Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead (6 page)

BODYDOC? Was he the guy repairing her car? No, this was Beth.

BODYDOC had to be a plastic surgeon. Maybe the one she saw in Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

41

the city. Had he been headed to his house in the Hamptons and offered to look at the damage to her face from the accident?

Mindy was so wound up, she didn’t realize she was standing in the middle of Nordstrom’s cosmetics department.

“Care to try the latest fragrance from our signature collection?” The lady in red asked.

“What?”

“It’s essence of patchouli,” she whispered as if she were reveal-ing the Colonel’s secret recipe.

“Oh . . . um . . . no thanks.”

“You should really sample it.” She spritzed a card, waving it above her head.

Mindy gagged.
What happens when you mix Glade with Raid?

“Why don’t you stop by the counter to try a different—”

“Sorry . . . I can’t do this right now. I just spotted my next-door neighbor in a sports car with a man who isn’t her husband, and I am in shock.”

“Not as much as his wife will be when she finds out,” she smirked. “I should know.”

“I just can’t believe it—”

“Oh, honey, it’s so common.” She leaned in as if to share a trade secret. “The fragrance industry would be dead if it weren’t for all the screwing around on the side.”

“Really? I’m so naive. I never think these things happen except on TV.”

“Well, don’t jump to any conclusions. Unless you saw them doing it—”

“No. They were just talking.”

“You know, you seem like a nice lady.” She scanned the crowd for a real customer. “Maybe you should just forget the whole thing.”

“Are you kidding?” Mindy laughed. “This could be the opportunity of a lifetime!”

42

Saralee Rosenberg

“Why?”

“Because it just gave me an idea for a new book . . . Bed Beth

& Beyond.”

“Oh, you’re a writer?”

“I am now.”

Four

“Girls! Knock it off! I can’t take all this screaming,” Beth called from her bed. “You’ve got your own rooms, your own laptops, your own cell phones. What’s left to fight about?”

“Look what your lovely daughter did!” Jessica ran in holding a Juicy jacket. “She wore it without asking and then got something totally disgusting on it!”

“Did not!” Emma bellowed from her room. “It’s Kim Cho’s fault. She dropped her lunch on me.”

“Shut up you little slob . . . now it’s all gross, Mommy. I am never going to wear it!”

“Like hell you won’t! I paid almost two hundred dollars for that outfit. Just go downstairs, give it to Marina, and tell her you need it for school tomorrow. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt you to be nice to your sister. You know she has a serious ankle sprain.”

“No she doesn’t. She was just in the den playing DDR and she was on the second level!”

“DD what?”

“Dance Dance Revolution! The game where you follow the 44

Saralee Rosenberg

arrows and dance on the mat? Daddy bought it for her after she helped him clean the garage.”

“Emma!” Beth screamed. “Are you kidding me? Dancing on your bad ankle?”

“I hate you, Jessie! You are the worst sister evah!”

“It’s not fair,” Jessica whined. “The little dork always gets to wear my clothes, but if I touch one thing of hers it’s like Jessica, give it back. Wear your own stuff!”

“Would you stop? I have a migraine and you’re making it worse. Just go tell Marina to wash that by hand, and then you’d better get going on your homework. You know, Jessica, if you expect to be the speaker at the Founder’s Day ceremony, you need those math grades up.”

“No I don’t! I keep telling you Mr. Ryan loves me, but I don’t even care anymore because Whitney and Mallory are like sucking up to him and now they’re probably going to get picked.”

“That’s ridiculous. Daddy helped his son get a job. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“No! You ruin everything when you call. My teachers all hate you.”

“Oh, please. I happen to be very highly regarded at your school, but fine. If you don’t want my help, I won’t call. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re not picked to be the speaker.”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT BEING THE SPEAKER,

OKAY?” Jessica ran out of the room screaming, “You’re the only one who cares so you can brag to all your little friends at the club. You’re the worst mother evah!”

“Well excuse me if I happen to like being proud of you,” Beth hollered back, then pulled the covers over her head.

So unbelievable! After devoting her life to these girls, the little ingrates were turning on her with their big mouths and bad attitudes. She did not deserve to be subjected to such snotty, obnoxious behavior. They were the worst daughters evah!

