expense account, doesn’t it? Take the money from there. You worked hard enough for it. Why do you need the car, anyway?”
“I don’t need the car. I left something in the trunk.”
James exhaled hard. He took her arm. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Oh, forget it now,” Val said, pulling away. “I’ve got a crisis with the sound system on my hands. I’ve just got to hope that—”
“Sorry,” James said, glancing at his watch. “But I ought to get back to the house.”
“Oh? Okay. Well, since you’re taking the car, could you stop at the store first?” Val said. “I wanted a bowl of cereal this morning and we’re out of milk. Paper towels, too, and pick up—”
“I meant the firehouse,” James said.
Val’s mouth closed. Then she reached into her pocket. “You’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
Val was referring to the post-bake sale party. Every borough was having its own for the volunteers, and I’d been invited to the one being held at a Queens pub. Mike was supposed to meet me around eight.
“I’ll be there at nine, maybe sooner,” James replied, his gaze was unhappily focused on Val’s cigarette.
“It’s at Saints and Sinners. That’s in Woodside—”
“I know where it is,” James said. Then he nodded in my direction. “See you tonight, Clare.”
Val frowned as she watched her husband’s back. I stood and touched her arm. “Are you okay? Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”
Cigarette between her lips, Val shook her head as she flicked a disposable lighter a half-dozen times in rapid succession without coaxing a flame. She groaned and—in a broad gesture of disgust—tossed the lighter and cigarette into a Parks Department trash can.
“It’s been hell since Bigsie died,” she said. “James is shutting down. I can’t tell his family, his friends. They don’t want to hear it.”
“What do you mean ‘James is shutting down’?”
“He’s short with me when I ask questions, he’s miserable and pouting all the time, and he won’t discuss what’s on his mind. Not with me, anyway. He’s talking to someone, though, because he disappears once in a while, goes to the garage where he has these long conversations on his cell phone.”
Three in the long and tragic list of warning signs your husband is having an affair. Pretty soon he’ll be going out with the guys or spending time with a client, or he just won’t come home one night.
“Listen, Val, your husband is going through a really bad time, but I think—”
A loud ring tone interrupted us. I’d heard Val’s cell go off many times, but I’d never heard it play this set of notes before.
“Sorry, Clare! I have to take this!”
“Sure, of course.”
The tinny tune sounded like one of those club hits of the 1980s: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” Val answered the cell without bothering to check the caller ID.
“Dean! I can’t believe you called back . . . What? . . . You’re here? Really?” With her free hand, Val felt the condition of her hair, adjusted her lopsided name tag. “I’m on the north side of the park, across the street from that big Barnes & Noble—Huh? Turn around?”
She did and laughed when she saw a man with sun-bronzed skin in a black leather jacket, standing right behind us, cell phone at his ear.
Val closed her phone and air-kissed the newcomer. “Thank you so much, Dean.”
“My guys are at the podium right now, setting things up.” Dean’s voice was deep, with a slight foreign accent. Greek?
“You have a band?” I interrupted.
Val turned to me. “He has a sound system—and that’s what I desperately needed. The one I leased for the day cut out, and their so-called technician couldn’t fix it. The mayor’s coming, so is the fire commissioner and a whole bunch of celebrities. I was in a total panic, so I put in a call to my old friend here . . .” She turned back to the man. “I didn’t think you’d get here in time.”
“My darling, you sounded so distressed on the phone that I rushed it here from Brooklyn. The nightclub’s main system is permanent, you know, so I brought the portable stuff. We use it for live acts, but you’re welcome to it for as long as you need it.”
“I so appreciate this,” Val said, again patting her wind-ravaged twist. “Make sure I send you a charitable giving form to fill out. You can declare you labor as a tax