Sugar street, p.7
Sugar Street, page 7
“Eh… You know me. Only dead fish go with the flow.”
“That’s not an answer, Pops. You have to take care of yourself.”
“Yes, yes. But I’m boring. There’s nothing interesting about an old man with swollen ankles who can’t climb the stairs without wheezing. I want to hear about you.”
“What about me? Everything’s fine. Stuart’s great. We’re fine.”
He was quiet, and even halfway across the country, Carras knew he was expecting more from her. “What about my baby? When is that skinny husband of yours going to put down the video games and make me a grandfather?”
“I’ve told you, Pops. The games are his job. It’s not like he’s playing all day.” She hadn’t told her father that she and Stuart were trying their best to make him a grandfather. The last thing she needed was his constant coaching input on that process. And, what if they failed? She couldn’t do that to him.
Her watch buzzed to indicate a text from Jess. We’re meeting 15 minutes early, right? Can we make it 20?
“Pops, I need to go. Promise you’ll take your medicine.”
“Waste not, want not.”
“How is that relevant?”
Before he answered, Jess texted again. I might need some propping up. And immediately after: I might need a stiff drink.
“Just making sure you were paying attention.” Her dad laughed. “Now, I know that boy thinks you hung the moon, and I happen to agree, so I won’t be too hard on him. He wants you all to himself. But time passes quickly when you’re building a life. Like sand through the hourglass…”
“That’s from a soap opera, Pops.”
“Really? How about, triumph is ‘umph’ added to ‘try.’”
“That’s a new one. Bumper sticker?”
“Bye, Angel. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Carras hung up and texted Jess back sure with the laughing and crying emoji. Appropriate because Carras wasn’t sure which one she felt like doing more.
She gathered her tennis bag, the familiar straps in her hand providing tactile comfort, and stepped out into the sunny April morning. She decided to walk—it was just over a mile from her house across Sweet River Road to the club. The sky was an unrealistic shade of blue, the morning cool but hinting of summer around the corner.
All told, it was a beautiful day for betraying your husband.
8
Delia
Delia paced beside the court in her cutest tennis outfit, waiting for Jess and Carras. She had reserved the court closest to the pagoda and picnic table—where Parker would meet them—for ten o’clock. Just in case.
She sat down at the picnic table, checked her phone, and stood back up again. No one had texted in the past few minutes, and not even 800+ Facebook friends offered anything to divert her attention. Relax. It was still half an hour until their meeting, and the other two were coming early so they could regroup one last time before meeting Parker.
So it was a surprise when she saw Parker at the other end of the court, walking toward her with a water bottle and racket. She felt an adolescent panic: he was even more attractive than when she’d met him at lunch the previous week. Delia froze, sat down, realized it was clear he had seen her, stood up again. She took out her phone and pretended to be reading something critically important as he approached.
Parker, impossibly normal and adorable, gave Delia a perfect, white-toothed smile. “Thanks for meeting me, Delia; I’m looking forward to hanging out with you.”
One sentence, and already Delia felt naked and exposed. This was a mistake. Too late now.
“Are we going to play?” She nodded at the racket and water.
“Be ready for anything, I always say.” He gave an awkward smile. “And I am a pro, I guess.”
He was cute, and young, and seemed disarmingly nervous. Particularly after the bravado of his interaction with Orson at the cafe. “And you’re early,” Delia said. “Very professional.”
Parker glanced around. “Your friends aren’t here yet. Want to stretch it out while we wait?”
“Seriously?”
“Come on. It’s better than whatever you’re doing on that phone.” He set the bottle and racket on the picnic table and offered her a hand. “Lie down in the grass and I’ll take care of you right now.”
She laughed and followed him to the grassy hill between the courts and the parking area. He gestured for her to lie on her back; as she did, Delia reminded herself she was too old and experienced to let this twenty-five-year-old rattle her. Parker lifted her feet expertly and leaned against them, stretching her hamstrings. It felt great, and even though there was nothing sexual in his manner, Delia felt strangely vulnerable, glad she’d worn shorts under her skirt.
“Starting without us?” Jess’s voice, above her.
“Never.” Parker grinned at Jess and Carras, but took the time to finish the stretch before helping Delia to her feet. He led the way back to the pagoda, picking up a discarded tennis ball and straddling the picnic bench. He passed the ball back and forth in his hands, smiling at the three of them.
Damn. He was effortlessly hot.
Parker seemed to be waiting for them to start, but Delia knew enough about business to know that whoever spoke first would have less power.
Jess cleared her throat. “Where do we start?”
Dammit, Jess.
Parker’s smile widened. Delia saw immediately that he enjoyed this part of it. He reminded her of her younger self—eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. “Glad you asked, Jess. I’m sure Belinda explained that in addition to my regular tennis lessons, I also offer premium lessons, which are a more…flexible arrangement.”
“You mean that you also offer sex?” Jess blurted.
Delia shot Jess a “be cool, for God’s sake,” look. It was Jess’s style to be direct, especially when nervous, but there was something to be said for a little subtlety.
