Freudian Slip. Erica Orloff

      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.”