Heaven and Hell (3 page)

These were my plans and I spent a goodly
amount of time thinking on them. But I still heard the talk.

And with what I heard, I knew that Cooter
had started his thing with Vanessa nine months ago.

Nine months.

One month shy of when Cooter took out a
huge, crazy, probably insanely expensive life insurance policy on
me for no good reason.

Holy crap, they were planning on offing
me!

“Mrs. Clementine? Are you there?” Stacy
called and my back straightened.

Then I clipped into the phone, “Yes, I’m
here. I’m alive, breathing and very, very
here.
”

“Uh…” she mumbled, “good. So, um… the forms
–”

“You bet your bippy that I’ll be all over
completing those puppies. Never fear, Stacy, we’ll get the business
of filling out forms out of the way so I can continue mourning the
passing of my beloved, freaking husband.”

This outburst bought me a moment of silence
then, “Uh…” she mumbled again. “Right. Okay.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Thanks for your call.
I’m certain this part of your job description is no fun.”

“No, actually, you’re right. It’s, um… not
real fun.”

“Well, tick me off your to-do list, sweetie,
and go to some fancy coffee cart and get yourself a nice coffee.
Spoil yourself. Life’s short.”

“Yes, right, Mrs. Clementine.”

“Ms.,” I corrected her.

“Pardon?”

“Ms.,” I repeated. “I’m Ms. Clementine
now.”

Silence then a whispered, “Right.”

“Have a good day,” I urged.

“Right, uh… you, um… too.”

“Will do,” I assured her then beeped the
phone off.

Then I walked straight to the phonebook and
looked up the number to the Sheriff Department. Then I called it.
Then I asked to speak to Ozzie. Then they transferred me to Ozzie.
Then I told him about my boon and the timing. Then he was silent a
long time.

Then he whistled.

Then he expressed his gratitude and got off
the phone.

I looked at Memphis and stated, “First,
we’re searching every inch of this house to look for evidence those
two
creeps
wanted to
knock me
off
to collect
the insurance and then we’re turning on the computer and then we’re
calling up a map of the world and then we’re pointing at it, or I
am, since you can’t, and then we’re planning my vacation to
wherever my finger lands.”

Memphis yapped her agreement to this
plan.

“Unless I don’t hit somewhere in The
States,” I warned. “If I pick Okinawa, you’ll probably have to go
stay with Mom and Dad while I go off and enjoy Cooter’s
wife-killing money.”

Memphis yapped again and her cute, little,
brown and white body shook with her tail wags.

She loved my Mom.

Then again, she loved everyone.

So much, it didn’t even seem like she
noticed Cooter was gone. No staring at doors. No little doggie
melancholy.

But I had taken over the affection, treats,
feedings and the like so she wasn’t missing out.

“You with me?” I asked even though I knew.
Memphis wasn’t one for solitude. She’d be with me every step of the
way.

She yapped anyway just so I knew she had my
back.

I nodded.

Then I searched.

Then I found the e-mails.

My husband was so fucking dumb.

His girlfriend wasn’t much smarter.

I called Ozzie again.

He came over.

* * * * *

The next day, Vanessa came out of seclusion
mostly because she had no choice and she did it in handcuffs.

While this was happening (though I didn’t
know it), I was on the phone with my friend Teri who was a travel
agent, booking my flights to Paris.

I Know You, You Know

I stood underneath it a long time, smack dab
in the middle of the vast, populated space, my head tilted way
back, my back arched, looking up. So long, people probably thought
I was crazy. So long, I got dizzy. But I did it. And while I did
it, I memorized what I saw.

Then I righted my head, turned and walked
down the avenue.

I took my time.

This was because I had all the time in the
world.

When I got a fair ways away, I pulled my
camera out of my purse, did the head tilting, back arched thing,
aimed and shot, once… an adjustment, twice… another adjustment,
then a third time.

Then I looked at the display and moved
through the photos I took of a nighttime, lit up,
cool-as-freaking-
shit
Eiffel Tower.

Then I grinned and muttered, “Memphis, baby,
you’re gonna like that one.”

