The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(8)

"I know he's having an affair," she'd exclaimed over the Chianti and garlic bread. "He's been chatting with an old girlfriend on Facebook."

"How do you know?"

"I have his password. I checked. It's all there."

"What is?"

"Chats. She's always asking about his work. Sucking up. Whether he remembers this and that." Helena had shaken her slender shoulders as if she had a chill. "Talking about her vacation and her new car."

"Is that all?"

When Helena responded with a deep scowl, Bry thought maybe she was missing something. But no. "Isn't that enough?"

She recovered hastily. "So, what does he say?"

"He tells her about problems at work," Helena exhaled dramatically. "Things he never bothers to share with me. And he reminisces about taking her to the prom. I mean, it's sickening." With one hand to her forehead Helena slumped over her untouched pumpkin ravioli.

Later she conceded that her husband's former flame lived all the way across the country in California and was married with four kids. Bry casually suggested that these "chats" seemed relatively harmless, but Helena, in usual drama-queen fashion, had burst into tears. "I can't believe you'd take his side. Oh my god, no one cares about me. No one."

Then she was guilted into going with Helena to the gallery opening—an event, apparently, that Carl had refused to attend.

"He claims he has to work late, but he's probably chatting with his online hussy and can't tear himself away." Helena mopped up her tears with a paper napkin. "I've tried everything I can think of to keep his interest in the bedroom. I don't know what else he wants, Bry."

When Helena was in one of her dark moods there was little to do except wait for the storm cloud to pass, but she'd always been there for Bry—more of an older sister than a cousin—so it felt as if she ought to prove her allegiance by trotting along to the gallery. Couldn't let Helena walk into her own party alone.

Also, agreeing to go out that evening had prevented any further discussion about the bedroom. The last thing Bry wanted to hear was a detailed account of Helena's attempts to seduce her husband of sixteen years.

Wow. Their wedding was sixteen years ago? She'd known Numbnuts for more than half her life, she realized.

"Why was he sitting down with you when I came in?" Helena had demanded. "You know what he is. I hope you didn't encourage it."

"I certainly didn't," she'd replied.

"Good, because he's absolutely the wrong man for you, Bry. I wouldn't trust a hair on his head with any friend of mine."

Just as she replayed their conversation in her head, there he was. In the gallery. Dark suit. Standing out as usual.

"Are you kidding me?" she groaned under her breath. Three times in one day, after two months in the same city with no sighting?

He was probably there buying some overpriced, ugly art. Ben Petruska had no more understanding of modern art than she did, but he'd buy it if it was expensive— and especially if someone else wanted it. She wondered if he meant to be buried with all his treasures, like a Pharaoh in ancient Egypt. Obviously he had more money than he knew what to do with.

Rostrop and Philips are giving you all the shitty jobs. And a woman of your talent is wasted there. You know they'll hold you back.

Oh, and he wouldn't? She almost laughed out loud. Ben Petruska was old fashioned when it came to women. He liked them glamorous, well-maintained, obedient and unquestioning. In fact she'd be shocked if he had any women on his staff, apart from those he had to hire for affirmative action. Maybe that's why he wanted her—to fill a quota. Today, briefly, she'd felt as if he might be attracted to her, but it seemed too strange to consider for long so she let it go. Besides, he probably didn't even realize how it felt for her to be on the receiving end of his full attention for once. He was a natural born flirt on auto-pilot. Helena called him a womanizer.

Fortunately her cousin hadn't seen him in the gallery. She was preoccupied with pseudo acquaintances and her martini. So Bry pretended she hadn't seen Ben either. It might be for the best if they just ignored one another. Even on a good day, Helena did not like Ben and—uh oh—Carl was with him.

This did not bode well for a peaceful evening.



* * * *



He stood with his cocktail in one hand and a bacon-wrapped scallop in the other, trying to pay attention to a woman with a voice as sharp as her cheekbones and conversation only slightly less unappealing than her stretched, embalmed expression. He had no idea where Carl went and was already thinking about making a sly exit. But he couldn't. His driver had brought them both to the gallery. If he left now, Carl would be stranded without a ride. Unless, of course, he managed to patch things up with Helena.