The Ex

10

Molly met Traci Mack the next afternoon in Egan’s, the lounge of the Darville Hotel on West Forty-fourth Street. Traci was the Link Publishing editor of the architectural manuscript. Molly had worked with her before, and the two women had become friends.

Traci merely glanced at the first half of the thick manuscript, Architects of Desire, with its yellow Post-it flags sticking out from between the pages. As the waiter brought their drinks-a glass of chardonnay for Molly, a martini for Traci-Traci stuffed the manuscript into her black leather attache case and leaned the case against the legs of her chair. She was a tiny, fortyish woman with graying hair and a droll expression that seldom changed. Her eyes were dark and always narrowed into slits as if she were myopic, and she had a round face, underslung jaw, and long upper lip that made her resemble a turtle. Molly had never seen the diminutive Traci in anything other than sacklike black dresses of the sort often worn by heavyset women to disguise bulk. Traci must have owned half a dozen similar outfits. Her idea of getting dressed up was to wear a sash or a belt.

Molly sipped her wine and looked around Egan’s. There were about a dozen other customers scattered about the lounge. It was upscale but functional in the way of hotel bars, with small, marble-topped tables and a long bar with a large-screen TV mounted above it. A soap opera was on the TV but fortunately there was no volume. Beyond the far end of the bar was an archway and a sign indicating that it led to the lobby. Molly and Traci were at one of the small marble tables near the window. It was cool in the lounge; bright and bustling Manhattan streamed past in the heat on the other side of the glass.

“Thanks for the first half of the manuscript, Mol.” Traci said in her rasping voice. “Gonna have the last half by the end of next week?”

“Guaranteed,” Molly said. A man in threadbare clothes walked past close to the window, glanced inside, and locked gazes with her, then moved faster as if ashamed of his misfortune. Something about him gave Molly a chill. They were separated by much more than a pane of glass, yet his world waited for the weak the way a lion waited and watched the herd for potential victims. That was how Molly was trying not to feel-like a victim.

Traci sat back, sighed, then smiled as she lifted her martini. “Enough of business. What’s going on in your life?”

Molly told her.

Traci leaned back in her chair and looked thoughtful. “I’ve got to tell you, Mol, I don’t think it’s ever a good idea for wives and ex-wives to get together unless it’s at hubby’s funeral.”

Molly laughed.

“I’m editing a mystery novel about that very situation,” Traci said, “and it doesn’t turn out well for the wife.”

“Are you warning me that life might imitate art?”

“Maybe.”

Molly had to ask. “So what happens to the wife in the novel?”

“The husband and the ex kill her then say she ran away. But she’s really in the freezer of a neighbor who’s on vacation. They dispose of her body little by little. What they can’t get the neighbor’s German Shepherd to eat, they get rid of with the trash compactor and the U.S. Mail.”

Molly winced and tried to ignore the knot in her stomach.

“Well, David and I have a strong marriage. If it can’t survive us sitting through dinner with a sad, lonely woman who’s only in town for a little while, I’ll be surprised. Besides, she happens to be eleven years older than I am. What do I have to fear from a woman fast-approaching menopause?”

“Hold on, there!” Traci said, grinning.

Molly was embarrassed. “Oh, sorry…”

“People live longer and stay young longer these days. And a thirty-eight-year-old can be quite a sexpot.” Traci used her tiny red plastic-sword swizzle stick to toy with the olive in her martini. “I thought you told me Deirdre was in love with some guy named Chalmers.”

“Chumley,” Molly corrected.

“Whatever. He’s a man. She doesn’t sound so sad and lonely to me.”

“Or like any kind of a threat,” Molly pointed out. “I admit I was hesitant at first, but now I’m looking forward to meeting both of them.”

Traci speared and ate her olive. “That’s amazing.”

“I don’t think so,” Molly said, “among reasonable people.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever met a reasonable person,” Traci said. She raised her glass in a mock toast. “But anyway, I do commend you.”

Molly ignored the toast. “I guess I see it as a test for our marriage,” she admitted. “If it’s as strong as I say it is, simply acknowledging Deirdre exists should do no harm. It will only make us stronger. Maybe all of us.”

“I hope you’re right.” Traci finished her drink and placed her glass on its cork coaster. “Well, I’d better get back to Link. The author of Sane Sex for Singles is coming in to the office and I want to meet her.” She dropped some bills from a pocket of the black dress onto the table to cover her share of the check. “I’ll leave you to go home and finish the other half of our flying buttresses manuscript.” She bent down and picked up the leather attache case. “Good luck with your dinner Saturday night. Whatever Deirdre is, you’re a young and attractive woman with a nice figure. Wear something that’ll knock her and her boyfriend dead.”

“Deirdre told David we’re dressing casual,” Molly said. “I don’t think anybody wants this to be a big deal. In fact, that’s the whole idea, that it’s no big deal. Then everyone will be reassured.”

“Maybe,” Traci said. “But take my advice and wear something tight.”