The First Excerpt from BLOODLINE

 

Melinda Stern stared at the mirror in the dressing room. Holding the price tag out of the way, she turned, first left then right, trying to see all angles. She frowned. The dress pulled in places, bulged in others. It was another one of those damned designer dresses cut for the perfectly balanced figure.

"It's a myth," she said.

"What is?" Mimi Reynolds stood behind her, sharing the appraisal. She was Melinda's long time friend, confidant, former roommate, confessor, and a great many other things. They had known each other since high school and had been close the whole time. Their classmates had referred to them as the M&M's,

"The perfectly balanced figure," said Melinda.

"Of course, it is," Mimi said. "It's designed to keep women on the edge of insanity. I guess we're easier to control that way."

"Screw it," Melinda said, reaching for the zipper. "I'm wearing slacks."

"Fine." Mimi had a way of saying 'fine' that meant anything but.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

Reluctance seemed to torture her. It was part of Mimi's act that Melinda had learned long ago. "Well, it's just that, well, you said you and Alan were kind of - having problems. . . ."

"I did not say that," Melinda objected. "What I said was that we seemed to be looking at my painting in completely different ways."

"You said you were arguing."

"It's not a hobby!" The anger in Melinda's voice was not for Mimi. It was a smoldering little flame that burst, periodically, into a huge inferno when the subject was aired. It was born as much of resentment as anything else.

"I know. I know." Mimi held up her hands and made a T. "Time out," she said.

Frowning, but silent, Melinda pulled the dress off. She stared at the mirror, clad only in her underwear. It wasn't a horrid figure or anything. Not so plump as a Reuben or a Botticelli, but neither was it the finely detailed athletic perfection of the Greco-Roman ideal. It was just a body, her body. It was the one she had when she and Alan met, the one she had when they got married, and the one she was damn well going to keep.

"If you're going to suggest," she said, "that I diet and work out and all that crap just to change Alan's mind. . . ."

"Never," said Mimi. "How could you think that?"

"I know you."

Mimi smiled. She shrugged helplessly. "It couldn't hurt," she said.

"What do they say about 'No pain. . . .' ?"

"Okay, fine. It can hurt."

Melinda dragged her jeans back on. "Oh, Meems, that's not it. He's just somehow forgotten about the last six years. He's forgotten how I kept tending bar, pulled doubles, worked my ass off to get him through med school. Remember how miserable I was?"

Mimi not only nodded, but rolled her eyes, as if she remembered it all too well.

"Now that I finally get a chance to paint," Melinda went on, "to do the one thing I've wanted to do all my life, he suddenly wants kids and a housewife and a dog and all that Ward and June Cleaver bullshit!"

"Hey," said Mimi. She put her arm around her friend and let her slump against her shoulder. "It's okay. It'll work out. He just needs you to remind him, that's all."

Melinda, on the edge of tears, twisted a sob into a chuckle. "He doesn't take that very well."

"Maybe it's your technique," said Mimi. "Diplomacy isn't exactly your long suit."

"I'm a good painter," said Melinda.

"I know."

"I'm a damn fine artist!"

"I've always said so."

The two were quiet for a moment while Melinda regained her composure. How many times over the years had the two of them cried on each others shoulders? How many things had they helped each other through? Why couldn't Alan be like that? Supportive, understanding, caring?

"You're a good friend, Meems."

Mimi laughed. "I've always said so."

While Melinda finished getting dressed, Mimi spoke. "It's simple," she said. "You go and do this show in New York. You sell a ton of paintings. And when you're rich and famous, if Alan can't deal with it you tell him to shove off!"

"They haven't even accepted me, yet."

"They will."

Holding the hanger between two fingers, Melinda carried the dress back out of the dressing room. "You've got it all worked out, don't you?"

"Don't I always?"

Melinda looked at her friend and smiled. "You've always said so."