
He trailed a finger down her nose. “That’s unfair, Frankie. You asked for something to do.”
Frankie sucked in a deep, calming breath. “I don’t want to have this conversation, Mitch. I want to go home. Let go of me, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“No. I deserve to hear this. Let’s clear the air before I leave this earth.”
She softened a bit, cringing at the bold acceptance of his fate. “We don’t know that you’re leaving anything.”
“But if I do, I want to know you had your fair shot. Now, go on. Give it to me. We’re adults. You asked me for something to do. I gave you something to do on the show, didn’t I?”
“Right. Something to do—I didn’t ask you to do
someone
. I didn’t ask to become someone you battered with constant demands and endless complaints until exhaustion set in all while your minions fanned you with palm fronds and hand-fed you grapes. I was your wife, Mitch. Not your slave.” Wow. Talk about unload.
Mitch heaved an exasperated sigh, as though he’d said this a thousand times before and she was boring him by making him repeat himself time one thousand and one. “We’ve been through this, Frankie. You know how passionate I am about my work in educating people about quality food. That takes hard work and dedication, honey.”
Those very words, words she’d heard time and again while Mitch had walked all over anyone he had to in order to get where he wanted to be, were hot buttons of long-suppressed anger. “Your work . . . You really are an egomaniac, aren’t you? It’s
food
, not the cure for erectile dysfunction. And you’re right, we’ve been through this—you know, when I found out you were banging Bamby. What you claim to be passionate about, Mitch, is meaningless in the overall scheme of things. We definitely need food to survive. We don’t need pears soaked in one-hundred-year-old brandy to do it. We also need an answer to world hunger. Do you think because you grace people’s TV sets every day you’re doing them all some sort of favor? Like your humanitarian efforts will make the world a better place? Please. Let’s be real. You’re a guilty pleasure to your viewers. So stop making it sound like you’re the Gandhi of food, saving the hungry one black truffle at a time. I know this will totally blow your mind because it was a real cluster fuck for me when I found out, too, but there are people in the world who’d eat a Whopper every day if it meant they wouldn’t be homeless or they’d have a steady paycheck. But none of that matters. What does matter is you didn’t have to treat me like I was the maid instead of your
wife
all for the sake of your
work
.”
The look he gave her was pained, threading through the light wrinkles at his mouth, and she might have fallen for it if the man standing in front of her wasn’t Mitch. “I honestly didn’t know you felt that way, Frankie.”
This was pointless. “I didn’t have the time to know I felt that way until you took every single thing I owned right down to my cashmere socks and skipped off into the sunset with Bamby.” She fought not to yell, tamping down her rising anger. “I don’t think I ever saw who you truly were until the night of the live broadcast. You did it right under my nose and then you left me with next to nothing, Mitch, and it didn’t trouble you even a little. I didn’t even get severance pay for time served. I worked just as hard, if not harder, than you to get you where you are at this very second of this career you’re so passionate about, and oh, look, I got a Nissan Versa and
my
dog. The dog you never liked to begin with. You didn’t know whether I was dead or alive until you needed me to help you.”
She’d have given him credit for showing shreds of remorse if he hadn’t said what he said next. “I told you, Bamby and I are over.”
Her eyes rolled in disgust as she squirmed her way out of his arms and headed toward the door, swinging it open and rushing out, making a beeline for her car. “Yeah, you sure did. Was it her sagging ratings or her sagging implants that did you in? Look, Bamby isn’t the point anymore. I don’t want to go over this with you. You need to rest. What’s in the past is in the past. Let it go.”
“I got caught up in the fame, Frankie. It just happened,” Mitch called from behind her as his quick steps thunked on the pavement.
Frankie beeped her car door before whirling around. Damn him. Why couldn’t he just let this be? Her words began somber and as calm as she could muster, but they ended up loud and screeching in the chilled night air. “You were always caught up, Mitch. In you. You were self-absorbed long before you hit national television. And nothing just happens when it’s about shedding your drawers and sticking your man bits into another woman’s special lady. That’s premeditated boinking. So spare me the age-old excuse!”
Mitch caught her up against him again. He sure was quick for a dying man. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I’ve made some mistakes, but so have you.”
Whoa. Why was it that when something most excellent happened, it was all due to Mitch, but if something craptacular occurred, she’d had a hand in it?
“Oh, you bet your ass I did! I made plenty of mistakes. I let you turn me into your whipping boy. But my mistakes didn’t leave you in poverty, living in your aunt’s retirement village. They didn’t leave you humiliated and some sideshow freak on national TV either. You, as always, came out of this smelling like a rose. I was the one who was painted unstable and a raving lunatic. I’d bet my ovaries people give you their sympathetic face when I come up in conversation, don’t they, Mitch? Poor, poor celebrity chef with the crazy wife. But it isn’t you who has to deal with the constant scrutiny when someone recognizes you, is it? They want your autograph. Me? They want to know if my straightjacket’s on tight enough to keep me restrained.”
Mitch’s control was slipping, his patience waning—which meant it was time for him to sound like the reasonable half of this conversation. Like she was the loon in all of this. “Let’s be honest here, Frankie. You did that to yourself.”
