Bee was retired. Comfortably retired, more or less, and had been for quite some time. But there were days like today that made her question whether hanging up the wigs and fake IDs had been a smart decision.
She couldn’t go back.
Well, she could. Quite easily. She still had most of the wigs in a hidden panel in her master closet. Like Batman, except dumber.
But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t come out of retirement. She was going to do things the right way, the legal way, even if that made it the hard way.
After all, her son was watching. And since she could no longer control his father, it was up to her to set an example for Oliver.
‘This has to be the ugliest outfit ever created,’ Liliana said. She stood behind Bee, and in the full-length mirror, her brown-haired reflection bobbed around Bee’s shoulder. Liliana, Havana born and Miami raised, never left her house without a knife somewhere on her person and bright red lipstick on her full lips. ‘And I’m including that monstrosity Anastasia wore to the PTA meeting last week.’
Anastasia huffed from Bee’s vanity. Even several feet away, her reflection towered over both of theirs. She flicked her butt-length bleached-blonde hair out of her face and narrowed her cloud-grey eyes. ‘Feathers are fabulous.’ She’d moved from Russia a decade ago, but the accent had yet to soften. ‘You are just jealous because when you wear them, the children squawk at you.’
‘Your child!’ Liliana snapped. She tugged Bee’s blonde hair too hard when she spun around to yell at the other woman. ‘Your son was squawking and encouraging the others! Yours!’
Anastasia smiled. ‘He is an exceedingly clever boy, my son. A natural leader.’
Liliana yanked Bee’s hair again. ‘Now, listen—’
Bee grabbed Liliana’s wrist and worked her hair free. ‘All of our sons are clever, OK? That’s why they’re friends.’
Oliver was best friends with Liliana and Anastasia’s boys. They all attended the same private school in Miami, and the Anas – as she referred to them exclusively in her own head – became Bee’s best mom friends. Technically, Bee’s only mom friends. Technically, Bee’s only friends. But who’s counting?
‘Can we get back to dressing me down please?’ Bee ran her palms over her red pantsuit, critical blue eyes trailing the movement in the mirror. Tailored nicely, it highlighted her slim figure without being revealing, buttoning all the way to her collarbone. ‘Maybe pearls?’
Liliana plucked the strand of saltwater pearls from the jewelry box and secured it around Bee’s neck. ‘Perfect! You look ready to win the popular vote but lose the electoral college!’
Anastasia plopped on to the four-poster king-sized bed with a laborious huff. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself? Why must you make yourself so plain? It makes me sad in my heart to see you like this.’
‘I need an investor, Anastasia,’ Bee said. She slipped on a pair of black closed-toe heels. ‘I don’t have enough capital to start a bookstore on my own, and banks don’t give loans to single mothers whose only source of income is child support, as the rude bank manager explained between peals of laughter. Rosalie Waters loves this kind of stuff. She owns all those art galleries in up-and-coming neighborhoods. And she donates to rec centers all the time. I just … I need her to see me. To talk to me. And she’ll partner with me; I’m sure of it. She’ll love me.’
‘Because you’ll make her,’ Liliana said. ‘Right?’
Bee grimaced. ‘No. No, I’m going to be myself. I’m going to be honest. No smoke and mirrors, no creative lies. Just me.’
‘But this is not you,’ Anastasia said. ‘This is … I do not know what this is.’
Bee pulled on the hem of her suit jacket. ‘This is dressing for the job you want. This is a totally normal thing that normal people do on a normal, everyday, business-related basis.’
Hogarth, her overweight brown-and-white English bulldog, tried to jump on the bed next to Anastasia. His large body proved too much weight for his stubby legs to propel, however, so he sneezed and trotted out of the room with his nubby tail wagging.
‘My husband has friends,’ Anastasia said, her attention on the dog. ‘Let me have you meet them. They will invest in your pathetic dreams.’
‘My dad too,’ said Liliana. ‘Have you met my dad? Martin? Anyway, he could invest, or he could get his boss in on it. Then at least you wouldn’t have to go to Rich People Church.’ She patted Bee’s cheek with her small palm. ‘Well, I don’t know if the people are rich, but the pastor sure is.’
‘Thanks, guys,’ Bee said with a sincere smile. ‘But that would be exactly like dealing with Russian Charlie or Cuban Charlie, and I don’t want to do business with Charlies of any nationality. I want my own thing. And I want it the right way. The legal way.’
‘Just because something is legal doesn’t make it right.’ Liliana sat next to Anastasia on Bee’s bed. ‘But we love you no matter what scheme you’ve got going on.’
She shook her head. ‘Not a scheme.’
‘Eh,’ said Anastasia. ‘It’s a bit of a scheme.’
The nanny, Malika, ushered a suit-and-tie-wearing Oliver into the master bedroom. Scrawny for his ten years, Oliver was her ex’s mini-me, with a round, boyish, handsome face, dark eyes that shone like he had a joke he couldn’t wait to tell, and a mop of curly black hair on the top of his head. The suit jacket sleeves hung loose past his fingertips, his slacks rolled up above his brown oxfords.
‘Mom,’ he said. ‘I feel foolish.’
‘What?’ Bee pulled him into a hug and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘You look perfect!’ She took his hand and turned to face Malika. ‘Well, what do you think?’
