Women's Night Out: Life's Second Chances, #2

By Leslie O'Kane

They've got one another, and now they're going to find the one that got away if it kills them--which it very well might.

 WOMEN'S NIGHT OUT, the second book in the Life's Second Chances Series, is about the long-lasting friendships among three women forged when, as young mothers, two of them saved the third's life. Fifteen years later, things have changed. All three of them are now single moms with teenage children, and they've all built new careers for themselves. The one constancy is their monthly night out, at which the laughter always overshadows the tears.

When Jennifer--unlike her ex-husband and his trophy wife--is struggling to move on after a tragic loss, she, Celia, and Lindsey form a pact to find "the one that got away." During the hilarious and heartbreaking course of the next eight months, their searches take them on adventures both comic and poignant--together with the joy of good friends and a good bottle of wine.

New in 2015 by the best-selling author of PLAY DEAD and DEATH COMES eCALLING!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie O'Kane
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507005521

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jennifer Elbert wiped the tears from her eyes and stared through her windshield at the dozen pink and baby-blue helium-filled balloons. The shocking sight could not have come at a worse time. Suddenly, her all-time craziest impulse seemed not only logical, but necessary.

She floored her gas pedal.

Her Grand Cherokee rumbled over a small, narrow traffic island, heading straight for its target—the driver’s side of a red BMW convertible parked at the opposite curb.

The airbag deployed with a deafening explosion, smacking her in the face like a right cross to the chin. The bag collapsed across the steering wheel as rapidly as it had emerged, even while Jennifer’s senses were still registering the cacophony of metal crunching against metal, mingled with the sound of breaking glass, and the incongruous scent of talcum powder from the airbag.

For an instant, everything stopped, as if Jennifer, her Jeep, and everyone in the immediate vicinity needed a moment to process what she had just done. She was currently in one of the one of the most upscale shopping districts in the country—the heart of Chevy Chase, Maryland, a few miles north of Washington, DC, and she found herself looking directly at a pair of passersby on the sidewalk—thirtyish women with Gucci and Bvlgari shopping bags draped over their arms. They gaped back at Jennifer and simultaneously reached for their cell phones, no doubt to call 911. Behind her, traffic slowed to a crawl as drivers gawked.

Jennifer opened her door and sucked in a breath of the citified air. Shit! I could have hurt somebody! I’ll be thrown in jail for this! What the hell was I thinking?

She knew the answer, though. She’d been thinking that this was her son’s birthday, and that she’d have given anything to be able to celebrate it. Then she’d burst into tears. A moment later, she’d spotted her ex-husband’s wife, standing on the sidewalk by the Metro station exit and holding those balloons—so clearly announcing her pregnancy—with her glamorous car thoughtlessly centered smack dab in the no-parking zone. Jennifer then pictured herself as driving one of those Monster Trucks that Devon always tried to talk them into seeing at the stadium; she’d envisioned him grinning down at her and saying, Nice move, Mom! You rock!

Shaking uncontrollably, she opened her car door, rose, and stared in horror. Her Jeep’s entire front end was scrunched into half its former size, and the cute little sports car looked as though it had been dropped sideways from a ten-story building.

A short distance away, Jennifer’s ex-husband’s trophy wife released her grasp on the balloons. They made a rapid ascent into the cloudy, early-March sky, save for a New Daddy! Mylar balloon, which for several seconds, floated directly above Jennifer’s head as if in cruel mockery of a funny-page’s thought bubble. Frank Elbert was not a new daddy. He had a daughter who would turn sixteen in four months and a son who should have turned thirteen today.

Booby Prize—Jennifer’s pet name for McKenzee Pendleton Elbert—began to shriek with her every exhale, the reality of the situation slowly seeping through her oversized hair and into her undersized brain. She ran toward her damaged BMW as fast as her tight leather skirt and stilettos would allow. At twenty-four, the female creature was young enough to be Jennifer’s daughter.

Oh, no! No! My car! Booby cried, able to form words now, if only short ones. My car! Look at my M-Three! Clenching her fists, she turned toward Jennifer. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you!

Of course you do! I just rammed into your car! I’ve become a raving lunatic!

