He assured me in the elevator that my parents were the loveliest and most honest people he’d ever met, but let’s face it, my mother had uttered the phrase pooper shooter, and nothing would ever be the same again.
I understood my mother’s need to maintain regularity while she traveled, but for God’s sake, did she have to bring up the subject in front of the man I might’ve awakened next to this morning? I dare anyone to feel sexy with those two words lingering in the air.
Still, Derek’s kiss at the door to my hotel room managed to curl my toes and heat up my insides so completely that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks fly out of my ears.
He pressed his forehead against mine, stared soulfully into my eyes, and smiled. I smiled back and was about to drag him inside my room, when his smile turned to a grin and he chuckled. Then he guffawed, and seconds later he was leaning against the wall, holding his stomach, laughing and begging for mercy.
So much for the famous unruffled calm of the British secret agent.
“Pooper shooter!” He gasped. “Christ on a cross, she’s priceless!”
That was when I thanked him for the good time and called it a night.
As I rolled out of bed, I felt a small twinge in my lower back, probably from landing smack-dab on my ass more than once yesterday. I did some slow stretches, bringing my knees up, then bending right, left, then over. They seemed to help. The hot shower helped, too.
My sore ankle barely even registered on the pain-o-meter, so that was something to be thankful for.
I popped two ibuprofen and drank my cup of hot chocolate as I dressed. Frankly, I was ecstatic to feel only a slight throbbing in my head, considering the half bottle of wine and Scotch nightcap I’d consumed the evening before. Okay, maybe it was a little more than half a bottle of wine, but the hangover gods must’ve taken pity on me anyway. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the astral plane, where I figured most hangover gods hung out during the day.
My luck ran out when I stepped into the elevator and saw the only other passenger inside: Martin Warrington, Helen’s estranged husband. For once, he was alone, without Helen to hide behind.
“Hello, Martin,” I said, unable to be completely rude and ignore him.
“ Brooklyn,” he said. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I made a face. I guess I could be a little rude, after all.
“No.” He smiled contritely. “I’ve been meaning to track you down and force you to listen to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to apologize.”
“Apologize?” I said. “For what?”
“For being a consummate clod, of course.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “This isn’t easy to admit, but when Helen and I first got together, I was jealous of all her friends and I acted like a complete ass.”
“Well,” I started, but didn’t know what to say next. I couldn’t dispute his words, because they were true, and frankly, I was still suspicious of his motives.
He chuckled. He had to know what I was thinking. “I screwed up,” he said. “I admit it. But I’m trying to make up for lost time. I love Helen, and I’ve spent these last few days realizing how unhappy I made her, and I hate myself for it. I just want her to be happy.”
“I want that, too,” I said cautiously.
He smiled and it seemed sincere, not the least bit reptilian or smug. “You’re a good friend of hers and your opinion matters to her, so I’m hoping it’s not too late for us to be friends.”
“That might be asking a lot,” I said, but I tried to smile as I said it.
He grinned, relaxing a bit more. “I completely understand. Perhaps we can start over as semifriendly acquaintances, then.”
He held out his hand, and after a moment of consideration, I shook it, then said, “I’m not sure Helen cares what I think of you, Martin.”
“She cares,” he said. “A lot.”
“Okay, then here’s the deal. If you do anything to make her unhappy, all bets are off.”
“I love her,” he said simply. “I don’t want her to be unhappy.”
We stood in silence. To fill the void, I asked, “I guess this means you two aren’t filing for divorce?”
He smiled tightly. “She told you about the divorce?”
“She mentioned it.”
He exhaled heavily again. “Let’s just say I’m determined to change her mind.”
I studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Well, good luck with it.”
He laughed. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”
That might’ve been the first time I ever heard Martin laugh. A small miracle.
Bemused, I walked away from the elevator. That was weird, I thought. But good, I guess. I’d actually seen a glimmer of the nice guy Helen had always said he could be.
I walked into the restaurant and found my parents and Robin eating fresh fruit and oatmeal.
“What’s with the oatmeal?” I asked Robin as I sat. She never ate oatmeal, and I was in the mood for French toast and bacon.
“It’s good for me,” she mumbled.
“Since when?”
“Since your mother swears by it.”
I frowned at Mom. “You do?”