The Good Life Read Online Free Page B

biggest worry was getting her parents from point A to point B. She had no doubt her mother was a fine driver—she did everything well—but a trip across two states was radically different from a trip to the corner market for milk.

C HAPTER 2
    T hat Saturday was the annual Cancer Society Charity Ball. Ann got out of bed earlier than normal and slipped on black yoga pants and a tank top. She exercised in their home gym for ninety minutes, watching two recorded episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County . After a hot shower and a low-fat protein shake, Ann told Mike, who was in his study, that she had a number of things to do and that he should be ready to go by seven o’clock. Keeping his eyes on the red numbers on his computer screen, he nodded his head. Fifteen minutes later, Robert, head massage therapist at The Serenity Spa, was easing the tension out of Ann’s back with his exquisite soft hands. His Brazilian rainforest soundtrack played quietly in the background. “You are tight today, Mrs. Barons,” he whispered.
    “I know, Robert,” said Ann into the donut-shaped pillow. “Don’t get me started.”
    “Hard week?”
    “My parents are coming to live with us.”
    “Oh my,” said Robert, rubbing oil into Ann’s bare shoulder.
    After her massage, Ann nibbled at the spa lunch: a chilled shrimp, peeled cucumber, and arugula salad drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette. When Ann left the salon, she drove immediately to the Coffee Station for a double espresso to go. She stopped at the new women’s boutique for French hosiery and a quick poke around before heading home. When she walked through the kitchen door at just after three o’clock, she washed her hands and then went to find Mike. As she suspected, he was still in his study. “Okay,” she said, walking behind him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Time for a break.”
    “I did have some lunch,” Mike said, focused on the screen.
    “Good,” said Ann. “Now, go for a run and take a hot shower. You’ll feel better.”
    Mike rubbed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been staring at these numbers all day and still can’t figure out a viable way to change them.”
    “More bad news?” asked Ann, examining her French manicure.
    “No,” said Mike, “the same bad news. I just want to make sure I’m looking at better numbers next quarter.”
    “Isn’t that what you pay Terry for?” asked Ann, referring to Dilloway’s chief financial officer.
    “Ultimately,” said Mike, standing and stretching his arms out in front of him, “that’s what they pay me for.”
    Ann smiled at her man. “And you’re worth every million. Now, get out of here and get some exercise.”
    Mike grabbed Ann by her hips and pulled her in to him like a fish on a reel. “I know another way I could get some exercise.”
    “Later,” said Ann, putting her hands on Mike’s chest.
    “When?”
    “Tonight,” said Ann, “after the ball.”
    Mike kissed Ann on the mouth, then let her go. “Okay,” he said. “But that means you have to watch what you drink. What time are we leaving?”
    “Seven sharp,” said Ann, though the cocktail hour started at six thirty. “So get going.”
    “I’ll be back in an hour.”
     
    Ann walked up the stairs to their living area. She walked into her closet, undressed, and then, naked, approached the gown she had purchased for the evening. She slipped her hand underneath the protective plastic covering and gently touched the seafoam-colored silk before running her fingers along the mink trim at the collar and sleeve cuffs. She moved to the bathroom, weighed herself, and ran the tub, pouring two generous capfuls of bubble bath under the faucet. She climbed in and lay back, closing her eyes and concentrating on the heat of the rising water. She ran her right hand over her stomach, wondering if her mother would insist on cooking Sunday dinners. If so, she would prepare meals out of Ann’s childhood—fatty chuck