Old Boyfriends. Rexanne Becnel
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jewelry’s mine,” M.J. allowed. “I’ll throw it into the ocean before I let Wendy get her greedy mitts on it.”
“Amen,” said Bitsey. She dumped two spoons of sugar into her cup. I reached for a packet of the blue stuff.
“Who bought the art?” I asked.
M.J.’s face screwed up in a frown. “I bought most of it.”
“How?”
“Credit card, of course.”
“Whose credit card?” Bitsey asked.
M.J. straightened in her chair. “It’s in my name. But Frank always paid the bills.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “The art you bought is legally yours, not some corporation’s.”
“Or at least half yours,” Bitsey said. With eyes narrowed, she looked from M.J. to me and back. “Let’s take it. But first let’s eat.”
She took over the kitchen and made us mushroom omelets and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “I can’t believe you don’t have any grits,” she said as we sat down at the chrome-and-glass breakfast table.
“Even I keep instant grits in my pantry,” I threw in. Though I prefer the real thing, microwave grits are better than no grits.
“Frank likes oatmeal. Liked,” M.J. corrected herself. “Liked.”
“Another poor choice,” I said. “Any man who doesn’t like grits should be viewed with suspicion.”
“Did Bill like grits?” M.J. asked.
“Kiss off,” I threw right back at her. Bill was my second husband, now my second ex-husband.
“Jack loves grits,” Bitsey said. “You remember what grits stands for, don’t you?” she added. “Girls raised in the South. Grits.”
That was us all right. Girls raised in the sweet, green humidity of the deep South, and decades later trying our best to get by in the desert that was Southern California—even if that meant burglarizing our best friend’s house.
We worked through the night, stacking paintings, prints, statues and all the silver and china in the garage. By nine in the morning we had a moving van and a storage facility lined up. By noon everything was gone, and by one we were all zonked out at Bitsey’s house. Her husband, Jack, woke us when he came home around six.
“What’s going on around here?” he said from the door to the master bedroom. His voice carried down the hall to where M.J. and I shared the guest room. “What are you doing asleep, Bits? Why are M.J. and Cat here?” He must have seen the Jag. “And where’s my dinner?”
I sat up; M.J. looked at me. We both strained to hear more.
“Honey, I’m home,” I muttered. As I said, I don’t like Jack. I used to. I mean, on the surface he’s a pretty nice guy. Most guys are. But Bitsey was my friend, and more often than not, Jack made her unhappy. That’s all I needed to know.
Apparently he closed the door behind him, because although I could tell they were talking, I couldn’t make out what they said.
“I think it’s time for us to go.”
“Maybe so,” M.J. agreed.
“What’s wrong with the world?” I asked as we slid into yesterday’s clothes. “Bitsey’s husband is a jerk. Your husband was a jerk. Certainly my two ex-husbands are jerks.”
M.J. paused in the process of brushing her hair. “Are you still sleeping with Bill?”
In a weak moment, fueled by margaritas, I’d once revealed that my second ex and I occasionally get together. I didn’t say we slept together, but M.J. and Bitsey had drawn their own conclusions. Accurate conclusions, I might add. I searched for my sandals. “Every now and again.”
“Recently?”
I looked up at her. “Why do you want to know?”
It was her turn to look away. “Because he called me a few days ago.”
“He called you? Bill called you? But why?”
She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“You’re kidding. He hit on you, the bereaved widow? My best friend? And he’s trying to get you in the sack?”
“I hung up on him.” M.J. stared earnestly at me. “As soon as I realized what he was leading up to, I hung up. And you’re right. He is a jerk.”
I managed a smile, but my heart was racing. Not from jealousy, though, and certainly not from anger at M.J. Bill was a jerk; I’d always known that. We’d divorced once I realized that he’d never been faithful, not even for one month during the four years we were together. But this was even worse. M.J. was my friend. How could he set his sights on her?
And why did the fact that he was attracted to her leave me so panicked? Any man still breathing is attracted to M.J.
But that sort of logic didn’t matter to me.
M.J. put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Cat. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And there’s no reason for you to apologize. It’s not your fault he’s a lowlife asshole.”
I raked my fingers through my hair. I thought I was beyond being hurt by the scumsucker, but my hands were shaking. “I wish I was a lesbian. Women are so far superior to men.”
“Yes,” M.J. agreed. “We are.” She gave me a hug, which I really needed. “But despite Frank and Bill, I have to believe there are still some good guys out there.”
I let out a rude snort. “Yeah, maybe. But they’re all prepubescent. The trouble with men is that they all suffer from testosterone poisoning. It shrinks their brains and swells their balls and they’re never the same again.”
M.J. laughed, but I was serious. “Come on, Cat,” she said. “Surely you’ve known one or two good guys.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I have.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“My old high school boyfriend, for one.”
“If he was so great, why didn’t you just marry him?
“M.J. sighed. “I wanted to. But he went away to college on a football scholarship, and Mama had me on the beauty pageant circuit. That was when I really believed I could have a future in the movies. I guess he and I just sort of drifted apart. You know how it is at that age.”
I slipped on my shoes and let the subject drop. But her remembered high school passion reminded me of my own. He’d been a skinny Cajun boy and our favorite date had been to go fishing. At least we always took fishing gear when we set off in his flatboat. But we never did catch anything. We were too busy making out.
Despite my cynicism, I couldn’t help smiling at the memory. God, how I’d loved that boy.
“Anyway,” M.J. went on. “Not to change the subject, but I thought of something, or maybe I dreamed it. Anyway, we have to go back to the house.” She smiled like an impish kitten. “Frank kept mad money. I don’t know exactly where, but I remember last year when his grandson had a DUI and they wouldn’t take credit cards at the jail. He went upstairs and came down with a fistful of cash.”
“Is there a safe?”
“Yes, but it’s downstairs, and I already checked it.”
While Bitsey fed her demanding husband, M.J. and I took my car to her house. She’d padlocked the gate so we knew Frank Jr. hadn’t been in yet. But it was only a matter of time. Two hours and twenty minutes later we found a false bottom in the humidor in Frank’s study. It was a large, freestanding piece