Perfect on Paper (38 page)

But I hadn’t timed myself. Had I completed it in my usual twenty minutes or so, or had the Moody factor lengthened my solving time?

The only way to be completely fair was—well, there wasn’t a way. Billy had seen to that.

That son of a bitch.

Even though it had been years since I’d needed a full half hour to solve a Sunday-sized crossword, I finally determined that was how long this one would have to take. Nobody in this ballroom should be penalized because I’d been given an unfair advantage—even though I’d never asked for it, and I would have given anything not to have it.

I’d been so overjoyed, and so inspired, by the prospect of finishing in the top hundred. How could Billy have done this? And why would he have thought I’d be willing to cheat?

Oh. Maybe because I was a cheat. What better word to describe me after what I’d done last night?

Traitor. That was an even better word. So was bitch. So was slut.

It took me about fifteen minutes to fill in all the squares, mainly because a number of my rewritten clues had been rewritten yet again, but also because every minute or two I’d stop cold, overwhelmed with anger and hurt. And remorse. Couldn’t forget remorse.

Billy had wisely opted to work the other side of the room. I could see his blond head bobbing between tables as he retrieved papers. I kept one eye on him and one on the digital countdown clock, wishing it would hurry up and tick off thirty minutes so I could finally refer to this entire, horrible episode in the past tense.

At last I walked through the revolving doors of the hotel, where a cluster of smokers lay in wait next to their preferred ashtray.

“Where do you think
you’re
going?” Patrick said, blocking my path. “We’re expecting a full accounting of your evening, young lady.”

“I… can’t. I have to get home right now.”

Kevin took note of my morose expression and nudged his friend. “Let her go.” He turned to me. “We’ll see you next year, right?”

“I—I don’t know.” All I knew was I had to get out of there before Billy came looking for me. “I’m sorry.” I raced down the street toward the
subway before any of us could exchange email addresses, or even goodbyes.

A train pulled into the station, and I sank into a seat. I’d be safely at home soon. I just had to hang on for twenty more minutes.

But when I got to Ninth Street, I discovered a limo idling in front of my building—one that looked suspiciously similar to the one Sandro had arranged the night of the gallery party. I hadn’t even pulled out my house keys before Lark flung open its door and came flying toward me, shrieking in excitement. “We did it! We got married!”

Terrific.

Sandro emerged from the backseat, a sleazy grin on his face and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in his hand. “Please,” he said, handing me the bottle. “We celebrate, no?”

“Uh, no,” I replied. “I really can’t right now.”

Lark latched onto my arm with both hands. “Please, Dana? We’ve been waiting for over an hour—I was scared to ring your doorbell again in case you were sleeping. Can’t we please,
please
just come upstairs for one tiny little glass?”

Sandro chuckled and gave his bride a look that was so patronizing, I wanted to bash him over the head with his own champagne bottle. “Please, Dana. I beg of you—my bride, she insist.”

His accent was about as authentically Italian as a can of SpaghettiOs. I happened to know the guy had grown up in Bensonhurst; the gallery director had confided in me after downing too many glasses of chablis during an art opening the previous year.

But Lark’s pleading expression finally got to me. “Well, I guess one glass won’t hurt.” I unlocked the front door and trudged upstairs. Sandro scooped up his conquest and carried her, giggling and squealing, over my threshold.

“When did all this… happen?” I asked once we were settled in and we’d raised our glasses in a toast.

“I surprise her,” Sandro said, taking in the humble environment with a pitying smirk. “The divorce, it become final last week. So I come to the home of my beautiful maiden last night, and I swoop her off her feet!”

Lark beamed and refilled my glass before I could stop her. “Don’t you just love the way he talks?”

Sandro got up and asked if he might visit my
gabinetto
. I pointed in its direction, realizing with a sinking heart that I’d hand-washed half the contents of my underwear drawer the night before last. Bras and panties were strung across the length of the bathtub. The guy was in for a real treat.

Lark came over and hugged me, refusing to let go for what seemed like a week. “I’m sorry we caught you at a bad time. But I just had to come over and share this moment with my mentor!”

Some mentor,
I thought.
All I’ve ever done is humor this poor girl. And now look what she’s gotten herself into.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t too late to start being a mentor. At least I should try.

“Lark,” I said, “you’ll keep in touch with me, won’t you?”

“What do you mean? Of course I will.”

“And if anything—you know—happens with Sandro, I want you to promise you’ll let me know about it right away.”

She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, if things don’t work out…”

“Of course they’ll work out! We’re married now.”

“Well, sure, but Sandro was married when he met you.…”

I watched anger replace the confusion in her eyes. “Sandro would never cheat on me.”

Sandro’s been in my
gabinetto
for so long, I think he already has,
I silently responded. “I’m sure you’re right, but just in case he does…”

“He
won’t
.” She sprang to her feet and stomped over to the bathroom door. “Come on, darling. We’re leaving.”

“So soon?” he called. “Uh… just give me the one minute, my dearest.”