Then I turned off my camera, tucked it in my
purse, gave the Tower one last, lingering look before I moved back
down the avenue to saunter the streets of Paris.

* * * * *

I stood in front of the full-length,
freestanding mirror. It was oval. It had a lot of carving in the
wood around it and black marks on the mirror which meant it was old
and the silver was fading but it was fading in a supremely cool
way.

Studying the wood, I was pretty impressed
with the cleaning staff at this hotel considering there wasn’t any
dust in all those grooves of the mirror. It was all glossy and
gleaming. Someone had to spend a serious amount of time polishing
it.

My eyes moved from the wood to me.

It was summer. My reflection showed me what
I knew, I was tan. This was because, for the last three weeks, I’d
spent a lot of time outside wandering the streets of Paris, Rome
and Florence.

I’d also bought myself the new sundress I
had on and I’d never owned anything so expensive or so
exquisite.

A long time ago, Cooter decreed that all my
apparel come from Target or Wal-Mart, explaining that this was all
we could afford within our budget and he kind of wasn’t wrong
except he didn’t get all his clothing from those places. I really
didn’t mind, Target, especially, had some nice stuff.

What I minded was that Cooter also decreed
anytime I bought something for me he would come along and he didn’t
have a good eye to what suited me, style, fit or color. Cooter had
a taste for skank so he dressed his wife like one.

I hated it.

My sundress did not say skank. Not even
close.

It was kind of a salmony-peach, it had a
flimsy flippy skirt that was not short but it was also not long,
loads of pintuck pleats around the waistline and, at the bodice,
thin straps into a halter neck. It was really kind of simple but
the filmy fabric, unusual color (that went freaking
great
with my golden skin) and attention to detail made it super hot.

I loved it.

But I was wearing flip-flops.

They were cute flip-flops, with big, floppy
flowers at the toes and they matched the dress nearly perfectly
but, as my eyes slid up and down my body in the mirror, I just
didn’t think they’d do.

My gaze shifted to the windows. I’d pulled
open the wooden shutters practically upon waking and all you could
see was the beauty of Lake Como.

Seriously. Did you wear flip-flops with an
expensive sundress in a fancy hotel on Lake Como in Italy?

It was morning. I was heading to the dining
room. In my world, breakfast was flip-flop territory.

But the dress wasn’t.

In fact, inspecting myself top-to-toe, the
whole gig was wrong.

I went to my cosmetics case and back to the
mirror.

A dusting of face powder. Good.

A bit of shimmery, peach cream blusher.
Better.

A bit of eye shadow, filling in my brows
with pencil, a thin line of eyeliner pencil softened with the tip
of a brush, a swipe of mascara and a touch of shimmery, peach lip
gloss.

Much, much better.

Then I moved to the wardrobe, opened it and
pulled out the shoebox.

Then I pulled out the strappy sandals that
cost way,
way
more than the dress.

I’d bought them in Paris. The straps were
super thin. The heel was super high. It was also super thin. And
they were bronze.

They would kick
ass
with this
dress.

The women I’d seen in Paris, Rome and
Florence, attractive, even stunning beauties and very fashionable,
would not blink at wearing those sandals with that dress to
breakfast.

I strapped them on and walked to the
mirror.

Yes. Perfect.

Then I stood in front of the mirror, put
three more coats of mascara at the very outside edges of my lashes
and
kapow!
My eyes looked
awesome.

I pulled out the ponytail holder, fluffed
out my hair and stared at myself.

Yep, this was it. This said Lake Como. This
said Europe. This said jet-setter.

Then I blinked.

Then tears began to fill my eyes so I
blinked again, quickly turned away, grabbed my cute, little,
Italian leather purse I got in Florence, my room key and I went to
the dining room.

I knew very little Italian. My Italian
language arsenal included pizza,
grazie, ciao
and
capisce
and I actually wasn’t really certain what
capisce
meant, just that gangsters in the movies said it.
Even though I’d been in Italy for two weeks, I wasn’t picking much
up mostly because I was too shy to try.

