her hand. “I have to tell you something. I’ve quit my job. I’m going to write a screenplay.”
There had been more talk. She was sure of it. But she hadn’t heard anything beyond the keen screaming of fear that had filled her head.
Quit? How could he quit? They had a mortgage and she was still paying back her old boss for buying out the exercise studio. They had a four-year-old and college to save for and nearly no savings. They’d put off having a second kid because they couldn’t afford it.
The coffee flowed into the mug Nicole had left in place. She waited until it was nearly full, then expertly shifted the mug out of the way and the carafe into its spot without missing a drop. She inhaled the perfect earthy scent before taking her first sip of the day.
“Mommy?”
She took another quick sip, then turned as Tyler walked into the kitchen. He was tousled and still half-asleep. One hand held his battered, red stuffed toy, Brad the Dragon. The well-loved plush dragon was based on the popular series of children’s books. The author must make a mint from all the merchandising, she thought as she put her mug on the counter, then bent down to scoop up her son.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. He settled his around her neck, while hanging on with his legs. She pretended to stagger as she lifted him.
“You grew!”
He giggled at the familiar comment. “I can’t grow every night,” he told her.
“I think you can.”
She kissed his cheek and breathed in the scent of his skin. Whatever else went wrong in her day, Tyler was always right.
“How did you sleep?”
“Good.” He snuggled close. “Brad had bad dreams, but I said he was safe with me.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’m sure he appreciated having you to protect him.”
She carried Tyler over to the table. He released her to stand on his chair. With a quick, graceful movement, he settled into a sitting position.
Based on how athletic he was and how well he did in preschool, Tyler seemed to have inherited the best from her and Eric. Nicole could only hope. She’d wanted to enroll him in a dance class, but Eric had nixed the idea. For a while he’d wanted his son to attend a computer camp. But that interest had faded when he’d started writing his screenplay last year. She supposed they could agree on drama camp or something. Assuming Eric didn’t stop writing his screenplay to follow another surprise dream.
She walked over to the pantry. “Oatmeal and berries?” she asked.
Tyler looked at Brad the Dragon, then nodded. “We like that.”
Because Brad was consulted on most decisions.
Nicole would have been worried about her son’s constant companion, except Brad stayed home when Tyler went to preschool or day care and from everything she’d read, his attachment was completely normal. She was sure having a couple more siblings would ease his dependence on the stuffed toy, but there was no way that was happening anytime soon. She was barely able to keep them financially afloat as it was. If she got pregnant… She didn’t want to think about it.
Not that it was much of an issue. She barely saw Eric these days. They passed in the hall and their brief discussions were generally about logistics regarding Tyler. Sex wasn’t happening.
As she measured out the oatmeal, she mentally paused to wonder if Eric was cheating on her. He was by himself every day. She didn’t know how much time he spent writing. She wasn’t here to see for herself and he didn’t volunteer the information. Once he was done surfing for the day, he could be seeing anyone.
Her stomach tightened at the thought, then she turned her attention back to getting breakfast for her son. She had to get Tyler fed and dressed with one eye on the clock. Once she got him to preschool, she had a full day of classes to teach, payroll to run for her two part-time instructors, groceries to buy and life to deal with. Worrying about Eric’s possible affairs was way down on her list.
As she carried the oatmeal over to Tyler, she thought maybe her lack of concern was the biggest problem of all. The question was: What, if anything, did she do about it?
* * *
Pam wrapped her towel around her body and reached for the tube of body lotion. While she stuck to a fairly faithful regimen for her face, when it came to body products, she liked to mix things up. Right now she was enjoying Philosophy’s Fresh Cream—a vanilla-based scent that made her feel like she should have chocolate-dipped strawberries for breakfast.
But for once the thick lotion didn’t make her smile. Probably because she was fully aware that while she was applying it, she was doing her best not to look in the mirror.
The shock of Jen’s impending ten-year high school reunion hadn’t gone away. It had faded, only to return. Telling herself age was a number and she was a lucky, happy woman wasn’t helping, either. It seemed as if every time she turned around, there was yet another reminder that her days of being a hot thirtysomething were long over.
She put down the tube, braced herself for the horror and tossed the towel over the tub. Then she stared at her naked self in the very wide, very unforgiving mirror in the master bath.
She wasn’t fat, she told herself. She’d gained the most weight with Jen when she’d thought pregnancy meant a license to eat. And she had. Yes, her daughter had been a robust eight pounds and the rest of the associated goo had some weight and volume, but it didn’t excuse the seventy-five pounds she’d packed on.
Losing them had been a bitch, so with her next two pregnancies, she’d only gained a reasonable thirty. Still, her body bore the battle wounds—including stretch marks and a definite doughlike puddle where her once-flat tummy had been.
Her breasts were worse. More tube socks than mammary-shaped. She got by with a good, supportive bra. Of course at night, when she just had on a sleep shirt, they eased back into her armpits. On the plus side, getting a mammogram wasn’t a problem. Her breasts oozed into place on the tray. Still, there’d been a time when they’d been full and round and damned sexy.
There were a handful of spider veins on her legs, a distinct lack of firmness to her jaw and—
“Kill me now,” Pam muttered out loud, then reached for her panties. What was the point in all that self-assessment? It wasn’t as if she was going to get any kind of plastic surgery. She worked out three days a week at Nicole’s studio and walked on the treadmill at least two other days. She was fifty. She’d better get used to not being anything special. She had a feeling it was only downhill from here.
She finished dressing, then combed her hair off her face. At least it was still thick and had a nice wave. She kept the length just past her shoulders and layered, to take advantage of the waves. Color and a few highlights in summer meant no one had to know about the encroaching gray.
The thing was, she thought as she applied her anti-aging serum—the one that didn’t seem to be doing its job as well as it had a couple of years ago—there wasn’t any warning. Sure, everyone knew that old age was inevitable. It was that or death and she was willing to admit she was pretty happy to be alive.
But what about the