Shoving against his shoulder, she tried to loosen his grip. “I damned well did. I flipped. But let’s also be honest about something else. You did me wrong, pal. Not the other way around. There wouldn’t have been a scandal if you hadn’t created one to begin with. Yet I’m the one paying for it. Well, not a flippin’ second longer! I will not be embarrassed for calling you out because you’re a lying, cheating bottom-feeder, and I won’t be your victim! I like my life now, Mitch. It’s a whole lot less complicated when I don’t have to chase after you with a roll of toilet paper in hand so I can wipe your ass. I like that I’m in control of what happens to my life. Nay, I love it, and you can’t ever have that back. No one will ever control me the way you did again. For any cause, five-star food or otherwise.”
His lips thinned—a sure sign he was fighting to keep his notorious temper in check. Yet his next words were a shadow of sincere. “I don’t want to control you, Frankie. That’s never what I wanted. I just got a little carried away. All I really want is you to consider us getting back together.”
“Because you need me to help create recipes for the show.”
“No—”
“Oh, yes!” Frankie all but shouted, forcing herself to keep her voice down. “My recipes won’t help that. Keeping your dick in your pants might. Now go inside before this gets any worse. Go back to your precious multimillion-dollar brownstone with its ridiculously overpriced paintings and marble floors and let this go. Please. Getting you all riled up can’t be good for you. You’re ill. I’m here for you in the most vague sense. I’ll help you in any way I can, but we’re never getting back together.”
Mitch scooped her up in his arms, then cupped her ass as though he had a right to it, and dying or not, that just wasn’t gonna happen. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider getting me that meatloaf recipe? It could be a big hit. Think about the business it would bring the diner.”
Anger not only at his presumptuous behavior but also at the size of his balls slithered in an ugly climb from her toes to the tip of her head. With a pinch to his ear, Frankie drew him down to her lips. “Oh, I’ll give you a meatloaf recipe—meatloaf this, Mitch Bennett, and take your hands off my ass or I can promise you, you’ll need a proctologist as well as an oncologist. Let. Go. Now.”
Mitch did as she requested, letting her go so that she almost fell into her car. Frankie cracked the door open and gave him one last glance. “I’ll email you. Good-bye, Mitch.” It was all she could do not to snarl the words at him before she started the engine, slammed the door, and left.
Terminal or not, there wasn’t a shred of guilt left on her plate for finally letting Mitch have it.
Consider the air all clear.
 
“So you and Chloe are never going to make Mama grandbabies.”
Nikos cocked his head and gave his mother a sympathetic smile. Running a hand along her cheek, he leaned in to kiss her. “No, Mama. I’ve told you over and over. I’m not interested in Chloe. I know she’s Greek, and in your mind the perfect fit to the family, but you don’t want me to be unhappy for the rest of my life, do you?”
She spread her hands across her ample hips. “But you like our Frankie. You can’t hide this thing from Mama.”
Shit. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you per se, Mama. We were still testing the waters, so to speak. Feeling each other out, seeing where everything would lead before we made any official announcements about anything. And I know she’s not Greek, Mama, but you and Papa will just have to live—”
“Bah,” Voula said with affection, cupping his cheek with her weathered hand. “I know Papa and me always say we want you to marry a nice Greek girl, but really, we just want you to marry
someone
. Anyone. I don’t even think she needs to be nice now you’re so old,” she teased. “We teach Frankie how to be a good Greek. If she can be married to that bad Mitch for all that time, teaching her to make good baklava should be a cupcake.”
Nikos barked a laugh. “Piece of cake,” he corrected, love in his tone.
Voula shrugged. “Same thing. I just want you and your fresh brother to be happy. If Frankie makes you happy, I’m happy.”
“And Papa?”
Voula grunted, making a fist she shook playfully at her son. “He is what your Frankie calls a cranky pants, but he is not mad about you and Frankie. He’s mad he does not feel useful anymore. It’s time we talk about that Florida you say would be so nice for your Mama’s creaking bones. I want to play shuffleboard and sit by the big pool with a tall, pink glass of silly juice. I know if we leave the diner with you, you will take good care of it.”
“You have enough in your retirement fund to last you two lifetimes, Mama. But I don’t think Papa will go for it. He’s nothing if he can’t micromanage the diner.”
She shook her chubby finger at him. “You don’t worry about Papa. He’ll come with me if I tell him Seamus Mavros is there . . .”
Nikos gathered her in a hug. “You are one crafty lady, Mama.”
She patted him on the back. “Speaking of my Frankie, where is she today?”
Nikos gave a worried glance at the clock. Frankie, since the first and only time she’d been late, was nothing if she wasn’t punctual to the point of early. On most days, she was a half an hour early, but it was already ten till seven.
He’d spent a restless night with Kiki curled up next to him, refusing to give in to his bullshit insecurities. It wasn’t even Frankie he didn’t trust; something just didn’t smell right with Mitch. Still, lying about kicking the bucket was a drastic extreme to go to in order to woo a woman.
“Morning, Voula,” Frankie called from just inside the kitchen, dark shadows under her eyes.
Voula clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, there she is.” Then she frowned, cupping Frankie’s chin. “You look so tired, my baby. You don’t sleep?”
Nikos watched as Frankie waved his mother off, giving her a quick hug before going to get her apron. “I just had a long night . . . er, unpacking. I’m good to go.”
Voula reached for her again, pressing the back of her hand to Frankie’s forehead. “You don’t feel sick, but you come to Voula at lunchtime break. I make you soup. It feeds the heart.”

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