A Brilliant Ride
Authors: Lisa J. Mitchell
A Brilliant Ride
Lisa J. Mitchell
A Brilliant Ride
Copyright 2012 by Lisa J. Mitchell
Smashwords Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.
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DEDICATION
To J, D and S – the, now and forever, loves of my life.
And to my Dad, whose love is ever present.
Chapter 1 – Take a Deep Breath
Chapter 2 - There’s No Place like Home
Chapter 3 - The Pot's Boiling Over
Chapter 5 – The Beginning of the End
Chapter 6 – Be Careful What You Ask For
Chapter 7 - Trouble in Paradise
Chapter 8 - A Strange Wind Blowing
Chapter 9 - A Brilliant Encounter
Chapter 10 - Peek-A-Boo, I See You
Chapter 13 - You'll Need More Than Ruby Slippers
Chapter 14 - The Eagle Has Landed
Chapter 15 - Karma Can Be Tricky
Chapter 16 - You Hold the Power
Chapter 17 - I Spy With My Little Eye
Chapter 18 - Don't Lose Your Head, Marie Antoinette
Chapter 19 - Ring-A-Ding, Ding
Cover by Judy Ballard
Special thank you to
the delightful Amanda Thompson.
Special thank you to my dear friend, Ellen, whose faith never wavers.
“Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.”
~Voltaire
~
TAKE A DEEP BREATH
It’s a crisp
autumn day and I’m sitting with my three closest girlfriends at the Regal Rock Bath and Tennis. And I’m learning a lot. Evidently Pinot Grigio is a very potent truth serum.
“Jackie, please…pull yourself together,” I pushed another tissue into her shaky hand. “Come on, it’s ludicrous. Ted doesn't have the guts to change the part in his hair. He would never venture into The Bucket.”
“That’s the hottest club in New York, very Rock ‘n Roll A-list,” Claudia added while surveying the Regal’s extensive menu.
“I’m locked in a nightmare,” Jackie whimpered, her sharp chin quivering like jelly.
“Just stop. You’re being paranoid. Honestly, for the past two years you’ve done nothing but complain about
how boring the man is. Just yesterday, you said you’d rather watch butter melt than spend another minute with the ‘Milky Drip.” I suppressed a giggle.
“That’s true, Jackie. You did say that,” said Phyllis.
Like a pin to the eye, a vision of Ted burning up the dance floor hit me, and I winced. “
Surely
you’re mistaken…” I patted her jumpy hand.
The last time I saw Ted he was wearing thick tortoise rimmed glasses, chinos pulled up to his breast bone (cinched in with a narrow canvas belt embroidered with tiny pink crustaceans), and strappy rubber sandals…with socks. Need I say
more?
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” she sniffled, her puffy green eyes brimming with tears.
Jackie, a gorgeous
redhead with piercing green eyes, was this week’s excuse for a pow-wow. She put out the 911 to discuss an earth shaking disaster, her husband Ted…better known as the “heel.” And trust me, when Jackie calls, people jump. She’s a force - like a Twister- and always, and I mean always, gets whatever she sets her sights on. The fact that she walks all over people to achieve her desired result is something I personally overlook…I try not to be under foot.
Jackie is a knockout. She’s super-duper glamorous, wisecracking, and colorful - her mannerisms expertly exaggerated, her speech purposely drawn out and magnificently affected. In short…she looks like money. Even her walk screams trust fund.
We met years ago at a splashy New Year’s Eve party on the Upper East Side. Back then, she was considered the new “it” girl within that tightly woven set known as New York Society. Coming from the well-known Stacker family, a line of oil magnates who made their way to New York after the Big Crash (a welcome installment with their bags and bags of Texas cash), Jackie had that particular kind of refined flirty sexiness that comes from southern stock, combined with the slick polish of Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
After a lengthy (boozy) stint on NYC’s party circuit, Jackie spent a year in Paris pursuing her dream - creating a “big” name for herself in the art world. During this time, she enjoyed a brief marriage to a wealthy older gentleman who lavished her with the finery of France and allowed her to dabble in various art forms, which in Jackie’s mind included getting her hands dirty…sculpting a number of male models. The marriage was not successful and promptly ended when Monsieur Chantel, sufficiently embarrassed by Jackie’s artistic ventures, wrote a sizeable check to ensure her removal from his chateau and his life. She was successful, however, in making a name for herself…not one I can repeat.
So, Jacqueline Stacker Chantel promptly returned to New York, opened her own gallery, filled it with her own abstract works, and enjoyed the “artistic” side of the swinging city (where anything goes). I vividly remember her first exhibit. She dominated the floor resplendent in a shimmering gold halter dress, her flaming mane rippling down her back, as paparazzi snapped away feverishly trying to capture the sought after Socialite in all her fiery glory. The collection, entitled Amour Darling, was startling as well…ten massive canvasses streaked with red and black, a psychedelic orgy of irreverent strokes.
“That two-timer!” Jackie’s voice echoed, causing the cream of the crop to turn and stare.
