Happily Ever After? Read Free

was bluffing. Even if he did call Child Protective Services, it’s unlikelythat they’d take Pete away or even file a complaint. I know the sort of cases CPS handles—I dealt with them firsthand when
     I was an intern at the county mental health clinic. I doubt they’d have much interest in a loving mother who (uncharacteristically)
     lost her temper and grabbed her son a little too hard.
    ’Til next time,
    V
May 28
    A good sign: I’ve invited Dale and his partner for a barbecue tomorrow afternoon. I decided that what I really needed was
     a new cookbook. While Pete and Hunter browsed in the children’s department, I walked past the self-help books and tried not
     to notice how aptly they described my life.
How to Spot a Jerk. His Cheating Heart. Dump Your Husband Today. Surviving Divorce. Celebrating Solitude. Custody at Any Cost.
    As I was drawn into the magnetic field of that last book, I noticed a guy sprawled on the floor at the end of the aisle. I
     glanced at him and he looked up from his book and smiled at me. His smile was so warm and inviting that I was sure it was
     meant for someone else. I looked away, absently flipped through the custody book, then stole another glance at him. He had
     sleepy, sexy eyes and the sensuous, perfectly shaped lips of an Italian male model. A ribbed gray tank top clung to histan, well-muscled torso. His jeans were slung low on his hips, low enough for me to see an enticing trail of dark hair leading
     from navel to the nether region below the belt. He must have seen me eyeing him, but instead of straightening up, he leaned
     farther back, as if to give me a better view of his delicious body. He gave a quick nod. “How ya doin’?”
    “Fine, thanks.”
    “That’s not a bad book, but
Custody Without Battles
is better. Helped me a lot.” He was still smiling. “Divorce is hell, huh?”
    “And sometimes marriage is hell, don’t you think?” I returned the smile.
    “Absolutely.” He chuckled, stood up and extended a hand. “Mark. Mark Henshaw.”
    “Valerie Ryan. Nice to meet you.” I glanced down and saw that he was reading one of those huge medical tomes. At the top of
     the page: Managing Genital Herpes. On the facing page: Coping with Genital Warts.
    Either way, I decided it was time to go. “I think I hear my kid calling me.”
    “Sure. See you around.”
    As I wended my way toward the kids’ section, I drew up the pros and cons. Pro: hunky, handsome, nice, single, likes kids.
     Con: probably has a significant sexually transmitted disease. I extrapolated from this that he’s probably slept around, or
     cheated on his wife; the type of man I’m trying assiduously to avoid. Of course it’s also possible that he contracted the
     disease from hisslutty wife. Or maybe he’s a doctor and he’s doing research for a paper he’s presenting at an upcoming panel. (Unlikely.)
    ’Til next time,
    V
May 29
    I managed to clean the house using the Hefty method (sweeping everything into trash bags and shoving them into the hall closet).
     It’s been so long since I cooked outside that I’d almost forgotten how to use the gas grill. When I lifted the lid, I saw
     the charred, curled skin of a salmon fillet stuck to the grill. It must have been two years old. I must add a new grill to
     my ongoing fantasy list.
    I will say this much for that jackass Roger: He was a damn good cook. In fact, I remember this particular meal—salmon in tangy
     sauce with fresh tomato-cilantro salsa, roasted new potatoes with dill, steamed broccoli, and warm, crusty semolina bread.
    I remember that Roger urged me to eat the dessert—rich chocolate mousse cake with fresh whipped cream—even though he knew
     I was trying to lose weight. I remember thinking, as I lifted the first forkful to my lips, that it was okay to eat the cake
     because Roger made it, Roger wanted me to eat it, Roger loved me exactly the way I was. Now I realize that hewas sabotaging my diet. He didn’t want me to look