I hope you die! Booby shrieked at her. You’re the worst person who ever lived!

I’m nicer than Hitler, Jennifer said, miserable. I’m probably not even in the bottom twelve. She winced as she spotted her ex-husband emerging from the Metro.

Frank! Booby called, turning as if she’d sensed his presence, which she probably had. She had stalked the man and had practically lived in his pocket—or at least in his pants—for three years now. In the process, she’d oozed herself into the classic social climber—the secretary turned lover turned second wife.

Help me! Booby wailed. It’s that ex of yours again! She’s a monster!

Frank raced toward them, his expression smoldering with righteous fury. Although he’d recently had his fiftieth birthday, Frank Elbert was ever the athlete, dodging through the half-dozen spectators as if he was darting toward the goal line, his leather briefcase in the place of a football. He was clad in the uniform of the successful Washingtonian businessman—a Burberry overcoat, hand-tailored suit, starched white shirt, and Hermes silk tie.

Jennifer! Have you gone mad?! You tried to kill my wife!

No, I didn’t. Jennifer gestured at the now vacated spot where Booby had been standing. I could see her right there on the sidewalk the whole time, watching for you like a kindergartner waiting for her father to take her home.

Booby stomped her foot. I can’t help being young! You’re just being...being...you know. That’s ageism in reverse!

No, Jennifer replied, suddenly bone-weary. It’s an analogy.

She cursed to herself as a barrel-chested police officer made his way toward them. He had a self-important stride that seemed to come with the blue uniform.

Wishing she could simply vaporize, Jennifer’s mind raced. She didn’t want to lie to a police officer. But if she told him the truth, she’d be slapped in jail. Maybe she should plead temporary insanity. In actuality, this had been building for months now, so temporary was a stretch.

The officer looked at the mangled cars. You folks were in an accident?

No, Booby wailed, we were in an on-purpose! She pointed a trembling finger at Jennifer. My husband’s bitchy ex-wife crashed into my car! On purpose! She tried to kill me! I want her arrested for attempted manslaughter! Or woman-slaughter! Or, you know, vehicular attempted homicide. And for sixty-thousand dollar’s worth of car damage!

This is my wife, McKenzee Elbert, Frank explained. "She was picking me up, and my crazy former wife over there bulldozed into her parked car."

Jennifer sighed, unable to offer a rebuttal. She wanted to tell the officer that she used to be a nice person. Before Devon died. That even now, even while she felt like a living, breathing shell, she was still a nice person, most of the time.

At least her friends Celia and Lindsey could be character witnesses at her trial. No matter what, she was bound to lose her driver’s license. She had to be able to drive to her clients’ homes and to chauffeur them to furniture and accessories stores; her design business would fold. And how would she be able to get Gracie to and from school and all her various activities?

This wasn’t really bad driving, though; the car had gone precisely where she’d intended it to go. Technically, she was a good driver who’d made a terrible decision with regard to her specific destination.

Frank started to round the BMW in Jennifer’s direction. Jesus God! Jennifer! What the fuck’s the matter with you? Look what you’ve done to McKenzee’s car!

I miscalculated. I thought my bumper was a lot higher.

Sir, the officer said, gesturing for him to move away, go wait on the sidewalk with your wife. I’ll come get your statements in a minute.

Frank followed the officer’s orders, set his briefcase down, and put his arms around Booby Prize, who started wailing into his chest with noisy, racking sobs.

Ma’am, the officer said to Jennifer, I need to see your driver’s license and registration.

Jennifer could tell at once that he wasn’t going to be impressed by either her nice-person or her good-driver-bad-choice argument. She reached into her car, ignoring the fish odor that was starting to foul the air, and snagged the handle of her purse. She felt a pang of self-hatred and shut the door quickly, not wanting to gamble on the officer’s olfactory powers; she was in enough trouble without having to explain why she had rancid salmon in her car. She included her proof of insurance as she handed him her cards.

Have you had anything to drink? Consumed any alcohol?

No, officer. Although, now that he’d brought up the subject, alcohol sounded like a wonderful idea.