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

45

And what of her demanding parents? Even from their condo in Palm Springs, they made it clear that in exchange for their generosity over the years, they expected frequent calls, visits, and annual travel plans that included them.

On top of that, Richard was making life impossible. Blah, blah, blah, money was tight and they should let Marina go. But this business about letting the girls make their own decisions about their extracurricular activities was crazy. It was never too early to be thinking of college applications. If he didn’t let her handle this, they would both end up at one of those no-name New York State schools. Not happening. Her car would have a Brown or U.Penn decal if it killed her!

But what was really getting to her was Richard’s constant harping about updating her résumé and meeting with headhunters. She had zero interest in returning to the work world, which would feel like a prison sentence, not to mention, what would the neighbors think?

Fortunately, the opportunity with Downtown Greetings came along, and Beth was able to convince him she could submit the winning entry in her sleep. “I know what they’re looking for,”

she’d said. “They’re like every other client. They want new and improved only exactly the same.”

Richard laughed, relieved that Beth hadn’t lost her uncanny business intuition in spite of her long sabbatical from her days as an assistant art director. Sure enough, she received the letter informing her that she’d made it into the first round of the competition and handed it to Richard.

“Read this. I think you’ll be quite impressed.”

“Excellent.” He examined his receding hairline in the mirror.

“Split a hundred g’s and get a one-year contract. Now all you have to do is win.”

“Oh, I’ll win, because I’m sure as hell not getting a job. Everyone would think we were in trouble.”

46

Saralee Rosenberg

“We are.” He winced. Had his six-foot frame shrunk?

“Oh, please. My parents are loaded.”

“That’s right. They are.” He stretched to prevent further ero-sion. “We’re not.”

“So? They just gave Brad fifty grand to open a business. Which if I know my brother, he dropped half of it in Vegas already. I’m sure if we’re in a jam, they’ll be happy to match that.”

“We don’t need handouts, okay? We live better than ninety-five percent of the people in the world.”

“Forgive me. I forgot you’re Jimmy Stewart, I’m Donna Reed and it’s a wonderful life.”

“That’s right, it is! But we’ve got the girls’ bat mitzvahs coming up, college to save for, you keep talking about buying a place down in Boca, and now if Allstate says your car is totaled, who has to come up with the down payment for a new one? You? No me. So all I’m saying is be reasonable. You’ve got very market-able skills. Help me out here.”

I do help him out, she thought as she f lipped on the TV. I’m raising our children! God! This was not what she had bargained for at this stage of life. They should be comfortable by now, not needing her to return to a career she hadn’t pursued in fourteen years. Besides, what ad agency worth its billings would be interested in a forty-year-old mom whose greatest success of late was running the most profitable Scholastic Book Fair in the district?

And now with her and Warren picking up speed, she worried about careening out of control on Crash and Burn Road. What was she thinking when she let herself get dragged into drinks with Jill and her cavalcade of bored/lonely/revenge-seeking housewives who frequented Bryant and Cooper and the other swank north shore steakhouses on Fat Wallet Thursday?

Only on Long Island would there be a night designated for a gathering of those who were married but still shopping or divorced but still hoping. A night when even men with small Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

47

change could score, as long as their wallets were well endowed.

“I’ll take that to go,” a bald, fat man salivated on Beth as if she were a juicy thirty-two-ounce porterhouse.

“We are so out of here,” she said as she grabbed Jill’s hand.

“You said this would be fun.”

“It is.” She let go. “Relax. Have another drink.”

“Everyone here is married!”

“Or was . . . Don’t look now but there’s a very hot guy eyeing you at the end of the bar.”

That guy was Dr. Warren Ross, a top plastic surgeon with an office on Park Avenue, a home in Amagansett and an Upper East Side penthouse recently featured in
Vogue.
Twice divorced but currently unattached, he was checking out the Thursday night action on his way to the Hamptons in the hopes his takeout order would include a top sirloin and sex.

Subtle was not Beth’s strong suit. She had to peek, but even in the dark-lit bar, the piercing Ralph Lauren eyes and tight gray curls stood out. She turned to Jill and fanned her face. He was hot! Taller than Richard and dashing in Armani in a way her husband would never be.