So I did my communication with a lot of
smiling and hand gestures. Which was how I greeted and thanked the
maitre d’ when he saw me, smiled and started babbling, nodding his
head, snatching up a menu and throwing out his arm to show me
through the dining room.

It was packed and I could see why. This
hotel cost a freaking fortune but it was in an awesome location
with spectacular views.

Looking around, I did the right thing with
the dress and sandals. If I’d thrown on a tee and shorts with this
crowd, I would be
way
underdressed.

I was so busy studying those around me and
patting myself on the back for my wardrobe decisions at the same
time trying to look cool and aloof like this was an everyday
occurrence for me that I didn’t pay attention to where the maitre
d’ was taking me.

Then I paid attention and nearly passed
out.

Seriously. I nearly
passed out.

This was because every table was taken
except one that was in front of two doors opened to the elements,
the view of the lake, the sun shining in and at the table in the
corner next to it, his back to the wall, sat Sampson Cooper.

Sampson Cooper!

Oh.

My.

Freaking.

God!

I couldn’t sit one table over from Sampson
Freaking Cooper!

What was he doing in Italy?

What was he doing sitting
alone
at a
table in a beautiful, expensive hotel in Italy?

Where was the supermodel-esque hot chick
that had to be his woman?

Perhaps she was in their room, finishing up
her makeup seeing as, when I finally tore my eyes from him, I saw
he didn’t have any dirty dishes on his table, only a coffee cup and
cafetière
half-full of
coffee. Perhaps he was tired of waiting for her, he needed
caffeine, he was a man on the go and didn’t wait around for chicks,
even hot ones that looked like supermodels, so off he went telling
her to meet him downstairs.

Yes, that made sense. That had to be it.

While we approached and I tried not to
hyperventilate, my eyes went from his
cafetière
to his face to see he was still looking
out his set of opened doors, in profile, his strong jaw stronger in
real life than in pictures or on TV, his high cheekbones higher and
more defined, his straight nose straighter and more attractive, his
thick, black hair clipped short to his head had a healthy sheen to
it that was healthier in real life and the appealing dark tone to
his skin he got from being half white, a quarter black and a
quarter Hispanic was far more appealing in person.

Oh man, I was
not
going to be able to
do this.

Sure, I had about ten thousand, seven
hundred and twenty-two fantastical, intense and long-running
fantasies about this guy, how we would meet, he would fall in love
with me instantly and sweep me away from the hell that was my life
and make me blissfully happy forever but now, faced with the
possibility of sharing his airspace, I wanted not one thing to do
with him.

The maitre d’ stopped and said something in
Italian to me and when I stopped and turned dazedly to him, it hit
me.

I knew how I would handle this.

Sampson Cooper didn’t exist.

Not across the table. Only in a
dreamworld.

I would ignore him, his hot chick would
show, my fantasy would be crushed but I’d get on with my day, my
vacation and then use him as a totally killer travel story when I
got home.

Paula and Teri would eat this up. They loved
him as much as me. Teri even had a life-size, cardboard standing
thingie of him in his Indianapolis Colts uniform. She kept it in
her bedroom. She also asked me once if I thought that was putting
off the real life men that she invited there (and there were a fair
few) and many of them, more than seemed appropriate, found it
difficult to perform. I did not have within my mental hard drive
statistics about how often or what percentage of men could not go
the distance. I was also not a man and therefore could not know if
a life-size cardboard cutout of a hot guy wearing football pads
would affect performance. What I did know was that if there was a
life-size cardboard cutout of Pamela Anderson in her
Baywatch
suit in the same room as me and a guy doing the
nasty, I’d definitely find it at the very least distracting.

So I decided I’d use him as a cool-ass story
and they would never know I spent the entire breakfast ignoring his
existence and staring at a lake.

I communicated in the universal language of
smiling to the maitre d’, his already big smile got enormous for
some bizarre reason that made me fear he was going to hug me and
declare in Italian I was his long lost daughter, something which I
wouldn’t understand since I didn’t speak Italian and thus I’d
probably freak out and do this in front of Sampson Cooper.