The Kept Woman (2 page)

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and let out a hiss of disgust. Kara was pretty sure it was self-directed.

"You've got to show voters that you're not the same man who was caught ogling a speaker's booty at a teachers' convention two years ago! They have to see that you've changed. That you have a new perspective on life and family and can better represent hardworking Hoosiers in our nation's capital." Kara paused, making sure Jack was following along. He seemed less pissed, so she continued.

"It's creative campaign strategy. It's a business arrangement. It's a way to tweak your private life into shape on incredibly short notice."

"Oh my God," Jack mumbled.

Kara smiled big. "Let's say Sam Monroe and her kids hang around for six months or so, then after the primary you can have a quiet, amicable breakup and, once again, ask that the public respect her privacy. No one gets hurt."

"And how could we be sure she wouldn't talk?"

"A simple nondisclosure clause. If she talks, she has to give back the money, and she'll want that money. Trust me."

"Uh-huh."

"And think about it! Remember how Manheimer droned on at that homeless roundtable about how the Tollivers were too rich to identify with those in need and even owned a mansion that no one even lived in? Hey—Sam and the kids could move in here. It would be seen as an act of compassion and generosity. Am I a genius or what?"

Kara watched Jack chew his lip. She watched his fiercely intelligent green eyes scan his surroundings, calculating the truth of her observations, weighing the risks of her plan, and plotting his next move. Kara had known Jack since their freshman year in Bloomington. Jack was sharp. He was a man who could think on his feet, keep a clear view of what was critically important, and make his move right in the nick of time. It's what had once made him the NFL's hottest quarterback. It's what made him a natural politician, like his father and his father before him.

Kara waited for Jack to say something—anything. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jack's bright green eyes flashed and he gave her a decisive nod, exhibiting the kind of clarity of purpose he'd need to pull this off. At that moment, Kara felt truly proud of Jack the politician—and Jack the man—and waited for his pronouncement.

"By any chance, is this woman a redhead?"

Sam eased her two o'clock client under the heat lamp with a cup of chamomile tea and a copy of
People
magazine, set the timer for twenty minutes, greeted her two-thirty client with a smile and sent her off with an apprentice for a shampoo, then ran to the kitchen at the back of the salon. At the most, she had ten minutes to eat something and call the evil Mrs. Brashears, administrator of Wee Ones Academy.

Sam hopped up on a countertop, grabbed the cordless phone, and took a bite out of her now-cold Taco Bell chicken-stuffed burrito.

"Mrs. Brashears?"

"Well, hello, Ms. Monroe. I was wondering when we were going to hear from you."

Sam wiped her mouth on a napkin, realizing that though a week had passed since she received the note, she still hadn't decided how to deal with this latest threat from the Montessori Mafia. Begging had worked in the past, but she had a feeling she'd used up all her sympathy points. And legal action was probably not an option because, as far as she knew, there was no such thing as discrimination against the potty challenged.

"Dakota is showing little or no progress," Mrs. Brashears said, her voice dripping with concern. "Have you found other arrangements for him?"

Sam swallowed a bite of burrito and felt her heart being swallowed along with it. "I've tried every approach out there," she said, hearing herself default to the sympathy tactic again. "I tried the star chart on the bathroom door, forced him to wear big-boy underwear, gave him a quarter for each successful potty, applauded every time—oh God! Look, Mrs. Brashears, my other two kids did the potty-training thing so naturally, I just don't understand this!"

"Ms. Monroe—"

"I even promised him we'd get another dog if he could only—"

"Bribery will never build a child's independence or encourage creative problem solving, and I certainly don't think adding another dog to the mix will help your family dynamics in any way, shape, or form."

"Right." Sam took a swig of Diet Pepsi and checked her watch. If she left her two o'clock under the heat lamp too long her foil would fry.

"And if I may say so, Ms. Monroe, it appears to me that you are having some difficulty being present for your children lately. You might want to consider a more flexible work schedule, perhaps going part-time until—"

"Until
what
? Until my ex-husband surfaces and pays all his back child support?" Sam jumped off the counter and stood in the middle of the salon's little kitchen, staring blankly out the small fogged-up window over the clothes dryer, calling to God or somebody to give her patience enough to survive this phone call—this day—without completely losing it.

