Praise for the novels of
ERICA ORLOFF
MAFIA CHIC
“The author of Diary of a Blues Goddess and Divas Don’t Fake It scores again with a charming heroine and a winsome tale.”
—Booklist
SPANISH DISCO
“Cassie is refreshingly free of the self-doubt that afflicts most of her peers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This fast-paced and funny novel has a great premise and some interesting twists.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
DIARY OF A BLUES GODDESS
“With a luscious atmosphere and a lively, playful tone, Orloff’s novel is a perfect read for a hot summer night.”
—Booklist
THE ROOFER
“Orloff’s characters are wonderful, most particularly Ava, who is resilient enough to take a chance on love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“The Roofer is a fantastic novel…fans of urban noir romances will appreciate the contrast between glitter and grim and hopelessness and love in a deep, offbeat tale.”
—Harriet Klausner
Freudian Slip
Erica Orloff
To the memory of two people in heaven
I think of most often, Robert and Irene Cunningham
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, a thank-you to my agent, Jay Poynor, for his unflagging support.
Thanks to Margaret Marbury, the ultimate editor—brains and a sense of humor and an uncanny understanding of publishing all rolled into one.
Thanks to Doris E., an old and true friend. ABBA…what can I say? It was an inspiration during the writing.
I’d like to thank, as always, my family, Maryanne and Walter Orloff, Stacey Groome and Jessica Stasinos, J.D., Alexa, Nicholas, Isabella and Jack. To Ariana, who read the manuscript and said she laughed. To Charlie, for some really insightful reading. And to my faithful writing pals Pam, Jon and Melody. Without you, I’d be lost in the thicket of plot.
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a
heaven of Hell, a hell of Heaven.
—John Milton
Paradise Lost
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
—William Shakespeare
The Tempest
Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments
when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.
—Victor Hugo
Les Misérables
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
BOOK GROUP QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
KATE DARBY WILTED IN the August heat and decided she couldn’t handle the subway tonight. Too steamy, too grimy, too many commuters even at seven o’clock at night. She lifted an arm to hail a cab and smiled when one pulled over to the curb right away.
“Must be my lucky day,” she murmured. She opened the door and slid across the backseat, adjusting her skirt beneath her. “Ninetieth, between First and York.”
The cabbie, black beard flecked with gray, with warm brown skin and a regal nose, nodded his turban-covered head, clicked the meter and pulled into traffic.
Kate leaned back, enjoying the blast of air-conditioning on her damp skin. She lifted her hair, twisting it into a loose chignon, and let the coolness caress the nape of her neck. Her eyes roamed the cabbie’s unique domain. A picture of the Dalai Lama in saffron robes was paper-clipped to the right visor, the holy man’s serene visage beaming at her. A jade-colored Buddha bobblehead perched on the dashboard, happily nodding with each careening motion of the yellow cab. Amethyst rosary beads dangled from the rearview mirror, a silver Jesus, arms outstretched on the cross, swung gently from side to side. A picture of Pope John Paul II was taped to the glove compartment, one hand lifted as if to make a sign of the cross over the faithful. And if Kate was correct, she was pretty sure the turban meant the cabbie was a Sikh. Only in New York.
She leaned forward slightly. “Your cab reminds me of the United Nations.”
He looked at her in the rearview mirror and laughed heartily. “My wife is good Catholic woman. My son is a Buddhist. And I think…God loves us all.”
“You’re probably right.” She edged forward in the seat, resting her head on her forearm as she peered into the front of the cab. She could hear the world’s most infamous shock jock inflaming his listeners over the radio. “God loves everybody. Even him.” She nodded her head toward the radio.
A woman was having an orgasm—real or faked, Kate had no idea—on air.
“Oh, he’s a crazy man,” the cabbie said, in Indian-accented English. “Craaa-zzy.”