Mavis Schuyler didn't need to look in the mirror to know that she looked terrible. She felt terrible--the direct result of drinking her dinner and going to bed in full make up. She hadn't done anything so foolish in years, not since she hit the big 4-0 and getting ready for bed required the same amount of prep work that a surgeon needed to perform a face lift and do liposuction. Tricky. That's what getting older meant: everything became very tricky in an endless quest to look fifteen years younger than one's actual age. What an idiot she was. Instead of hooking up with a policeman, she should have found herself a plastic surgeon to be her lover or at least a makeup artist.
Mavis swung her legs out of bed and stuffed her feet into slippers. She paused for a moment on the edge of her king sized bed, willing herself not to toss her cookies all over the bedroom's Persian rug. She felt truly awful, nauseous and with splitting headache that made her want to take a hammer to her temples. Why had she had so many martinis the night before? Searching her memory, Mavis tried to recreate the previous evening but couldn't recall anything other than dropping her half full martini glass on the fireplace hearth around midnight and then being helped to bed by Peter.
Dear God, Peter. Mavis glanced over at the hulk lying underneath her Porthault sheets and shuddered. Small wonder she drank so much lately. Her Boy Toy was turning into a major drag. Peter had pouted all evening long, ever since his dreary little wife had left. Mavis assumed that the two of them had a fight but she hadn't been able to work up the energy to ask what had happened. She simply didn't care. All she cared about was getting rid of Peter but for the life of her she couldn't seem to do that. The man was immune to hints and every time she did manage to suggest that he might be happier in his own place--or back at his own house--Peter reminded her about the kidnapping.
Like Mavis needed to be reminded. She'd never forget being grabbed by a stranger in a ski mask and then unceremoniously stuffed into that awful little tool shed alongside broken rakes and half filled containers of weed killer. But that had been almost a month ago, before Ron died, and Mavis was pretty much over it, just as she was pretty much over losing her husband. Besides, if anyone really wanted to kidnap her again did Peter honestly think he'd be able to stop them? Sure, he was big and husky but good luck trying to stop a bullet with big and husky. No, Mavis would be better off with a gun of her own.
Getting out of bed quietly, Mavis pulled on a robe and made her way slowly to her dressing room. First on her agenda: wash the Lancome off her face. Then she would go downstairs for some much needed coffee and peace and quiet.
"Good Morning, Mom!" Tyler's voice boomed at her like a thunder clap from his chair in the breakfast room.
Mavis tried to smile. Tyler was so sensitive that she didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that he had a voice louder than a tornado warning siren. "Hello, darling," she whispered.
"What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"Mommy isn't feeling well this morning," Mavis admitted. "I think I have a touch of the flu."
Tyler looked at her shrewdly. "Maybe you need more nutrition in your life than gin and green olives," he remarked. "Mom, can't you see that you're drinking so much because you're unhappy? And can't you see that you're unhappy because you've allowed that uniformed oaf to move in with us? You need to dump him, Mom. Pronto."
Mavis poured herself a gigantic class of tomato juice and began to sip it slowly. Tyler was right but a part of her knew that getting rid of Peter wasn't going to be like shipping an old couch off to Goodwill. Getting rid of Peter was going to take a little finessing. "You might be right, darling, but it's something that grown ups need to worry about, not children."
"Mom, I'm over twenty-one," Tyler replied. "I'm not a child and I can help you get rid of him if you'll let me."
Mavis considered Tyler's offer while she drank her juice. It probably wasn't the most maternal thing in the world to allow your son help you plot to get rid of your lover but that wasn't a major issue for her. What mattered was getting rid of Peter and getting on with her life. She was a wealthy widow who should be lolling around the country club, chatting up men who could give her something other than just great sex. After all, she did have her future to consider. There would always be Peter Van Husens in the world for the random roll in the hay. Uber rich second husbands not so much. "All right," she agreed. "What do you think we should do?"
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