The Glass Is Always Greener by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

playing Go Fish (a tradition we kept up all the way through high school). The rest of the year we were sworn enemies, if not out for blood, then at least out for revenge.
    It was during my so-called Toy years that I learned how to be sneaky and tap into all my baser instincts. I had to, because it was a matter of survival. Essentially then, this darker side of me is all his fault. At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
    After I paid the bill, rather than exit through the front door where I knew the rest of my group were waiting, I fabricated a story about a competition and a race, and was ushered through to a back door, which also happened to be a shortcut to where I’d parked the car. By the time the others came back in to inquire about me, I was long gone in Mama’s car. As a matter of fact, I was probably halfway to the shabby-chic home of Chanteuse Ovumkoph Goldburg.
    Rob’s mom lives in a 1940s traditional two-story brick that is now sandwiched between a pair of McMansions. The effect is immediately unsettling, as the brain has trouble sorting out which of the residences is out of place. As I understand it, Chanti has been offered a substantial amount of money for her house by someone who wishes to bulldoze it and erect a third McMansion in its place. So far memories have triumphed over money.
    A boxwood hedge flanked Chanti’s restrained brick path, in contrast to the imported river-stone walks and dwarf gardenia borders of both overstated productions on either side. Yet I would rather be walking up to the door of either stucco palace, with the intent of selling skin products, than facing the woman who produced my best friend. To put it succinctly, Chanti had never liked me.
    Actually, I can’t recall anyone she’s liked other than her Robbie. If the word possessive had a picture next to it in Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary , it would be Chanti’s stern visage. I realize this description makes their relationship sound like it leaps off the pages of some 1950s psychological review of homosexuality, but I’m just calling a queen a queen.
    But I wanted to know where Rob was, and since he hadn’t answered either his room phone or his cell phone, I was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the good ol’ boy was at his mama’s. And while I was betting greenbacks against my favorite fat-laden sugary treats, I’d go so far as to say that he’d already confronted his mama about the food-poisoning charge and was now curled up on his bed, in a fetal position under the covers, reading ancient copies of Mad magazine by flashlight. It is self-medicating habits like this that keep the man trim and fit-looking, while the rest of the walking wounded sport spare tires and double chins.
    Chanteuse Goldburg answered the door looking as if she were about to head out to South Park Mall. In fact, her purse was waiting in the howdah of a wicker elephant just inside the door. South Park, for anyone who is unfamiliar with area shopping, is the place to shop in Charlotte. Another way to put it is thusly; that’s where Neiman Marcus is located.
    “It’s you,” she said, and nothing more. She didn’t even stand slightly aside.
    “And it’s you.”
    “Look, Addie, I’m not receiving unexpected visitors today.”
    “Mrs. Goldburg, you know very well that my name is Abby. We’ve known each other for years. May I come in?”
    “No.” No? For heaven’s sake, the woman was as Southern as sweet tea, and here she was refusing to invite me in? What on earth was going on? Was she being held hostage? Was there a gunman hiding behind the thick, genuine silk, floor-to-ceiling drapes?
    “I just wish to speak to Rob,” I said quickly, fearing the door might be slammed in my face. “We can do it out here on the porch—if you prefer.”
    “You can’t.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Mrs. Washtub, do you have any idea how much that emerald ring means to me?”
    “The name is Wash burn , dear, and I’m sure I