Life's a Mother

By Beth Ellen Adubato

In Life’s a Mother, Beth Adubato tells the story of three working moms, each trying to strike a balance between earning the money to raise the kids and actually raising the kids. Melissa Flynn is a successful plastic surgeon who wonders about the wanderings of her husband; Mary Rose Flaherty manages an entire New York City building, but can't manage to get her sons to pick up their socks; Wendy Romeo is a sportscaster from New Jersey covering NASCAR in the South and trying to cover the roles of mom and dad, far away from her family or her daughter's father. Can they provide for their kids, have meaningful relationships, and be successful in their careers? And would having a little sex once-in-a-while be too much to ask?

“Nobody chooses to do this alone,” Wendy tells her mother, yet that’s exactly how each woman feels at the end of the night, with their kids asleep and no one to share their worries or the good things. At some point while trying to pay the bills, drive their children to their various activities, run a household, and maybe go on an occasional date, they forgot about friendship.

When we first meet the women, two are single moms and the third fears she may soon join them. Working in three completely different occupations in three different states no less, it’s a carpool line where their lives collide, for better or for worse.

Forced together by their fifth graders, can three women with such disparate backgrounds and situations work together or will resentments, misunderstandings, and secrets get in their way?

Kids…jobs…men. Sometimes life can be one or maybe you just need the friendship of…a real mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543901412

Book preview

PARTIE

CHAPTER ONE — THREE WOMEN

Melissa

Extroverts cannot imagine the agony that introverts endure at parties. And apparently, some of these outgoing types have no patience with those who exhibit this affliction—even when the gregarious person married the shy person and promised to love and cherish her until they day he died. Or she died. As a matter-of-fact, the emotion that Melissa was picking up from her husband was more like hate.

Standing in the cavernous closet that resembled an exclusive Upper East Side boutique, Melissa observed her reflection in the perfectly placed, built-in mirror. She was attempting to wear the three and a half inch heels that her teen-aged daughter had coerced her into buying. They were scalloped black pumps and cost more than some families’ monthly food bills. Emily persuaded her that she needed them for tonight’s gala. For one fleeting moment, she imagined walking into that country club tonight, looking regal. Then, she fell right over.

Her left shoulder crushed the shoebox when she landed, but on the way down, she hit the corner of her head on the rectangular, mahogany island of drawers. She yelped a bit, but the crashing sound was what brought Michael into the closet. He was mid-shave. He looked at her, said, You’re bleeding, and walked back into the bathroom.

Thank you for your help, Doctor, Melissa sputtered as she pulled herself back up to a standing position. Indeed, she was bleeding from her forehead. Great, she thought, as if I wasn’t already dreading this evening.

Placing the shoes back in the mangled shoebox, she walked into the bathroom to do something about the blood dripping from her head. Michael had returned to ignoring her. Wrapped in only a towel, he was admiring himself—she could tell—although keeping his face impassive. He was shaving for the second time that day, but also watching the play of his arm muscles as he did so, the muscles he worked so religiously to develop.

So what? I’m in shape, too. Melissa cleaned and bandaged the cut. Michael finished shaving, gestured to her bandage and said, Oh, that’s gonna look good tonight and walked out of the bathroom.

She knew Michael thought she was boring…socially inept…a nerd. But to be fair, hadn’t she always been like that? Why had it become an issue lately? It was just another reason for Michael to conclude that their marriage wasn’t working. She felt like Michael found a new reason every day and kept firing each one at her like his fancy tennis ball machine. She would answer each complaint with a two-handed reason why he was wrong, but this particular complaint was hopeless. Melissa dreaded parties the way their patients dreaded post-op care.

Tonight would be worse than most, because this was Michael’s party, Michael’s show. He was the chair of this year’s big charity event at their country club. He would have his picture in the club newsletter, maybe even The West Orange Chronicle. Who knows? Maybe even New Jersey Monthly—standing next to some fabulous go-getter woman and a Zach Braff—or whoever was the celebrity du jour.