Parker didn’t flinch. “You’re the journalist, right? Not working on an article, are you?”
Jess blanched. “I’m not a journalist. My…husband is. But he doesn’t write about this kind of stuff. He only does sports.”
Parker’s tone dipped into iciness. “In other words, he ruins lives in far more sanitized, commonplace ways.”
The three women glanced between them. Where had that come from?
But Parker recovered his smile. “Now, I’ll go over this since I don’t know how much Belinda covered with you. The way premium lessons with a group discount work is that you pay cash in advance, ten hours each for the month. My usual rate is $350 an hour—”
Jess gasped.
Parker smiled. “But with the group rate, and the monthly minimum, it’s $250 an hour, $2,500 each. You can pool your time—like if you wanted a whole day for some reason—or parcel it out into two-hour chunks. You can use it for tennis lessons, obviously, or…” He paused. “If you have other needs, the time can be spent there as well.”
“Two and a half thousand dollars.” Jess stared at the slats in the picnic table.
“What if our needs aren’t…conventional?” Delia said, getting the conversation back on track.
Parker raised an eyebrow. “Well, I do have limits, but I think you’ll find I’m open-minded.”
Dammit. She’d been trying to be delicate, and instead she’d made him think they wanted something weird and kinky.
Jess rolled her eyes. “She means, the three of us don’t want sex. We want your help making our husbands jealous, more affectionate. The way you’ve done with Belinda and Orson. That would be cheaper than sex, right?”
“You mean, flirt with you in front of your husbands?” Parker’s brow furrowed. “Not trying to talk myself out of business, but you’re all attractive women. Can’t you find some random dudes and flirt with them?”
“Easy for you to say,” Jess said. “You’re twenty-whatever and hot as hell. Besides, we don’t want our husbands to see us flirting with random guys. We want them to see a guy who wants us.”
Parker gazed at Jess. “I can’t imagine that would be a problem.”
Jess flushed and turned away.
Delia took up the torch. “The point is, we want it to go exactly how we need it to go. Perfectly orchestrated.”
“To intentionally put myself in the path of a jealous husband…” Parker whistled. “I don’t know.”
“None of our husbands are threatening types,” Jess said. “Besides, you can help us with the man’s perspective on things. Think of it like consulting work.”
“Consulting, huh?” He hesitated.
Delia guessed that the challenge appealed to him, even if the fact they didn’t want to sleep with him was a blow to his ego. She adopted her flirtiest expression. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even convince one of us to take full advantage of your services…”
Parker gave her a crooked grin. “You talked me into it.”
“What about travel?” Carras said, ignoring the questioning glances from Delia and Jess.
“Sure,” Parker said, back in his familiar territory. “I charge travel time and mileage for anything beyond a ten-mile radius, but if you booked, like, a full weekend or whatever, we can work up some kind of bulk rate. Which reminds me, I assume Belinda told you, it’s five hundred each today for the deposit. The rest is payable once the schedules are confirmed.”
There was a shuffling and rustling of bags as the women fished out bills and envelopes. Parker stood to collect the money, and Delia couldn’t help but notice his muscular thighs as they pushed upright and he stepped back over the bench. “Now,” he stashed the money in his tennis bag, “I think our court is ready.”
9
Jess
“I need a plan,” Jess said. “I cashed in my grandmother’s stock and rented a human being for a month. So that’s how long I have to make this work.”
She accepted a glass of lemonade from Carras, who flopped down next to her on the couch. Tom was working from home and Delia’s kitchen was being remodeled, so they had retreated to Carras’s after tennis with Parker.
“It will work,” Delia said. “And Tom will never know.”
“But I’ll know. Twenty-five hundred dollars. Hell. For that, Tom and I could hire a sitter and take a romantic vacation. At least for a weekend.”
“You tried that,” Delia reminded her. “Remember two years ago? You guys spent a weekend at that winery and Tom had food poisoning the whole time?”
“Don’t remind me.” Jess cringed. She’d been forced to go on all the tastings by herself while Tom lay in their dark hotel room, unable to get more than thirty feet from the toilet. “I told him not to eat ceviche from a gas station.”
“That’s disgusting,” Carras said.
“I can’t begin to tell you.”
“My point is,” Delia said. “Romantic getaways are hit-and-miss, aren’t they? But to renew your husband’s animal, possessive desire for you? That could get you through years of getaways. Not to mention average school-night sex.”
“I get it, Delia, I do. And I want that so badly for my marriage. But I still don’t know how this works without totally pissing our husbands off.”
“Let’s start simple. Take the tennis lessons like normal. First lesson, you tell Tom how awesome and friendly Parker is and ask if he’s ever heard of him because he’s so amazing. Before the second lesson, you ignore Tom and go to bed early to ‘rest up’ because it’s so important you perform well the next day. That will ensure he’s aware of what’s happening because it will directly impact him. Afterward, you come home and emphasize how Parker complimented you on your swing, athleticism, etc.”