A nineteen-year-old daughter of Pakistani immigrants, Malika had half a foot on Bee and weighed at least twenty pounds less. She was tech-savvy and detail oriented, a perfect foil to Bee. Her elbows and knees were sharp, and her tongue even sharper. Malika had long brown hair, umber skin, dark brown eyes and was never without an opinion.
Typically of the negative variety.
‘He looks ready to give a press conference about unsolicited text messages to minors while you stand silently at his side.’
‘Nailed it!’ Bee held out a fist and waited.
Malika rolled her eyes and tapped her knuckles against Bee’s. ‘You don’t pay me enough for this.’
Bee followed the parking lot attendant’s direction and pulled her silver Mercedes S-Class into an empty spot.
Oliver gaped at the massive building from the backseat. ‘What is this place? This is – this is a mall? Or an airport?’
Bee released her seatbelt. ‘This is church.’
‘Whose?’
‘Rosalie Waters.’ She caught her son’s eye in the rearview mirror. ‘And you are going to be on your best behavior – understood?’
Oliver held out a hand. ‘Money please.’
‘Money?’ Bee huffed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Fifty bucks.’
She glared at his reflection and rifled through her Gucci clutch. ‘Twenty.’
He snatched the crisp bill and shoved it into his suit pocket. ‘Let’s go wow this old lady!’
Bee followed her son out of the car and through the parking lot. He looked like his father, but he thought like her, and she had enough self-awareness to know that would be a combination she’d struggle with once he hit puberty.
The megachurch did resemble a mall, she supposed, or an enclosed sports stadium. An ugly, brown, solid-concrete building with tropical landscaping and a large, Vegas-style fountain outside the front doors. People wearing black T-shirts with white letters proclaiming the church’s name across their chests opened the doors and greeted them with blinding, straight-teethed smiles, like every single one of them had the same dentist apply the same veneers to all their teeth.
Her phone rang. Bee dug it out of her clutch and frowned when the caller ID read UNKNOWN. She silenced it before tucking it away.
Oliver headed towards the free café, and she trailed behind, looking for Rosalie but doing her best to look like she wasn’t looking for anyone.
Her spy – the nanny – had staked the church out last week and said that the older woman had a special table at the church’s café where she drank her coffee before service. And then Malika had puckered her lips and furrowed her brow and said, ‘So grifting and stealing are out, but spying is forever, huh?’
Bee slid into the empty seat across from Rosalie. She crossed her legs at the ankles, clasped her hands on the tabletop and smiled. ‘Good morning. Is this seat taken? All the other tables are full, and my son and I are new here.’
The older woman wore a bright pink, modest dress, a wide-brimmed hat with fake flowers pinned to the gray hair she’d styled in a tight updo and a long frown. ‘I suppose you may join me.’
‘Thank you so much.’ She waved at Oliver, who stood in the line for pastries, licking frosting off his too-long sleeve. ‘My son will be a minute. Have you been attending here long? I hear the pastor is remarkable.’
Bee knew almost nothing about the pastor, save for what Malika had told her. He had incredibly tall, well-oiled black hair, spoke in a southern accent and wasn’t shy about asking for donations. Malika had also mentioned the man who led the worship service wore skinny jeans that left little to the imagination, but as that was neither here nor there, Bee decided not to mention it.
Rosalie sipped her coffee. ‘He’s fine. A little young for me, I suppose, but so many other churches in Miami cater to individuals that I don’t want to spend my free time associating with.’
Bee kept the smile on her face. ‘I’m Beatrice Cardello, by the way.’ She offered the other woman her hand. ‘I don’t believe I caught your name.’
Rosalie literally and figuratively turned her nose up at Bee’s proffered hand. ‘Cardello, you say? Of Cardello Industries? The same company that bought out that factory, fired all of our local people and staffed it with their out of towners?’
Bee’s hand didn’t shake when she lowered it back to the table, a fact she was perhaps too proud of. ‘My ex-husband’s company. We’re divorced.’ She winced at herself. Calling him her ex-husband made the statement of divorce unnecessary.
Bee forced her face to relax, her lips to turn up into a pleasant smile. ‘I’m actually trying to start up my own business. I’ve been looking at opening a bookstore near my son’s school. Someplace the kids could go after school or on the weekends to read, or do homework, or play card games. I found a storefront, you know, but it’s currently a little out of my price range. Just looking for like-minded investors really.’
Rosalie Waters shook her head and rose from the table. ‘I should have known. You Cardellos – slimy gutter rats, the lot of you. Your husband is a snake. A serpent. The devil.’
The smile fell, and Bee didn’t try to stop it. This woman had managed to call her ex a rat and a snake. Both of which were true, of course, but the least she could do was pick a single metaphor and stick with it. Two different animals were excessive and unnecessary. Plus, she’d called him a snake and a serpent. Pick one, lady. One.
Oliver stood at the front of the pastry line, cinnamon rolls and muffins piled high in his arms. He waved and a Danish fell to the floor.
Bee blinked away the itchy feeling in her eyes. ‘Charlie is a good father,’ she said. ‘He’s not the devil.’
Rosalie clasped her weathered hand on Bee’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you today. Seems like you need all the prayers you can get.’
She left her coffee behind and hobbled into the sanctuary.
‘Aw, did I miss it?’ Oliver dumped his baked goods on the table. ‘She left before I got to wow her. So did she say yes? Are we gonna get to open the bookstore?’
Bee shoved a cinnamon roll in her mouth so she wouldn’t have to tell her son the truth.