What are you waiting for? Booby suddenly cried at the officer. I’m pregnant! She aimed a French-manicured talon at Jennifer. She made me lose my balloons! All this trauma might make me miscarry! Arrest her! She broke the law!

"You broke the law, too, Jennifer retorted, gesturing at the no-parking sign. I wouldn’t have hit your car if you hadn’t parked illegally!"   

Frank caught Jennifer’s gaze with such a look of disgust on his face that Jennifer was ashamed and had to look away.

The officer’s steely gaze wasn’t much of a respite. So you admit that you intentionally rammed your vehicle into hers? Even as he spoke, the officer reached for his handcuffs.

Actually, officer, I’m going to plead the fifth. And plead for a fifth of vodka when I get to the stationhouse, she added in silence. After I gently and respectfully point out that nobody was anywhere near the BMW. And that hitting her broadside meant there was no possibility of her car ricocheting into traffic.

Ma’am, another car might have turned into the lane in front of you. Plus, there were several pedestrians present. You easily could have careened onto the sidewalk. The impact from the collision could have had horrible consequences to innocent bystanders.

Jennifer was mortified, knowing that he was right. She’d done an unconscionable thing. Would I be better off if I refused the Breath-a-lizer test, and allowed the law to treat me as though I were driving drunk?

I’m not going to answer that, ma’am.

She looked again at Frank, who was continuing to comfort Booby. Congratulations, by the way, Jennifer said in a choked voice. "Great day for you to be celebrating your exciting news."

Frank winced. Holy Christ, Booby snarled at Jennifer. "It’s not our fault this used to be your son’s birthday! He died, like, five years ago! You have no right to think we’re supposed to mope around for the entire day!"

The officer turned toward Jennifer, his gaze now sympathetic. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to handcuff you.

Are you married? she asked him quietly.

Recently divorced. He put the cuffs on her. "But at least my ex isn’t a hothead."

Neither was I, at first, Jennifer replied sadly. It’s surprising what can happen.

Chapter 2

Despite the chilly early-March weather, Celia Bach took her time as she navigated the brick sidewalk and front steps to the butter-yellow painted brick Georgetown townhouse. In a few hours, sixty guests would take this same path, and as the party planner for this event, she needed to ensure that everything was picture perfect. The view of the porch and house front was elegant and inviting; the florists had filled copper garden urns with clusters of yellow and baby-blue pansies. She would double-check the lighting in a few minutes to ensure that the steps and handrail were suitably illuminated. She gripped the wrought-iron rail and gave it a good shake—nice and sturdy. She scanned for troublesome cracks in the concrete steps and found none. No unsightly stains, wads of chewing gum, cobwebs, cigarette butts. Pleased, she rang the doorbell. She heard footfalls. Good. The doorbell’s working.

Oh, thank God you’re here! Mark cried to Celia as he swept open his front door. He ushered her inside, nervously scanning the street for newshounds. He closed and locked the door behind her, then leaned back against it. "My poor sister’s in a complete panic. So we truly are still on for tonight?"

Absolutely, Mark. Please reassure Emily that all is going to be well.

He held up both palms. I know you’re the best in the biz and so forth, but I have to ask. How is that even vaguely possible? Nearly two-thirds of our guests canceled at the first whiff of scandal!

That was true. The whiff, which was more accurately a choking stench, had arisen on Sunday, and this was the following Wednesday, so she’d had to work tirelessly since then. Few things spoiled a political fundraiser faster than the candidate being caught in flagrante delicto with an intern, especially when the candidate’s wife was terminally ill.

It’s simple, Mark. Celia paused; there was an edge to her voice that she needed to soften. She reminded herself that, although she personally would now never vote for the man (Mark’s brother-in-law), she’d been hired to organize the candidate’s fund-raiser, and by God, that’s what she was going to do. We have a backup list of attendees in case of an emergency. They’re willing to fill in at the last minute. Congressman Cavanaugh just needs to lower his expectations for the amount of donations he can raise from tonight’s gathering.