Michael was dressing and still hadn’t uttered a word when she left their bedroom and ventured downstairs. It was strangely quiet. Emily was at the mall with her friends and her son Nick was watching TV. Nittany was tied-up in the backyard. This was probably Michael’s doing because, even though he wouldn’t admit it, Michael wasn’t really a dog person. Their nanny, Gladys had cleaned up after their dinner and was probably hoping for a little privacy and quiet time, in her room. From the kitchen, Melissa stepped out to the patio through the French doors and untied the Yellow Lab, who kissed her gratefully. There goes whatever make-up I had on. Nittany bounded inside. I hope she jumps on Michael’s perfect suit.

She surveyed the tidied-up kitchen and practically glaring at her from the black, quartz counter was one single object — a blue ribbon. Melissa felt her stomach flip a little. Today was her son’s first-ever swim meet and he got a first-place ribbon for freestyle relay. And I missed it.

Laden with guilt, she pinned Nicholas’s blue ribbon to the bulletin board. Then, she stood there a minute between the kitchen and the family room, debating whether she actually was a good mother or—as her mother often implied—someone else was raising Melissa’s children. Now, tonight, she had to go to this insipid fundraiser and leave her son with the nanny, again.

For the millionth time, she contemplated her mother’s insinuation, as she continued slowly down the tastefully designed hall toward the equally stylish family room. Just like the nagging thoughts about her devotion to motherhood, the idea that she didn’t really belong in a house like this flashed through her mind all-too-frequently. Michael had been raised in a similar house--to him it felt natural--but Melissa often felt like an imposter.

Black-framed pictures lined the Polaris Blue, wainscoted wall.

Looking at these photographs, it would seem that this was the perfect family—sporty, healthy, good-looking. Her daughter’s soccer pictures, her son’s tennis pictures. Michael in plaid pants on the golf course with his three buddies, clashing in their plaid pants, holding a club trophy. There were not many pictures of Melissa—just this one of the four of them at their Shore house when the kids were much younger. Melissa’s father had taken the picture and her hair was wrapping around her face and her big sunglasses. The strap of Emily’s Day-Glo green, one-piece was falling off her shoulder, but she was too busy putting her Barbie into a pink convertible to notice; she was 10. Three-year-old Nicholas was making a toddler’s attempt at a sandcastle and Michael was reclining in a beach chair, with a half-smile on his face. Michael…smiling…at me.

She stepped into the family room and for some reason, it was as neat as a staged room today. Is this because Gladys cleaned-up after the kids? More pangs of guilt. No, it’s probably because the kids haven’t been inside all day. Nicholas, with his wet hair and freckled nose, lounged on the overstuffed, striped blue and white couch, his tanned legs marking a contrast with the white. His days at the club consisted of tennis lessons, tennis matches, some other planned activities, and then his latest foray into competitive sports, swim team. He looks exhausted.

Mom, why don’t you guys stay home tonight and watch the Yankees with me?

Sorry, Nick, we have to go to this fundraiser. It’s really important to your dad and it’s for a good cause.

Can Cameron sleep over?

Not tonight.

Why not?

No sleepovers if we’re not home.

Yeah, but you’re never home!

Crap.

Nick, I’m not working at all this weekend.

But you’re gonna take Emily shopping for camp and I don’t wanna go to the mall.

You’re going golfing with me!

Michael, in his beautiful Italian tux, descending upon the couch, grabbed Nicholas by his ankles and held him upside down, sending the child into peals of laughter.

Michael, don’t. He just ate.

Ignoring her completely, he dangled his son over the couch, until Nick’s Yankees jersey slid back over his head, and then he dropped his son onto the cushions.

Daddy, laughing. You won’t take me golfing!

Yes, I will. After I play Saturday morning, we’ll go out. Just you and me

Yes!

They did some hand-slapping, knuckle-bumping thing and Nick seemed satisfied. In fact, he had completely forgotten that she was in the room. Gladys came in and asked what time Nicholas had to go to bed.

When the Yankee game is over, Michael boomed before Melissa could say anything. Then, Michael nodded her way and said, Let’s go.

Melissa picked up her black evening bag and bent down to give Nick a hug. Get some sleep, you had a big day today. I love you. Michael mauled the child with tickles and pointed at him, while yelling Daddy loves you! as walked toward the garage door, where Melissa was waiting. When he was face-to-face with her, almost on cue, his smile turned to a sneer.