"All I'm suggesting is—"

"And just an FYI, Mrs. Brashears: I've been up to my
butt cheeks
in independence and creative problem solving for the last three years! How
dare
you imply that I'm not taking care of my kids!"

Sam heard an offended gasp on the other end of the phone. Though it would mean the end of Dakota's private school experience forever, Sam couldn't help herself. It was time for a Montessori smack down.

"My determination to take good care of my kids is the only reason I've let your ridiculously uppity school hold me hostage for the last six months—it's kept me sane to know Dakota was safe and nurtured while I work. But Wee Ones has more rules and regulations than the IRS!"

"Ms. Monroe. Really—"

"I work incredibly hard to keep a roof over Dakota's head, along with the heads of his brother and sister, which makes a total of three heads, unless you count the dog, and that would make four heads! And if you add my own head, we're talking five! Five heads on one hairstylist's salary! Now how's that for
family-fuckin'-dynamics
?"

After a moment of stunned silence, Mrs. Brashears cleared her throat and said, "There are many other Wee Ones mothers in your position, Ms. Monroe, and I can assure you that their three-year-olds have successfully navigated sphincter management."

"
Sphincter management?
" Sam burst into laughter. "Oh jeez, I've heard it all now."

At that moment, the salon's apprentice poked her head into the kitchen and hissed, "Your two o'clock's gonna burst into flames."

Sam put her hand over the receiver. "Take her out from under the lamp. I'll be right there."

"You have one week, Ms. Monroe."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. OK. Look, I'm sorry for saying the 'f-word,' but if you could just give me just a little more—"

"One week." Mrs. Brashears hung up, and Sam stood in the middle of the salon kitchen, a barely touched chicken burrito clutched in one fist and the cordless phone in the other, and she let the tears flow.

For two whole minutes, Sam let her shoulders shake and her spine soften, and she cried. Then she hung up the phone, threw away her lunch, blew her nose, and went back into the salon. She strolled through the clary sage-scented rooms color-washed in a Sonoma green, where the sounds of New Age flute and wolf calls floated through Marcia Fishbacher's vision of a southwestern oasis in the heart of downtown Indianapolis. Sam held up her chin, straightened her back, and knew that though everything in her life was falling apart, she'd still be expected to smile and work her soothing magic on her appointment book full of stressed-out clients, giving them that mix of technical skill, artistry, and pampering for which Le Cirque was famous, and for which they were willing to pay obscene amounts of money.

Monte opened the back door to Sam's house without knocking. Her son, Simon, ducked under her arm and ran ahead inside, calling for his best friend, Greg. Monte kicked the door closed with her boot and headed to the dinette set between the tiny kitchen and living room of the Arsenal Street bungalow.

"Dinner is served!" she called out, tossing three large pizza boxes on the table. "Best get in here before I eat it all!"

Lily sauntered into the dining room first, a quizzical look on her pale baby-woman face, followed by Dale, the family's raggedy little mutt. "'Sup, Monte?"

"Hi, sweet pea. How was school today? Where's your mama?"

Lily shrugged her narrow shoulders and ripped open the first pizza box. A straight waterfall of reddish-blond hair covered her face as she peered under the lid. "Did you get a vegetarian?"

"Bottom one." Monte hooked her purse on the back of a chair and threw her leather coat over it, then plopped herself down, looking at Lily in amazement. It seemed like only last week the child had been wearing that pink fleece coverall with bunny ears, riding around, her little cheeks like shiny apples, in that earth-mother backpack thing Sam used for all three kids.

Maybe it was just that Monte could see the changes better in Sam's kids than in her own tall and strong thirteen-year-old, but it seemed time raced by so fast it was a shock to the system.

"So where's your mama?"

"Chasing Dakota. Trying to get him to wear Batman underwear." Lily took the few steps necessary to reach the kitchen cabinets and reached for a stack of plates. Monte checked her out from tip to toe and shook her head—the girl was all long legs and long hair and an all-wrong application of dark brown eyeliner that made her look like a blue-eyed raccoon.

