It was hard to know if her neighbor was the most conniving slut this side of the Atlantic, or if she really was that innocent and unaware of her own glaringly loud sexuality.
The doorbell rang a few minutes later, and Vivian raised the window again. “Just a minute.”
She threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pausing in front of the vanity to swipe a dab of concealer under her eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t look like she’d been crying.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” Jewel said as soon as the door opened.
“No, I just made something for Michael.”
“Good. I made homemade muffins, and I want you to try them.” She grabbed Vivian’s hand to drag her out of the house.
“I don’t have shoes on.”
“It’s not hot out yet. You’re fine. Don’t be such a baby.”
Vivian sighed and allowed herself to be dragged. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s not a slut. She’s just a 21-year-old kid with a trust fund, having fun.
“Do you like my new shoes? I was coming over to show you but got side-tracked by some weeds. I don’t get why they keep growing in the flowers. I’m doing everything right.”
“They’re very cute.” Great. Keep talking so I feel like an even bigger bitch.
They pushed past three yapping Yorkies into the kitchen. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I don’t think I have it right yet, but hopefully they’re edible.”
The tears Vivian thought she’d managed to stifle, came pouring out again.
“Oh honey, what’s wrong?”
She wiped her face quickly as if in doing so she could make Jewel forget the sudden outburst.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
The woman arched a brow but decided to let it go in favor of prying the muffins out of the pan.
“Are these fresh blueberries?” Vivian asked when she bit into one.
Jewel beamed. “Oh good, you can tell. I picked some up from the farmers’ market yesterday.”
The dogs had positioned themselves on the floor in front of the two women, staring and willing something to fall that they could fight over.
“Are you going to tell me why you were crying?”
Vivian waved a hand in dismissal. “Really, nothing. Michael and I had a fight.”
“Oh.” Jewel looked wistfully away, twirling a strand of blonde hair while she ate.
Vivian could tell from the faraway look in her eyes what she was thinking, and wondered once again if Michael was having an affair. What a thrill it must be to get away with it right under the wife’s nose.
Don’t say it, Vivian thought. But of course Jewel said it anyway.
“I wish I had a man like Michael. It’s lonely having as much money as I have. Too many of the men I’m interested in just want to use me.”
For a moment Vivian was stabbed with jealousy so sharp she thought it was the muffin disagreeing with her. Thinking about how much happier Michael would be with this 21-year-old smart, pretty nymphette. Someone who no doubt would come like a rocket when he looked at her, let alone touched her. Someone who didn’t need to be taken care of in the pathetic way Vivian did.
“Why don’t you find a man with some money?”
Jewel shrugged and slid her knife into the butter, spreading it evenly over the remaining muffin half. “They’re too busy. Michael seems so devoted. That’s hard to find now.”
A dryer buzzed and the three dogs jerked their little heads toward the laundry room in unison.
“Oh shit! I’m going to be late for class.” She jumped up and put her plate in the sink, then disappeared into the next room.
Vivian didn’t bother asking why Jewel didn’t have a maid. She knew why. It was the same reason she and Michael didn’t. Maids were nosy.
Jewel returned, untying the bikini in a rush. Perfect, pert breasts bounced out like they’d been waiting all day to be taken for a walk. Vivian looked back at her plate and tried not to make mental comparisons while her neighbor finished dressing.
“I’m sorry to run out like this. I’ve just got this stupid ten am physics class, and if I’m late the bitch will lock the door on me. She seems to think I belong in fashion design or pottery. I’m pulling a high B in there. Doesn’t matter to her.” She slid the jeans on like fancy wrapping for candy every male on campus––and Michael––probably wanted to taste.
“It’s okay. I’ve got errands.”
“Take some muffins if you want,” Jewel said, running a brush through her hair.
Vivian filled a couple of Ziplock bags and left through the back door.
When Michael arrived home, she was curled in a chair, reading a women’s magazine that had arrived with the mail.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I’m ordering take-out.”
He sighed. “Vivian, you’re home all day . . . ”
She slammed the magazine shut with a crisp snap of pages and tossed it onto the coffee table. “And what, Michael? Are we poor? Is there some reason we need to be watching the money suddenly?”
“I just like it when you cook.”
She rolled her eyes. “Was there a veiled compliment in there?”
“You know I’ve always liked your cooking.” His voice turned softer as if begging her not to start another fight.
“And you know I never cook on manicure day.”
Vivian watched his lips draw together in a disgusted line. She could practically see the cogs in his head turning, linking manicure day with one of her famous no-sex excuses, on par with the classic headache line.
He finally made a noncommittal grunt and retreated into the kitchen. A moment later he was back. “And, there’s not even any coffee made.”
“I’m not your slave. I don’t know why you think my life revolves around serving you. It doesn’t.”
“Well, what does it revolve around, Vivi? Enlighten me. I’d really like to know. From what I can tell you don’t do anything useful during your day at all. The least you could do is see to the house and cooking.”
“That’s all I’m worth to you, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be much less drama for you to hire a maid and get a whore? You’ve got the money for it. Or would your conscience destroy the enjoyment of that since you’d be leaving me off on some corner somewhere? Or maybe you’d resent the alimony.”
Michael’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for one tense moment she thought pain was coming. He’d never raised a hand to her before. And yet, the thought was there, behind the surface. She could see it shining in his eyes.
He angrily reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a lavender card on linen paper. He thrust the rectangle at her. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a business card for a therapist.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re unhappy. And I know I am.”
“Then why do I need the therapist and not you?”
His face was unreadable, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface. “Tell me, Vivi, what do I do wrong? I give you a life with all the comforts and security you need. I’m attentive. I take you out. All I ask for in return is that the woman I love not be so cold all the time.”