Jess snorted. No one had ever complimented her athleticism.
“By the third lesson, you and Parker go shopping for something—a new racket, whatever—and conveniently stop off for lunch at a nearby cafe, where you post a selfie of you and your amazing new coach.”
“Why can’t I just hire a regular tennis coach for all that?”
Delia shrugged. “You could. And then you’d have to actually take lessons, and you’d have to find someone cute enough and available to have lunch and take a photo with you. And to not think you’re a lonely stalker for asking…”
“Point taken,” Jess said.
“I’m guessing the whole ‘hot for teacher’ thing will do it for Tom. He’s so competitive. But if not, we’ll have the end-of-year party coming up after that… You can slip Parker a little cash for some in-person attention.”
“I don’t like manipulating Tom. Great sex does me no good if he files for divorce.” As soon as she said the words, Jess felt the superstitious need to undo them. “Not that he would. Especially since we’re not actually going to…”
“Of course not,” Delia said. “Parker is yummy, though, isn’t he? I mean, if I had to be with someone…like, if my life depended on it…”
“You mean those situations that surely come up all the time in which your life depends on having hot animal sex with someone who isn’t your spouse?”
“Shut up, Jess. You can seriously suck the fun out of anything. If you are so down on this idea, why are we here?” Delia gave Jess a devilish grin. “If you want to drop out, I can always find another third. I think Nancy McMurtry mentioned she is having problems with her marriage…”
“I’m not down on the idea, okay?” Jess felt sudden panic that Delia was going to cut her out of this deal, which—despite all the totally reasonable concerns she had about it—was the most interesting thing to happen in her life for years. “I’m trying to make sure we understand the risks. Don’t you agree, Carras?”
“Hmmm?” Carras had been staring out into her backyard, which was starting to darken as heavy clouds gathered overhead. “Right.”
Jess watched Carras for another moment before something registered. “Nancy McMurtry! Her husband has prostate cancer. I don’t think a little jealousy is going to fix their sex life right now.” She threw a pillow at Delia. “You’re terrible.”
“I wasn’t serious,” Delia said. “I took them a casserole, for heaven’s sake.”
Jess’s phone buzzed with a new text message.
Tom: Did the school call you?
She was replying to ask what he meant when the phone vibrated in her hand, the Sugar Mills Elementary main line bright on the screen.
“Oh God.” She rolled her eyes at Delia and Carras after the brief conversation with the nurse. “Dash barfed up his lunch again. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them he chokes on his food sometimes—they always treat it like the stomach flu.”
It was only after she had climbed into her white SUV and began driving to the school that it occurred to Jess: Tom got the call first. He was listed first on the kids’ school registration, and although the front office and clinic staff knew Jess was usually more available, today there had been a substitute nurse who called him first.
Tom was working from home today. So, theoretically, was Jess. Why was she the one driving to the school right now?
She dismissed the irritating thought. After all, she had been drinking lemonade with the girls, not pounding away on her laptop. Still, chances were good that Tom was home doing “research” by watching MLB videos. And after meeting all his recent deadlines…he should have a few minutes to run up to the school.
Not a big deal, but it was the principle. Tom’s assumption—maybe hers too—that even on a day they were both at home, the kids were still her responsibility first. Not that she minded.
Leaving the school with a rosy-cheeked, chatty Dash a few minutes later, Jess paused to let a pedestrian cross in front of her. Maizy Henriksson smiled perfunctorily and waved; then, seeing it was Jess, looked again. As she pulled up to the stop sign at the main road, Jess glanced in the rearview mirror to find that Maizy was still watching her from the sidewalk.
10
Maizy
“There’s something happening on our street,” Maizy said, as Anders brought her a stack of dirty dishes from the table. The girls had already fled from the table and decamped to the bonus room upstairs, where she would find them watching Vampire Diaries, side by side, each glued to her own phone screen.
“Like, with the home values? I checked last month and the value of our house was up by a little bit. About three thousand dollars.”
“No, with the neighbors. Jess, Delia, and that Carras woman.”
Anders appeared disappointed they weren’t going to talk about real estate, but gamely tried to engage anyway. “Who is Carras?”
“You know, Stuart’s wife. Jess and Tom’s friend. They live between our house and the cul-de-sac. No kids.”
He was blank.
“She was some kind of tennis phenom, back in the day? A little taller than me? Strong legs, very pretty. Anyway, the three of them have been walking together every night lately. All of a sudden.”
This seemed to trigger something for Anders. “Oh! Carras is the black one?”
“You can’t say ‘black one.’”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds wrong.”
“She’s black, right? African-American?”
“Yes. Well, no. She’s from the Caribbean, I think. Is that African?”
“Nope. Why didn’t you say she was black, when you were describing her?”
Maizy sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know. That’s not the point.”
“There are maybe four black families in this whole neighborhood.” Anders plowed on, eyes lighting with the intellectual pleasure of outsmarting her. “It certainly would’ve been a helpful descriptor. I would’ve known immediately who you were talking about.”
