Better Off Without Him Read Online Free PDF Page B

that,” I said. “My plumber.”
    He looked confused, but smiled. “If you ever feel the need to talk,” he went on, “please think of me as a friend. I can understand that having your husband leave you for a younger woman can be a very humbling experience.”
    “Mr. Arnold,” I said between clenched teeth, “looking into a lighted make-up mirror with a plus-seven magnification is a humbling experience. Having your husband leave you for a younger woman just plain sucks.”
    And then I left.
     
    When I got back home, everything looked exactly the same. The furniture gleamed softly. Fred was stretched out in his favorite patch of sunshine on the living room floor. Lana was curled up on the softest pillow of the window seat. I could sense a vague feeling of something missing, probably my luggage, but my home looked the same as it did when Brian was still living in it.
    I sat down in the hall and called my best friend, Patricia Carmichael. Everyone needs a best friend like Patricia. She’s very rich. I mean, she’s a Carmichael, born and raised on the North Shore of Long Island, the same neighborhood Jay Gatsby lived in. That’s the kind of rich she is.
    Now, you might ask, why would I, being a Quincy by birth, be impressed by that? Because I’m not one of those Quincys. My Polish great-grandfather, coming over to America and standing in line on Ellis Island, was told that his name was too long and too hard to pronounce. The clerk helpfully suggested that my GGF take five letters from his last name, and use those as his Americanized name. GGF looked at his wife, who picked out Q,N,Y,C, and I. They rearranged the letters, and presented the new name to the same nice, helpful clerk, who pointed out that, in America at least, if you really wanted a Q in there, you’d need a U as well, and the Quincy family, later of Belleville, New Jersey, was founded. If those were the letters they wanted to keep, you can imagine the ones they left behind. Surprisingly, the DAR has never approached me or any other members of my Quincy family tree. Those DAR babes know the score.
    Back to Patricia. She is very beautiful, which, in addition to the really rich part, is a little hard to get past, but once you do, she’s a wonderful person and the best friend you could ever want. We’re friends because, being a Carmichael, she’s a patron of the arts, and in Westfield, New Jersey, writing historical romance is actually considered art, and about fifteen years ago we met at a Westfield Salutes the Arts festival. I didn’t know who she was, I just knew by looking at her that she was way out of my league. You’ve seen the type, probably in Bloomies or Saks. She’s one of those impeccably dressed women, with very expensive-looking ash blond hair, amazing bone structure and knock-your-eyes-out diamonds in very classy settings.
    She approached me, a martini glass in one hand, and when she found out who I was, she told me she was a fan of my books. I didn’t believe her. I thought I knew my demographic, and it didn’t include her. But she insisted, smiled, and leaned in very close.
    “You must tell me,” she asked in a low and husky voice. “All those marvelous sex scenes you write? Do you really have that good an imagination, or are you the luckiest woman in New Jersey?”
    After an ice-breaker like that, I was smitten. We met a few times for coffee after that, but our friendship was cemented one afternoon when we had lunch at the Highlawn Pavilion and she taught me how to drink.
    The Highlawn Pavilion, for those who don’t know it, is a breathtaking mansion with an even more breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. She picked me up for lunch in her baby Mercedes, and we were soon ensconced in a deep banquette, surrounded by quiet, luxury and the promise of excellent food. The waiter, a very proper-looking gentleman, who knew Patricia and addressed her by name, which impressed me like you would not believe, asked what we wanted to