Windfall Page 0,23

house, you can't get rid of his clothes, you can't do anything, because what if he's not dead? His insurance won't pay out. His pension's locked up. And what if he comes walking in the door and there you are, in a brand-new life you made without him?"

"I can't help you," I said around a sudden lump in my throat. "Please leave me alone."

"Can't do it."

And I couldn't give in to him, even if he'd hit me hard and in a vulnerable place. "Fine. Prepare to admire my ass for an extended period of time, because it's all of me you're going to see," I said. "This is our last conversation."

He didn't bother to debate. I took off so fast I splashed mocha on my fingers.

As I sucked it off, I looked back.

He was still leaning against the pillar, watching me. Impassive and impartial as a hanging judge.

I met Cherise and Sarah coming out of Prada with a fresh bag. I winced to think what kind of bar tab this latest binge had run up, but smiled gamely and stepped back to admire the effect. Sarah was now dressed in a peachskin sundress in splashes of tangerine and gold, with lavender trim; her makeover at the Sak's counter, like the wave of a fairy godmother's wand, had returned her gleaming skin and butter-smooth sophistication. The shoes added just the right touch of sassy cool.

Of course, she was still broke. But she looked damn good.

And now I was broke. The karmic circle of life continued.

"So," I said. "Lunch?" I walked them through the neon gates of Calorie Paradise.

About thirty culinary choices, everything from Greek salad to Diner Dogs.

"I'm starving," Sarah admitted. "I could murder a prime rib. I haven't had a prime rib in ages."

"It's the mall, honey. I don't think the Food Court does prime rib."

"We could go to Jackson's," Cherise piped up cheerfully. She was loaded up with bags, too, mostly having to do with hiphuggers and shiny belts. "They have prime rib. And steaks to die for."

"Do you know what it costs to eat at Jackson's?" I said. She gave me a blank look, because, well, of course she didn't. Cherise wasn't the kind of girl who picked up her own check. "Think pocket change, people." I steered them toward the choices I could-barely-still afford. The ones with a bright-primary-color decorating sensibility.

Eyeroll. "Fine." Cherise marched-how one marched in jeweled flip-flops, I have no idea-up to join the overweight queue standing in line at McDonald's. "I am not eating anything fried. I have a weigh-in coming up, you know... Do they have anything organic?"

"It's food," I pointed out. "It digests. By definition, organic."

We bickered companionably about the usual food-related topics, which had to do with all-natural and bug-munched versus pesticided and bug-free, as the line wandered up toward the counter. The three sulky teens in front of me giggled and whispered. Two of them had tattoos. I was trying to imagine what would have happened if I'd gone home with a tattoo at their age, and decided I had enough nightmares in my life and besides, it made me feel old. Even Cherise had a tattoo. I was starting to think that I'd missed an important fashion trend.

Someone joined the line behind Sarah. I glanced back at her and caught an impression of a tall, lean man with slightly shaggy caramel-colored hair, and the kind of beard and mustache that always makes men seem to be faintly up to no good even while giving them a debonair kind of mystery. It looked good on him.

He was scanning the menu and smiling gently, as if he thought the whole McDonald's experience was about to be very amusing.

"Sarah?" I asked. "Anything look good?"

"I don't know," she said. "What about the cheeseburger? Oh, no, wait... salad ... they have so many kinds!" My sister, the decisive one. This, I remembered from childhood. She sounded on the verge of panic. Salad choices apparently unnerved her. "I don't know what to get."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend the caviar," the guy behind her said in a warm voice-not to me; to Sarah. He had bent slightly forward, not quite intruding. "I have it on good authority that it's not really Beluga." Definitely not a Florida accent... British. Not upper-class British, more of a comfortable working-class sound to him.

Sarah turned to look at