Hell, Celia, at this point, he couldn’t care less if we break even. And neither do I. It’s just that I want to put up a good front for Emily’s sake. All our lives, she’s asked next to nothing of me. His eyes were brimming. "The one favor she finally asks—hosting this party for the bastard she married—and this had to happen! Mark brushed past her and paced in the living room; Celia took the opportunity to double-check her friend Jennifer’s staging of the space. As always, she’d done an impeccable job; all the excess bric-a-brac had vanished and she’d put an amazing claret-hued piece of art glass on the mahogany coffee table. The cleaning crew had also done first-rate work; the place was immaculate. All we want is enough warm bodies here so the fundraiser won’t be a flat-out public humiliation, Mark continued. Or, worse, force Ben back into the limelight when the news gets out that he canceled at the last minute."

I understand, Mark, she said gently, holding his gaze. Everything’s under control. I promise. How is Emily holding up?

He flicked his wrist. "With dignity and grace, like always. My sister is determined to be here tonight. God only knows why, but she loves the shithead. I’m sure you’ve heard that she’s gone on record, claiming she was the one who encouraged him to seek out other women so he won’t be completely alone when she passes away."

What popped into Celia’s head was that Emily Cavanaugh was lying through her teeth to keep a measure of tranquility in her life. And that the senator-wannabe was a two-timing bastard, just like the husbands of her two best friends had turned out to be. And that there was something fundamentally wrong with the countless straight, power-craving men in this infernal city. What she said, though, was: Your sister’s a saint.

Exactly. His voice strained with emotion. And that’s probably precisely why she’s dying young. He dabbed at his eyes. I hate life sometimes.

"This evening won’t be one of those times. For your sister’s sake if nothing else, we’ll make this a wonderful event. You know my motto."

Mark sighed. "‘Nothing ever goes wrong.’ But something already has. Half of my who’s who A-listers canceled! And, as you and I know, they were really all just C-plus-listers to begin with."

Which made it easy to find substitutes. My assistant has already double-checked the RSVP’s. We’ll have a full house tonight, all of whom are sincerely supportive of Ben Cavanaugh’s bid for election.

Seriously?

She made a wavering gesture with her hand. Most of them said that they’re slightly leaning toward voting for him.

That’s fine, under the circumstances. He stopped his pacing suddenly and studied her features. His smile slowly grew, as if her words had only just then registered. "In fact, that’s...amazing, Celia. Also, the designer you sent over this morning did a fabulous job. He made a sweeping motion to indicate their surroundings. My home has never looked better. Your reputation is well-earned."

Thank you, Mark. She glanced through the archway, pleased to see that the gorgeous crystal chandelier was now temporarily raised to the coffered ceiling, and that the dining room table had been moved into storage and replaced by four small semi-circle occasional tables, flush against the walls. This arrangement was much better for a large party; guests would naturally cluster in small groups in this space.

Mark grabbed a leather bag from atop the tiger-maple corner desk and slung the strap over one of his narrow shoulders. Listen, my partner’s camping out at the office till the party’s over, with nobody but our dog to keep him company. I’m going to run out and make sure they’re fine, and I’ll be back by six at the latest. You’re still confident that my being here an hour ahead of time is sufficient, yes?

Absolutely, Celia replied—a word she knew she tended to overuse on the job. I’m in charge. She flipped on the switch for the external lights so that she could check each bulb next. You go unwind, relax, enjoy. You’re a guest at your own party from here on out.

Mark sighed again, this time happily, an expression of unabashed relief on his face. "Okay. That I can do. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze, then brushed past her. He unlocked the door, then turned and beamed at her. Celia, I just have to tell you...if I weren’t gay and already spoken for, I would so love to marry you!"

Celia returned his smile, thoroughly flattered. "And if you weren’t gay and already spoken for, I would be so delighted to accept your proposal."

Mark chuckled and rolled his eyes. A woman like you must get offers of marriage all the time.

As if, she thought, although she continued to smile at her client.

* * *

Later that evening, the party was in full throttle. Truth be told, fundraiser cocktail parties were not Celia’s favorite type of job. She greatly preferred to organize celebrations. Becca, Celia’s assistant, had split the duties of locating the fill-in partiers with her, and together, they’d done a remarkable job. The place was packed, and there was a wonderful buzz of gaiety and excitement in the air. Celia herself would never have guessed that half of the guests in attendance were fill-ins for the much-wealthier invitees who’d canceled.