"Should I open a bag of salad?"

"Sure!" Monte hoped her cheerfulness didn't sound too forced. "Let's make this a well-rounded culinary experience!"

Lily smiled a bit, and Monte breathed easier. It wasn't good news when a fourteen-year-old girl couldn't muster up a smile on pizza night. "So? You didn't say. How was your day?"

Lily returned with the plates and shrugged, helping herself to two slices. She was about to say something when Greg and Simon raced in, and the room was suddenly rocking with loud kid voices and laughter and Dale's high-pitched barking and then Sam arrived with Dakota in her arms, the little redheaded angel-boy pressing his cheek against her shoulder, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Monte.

She reached out for Dakota and the baby fell into her lap, wrapped his arms around her neck, and gave her a sloppy toddler kiss.

"Auntie Monte," he cooed, and Montes eyes locked with Sam's in the middle of the chaos, and they smiled at each other. Monte knew exactly what was conveyed in that wordless greeting:
Who needs men to have a good time?

By nine o'clock, Dakota was deeply asleep, Sam had rustled the older kids to bed, and Monte had washed the dishes. The two women sprawled out on the couch and shared a bottle of Chardonnay.

"If I drink more than one glass of this, Simon won't be the only sleepover guest tonight," Monte said, folding her legs under her.

"The more the merrier," Sam said with a sigh. "Oh, I forgot to tell you—Kara's on her way over. She said she wanted to discuss something with me."

"Kara? What in the world? On a Monday night?"

Sam shrugged. "She just said it was important and that she needed to see me right away. I told her to come over after the kids were in bed."

Monte frowned. It wasn't that she didn't like Kara DeMarinis—Sam had been cutting her hair for a decade and had brought her into the D & D club six years ago. It was just that Kara seemed a little distant at times. Snooty even. She was some kind of big-shot political consultant with an office in one of the new downtown buildings, an attorney who ended up on Sunday afternoon TV talk shows, arguing about laws and the politicians who made them. Monte knew that Kara leaned way too far to the right for her tastes, but she had to admit Kara was smart. And both she and Denny Winston had done some free legal work for Sam a couple years ago, trying to help her track down Mitch after the divorce went through. That had been nice.

It was just odd that Kara was coming over to Sam's on a school night.

"Did you screw up the woman's color or something?"

Sam laughed. "You and I both know that that's never gonna happen. She said it was something to do with her job."

This was getting stranger by the minute. "
Her
job?"

"You're off tomorrow, right?" Sam asked absently, as if she didn't even realize she'd changed the subject.

"Yep." Monte studied her friend. Sam was looking more washed-out than usual. Monte wanted to come right out and ask her if there was something wrong—or something
newly
wrong—but the slight slump in Sam's shoulders told her to go easy tonight.

It sometimes amazed Monte that Sam had held it together as well as she had these last three years. She'd remained strong when Mitchell announced he was gay and left town. She'd juggled the demands of raising three kids while standing on her feet sixty hours a week at the salon. Monte knew that if Sam had finally reached her breaking point, the girl was entitled to have it.

"So, what do you think of the salon renovation?" Monte waited for Sam to respond, but her friend looked far away in thought. "As long as I got enough natural light at my station, Marcia could do up the place in early train wreck for all I care, but if you ask me, she's taking the desert thing too far—a big ole cactus in downtown Indianapolis? Puh-leeze. Next thing you know she'll be bringin' in Gila monsters or some shit and makin' us wear turquoise, and you know I don't look good in anything green."

Sam finally giggled and looked up at her friend. "Early train wreck has always been my preferred period, obviously." She waved her hand around like a game show hostess. "How'd I do?"

Monte quickly scanned the living room and grinned. The small space featured an indestructible microfiber couch and love seat in a stain-camouflaging beige, an inexpensive entertainment center in an oak finish, an oval coffee table, and a couple floor lamps. All of it was accented with the by-products of family life—various book bags, a stray sock or two, clumps of dog hair, Greg's comic books, CDs that belonged to Lily, and little Thomas the Tank Engine pieces strewn all over the carpet.