Keeping Score

Faye set the case back on the CD player and crossed the room in strappy wedge-heeled sandals. She was wrapped in a figure-hugging minidress. Its jeweled magenta and black patterned cloth matched the highlights in her hair. “Of course. The young John Travolta.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Pretty hot.”

Peggy shifted in her chair. “The old John Travolta’s not too bad, either.”

“Shit, I’m hungry.” Faye rested her hip against the fluffy sofa and rubbed her flat stomach. “You got anything to eat?”

The sudden shift in topic challenged Marilyn’s sluggish mind. She started toward the kitchen. “I’ll check.”

Susan’s stilettos echoed behind her. The sound stopped at the doorway. “This is nice. Do you do a lot of cooking?”

Marilyn faced Susan. The other woman was casting her gaze around the kitchen as though estimating the cost of the state-of-the-art appliances, green and white marble counter, white tiled floors, and blond wood cabinetry.

“Some.” Marilyn pulled two packets of tilapia from the freezer and set them in the microwave to defrost.

“What are you making?” Faye nudged Susan from the doorway, then stepped aside so Peggy could enter the kitchen first.

“Tilapia and salad.”

Marilyn wasn’t hungry, but her guests probably were. The meal wouldn’t come close to the culinary brilliance of the Italian restaurant they frequented, but they wouldn’t starve. She turned on the oven, then pulled vegetables from the fridge and a salad bowl from the cupboard.

Susan traced her fingers across the stainless steel stove top. “Everything’s so clean. Do you have a maid?”

Marilyn nudged the refrigerator closed with her foot and placed the vegetables on the table. “Yes. She comes in twice a week.”

“Tilapia?” Faye wrinkled her nose. “I could order us a pizza.” She settled her hips against the counter and looked at Marilyn with hope in her toffee brown eyes.

Peggy lowered herself into a kitchen chair at the table. “Tilapia sounds great to me.”

The microwave buzzed. Marilyn avoided the other women’s gazes as she made quick work of seasoning the four slices of fish. “I don’t think you’re here for a meal. If that’s what you really wanted, you’d have gone to the restaurant.”

Peggy rubbed her pregnant belly. “We saw the interview with Jordan Hyatt.” There was empathy in the other woman’s words.

“I thought so.” Marilyn put the fish in a pan and set the pan in the oven. She closed the oven door as she straightened, then faced the other women. Her voice was firm. “Rick has never had an affair with Jordan Hyatt or any other woman.”

Peggy, Susan, and Faye exchanged concerned looks. Peggy frowned. “Okay. If you’re sure, then we believe you.”

“But how did she know about his tattoo?” Susan pulled a knife from the butcher’s block. She washed the tomato at the sink before slicing it for the salad.

Marilyn grabbed another knife from the block to chop the lettuce. “She must have seen the pictures that deviant photographer took through our kitchen window.”

Susan nodded toward the window on the far right wall. “That one?”

“Yes.” Marilyn bit the word through her clenched teeth. If she could get her hands on that photographer, she’d break his fingers.

Peggy peeled the cucumbers. “What did Rick say?”

Marilyn avoided Peggy’s eyes. The other woman’s gaze seemed to reach into her mind. “He’s as upset as I am.”

Faye joined the group at the table to cut the carrots. “I didn’t see a tattoo.” She shrugged. “But then I wasn’t looking all that closely. I’ve got a man.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “We all do and they’re all fine.”

The conversation turned to the NBA play-offs, the physical results of a professional athlete’s workout regimen, the sexual benefits, and the restrictions of their healthy diets. Faye’s biggest and most frequently voiced complaint was the moratorium on pizza. Marilyn lost herself in the other women’s energy, their laughter and their irreverent conversation. By the time they’d finished cooking and consuming the meal, Marilyn was more relaxed than she’d felt since Warrick had driven away from her in the Monarchs’ parking lot three days earlier.

Marilyn escorted the other women back to the family room after they’d cleaned the kitchen. “I’m glad you came. I feel much better.”

The admission surprised her. She’d never expected to find genuine friendship with these women. She’d at first believed she had nothing in common with them. Meanwhile the woman she’d known more than a decade longer had become worse than a stranger. Marilyn shook off the sadness before it took hold.

Peggy returned to the armchair. “You look better, too.”