As always, the hors d’oeuvres were amazing—Celia had hired the best caterers in town. The place looked spectacular, and Celia was happily checking off her mental list of things she knew from twelve years of experience were possible hurdles. At this particular phase of the evening—well into the second hour of the festivities—she had to be wary of the too-boisterous-when-intoxicated partiers, or of a political rival who’d slipped through the cracks and was here solely for the purpose of throwing a scene to embarrass the candidate. Her primary job, however, was to play party hostess. Celia’s ability to mingle and observe and to reposition guests was honed to a fine art, although in her more sardonic moments, she felt like an Australian sheepdog, forever watching for strays and rogues. Tonight’s added challenge was the perpetual acting job that she had to do in appearing to admire Congressman Cavanaugh while inwardly detesting the man; as of five minutes ago at least, Emily, his wife, whom Celia adored, was holding court on a sofa in the den, where she was under Mark’s watchful eye.

Outwardly, Celia appeared to listen to Ben Cavanaugh pontificate about the trouble with storing and transferring the energy garnered from windmills. Meanwhile, she was unobtrusively watching as a beautiful blonde entered Mark’s home; Celia hoped this wasn’t an undercover reporter with a mini-cam. The blonde was with someone—perhaps her cameraman or her partner in mud-raking TV journalism, here to ask the embarrassing questions. The blonde smiled with unabashed adoration as she waited for her companion to close the door. Nope; they’re a legitimate couple, Celia surmised as the man moved into view.

Celia stared. For a moment, she felt her heart had literally stopped. It was Andrew Slokowski. He had to have been one of the last-minute guests that Becca had found.

She whirled around, barely managing to offer a rushed, Pardon me, to her fellow windmill lecture-ees. Feeling as if she had a sudden case of the flu, she scanned the room and found Becca emerging from the kitchen.

Trying in vain to quell her rising panic, Celia strode toward her assistant. How’s the guacamole? Celia asked. Guacamole was their code word for an emergency that required their immediate attention.

Becca turned toward her with well-practiced indifference. Are we running low?

I think so. That response meant: Jesus Fucking Christ! We’ve got a total catastrophe on our hands! Inwardly, Celia was fighting her flight reflex as best she could, but was losing her grip. She tromped into the kitchen thinking that, seen from the rear, Andrew could never recognize her. And that her stride just now would resemble a waddle. If he noticed her at all, he would merely wonder why that woman wearing the purple tent was allowing herself to be seen at such a classy function.

Celia could not believe this was really happening. She, who prided herself on handling anything and everything, had been struck down by the merest of incidents—the appearance of an unexpected guest. Within a matter of seconds, every drop of self-confidence she’d worked so hard to obtain over the course of a dozen years had vanished.

The pantry! She gave a wan smile to the obviously surprised caterer and ducked inside the tiny, narrow room, shutting the door behind her. A moment later, Becca joined her. There were only about ten square feet of floor space in this storage area. Celia was gasping for air.

Celia? Becca asked in a half whisper. Why are we in a closet? What on earth’s happened?

My ex is here, Celia whispered.

Oh, my God, Celia! She winced at her own volume and put a hand to her lips. So you’re going to call the police, right? Becca asked, lowering her voice. Grab your daughter and get out of town till he’s in custody?

She shook her head. "It’s not my ex-husband. I’m talking about my ex-boyfriend." The love of my life! The one that got away! The loving man whose memory kept her going during years of abuse. Through the loneliness. Through the night terrors about Jim Bach returning so that he could murder her—finish off what he’d started. "Jim’s sudden appearance tonight, I could have handled," she added.

"Wait. I’m confused. If it’s not Jim, why is this an emergency? Your ex-boyfriend wasn’t a woman beater, too, was he? You didn’t manage to hook up with two monsters in—"

No, Andrew was Jim’s polar opposite. Andrew wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was always the perfect boyfriend.

So what happened? How did you go from ‘perfect’ to marrying a violent beast?

Too big of a question. Too big of a body. Too small of a room. Celia felt ready