They drove in a tense silence for a minute or two, until Michael began fiddling with the radio. It was a relief to both of them and Melissa began to wonder—as she did every time they were together lately—how did this marriage ever get so bad?

The fifteen minutes from Short Hills to the country club in West Orange seemed interminable. Michael was listening to the Yankee pre-game show and seemed more upset with A-Rod’s lack of RBI production than with her…for the moment. She looked at his perfectly tanned profile and sadly realized she didn’t even find him handsome anymore; the man who used to make her heart skip a beat. Now, she only saw him becoming his cruel father or his sarcastic older brother.

Looking down, she noticed the tiny, ink mark on her seat. She had dropped an uncapped pen from her bag earlier in the week and Michael hadn’t yet noticed. She was distraught when it happened, because the creamy interior of the Mercedes had heretofore been perfect. But part of her felt a strange satisfaction from the notion that Michael’s pride and joy was marred. He — who thought only of superficial beauty — had a little blue lightning bolt defacing his $60,000 sex symbol.

They pulled into Crestmont’s drive and rounded the curve to the clubhouse, where the valet parking boys would run up and politely smile and open her door. She hated these black-tie events; always feeling like she should apologize to the help for being rich, always feeling out-of-place.

As the young boy whisked their car away, Melissa and Michael walked over the cobblestones to the arched doorway. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her tightly close to him as they stepped toward the valet captain. He towered over her and was almost hurting her with his grip, but keeping his face a mask of social propriety, in a low voice he said to her, What does it say to people that a plastic surgeon doesn’t give a shit how she looks?

Michael immediately smiled and greeted Jose, who gave them their parking ticket. How are you, Dr. and Mrs. Shapiro? Jose asked them. Michael, always the guy’s guy, gave Jose a playful slap on the shoulder and walked into the clubhouse ahead of Melissa. Still stung from Michael’s remark, she turned to Jose and said, Please call me Dr. Flynn. Jose nodded to Melissa, then turned to his co-workers and mouthed, Bitch.

In the short time Michael had been inside, he had already struck up a conversation with some of his friends, her acquaintances. Melissa slipped by them and went immediately to the ladies’ room. Thankfully finding herself alone, she looked at her reflection. She was a small woman with small breasts and it was true that this boxy black dress did nothing to show the results of 30 miles a week on the treadmill. She could have worn a shorter dress and those high heels that Emily had picked out. She should have made time to have her highlights done and maybe hide those early gray hairs cropping around her part, but she hadn’t. Her hair just hung down with no style, which was how Michael had liked it when they first met. But she had to admit it wasn’t the haircut of a sophisticated woman. She was youthful looking for her 38 years, no matter what Michael thought, but she never really bothered with make-up or jewelry. The truth was, she looked plain. The truth was, nobody’s head would turn when she walked by. She went into the stall and sat down on the toilet and cried.

It was a short cry. A burst. Then she got mad. She walked out of the white shuttered door and into the lounge area of the ladies’ room, which had two small loveseats in green toile, surrounded by white wicker accents everywhere. She supposed it was to make you feel like you were always at a garden party, always surrounded by beauty — just another entitlement of being rich. A pretty, Hispanic girl in her late teens or early twenties, dressed in a uniform, was sitting on a wicker chair tucked behind the dividing wall, reading The Nanny Diaries. Melissa thought another indictment on my life. The girl stashed the book when she realized Melissa meant to stay in the lounge.

Good-evening, Dr. Flynn.

Hi, how are you? Melissa blurted out, without the friendliness she had intended to express. She probably heard me crying.

Melissa sat down on a little wicker stool in front of a large vanity and tried to think of a plan. She suddenly remembered Emily saying something about her evening bag and unzipped the little black, Prada bag. The bag was a present from her mother-in-law—not because her mother-in-law liked her, but because she considered Melissa a failure at dressing and accessorizing herself. Inside, were her license, two checks (in case she bid on some auction items), some mints, and a plastic bag with Lancôme stamped all over it. Emily must have put the giveaway in her bag. Apparently, not only Michael thinks I look like shit.

She ripped open the plastic and spilled its contents onto the vanity. She examined the five items — a little plastic container with four eye shadows, a lipstick called Le Rouge Absolu Pink Diamond with NOT FOR INDIVIDUAL SALE marked on it, a miniature mascara called Hypnose, a small blush called Mosaique Peach, and a purple jar of Renergie Microlift. Okay, this will work, she didn’t mean to say aloud.

