Chapter 22

This weekend has been the weekend from hell.

Yesterday, I lost my tennis match to Gabe. He trounced me—an embarrassing 60—and I had to buy him breakfast. On the way home from the Beverly Hills Hotel, I drove over a nail and got a flat. Do you think yours truly could change a tire? Put on a spare? I couldn’t even find it in the trunk of my Porsche. So, I had to call the AAA for emergency roadside assistance and wait forty-five minutes for them to show up and fix it.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I got home two hours later, my insipid mother-in-law was there. Smoking like a chimney and drinking my premium bourbon. I told her to smoke outside, but she said she would only do that if I brought the rest of her luggage to her room. I don’t know what she brought along, but her bags weighed a ton and I pulled a muscle in my back. It was killing me all day, and when I was about to ask Nurse Marley for therapeutic advice, hoping she’d offer a massage, the baby had a crying fit. After feeding Isa, which calmed her, and putting my daughter down for the night, she went home. The deal we made allows her to leave at 7 p.m. on Saturdays so she can have the rest of the weekend off.

So last night I could hardly sleep because every time the baby cried, I had to get out of bed with my aching back to help Ava feed her. And now it’s Sunday, and I feel like crap. I’m totally wiped out and my back is still killing me despite taking a hot shower and downing Motrin. And I have to help Ava again with the baby because it’s Nurse Marley’s day off. You’d think Ava’s drunk of a mother would be good for something, but she’s not. All she does is sit on the couch with a bourbon and blast the big-screen television. One grating Evangelist show after another.

To make things worse, I have a ton of work to do before I go to my office tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long, stressful week—I’ve got a gazillion fires to put out plus a big meeting with our potential Japanese investors, who are still in town, to hopefully close the deal. I’ve got to get all my ducks in a row.

Drained and distracted, I can’t concentrate on their offer. I keep reading the first paragraph, but the words are all mumbo jumbo. All I can think about is Nurse Marley Manners. How much I would love her to massage my aching back.

Closing my weary eyes, I begin to fantasize our spectacular nanny’s fingers doing their magic when the clickety-clack of heels across the hardwood floor brings me to a screeching halt. My eyes snap open.

It’s my mother-in-law. Why didn’t I lock the door? A wry smile is splayed on her face. An unlit cigarette seesaws between her fingers. And she reeks of tobacco.

“Oh, am I interrupting something important?”

I catch my breath and clear my throat. “Just going over a contract.” I lower my eyes and pretend I’m reading it. Mostly to ignore her. I steeple my hands on my desk as if in prayer, hoping she’ll go away.

My prayers aren’t heard. She doesn’t disappear. She’s something between a leech and a cockroach.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“If you’re not too busy, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Still avoiding her gaze, I absentmindedly flip a page. “Can it wait?”

“No. It can’t wait.” She punctuates each word. As if this imperious woman is my boss and I’m at her beck and call. I finally meet her gaze.

“Have a seat.” With a jut of my chin, I motion to the two armchairs facing my rosewood desk.

Rigid as a rod, she holds her head high. “I’d rather stand.”

“Be my guest. Make it snappy because I don’t have a lot of time. I’m expecting an important call from my investors abroad.” Sue me; I’ve lied.

“Fine.” She fires the word at me like a spitball. “I’ll get right to the point.” A brief pause, then, “I need seventy-five.”

Christ. Here we go again. I should have known she’s here for me to bail her out of her financial woes. More specifically, to take care of her latest gambling debt.

I inwardly groan. “Seventy-five hundred?”

Without moving a muscle or blinking an eye, she glares at me. “No. Seventy-five thousand.”

Leaning back in my chair, I rake a hand through my hair. “Are you kidding me?”

She shoots me another wry smile. “You heard me. Would you like me to write it out?”

“For crying out loud…”

“I was dealt a couple of bad hands.”

“A couple? How long were you at the tables?”

“Too long. But not long enough to recoup my losses.”

I swear under my breath. First twenty-five hundred. Then five grand. Now, this. I’m so furious with this woman my eyeballs throb, and my brain may implode.

For a few brief seconds, I study her, my eyes flitting from her pinched face to the one framed photo on my desk. A sepia portrait of my mother in her heyday. With her sharp features, dark beady eyes, graying hair, and thin lips, Rena is nothing like Maman with her sensuous features—alluring blue eyes, lush lips, and lustrous blonde hair, the soft waves cascading over her shoulders. I miss my mother so much. She’d tell my father to wrest me out of this mess. Once and for all.

Rena breaks into my thoughts. “They’re threatening to?—”

My blood pressure skyrocketing, I bark at her, “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Some loan sharks. They’re not very nice. Or patient. Or forgiving.”

“I see.” My voice is cool, but inside I’m simmering. “Maybe I can offer them my firstborn.”

My mother-in-law is not amused. “That’s not funny. They mean business…and apparently, they know about some ugly skeletons in the closet.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

A chill skitters down my spine. What do they have on me?

Her lips press tight as she folds her scrawny arms across her chest. “You can give me the money nicely or they can do it their way. They know where you live and work.”

“Jesus,” I mutter before huffing out a breath. Without another word, I yank my top desk drawer open and pull out my check ledger. I open it to a new check. Head bowed, I reach for my gold-trimmed Montblanc pen and hastily write out a check for cash. Seventy-five thousand dollars. The words barely legible. Then hand it to her.

She casts her eyes down at the signed yellow piece of paper and simpers. “Honestly, Ned, with your handwriting you should have been a doctor. They make good husbands.”

She folds the check in half and stuffs it into a pocket. Not even a thank-you. Just another smug smile. I hate her.

I slam my ledger shut and shoot her eye daggers. “This is the last time.” My voice rises. “The last time. Do you hear me, Rena?”

And I mean it. My trust fund is down to a dangerously low level, and all my credit cards are reaching their limits. My financial manager has told me I need to curb my spending. No more six-figure cars.

She snorts. “My dear son-in-law, I have ears.”

With that, she does an about-face and marches toward the door. Click-clack.Click-clack. Her ramrod posture as good as a soldier’s. The rapid sound of her heels reminding me of gunshots.

My desk drawer still open, I reach inside it one more time, my fingers curling around a cold metal object. My Glock. She’s right. There are ugly skeletons in my closet.

My heartbeat accelerates. Damn Rena. Damn my arrhythmia.

I reach for my meds, then slam the drawer shut.

That woman’s going to be the death of me.