He bought her apple martinis and between the liquid courage and tingling touches, her hair fused to her skin. And though she turned down his offer to be wooed for the weekend, she did take his card. Should she ever succumb to the knife, what better than to be in the hands of a surgeon who was offering a full examination?

Two weeks later she went for an initial consult—at the Garden City Hotel.

After two glasses of wine and some R-rated groping, she confessed to finding him utterly adorable, but still could not allow herself to be his next piece of meat. To which he replied, “I know you’re as hungry as me, and I’ll wait.”

Now several steamy encounters later, the last one in the park-48

Saralee Rosenberg

ing lot of the Roosevelt Field mall, Beth was tormented by inde-cision. Join the ranks of married people who kept lovers on call, or bail before she surrendered body and soul to a surgeon who could scar her for life?

She hoped the vacation in Aruba would force her to come to her senses, as hooking up with a plastic surgeon was terribly cliché. Though admittedly her bigger fear was finding out how many patients BODYDOC had previously bedded, and if he disposed of them as quickly as he did his rubber gloves.

And yet, was it so wrong to fantasize about how different her life would be if they had an affair? If she didn’t have to deal with Richard’s nagging, her daughters’ fighting, and Mindy, the next-door neighbor from hell, turning her already stressful life upside down?

Oh God. Mindy. Beth had momentarily forgotten about their sighting at the mall and shuddered at the thought of her fat-ass neighbor wanting to get even after all their years of sparring.

One call to her idiot friend Nadine, and word would travel as if the talk was about former Merrick bad girl, Lindsay Lohan.

Maybe if she went online and chatted with Mindy, wished her a great trip, she would be so stunned by the friendly gesture, she would think twice before turning into gossip girl.

Beth ran into the adjoining study to turn on the computer.

First task after logging on was to unblock Mindy, much as she hated the idea of seeing her screen name on her handpicked buddy list. But hallelujah! She was online. Finally something was going her way!

diamondgirl (8:06 p.m.): hey just wanted to wish you guys a good trip

No response. Mindy must be downstairs and forgot to put up an away message.

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

49

diamondgirl (8:07 p.m.): richard mentioned something about wanting to book a cruise this summer . . . let us know how you like yours

Still nothing.

diamondgirl (8:07 p.m.): thanks for taking care of the post office. so hectic before a trip

Finally a reply.

mindymom3 (8:09 p.m.): yah

Beth took a deep breath.

diamondgirl (8:09 p.m.): wanted to talk to you about today . . . really no big deal

mindymom3 (8:09 p.m.): k

diamondgirl (8:10 p.m.): just ran into an old friend from Syracuse and ended up getting coffee

mindymom3 (8:10 p.m.): w/e

Beth paused. What the hell was “w/e.” Oh yeah. “Whatever.”

Duh.

diamondgirl (8:10 p.m.): you looked like you were in shock . . . just wanted to tell you it was nothing mindymom3 (8:10 p.m.): ???

diamondgirl (8:11 p.m.): old friends catching up . . .

turns out he’s single . . . would be a good catch. Know anyone who wants to be fixed up with a rich plastic surgeon?

mindymom3 (8:11 p.m.): no

50

Saralee Rosenberg

Strange, Beth thought. Normally you couldn’t shut Mindy up, so the curt replies had to mean one thing. For God knows what ridiculous reason, Mindy was pissed at her and maybe thinking it was payback time, in which case Beth had better set the record straight.

Fingers f lying, she shared some wild tales of her and Warren’s bawdy undergrad days at Syracuse, certain it would clear up any misunderstandings. “It would be pretty funny if you thought for even a minute that we were an item. God, no. Warren and I are just old friends.”

But in her haste to cross the finish line, she blew right past the red flags, never stopping to think that someone other than Mindy might be at her computer; perhaps an easily distracted seventh grader who was supposed to be working on a report on the War of 1812.

In fact, Stacie was on her parents’ computer, as the last laptop sighting was the backyard, and Jamie was on the one in the den and refused to budge until she checked out her gym teacher’s profile on MySpace. So when Beth started jabbering away, Stacie, quite bored of the Battle of New Orleans, was happy to take a commercial break and join the show in progress . . . until she realized Beth’s instant messages were getting a little too dicey for adolescent eyes.