smiles at me. “I’m proud of you. Most women would be curled up in a ball right now.”
He gives me a kiss on the forehead, kisses Seema good-bye, then takes his leave.
The moment the door closes behind him, Seema warns me, “Just so you know: he might very well come back with a pair of Gap blue jeans from 1993, tennis shoes, and your beat-up old Spice Girls T-shirt. I’ve gone on weekend trips with him: there is no rhyme or reason to what he packs.”
“I don’t care,” I say, feeling myself smile. “He could come back with a box of Tampax, a pair of pantyhose, and a flashlight. Tonight, I have a hero taking care of me.”
And as awful as this night has been, how Politically incorrect and wonderful is it to be able to say that?
Chapter Seven
Nicole
“And chances are,” I gleefully read to Malika, my soon-to-be step-daughter, “if she asks for some syyrruup . . .” I drag the word syrup out five syllables to wait for Malika to finish the sentence.
Malika looks up at me, her face brightening as she squeals, “She’ll want a pancake to go with it!”
“Yes, she will! Won’t she?!” I say, tickling Malika, who giggles as she squirms her little body beneath me.
We’re both in our pajamas, lying in her bed, and I have just finished reading her Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Pig a Pancake while Jason reads Harry Potter to her nine-year-old sister Megan in the other room. On alternate nights, Jason reads to Malika, and I get to read Harry Potter.
“Switch!” Jason, clad in his nighttime ensemble of his team T-shirt and gray shorts, yells happily from the doorway.
I rapidly kiss Malika on the cheek five times. “I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you too.”
“I love you more. Who’s the cutest five-year-old?”
“Me!”
I smile, stand up, and walk past Jason. “Tagging out!” I say, making a show of high-fiving him.
“Tagging in!” Jason says.
I head to Megan’s room and catch her reading the next chapter of Harry Potter.
“Hey, that’s cheating.” I pretend to lecture. “I just have to know how it ends,” Megan says, as I walk over and sit on her bed. She looks up at me and whispers, “Do you think I could use my flashlight? Just for a little bit?”
How can I resist that angelic smile and those pleading eyes? I lean in and whisper, “Okay, but just one chapter.”
Megan smiles and pulls a flashlight from under her pillow. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured her conspiratorially. I give her a kiss on the forehead and say, “I love you.”
“Me too.”
I take my leave and watch Megan throw the covers over her head, turn on her flashlight, and begin reading again as I turn out the light and close the door.
Jason closes Malika’s door and meets me in the hallway. “Did she have the flashlight?” he asks me under his breath, amused.
“Of course,” I say, my heart melting at how cute she is. “So, you mentioned something about wine?”
“Indeed I did,” Jason says, taking my hand and walking down the hallway, toward the stairs. “I want to hear about all those wedding gifts we got today.”
Our home phone rings as I joke with him. “Well, I know you had your heart set on a traif dish.”
We ignore the phone as Jason continues with the joke. “Not nearly as much as the fingertip towels.”
“We didn’t register for fingertip towels,” I tell him.
“Yes, we did,” Jason insists.
“No, we didn’t,” I assure him.
He actually looks confused by this. “Yes, we did,” he insists.
“That must have been for your first wedding,” I joke.
Jason mock glares at me for my joke as our answering machine picks up.
“Well, then, what were those tiny purple towels in the linen department if not fingertip towels?” Jason asks me.
“Those were washcloths.”
“No. I called them washcloths and was strongly chastised by the woman at Bloomingdale’s.”
“That was because you were looking at fingertip towels at the time— the ones in tea rose. We went with another manufacturer, so that we could get them in aubergine. But the other manufacturer didn’t make fingertip towels, they made washcloths.”
“Okay, you know the next time I talk about the differences between a zone trap and a pressing man to man, you are allowed to say nothing.”
“Hi Jason and Nicole, it’s Jacquie,” we hear Jason’s ex-wife say happily on the machine. “Listen, I know it’s getting kind of late, but I have some stuff I want to run by you both when the girls aren’t around. I was hoping I could just drop by tonight for ten minutes.”
Jason and I share an inquisitive glance.
“You know what?” Jacquie continues. “You might still be out with the girls. I’ll try you on your cell. But call me back the second you get this. Or Nic, call me back the second you get this. Whoever. Just someone please call me back.”
The machine beeps. About thirty seconds later, Jason’s cell phone begins ringing in our bedroom.
“What’s that about?” Jason asks me.
I shrug. “I have no idea.”
Jason makes a detour to our bedroom. “Are you sure she was okay being at your shower today? Did she seem weirded out at all?”
“No,” I say. “She seemed cheerful. As a matter of fact, she . . .”
I stop talking.
The charm. She got the typewriter.
Jason picks up his cell. “Hey, Jacquie,” he says into the phone. “What’s up?”
Jason looks at me in confusion as he talks to her. “No, Nic didn’t mention anything. . . . Yeah, I guess so. Is everything okay?”
I watch Jason as he listens to the voice on the other end of the phone. He occasionally looks in my direction in total confusion. I try to stare blankly back at him, like I don’t know any more than he does. Which, really, I don’t. But I have a nagging suspicion Charm #2 is about to come true.
“No, come on over,” Jason says tentatively. “Okay, we’ll see you in a few minutes. Yeah, bye.” Jason hangs up the phone. “Did Jacquie mention a job offer to you today?”
Shit! I knew it! I just knew it. Seema may think I’m half cocked, but I’m onto something here. “She said something about being up for a speechwriting job,” I tell Jason. “But she said it was a long shot, so I didn’t think too much about it.”
“Huh,” Jason says. “Well, she got the job. And she told me to tell you not to say anything until she came over. What doesn’t she want you to tell me?”
I open my mouth to answer him. But before I can say, “Your ex-wife wants to move your girls five hundred miles away,” the doorbell rings.
Jason quickly heads downstairs and over to the front door, with me half a step behind him. He opens the door to his beautiful ex-wife, Jacquie, who is beaming. “I got it!” she screams, then slips past her ex to pull me into a hug.
I look over Jacquie’s shoulder to watch my