Mrs. Nugent Lillygrass shot us her very best look of disdain, and Claudia retaliated by flashing her dazzling emerald cut in her direction. “Take that!” she mouthed and smoothed her sleek blonde bob with a purr. It seemed to put the old dowager in place.
“Teddy has been living a double life,” Jackie wailed. “It’s true, I’m telling you. I’ve been finding things…you know…evidence.”
My eyes widened in amazement as Jackie ticked off her list of clues.
“Credit card statements, phone numbers, hotel bills, gift rec
eipts, and a set of keys which - SURPRISE - don’t fit my lock!” She drained her Pinot.
“To top that off, last night I found a pack of…condoms.”
“No!” Claudia gasped in a theatrical manner and held her heart.
“It’s true,” cried Jackie. “And after my recent procedure…there’s no need for that kind
of thing.”
“W
e’re going to need more wine…”
“Please. I must have been delirious; I never should have left The Upper East Side. I should have known
better…what was I thinking…moving to the sticks? My life has become a stagnating waste,” she moaned and threw her perfectly manicured hands up in the air. “We should all be back in New York. Culture to these hillbillies (Jackie looked around at the blank faced, blasé women enjoying the Regal’s particular ambiance and sneered) is band night in front of the public high school, or a poetry reading at the Garden Club by that dinosaur, Audrey Freehope. What are we doing here? What the hell were we thinking?”
“Darling, we do not live in the sticks; for crying out loud, Jackie.”
“Hardly,” Claudia said, trying to convince herself.
“Well, this suburban hell hole is getting on my nerves, so damn boring. No wonder; even boring Teddy thinks it’s boring. My life is in the toilet,” she groaned.
“Oh, daaaaaarling, we’re in shock…utter shock. We had no idea.”
“It’s been agony; total misery!”
“You’re a saint…Mother Theresa.”
“He doesn’t deserve me; I’m too good for him.”
“Are you jumping…?”
“What?”
“Er, I mean to conclusions.” I shifted in my seat.
“Yes, darling, I mean, you married him because he was safe, remember…not like the others?” Claudia and I exchanged a knowing glance.
Safe in Jackie’s book meant a man she could leash and dominate into puppy dog submission (spending every dime the helpless slob had), whilst convincing him he was without a doubt the luckiest man on the face of the earth to be in her company, not to mention her bed.
“Oh, who would want h
im?” my words tumbled out. “Er…I mean, you’re always saying he’s…
lackluster
.”
“He is! He was! Oh, you never know, do you?”
“No red flags?” I asked, twisting my wedding band.
“Here’s a red flag for you. Sources tell me he’s been to every
nightclub in town - with a tween! Imagine that. He must be some kind of professional con artist or something.”
“Sources..?”
“Yes, sources,” she wailed and snapped her bread stick in half.
“We are
Splitsville
.”
“I don’t believe it,” Claudia replied, slipping her small gold compact out of her handbag. She surveyed herself with a smile and traced her upper lip with her pinky, ensuring her shimmery nude lipstick was perfectly placed. She then took another moment to admire the enormous diamond studs drooping from her lobes. Happy with her pristine reflection, she purred and clicked the compact closed, then tossed it back into her monogrammed satchel. “It’s just a blip,” she said plainly.
“Oh yes, Claudia’s right, it’s just a passing thing,” said Phyllis, her eyes locked on a waiter with a large silver tray. “Yums, has anyone tried the artichoke tart?” she queried and licked her puffy glossed lips. “I’m absolutely famished.”
Jackie wasn’t having any of it and let out a long, exaggerated sigh followed by another swig of wine.
“Hey, I know,” Phyllis squealed, “maybe the two of you should sign up for that Tantric weekend?”
“Oh yes…it’s all the rage,” said Cla
udia brightly.
“You’ve been?”
“No, but I hear it’s very liberating...”
“Oh, Jackie, it’s the answer. It’ll teach Teddy a little self-control…if you know what I mean.” Phyllis winked.
“Please, I’m nauseous.” Jackie held her stomach and moaned. “My colitis is starting up.” A faint gurgling sound emanated from her direction.
“Tantra sounds like the spir
itual version of S&M. I think it’s dangerous.”
“Oh loosen up, even Frank’s gotten into it,” replied Phyllis in that surreal matter-of-fact way she uses when discussing something totally off the wall.
“Frank? Ha, ha, ha…that’s hysterical. You’re, kidding, right?”
She wasn’t. Phyllis is what you would call
progressive
. Free from inhibitions, she’s colorful to say the least. A middle-aged, old money, debutante turned hippie, she’s perpetually outfitted in pricey, theatrical ensembles purchased at the finest boutiques on Madison Avenue. Trust me; these costumes have a sort of exotic chic not many can pull off…sort of Vogue meets Tofu Daily. She’s gutsy (or delusional, I’m not quite sure). She thinks nothing of popping out to the grocery in a chartreuse sari, feathered headband, and a pair of 6-inch platform heels, bravely combating the raised eyebrows of conservatives by rubbing her third eye and whispering an affirmation.