The bathroom matron or in this case bathroom maid looked at her askance. She glanced at the paltry amount of make-up and back to Melissa’s bare face and nodded her head.

You need more, she said.

I do?

A lot more. Hold on, I’ll help you.

I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.

Hilda.

For the next twenty minutes, Hilda took the free samples and combined them with items from her own huge make-up bag that was hidden in one of the white-shuttered cabinets. Together, they curled Melissa’s lashes, used the four colors of shadow, applied the Renergie Microlift—which made Melissa sneeze a little, and applied four coats of mascara. Hilda then produced the pencils, which she assured Melissa, would create miracles.

"Can I clean-up your eyebrows a little?

Melissa acquiesced. She marveled at all the equipment Hilda carried around with her—brushes, tweezers, curling iron, four or five different lipsticks. Is this what other women really do? Is Michael right? Should I, especially as a plastic surgeon, have more interest in physical beauty? Pay more attention to what makes people feel good? Am I actually being some kind of intellectual snob by denying that this is important? She was floored by her thoughts …and equally floored by how good she was starting to look!

During their makeover session, Melissa learned that Hilda was 23-years-old, already had a baby (her mother was watching her little girl), attended Kean University, was doing a summer internship at Glamour, and dreamed of someday starting her own beauty magazine for Hispanic women. How much more time do you have? Hilda asked her.

Melissa looked at her watch and determined that the cocktail/auction part of the evening would go on for another forty minutes. In another ten, Hilda had taken her style-less hair and made wavy, sexy squiggly things out of her long strands. The squiggly things successfully covered the little Band-Aid from her fall. Then, she took a black clip, pulled the center of Melissa’s hair up and stuck the clip in.

There, now you look sexy.

Melissa saw herself and flushed. This isn’t so difficult.

Hilda, I can’t thank you enough. I feel really stupid. I guess my husband was right. Maybe he’s not an asshole.

No, he is.

Hmm…alarming. She let it go. She gathered up her bag and didn’t know if she should tip Hilda or hug her. She didn’t want to insult her. She would send her something later—something expensive — something Emily would have to pick out.

As she started to walk out of the lounge, Hilda gave her a go for it smile and then put her hand up.

Wait!

She reached into the top of her uniform and pulled these gel-like objects out of her bra. She handed them to Melissa, who shook her head no.

Go on, you can give them back to me on your way out.

Hilda helped Melissa put the gel pads into her bandeau bra. She looked good, maybe even hot. As Hilda sent her out into the lion’s den that passed for the Crestmont Country Club scene, Melissa thought I’ll pay her damn tuition.

Melissa went to the Grill Room, where the cocktail hour was in full throttle. A waiter, stopped by with a tray of champagne flutes, wouldn’t look her in the eye, causing her to panic. Do I look ridiculous or something? Or. are they trained not to look at the club members? Please let that be it. She thanked him and downed the glass in seconds. It felt great. When’s the last time I did that? High school? Penn State? Not at our wedding certainly. She needed more — she was spent, emotionally spent. She sped up to a waitress with more champagne, thanked her, and downed another. I better be careful. She walked along the tables where the silent auction items were displayed. This was the Mid-Summer Night’s Fling, although it was only July 5th. Every year, the club members raised scholarship money for a group of underprivileged kids to go to some golf camp. Of course, those kids would never be able to join this club. And where do they play, after they’ve learned these all-important golf skills? Melissa’s dad played golf on public links out in Erie, but she couldn’t remember ever seeing a golf course in Newark, where most of these kids came from.

Talk to me, she thought, as she looked around at all the mingling people. Someone please talk to me.

She walked along and signed her name on some of the bids—an autographed Derek Jeter ball that Nicholas would love, a package from Bliss for Emily, tickets for the Metropolitan Opera because Michael hated the opera. She tried to see if anyone noticed her new look, but she didn’t really know anyone in her immediate line of vision. From a distance she saw Sandy Gold or Silver or Something—a woman that Michael knew from childhood, a woman Michael’s parents would have preferred he marry. A nice, Jewish girl from New Jersey—not a Lithuanian/Irish, Catholic from Erie, Pennsylvania, whose father worked for General Electric and whose mother shopped at Target.

