LITMIR.BIZ

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Sell drugs in dark alleys?

      “Well, if they’re interested in babysitting, I could sure use a backup for Lacey. I own my own business,” Erin finally explained. “Creative Investigations.”

      “Is it…do you mean you’re a private investigator?”

      Erin nodded and my interest was piqued. I’d loved mystery novels since I’d devoured volumes of Encyclopedia Brown as a kid.

      But books were one thing. Real life investigations were undoubtedly something different. “That sounds like it could be slightly…” I checked to see if Shelley was listening, but the little girl had moved to the far end of the porch and was playing with LEGO. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “…dangerous?”

      Erin laughed. “Not at all. I never take on anything with the potential to get, you know, messy.”

      “The late-night assignments Shelley mentioned…?”

      “Stakeouts. Sounds exciting, but trust me, they’re not. Mostly I’m just out to catch cheaters. Adultery. Insurance fraud. You know, dull stuff like that.”

      Dull stuff?

      “Hey, do you have the time?”

      I checked the gold bracelet on my arm. “Almost one.”

      “Good.” She pulled a bottle of vodka out from under her chair. “What do you say, Lauren?”

      Vodka before dinner on a Tuesday afternoon?

      I couldn’t make up my mind about Erin Karmeli. One minute she seemed okay, just another mother, like me. The piano teaching was certainly respectable enough. But Erin was also a private investigator, who looked like a hooker and might possibly be an alcoholic as well as a drug addict.

      On the other hand…like it or not, this woman was now my closest neighbor. And this was my new life. And when in Rome…

      “Sure.” I held up my glass. “I wouldn’t mind a little.”

      CHAPTER 2

       I n high school I had known girls like Erin. They hadn’t been my friends, but I’d seen them in the hallways—usually tucked under the arm of a hot football player. In class those girls sat at the back of the room, painting their nails and passing notes—usually to the hot football player sitting next to them.

      Though these back-of-the-room girls seemed steeped in self-confidence and sophistication, I—with my high grades, tidy bedroom and a best friend I’d had since kindergarten—had somehow felt superior to them.

      At sixteen, I’d thought I had life all figured out. Life rewarded those who made smart choices. Smart choices included obtaining a post-secondary education, marrying a hardworking, responsible man, making a beautiful home, and raising children.

      Follow the rules and you’ll be happy.

      For more than forty years that philosophy had worked for me. Or so I’d thought.

      Maybe the girls at the back of the class had had the right idea all along.

      I gulped my first glass of tea and vodka like it was water. The warmth of the afternoon sun seeped through my clothing and skin, right into my bones, and it felt good. I sank lower in my chair, deliberately not thinking about the boxes waiting to be unpacked, the beds to be made, the cupboards to be washed out and restocked with staples from flour to vanilla extract. Artificial extract, now.

      Erin mixed me another drink.

      “So, Lauren, what’s your deal? You don’t wear a wedding ring. You divorced?”

      It was an obvious question, one I should have expected, yet I could feel my defenses rising. I hated telling people I was divorced. It made me feel like such a loser.

      After Gary had left me, I’d found myself observing women my age, married women with wedding bands on their fingers. I’d seen them in the shops, on the street, at the girls’ school.

      What had these women done right that I’d done wrong? Why did their husbands still love them? Wasn’t I good enough, smart enough, pretty enough?

      The fact that my mother kept asking me these questions, too, hadn’t helped.

      “My husband left me about a year ago. He’s in India now.”

      “India? Why the hell did he go to India?”

      People didn’t usually ask me that question. At this point they were usually searching for a new topic of conversation.

      But Erin had open curiosity in her eyes. And the next thing I knew, I was saying something completely outrageous.

      The truth.

      “It all started with the meditation courses. Gary seemed so stressed, I signed him up for a program at our local community center.”

      “The sitting cross-legged on the floor and humming sort of meditation?”

      “Yes. I thought he needed to learn how to relax.”

      “I take it he learned?”

      “Oh, yeah. Next thing I knew he was signed up for Karma yoga. He’d go straight from work to the yoga studio.”

      “A real convert.”

      “Yes. He became another person, with a whole different set of values. Gary started talking about approaching every task with the right motive and doing your best and giving up on the results.”

      “Sounds cool.”

      “Well, his bosses didn’t think it was so cool. They were actually pretty fixated on results, and when Gary stopped producing them, he was fired.”

      “Wow. And I thought yoga was just something you did for exercise.”

      “No, no, no.” I waved my free hand in the air, the one that wasn’t holding my drink. My head felt a little spinny and my tongue a little thicker, but these weren’t bad feelings.

      In a way, spilling this stuff out to a virtual stranger felt good. I hadn’t been able to confide in any of my old friends or neighbors about this madness. I’d been too mortified.

      But Erin was different. There was no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation—and most importantly of all—no pity.

      “For Gary the yoga became a life-altering experience. He changed his diet, his wardrobe, even his manner of speaking. Really, he became a totally different person.”

      “Sounds like a born-again Christian.”

      “That’s what it was like, exactly. Whenever I’d complain, Gary would tell me that yoga is all about reaching a state of consciousness that allows you to achieve union with the divine.”

      Erin nodded knowingly. “Or at least union with the hot little yoga instructor.”

      I stared at her mutely. How had she guessed?

      Answering my unspoken question, Erin said simply, “Men.”

      “Gary didn’t want to admit that he was leaving me for another woman. He preferred to pretend that he was seeking spiritual revitalization.”

      “What a bunch of crap.”

      “Exactly. How can lying to your kids and cheating on your wife make you a better person?”

      “Only a man could make that logic work,” Erin agreed. “So what finally happened? Did you tell him you’d had enough and kick him out the door?”

      If only. At least then I might have retained some shred of pride and dignity. But I’d figured yoga would turn out to be another phase, like Gary’s mountain-climbing stage. When the girls were little, he’d decided he wanted to climb the seven highest peaks in the world. He’d started with a non-technical climb to see how he would react to high altitudes. After he returned home from Mount Aconcagua in Argentina, he’d never

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