signaling Vinnie to help her stand up, since her giant belly made it difficult for her to do it on her own. Within moments, Frances had made her way to the kitchen, where Maya was pouring whiskey over a glass of ice.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Frances whispered.
“Who?”
“You know who. Mateo.”
Maya pretended to glance back into the living room and notice him for the first time. “I suppose so, yes.”
“Come on, I saw the look on your face when you let him in. You think he’s gorgeous!”
“What is he doing here? Did you tell Vinnie to show up and crash your baby shower just in case you hated it and wanted to go home?”
Frances shrugged and smiled. “Maybe.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Well, I told you not to throw me one, and I knew you were lying through your teeth when you promised me you wouldn’t.”
“I spent a lot on that diaper tote bag, so damn it, you’re going to be grateful and enjoy it!”
“I love it. And I’m very happy you didn’t listen to me. I got a great haul, and I’m psyched to see all the girls.”
“You’re welcome. Now, you didn’t answer my question.”
“I know . . . ,” Frances said with a sly smile.
The reality hit Maya like a splash of cold water. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I may have,” Frances said, picking up a chicken empanada, which was cooling on a tray on top of the stove, and stuffing it into her mouth.
“This is a fix-up?” Maya groaned.
“Why not? Look at him. He’s beautiful; he has a successful career, a car, his own home; and, get ready for the kicker, he’s actually single!”
“No, I am not going to let you do this.”
“Come on, Maya, you have to dip your toe back in the pool at some point. Otherwise, sooner or later you’ll forget how to swim.”
“How many times have we been in the office, or out working a case, or at a bar having a cocktail, and I’ve told you in no uncertain terms I am not looking to date anyone right now?”
“And I respected your wishes, but that was before I got the idea of putting you and Mateo together. You two are a perfect match.”
“And how many times have I said I would never date, let alone marry, anyone in law enforcement ever again?”
“You’ve got to get over that.”
“My police-captain husband is in prison for corruption! I really think you should cut me some slack!”
“Ex-husband,” Frances reminded her as she grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and handed it to Frances. “Now go serve your guests some drinks and wipe that gloomy look off your face. You’re the hostess of this shindig, and you are going to go out there and give the performance of a lifetime!”
“What happened to just be yourself?” Maya asked.
“I’m not taking any chances,” Frances said.
Maya stared daggers at her and then whipped around and marched back to the living room, carrying the whiskey and water.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Sandra pulled into her driveway at dusk the next day, she was relieved to find that the swarm of reporters who had been camped out on her lawn and sidewalk, along with their big trucks and vans, had all finally packed up and gone. Thankfully the erupting scandal had receded a bit, at least for now, especially after Stephen had issued a full-throated and passionate denial that any taxpayer money had been used in any kind of nondisclosure agreement with a mistress. Stephen said in no uncertain terms that he was a faithful husband to his wife and was outright aghast that anyone would suggest otherwise. But Sandra had no illusions that there were dozens of dogged, determined reporters out there painstakingly searching for concrete evidence that would prove Senator Stephen Wallage was a liar.
She couldn’t think about that now. She was too busy putting out her own fires. The late-afternoon meeting with Principal Hicks had lasted two hours, and although it was awkward and uncomfortable discussing her personal life, she had assured Hicks that the salacious headlines on the Dirty Laundry website were absolutely false. She was ready to put the baseless accusations behind her and move on planning for the school year.
Hicks seemed mostly appeased by Sandra’s persuasive presentation, and he took the opportunity to stress to her after she had finished that she had his full support. But still, Sandra noticed he was a little more reserved than usual, and there were worry lines on his face that she hadn’t noticed before. She didn’t blame him at all, because more often than not, eventually the stories posted on the site were proven to be true.
She got out of her car and walked toward the front door of the house. Sandra hadn’t even thought about what to make the boys for dinner. She was so eager to get home from her meeting that she drove right past the grocery store. Maybe she would just order them all Chinese food or have a pizza delivered. As she entered the foyer, she stopped suddenly. The familiar smell of a rich marinara sauce wafted in from the kitchen.
She knew it was her husband’s signature turkey meatballs, a recipe his Italian grandmother on his mother’s side had taught him to make when he was a boy.
Stephen was home from DC.
She marched into the kitchen to see her husband and two sons crowded around the counter and stove, making dinner. Stephen was stirring a bubbling pot of sauce on one of the front burners with a wooden spoon. His sleeves were rolled up; his pale blue Brooks Brothers dress shirt sported a few tomato stains. He didn’t like wearing aprons, so she always had to take his shirt to the dry cleaner’s after he took it upon himself to cook a meal. Jack was busy tossing a salad in a large wooden bowl, while Ryan ripped open a package of organic spaghetti to dump into a boiling pot of water on one of the back burners.
“What are you doing here?” Sandra asked, a little flummoxed.
Stephen looked up, eyes twinkling, then he wiped his hands on a towel and sauntered over to his wife, enveloping her in a bear hug. “I caught a late-afternoon flight home at the last minute. They’re always overbooked on Fridays, but I got lucky today with a cancellation.”
“I wasn’t expecting you—” Sandra said.
Still hugging her, he leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. “I know. I wanted to surprise you.”
His body felt warm. She could smell garlic on his breath from taste-testing his homemade sauce.
“He’s here for the whole weekend,” Ryan said, beaming.
Sandra gently pulled out of his hug. “I thought there was a fund-raiser in Georgetown you couldn’t miss on Sunday . . .”
“I got out of it,” he