The Soul-R&B-style band started to play a song—something about an anniversary. Funny, today was her parents’ anniversary—45 years. Forty-five years! Will Michael and I even make it to twenty?

The music was drawing her in — she started to sway to the beat, as she walked along the next set of auction items. Where is my champagne boy? Or girl? She spotted a waiter with white wine and sashayed over. She practiced a little seductive smile as she picked up the glass. He ignored it and moved on. Jeez! Why am I so goofy?

Now, she sipped the wine, glided back to the decorated tables, and tried to find one person—one good-looking guy, who was not 90 years old or a friend of Michael’s—to try out her feminine wiles.

What else can I bid on? That Michael will hate? She crossed to the third, long table strewn with fantastic items that rich people—like her—could have, with just the stroke of a pen. She finished her chardonnay, put the glass down, and bid on a vacation to Greece.

Inadvertently, she danced up behind Michael standing with a group of men; regaling them with one of his hilarious, manly stories. He looked at her and for a brief second, she thought he was checking her out. Was it her imagination or did he not recognize her right away? He quickly recovered and put his future politician’s face back on.

Liss! I was just telling Mark and Sam about that asshole father at Nick’s match last Saturday… Michael proceeded to tell the story that made him look like a great guy, a regular guy, the dad of all dads. She smiled at him and at the other men. I am seductive. I am a temptress. They didn’t notice. She suddenly had to leave this group, wandering back to the tables, trying to catch someone’s eye…anyone’s.

She combed the room with her glance—as only a sophisticate can do. Then she noticed Sandy Silver/Gold …Silver and Gold, Silver and Gold…what was that song? …approaching Michael. Michael was smiling; he was smiling that great Michael smile, that smile that said I am the most confident, magnanimous man in the world and I am including you in mine, the smile that he never gave to her anymore.

Melissa grabbed another glass of champagne from a not-so-nearby tray and drank it while she watched them talk. She needed to be sly, surreptitious. She pretended to be reading a description of a vacation home in Cape Cod, but she could do both. Michael was telling Sandy a story and she flashed some pearly teeth, some perfect Halle Berry teeth. She was tan, too, like Michael. And thin…painfully thin. Not the kind of thin from running every goddamn day, the no-eating kind of thin. The kind of no-ass thin.

You know what? Who cares? She can have him. She should know what it’s like to live with Dr. Jekyll and Dr. Shapiro. She should know the real moody bastard that no one else sees besides me and the kids.

She waited in the short line for a colorful martini—better make it pink to go with my lips! She wondered about the advisability of a martini so soon after three glasses of champagne. And one glass of wine. What’s that thing about beer on liquor? Never been sicker. Liquor on beer, never fear. What about wine? Uh, screw it. My husband hates me and he’s a…he’s a…

The martini tasted good. It looked good in her hand. Except that she needed a manicure. Sandy Silver/Gold has perfect nails. They were signaling the guests to finish up the silent bidding, because soon it would be time for dinner and awards and congratulations all around. She figured one last-minute bid on the Derek Jeter ball could be the winner. A new song started…something about Pretty Brown Eyes. She looked up at the lead singer of the Soulful Struts, with her big brown eyes, her pretty brown eyes that –tonight—sparkled and snapped with sensuality and sex and Lancôme. She always had pretty brown eyes, but tonight, tonight, her eyes were like that actress’s, you know, the one from Spain, whatever her name is.

He saw. The lead singer. He saw her pretty brown eyes. He was about fifty and looked like the Reverend Al Green. He nodded and sang. He was singing to her. She forgot about Derek Jeter and moved closer to the singer. Only she was cool enough to feel this music—not these phonies with their fake lips and boobs and butts—many of those she had personally injected and implanted and lifted.

Maybe she was dancing alone, but who cares? And she wasn’t really dancing, she was keeping time to the song, my song. Now the Reverend Al Green was singing right to her. Michael came up behind her and whispered in her ear, Are you drunk? She was into the music now, so she didn’t walk away from the Reverend, she grooved away. He winked.

