Geraldine taped up the last box and listened to final screech-screech of the tape across the top of the box. So satisfying to leave this sanitized house in Westwood with its crown moldings, great room, center island kitchen, and master bedroom fireplace. So satisfying to have the last box packed – this one, a box of spatulas and bag clippers.
How on earth had they ever collected so many? They really only needed one spatula and perhaps a handful of bag clippers. I mean … a bag of potato chips, pretzels, and tortilla chips. Three maximum. But there were at least fifteen spatulas and thirty bag clippers. Why on earth had they ever gotten all these?
But of course, they’d never worried about money. Perhaps Richard still didn’t. Geraldine grunted out a snicker. Tiffany would want Botox injections and a Mercedes convertible by the time she turned thirty. And there’d be weekly spa treatments and massages, shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive (did anyone know that Greta Garbo had owned that street), not to mention all the expensive gifts for her cheerleader friends.
“Mama, the men with the truck are here.”
That was Jennifer. Geraldine wondered how her baby was taking it all. She seemed okay, really had just shrugged her shoulders when Geraldine had told her they were moving to a townhouse in Pasadenal. But Geraldine would’ve thought a nine-year-old girl who liked reading Louisa May Alcott would be more attached to her neighborhood.
Not to mention her father. That lousy, stinking, cheating son-of-a-bitch man who’d ruined their lives.
Geraldine would show him. Who cared if he had all that money and fast cars and a tight and taut bimbette at his beck and call? Justice would be served. One way or the other.
She thought about the spatulas and the bag clippers. Geraldine could think of a few things she could do with those extra utensils. She laughed a short snicker again.
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