Yuck,
I thought to myself, making a mental note to burn half the contents of my underwear drawer the instant my guests departed. Could this day get any worse?

Finally I heard the hinges creak, and Sandro returned to the living room. Lark grabbed her coat, thrust her husband’s jacket into his hands, and pulled him outside, slamming the front door behind her.

Swell,
I thought, shaking my head.
Now even my biggest admirer can’t stand me.

But who could blame her? I couldn’t stand myself, either.

The results for the crossword tournament were posted on its Web site by the time they left. I’d finished one hundred and thirtieth, which landed me in eighth place among the rookies. Under ordinary circumstances I would have been elated, but now all I felt was rage.

And guilt. Bucket loads and bucket loads of guilt.

Hank had promised to call as soon as Gordo and Jolene took off for Mullica Hill, but the light on the answering machine wasn’t blinking, and the only messages on my cell were from an increasingly concerned Elinor Ann. Of course, I’d have to tell him what had happened—her, too—but at least I had a little time to figure out how to go about it.

I flopped on the bed, staring at the bulletin board on the opposite wall and the Valentine’s card signed,
Luv, Eggs
. I sighed. Maybe I should have been as dumb as Lark and married Ray. For all I knew, he might still be alive. My whole life would have turned out differently. And then I’d never have made such an awful, selfish mistake with such an awful, selfish man. No—boy. No—bastard.

Despite my revulsion, I flashed on an image of Billy from the night before, poised above me, and I stopped breathing for a minute.

I shook my head in disgust. Some mentor I was. Lark was well rid of me.

The phone rang, and I consulted my watch: It was half past two. Billy was probably still out in Brooklyn, where the final championship round had just concluded, so it was safe to pick up.

If talking to Hank could be construed as safe.

“Hello?”

Click.

I gaped at the receiver in disbelief before hurling it across the room, where it shattered into pieces just above the bulletin board. Ray’s Valentine’s card tilted forward, then tumbled facedown onto the floor.

Great. Now even he had given up on me.

The phone rang again as I was tacking the card back into place, but of course, there was no way to answer it now. I rooted around in my purse for my cell while the answering machine picked up.

“Hey, darlin’—just wanted to let you know the coast is clear. Jolene and her redneck got out of here about five minutes ago. Oh—and I just went on that crossword Web site to see how you did, and boy, am I impressed. I sure am proud of you, Dana. Can’t wait to see you.”

“That’s what you think,” I said to the machine before pulling a pillow over my head and curling into the fetal position.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

“Y
ou have to tell Hank,” Tom-Tom said over dinner that night.

“I know.” I sighed. “That’s what Elinor Ann said, too.” Actually, she’d said, “Oh, Dana, do you really have to tell him?” then quickly reversed her position. I’d had the same conversation with myself, ultimately concluding it was the only decent thing to do. I’d had enough of lying and cheating—and my own duplicitous nature—for one lifetime.

My half brother had come all the way down to the Village once I’d alerted him I had an emergency—and about what had precipitated it. This effectively allowed me to postpone my confession until the following day. I’d told Hank I had no choice but to meet with Tom-Tom that evening; he needed to pick up the Hannah he’d promised to Graciela in advance of their Monday appointment.

Another lie. What was one more at this point?

Tom-Tom reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You don’t know what people are capable of until you put them to the test, sweetie. Honestly, I never expected Dad would be so sanguine when I informed him his namesake was a flaming fairy. Maybe Hank will surprise you.”

Before I could respond, my cell phone rang. I pulled it out, checked the name on the screen, then returned it to my purse.

“The youth?”

I nodded. “For at least the sixth time today.”

“Well, they are indefatigable at that age.”

“No kidding. Thirteen letters.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“I really think you’re being overly pessimistic about Hank, Dana. Don’t forget—he wasn’t entirely forthcoming with you, either. You didn’t even know his real name until—when? A matter of days ago?”

“True.” For a moment, his words gave me hope—until I remembered what had taken place in Brooklyn. “But he didn’t fuck a beautiful twenty-five-year-old boy.”

“Oh, sweetie. If Hank were fucking beautiful twenty-five-year-old boys, then you’d
really
have cause for concern. Now, have a little faith, and finish your manicotti.”

Thank god for Gay Daddy,
I thought, walking back to Ninth Street. Then again, maybe if my actual daddy had been more involved in my upbringing, Tom-Tom could have just been my big brother. And Ray Daddy could have just been my coworker. And…

No. Ray had been worth it. Even though we had no future and it could never have lasted, my only regret would have been not going through with it. When someone you love that much loves you back, all you can say is yes.

I got home and listened to the messages on my cell phone, deleting the three from Billy the instant I heard his voice.

The fourth was from Hank.

“Hey, genius—just hoping you got a second wind after dinner, but I guess you’re still with your brother. Well, you know where to find me. I’ll be up for at least another hour or so.”

And I’d be up all night, rehearsing what to say to him tomorrow.