Michael guided her down the long flight of stairs into the Ball Room. The room was exquisitely decorated–all the tablecloths were lilac, the floral centerpieces seemed to be purple gladiolas and blue dahlias maybe? She had taken horticulture as part of her bio major, but learned more about xylem and phloem than the names of pretty flowers.

The band had remained in the Grill Room, but here there was a woman with gray, flowing hair—if gray hair can flow, maybe it was just hanging there—and a young, dark-haired serious-looking guy with glasses; he played the flute, she the harp. Ah, the cultured part of the evening! Her husband led her to their table, held out the chair for her, and adjusted her seat. Then he left. He was livid. I can’t win. Either I’m no fun or too fun.

She did need to slow down, though, because she didn’t want to be sick. They were at one of the front tables—of course — near the podium. She drank some of her water and decided she needed this breather, before the other bigshots (Michael’s friends) joined them. She reached for a roll, buttered it, and chewed thoroughly. She was starting to feel queasy and this evening was only half-over.

When Michael returned, he didn’t say anything to her, but handed her two Tylenols. Before she could utter some snide but undoubtedly clever remark, the worst possible thing occurred—Michael’s parents were heading straight for their table.

You didn’t tell me they were sitting with us.

I thought it was a given.

Michael kissed his mother, hugged his father.

Don’t get up, her father-in-law said as he gave her a cold peck on the cheek. Her mother-in-law didn’t even bother; just sat down in her seat, two down from Melissa.

Hi Shelton. Arlene.

How are the kids? You mean your grandchildren?

They’re great. Nicholas swam in his first…

I know. We were there. Oh, just kill me.

I’m glad. So, you just saw the kids this afternoon?

Yes, Arlene had a point, but what was it? We were just wondering if he was upset that his parents weren’t there. I already spoke to Michael about it and I guess his golf game ran late.

I had surgery. It’s Thursday—foundation day.

That’s right. Well, next time.

Wow. My buzz is gone. Completely gone. How can she do that so fast? It’s too bad she can’t market it, Buzzkill, she could make a fortune.

Now she was sitting with three people who hated her guts. What would really make this perfect would be…holy crap!

Sandy Silver/Gold and her husband and her parents were all sitting down at their table. Melissa smiled a defeated smile of complete surrender as they assembled around the lilacs and the blues. What did I ever do?

Sandy was speaking to her. She knew they were the same age, but Sandy looked polished…like a grown-up. Her dress was gorgeous—a deep teal with some plunging thing around her boobs that looked like the inside of a coffin—but surprisingly elegant. She had drop earrings with different color jewels that bounced when she tossed her head. Her hair was so thick and shiny and swingy. How the hell do you get hair like that if you’re not sixteen years old?

Melissa, do you play tennis?

Not very well.

Well, neither do I! I’m just starting, really, so maybe we could play some time?

Sure, that’d be fun.

Like that’s ever frickin’ gonna happen. She looked at Michael, while drinking another glass of water and simply wished that he would die. Just right now. Die! Just drop dead. It can happen. Just have a heart attack and die. Then she thought about her kids and how horrible it would be for their father to die. A tidal wave of guilt washed over her. And then she thought about how mean it was to wish that on his parents, even though she hated them. Then she thought about how she was probably going to go to hell for even thinking it and probably she would die instead. She shook her head, said a silent Hail Mary, and then blessed herself. Her mother-in-law witnessed this and wished her daughter-in-law would die.

Mary Rose

Mary Rose Flaherty pulled her thin, black cardigan across her body. During the recent heatwave, the building’s air conditioning had been straining to combat the oppressive New York City humidity. Today, the air had cooled off considerably, but the AC was still cranked.

On nights like these, when she had to stay late and the building was practically empty, she would normally catch-up on the enormous pile of paperwork on her desk. But right now, she just couldn’t concentrate. As long as the building was fully occupied and she had way too much work to do, she functioned like a machine. Tonight, however, she felt lonely.

Her office window had a view across 57th Street. There were elaborate delis with gigantic salad bars — featuring sushi and gourmet soups — and stores she couldn’t afford to shop in and a New York Health and Racquet that she couldn’t afford to join. Five days a week she worked in this city, but she was never really a part of this life. She never had a power lunch or went shopping with fashionable women.

