“It’s my house,” April shot back, equally shocked. “What are you doing here, and where’s Calvin?”
“At work. I live here.” Olga snatched a silk robe from the chair in front of April’s dressing table, where she’d strewn a vast assortment of makeup and accessories. Gaudy earrings, open tubes of red lipstick, lacy underwear on the floor.
April felt like she’d stumbled into a bad B-movie set. The air was thick with perfume; it was all she could do to keep from being sick.
Deb put her hands on her hips. “You clearly don’t know whose name is on the deed.”
“This is Calvin’s home,” Olga said, whipping the robe around her. “I have right to be here. He is father of my son.” She cradled her flat stomach dramatically as she spoke.
“Oops, you dropped your articles,” Deb said.
Olga looked down, per