Fashion? Ha! Any disposable income went toward her boys’ sports equipment. Maybe when they were all out of college, she’d live a different kind of life. So around twelve years from now I can buy some new clothes? She looked down at her outfit and sighed. She always wore black or navy slacks and a simple button-down blouse, because that made it seem more like a choice than a necessity. At her height, she couldn’t get away with a lot of swirly, bright clothes, anyway.

Twice a year, Mary Rose did get her hair cut at Bendel’s—her only indulgence—but it took a lot to tame that thick, black hair that came from being French, Italian, and Cherokee. She was sporting a designer bag these days, but she bought it on Canal Street and chances were, it wasn’t real. Because of her height, she always wore only a slight heel and envied the administrative assistants who worked in the building, with their pointy heels and short skirts. No wonder men never approached her.

Somewhere outside it was a beautiful summer night and other women her age were socializing at great outdoor restaurants or attending a function in the garden at MOMA. And somewhere across the Hudson, her three sons were home in South Orange, completely un-chaperoned, because God knows her ex-husband would never just stop by to check on them.

Matt would have been home at seven from his lifeguard job and was supposed to heat-up the tuna casserole that she left for him and his younger brothers. Chris had a job cutting grass this summer, but he got off at four and had plenty of time to hang around with his skinny little girlfriend with all the eye make-up. Could they be having sex? At sixteen? Apparently, that was past the average age these days. She shuddered. Then laughed. She was thirty-nine and not having sex…for two years.

Kevin’s camp bus would have dropped him off at six and Chris was supposed to watch him, but who knows what ever really happened when she wasn’t there? She wanted to trust them and not call or text them constantly, but the temptation was too great. She picked-up the phone.

***

Matt hung-up the phone and announced to his brothers, Come on. Get in the car. We’re going to pick up Mom!

I’m not going, Chris informed his older brother.

Yes, you are, so tell your little girlfriend Britney to go home.

Whitney.

Whatever. I need you because I don’t want to park the car.

Send Kevin inside.

He’s ten years old! Stop being a complete asshole and let’s go!

Mary Rose stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor. The eighth floor was mostly used for events and tonight was one of those God-awful summer art openings, which, for some reason, were worse than any other time of the year. Because Kaylie, the adorable and vivacious 25-year-old events coordinator was getting married in the Hamptons this weekend, Mary Rose had to baby-sit this opening. Now, she would be getting home to New Jersey just in time to go to sleep and turn around and come back.

The janitorial crew was picking up plastic champagne glasses and cocktail party debris from everywhere in the room—including on some of the actual exhibits. She approached one of the cleaning crew.

Well, were they slobs?

Not too bad, Miss.

Please call me Mary Rose. What’s wrong with him?

She looked over at the immaculately dressed man, slumped against a wall between a bronze sculpture and a bag of garbage. Holding a plastic champagne flute in each hand, he gulped them both down and tossed them onto the garbage bag. Hector the janitor rolled his cleaning cart by and Anthony Biddle used every ounce of energy to reach up and grab two bottles of opened champagne. He slumped back down before noticing Mary Rose, staring at him.

What? I paid for it. There’s no point in wasting it.

I didn’t say anything! What happened? It looked like the opening went well.

Anthony began to rise up and attempt to be dignified, but his coordination failed him. Mary Rose grabbed one of the bottles, placed it on the near-by exhibit, and helped him up. After doing so, she handed him back the bottle and noticed he was taller than she. At six feet tall, there were few men taller than she was. For a moment, she considered him as a guy, a possibility, but then she realized he was far too well dressed to be a straight guy. Unless, of course, it was just because he was British.

Catching herself entranced in a mental debate, she remembered she was at work and wanted badly to go home and see if her boys had destroyed their already chaotic household. She looked at him and said, Why don’t we let them finish cleaning here? Anthony nodded.

We didn’t sell a single, bloody piece of art.

Nothing?

Well, maybe one. Shit. I need to eat something. I’ve been talking and drinking all night.

Mary Rose grabbed a tray of cheese and crackers and directed him toward the elevator. Come on, she said as she guided his elbow. We can have a chat in a conference room.

Just before it reached the bottom floor, the elevator came to a jarring stop. What’s that? Anthony mumbled. Mary Rose hit a few buttons on the elevator.

The elevator seems to be…not working.

You mean it’s broken? Oh, bloody hell! Nothing works in this Godforsaken country.

It will work.

Mary Rose pressed the intercom…repeatedly. No answer. Eddie? Eddie? Are you there? It’s Mary Rose.

She turned to Anthony, I don’t know why he’s not answering.

I know why. Because my whole life is a bloody disaster. Can’t you call the building manager or something?

I am the building manager.

Matt Flaherty and his brothers could not sit in a car for more than five minutes without arguing. Chris sat in the front seat of his older brother’s 1996 Chevrolet Impala, but Kevin was unbuckled and hanging over the middle of the seat, if for no other reason, than because it irked his brother Chris. As Kevin leaned further into the front seat, Joey, the large mutt stretched out and took-up more room across the back seat. Finally, Kevin reached his goal of switching the radio station from the Yankee game to the Mets game.

Hey, what the hell are you doing? Chris asked as he pushed his brother back over the seat.

Leave it, Chris. We are Mets fans.

The Mets suck, Chris informed his brothers.

Oh, yeah? Who has a better record?

"Yeah, well, who won more championships?

Kevin, bored with the conversation that was repeated at least twice every day, from April through October, tried a different tact.

Mom’s gonna be mad as hell, ‘cause I have camp tomorrow.

So what? Chris took the bait. All you do is crayon all day and make refrigerator magnets.

Shut up! We do not! We play soccer and swim and we do a lot of sports! I’m not a do-nothing loser like you, hooking up with my stupid girlfriend all day!

All right! Both of you—shut up! We’re going in to surprise Mom, so she doesn’t have to take a late train. Can you two not be assholes, for once in your lives? And how do you know what hooking up is? You’re ten!

Matt, as usual, had the last word when it came to his brothers’ constant bickering. Looking through his ashtray, he discovered he was a dollar short for the Lincoln Tunnel. There was no choice--he had to ask his brothers for money, Do either of you idiots have a dollar?

Why don’t you have EZPass, Matt?

Because I don’t! Hurry up, we’re almost at the toll! Chris, do you have a dollar?

No!

From the back seat, where he had now moved as far from the front seat as was humanly possible, Kevin finally announced, I have twenty dollars. Chris’s head whipped around, Where the hell did you get that?

None of your business.

Kevin, let me borrow a dollar. I’ll pay you back.

All right. But I want interest. And everybody knows what hooking up is.

That’s it, Mary Rose inwardly groaned, now I’ll have to take the 11:58 and won’t get home until almost 1:00. She looked over at Anthony, who had re-created his previous crumpled position, but this time in the corner of the elevator. He was eating some cheese and pâté and washing each bite down with a swig of champagne. Mary Rose eyed one of the bottles.

Help yourself.

She grabbed the bottle. It was easy to gulp down because it was now lukewarm. She joined Anthony on the floor of the elevator.

Are you giving up?

No, Eddie will see the emergency light when he gets back to his office…which could be a while from now. Until then, we just have to wait.

They sat on the floor, chugging their respective bottles of medium-priced champagne, looking up at the door, waiting to be saved. Mary Rose was in the middle of a long guzzle, when she felt something move her hair. She turned to see Anthony brushing the hair off her neck. She started to ask him what the hell he was doing, when he dropped his empty bottle, awkwardly reached around her head, pulled her toward him, and started chomping on her, right under her ear.

The move was so startling, so fumbling, so weird…but Mary Rose was so physically deprived for so long, that she let it happen.

So what if a gay guy is munching on my neck? She thought. But then Anthony’s liquor-drenched mouth found hers and they were kissing. All of a sudden, she was questioning her earlier assessment of his sexual predilections. Especially, when he pushed the sweater off her shoulders and started unbuttoning her blouse.

This is where I work! She was thinking. You can’t fool around at work! But now his mouth was finding her breast and she didn’t care if this was the middle of Broadway. She decided to help him. She tried to place her bottle down without spilling it, but quickly lost track of its location. She reached both arms behind herself and—in a second—unsnapped her bra and pulled it off.

Anthony groaned and practically dived onto her chest, engulfing both breasts into his hands; attacking them like a dog goes after raw meat. It was actually hilarious, but she didn’t dare laugh for fear he would stop. Her head was pressing into the rail