Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (13 page)

  And gasped. Not glue. He'd been . . .

  Without her.

  The buzzing seemed to grow louder, as if the thing in the basket were echoing the noise in her head. She groped frantically, hit smooth plastic, yanked the horror up, and fl icked the button to off.

  The silence in the room was blessed. The roaring in her head was not.

  Ben was pleasuring himself without her.Why? If she looked under the bed or in his drawer, would she fi nd pornography? Pictures of some movie star? Or with her luck, of Vivian?

  She let the vibrator roll off her limp fingers back into the trash and made sure she'd covered it before she stood and turned. The sight that greeted her was Ben's clothes draped over her chair. The one she'd repeatedly asked him to keep clear.

  Did she get
no
consideration? She swept up an armful, stalked out into the hallway, and shoved the pile down the laundry chute, hearing it swish through metal and land in the basement with a satisfying whump. Let
him
find his clothes. Let
him
have to work at something. Besides his penis.

  All this time she'd never had an orgasm and he'd been having double.

  "Sarah?" His feet padding up the stairs in the slippers she bought him that he hated but refused to return and why the hell not? She put her hands to her hot cheeks and fl ed again into their bedroom, over by the wastebasket with her back to the window, feeling trapped. He'd take one look and know something extraordinary had happened, and she couldn't tell him what. Probably the only thing she'd ever wanted to hide from him except maybe her silly crush on Tom.

  "Sarah." He appeared in the doorway. He'd know. He knew her so well. He'd know and he'd ask, and even though her mind was going a million miles an hour trying to think of a plausible reason she'd be standing next to the wastebasket looking flushed and guiltily furious, it was coming up empty.

  His mouth opened as it always did a second or two before he spoke, as if it was able to work faster than his brain.

  Here it came.

  "Have you seen my green sweater?"

  Oh God. She wanted to laugh, but if she opened her mouth, the laugh that came out would be hysterical and evil sounding. "Your sweater."

  "Yes." He gave her a strange look. "I can't fi nd it."

  "Where did you look?"

  "In my drawer where it always is."

  Where it always was, fresh and neatly folded because
she
put it there. "I haven't seen it."

  He still stared, waiting for her to turn the house upside down until she found his precious ugly -as-hell green sweater.

  "Maybe you left it at the club? Or in your car?"

  He rubbed his head in the gesture that meant this much thinking about inconsequential matters was going to make him cranky. The gesture that always made her want to nurture him and care for him and make his world easy and lovely.

"Maybe I did leave it there."

  She sighed, wanting to cry, knowing she wouldn't get the chance even for that. "I'll go check your car."

  He came forward and kissed her forehead. "Thanks, Sare bear. You take such good care of me."

  She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest, eyes closed, inhaling his scent for comfort.

  His body stiffened. "Where's the pile of stuff I had over the chair? I need the pants."

  Sarah took a long breath. Filled her belly, her rib cage, her chest. Cleared her mind, directed her spirit to a more positive, lighter place. She couldn't let Vivian destroy the richly rewarding life Sarah had built for herself and her family here in her parents' home in Kettle.

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I thought they were all dirty and put them down the chute." She drew back and smiled lovingly at her husband. "I'll get them right away."

Twelve

Note left on kitchen counter by Ed Branson Three months before his death

Vivian. I've been called away again this weekend on business. I made reservations for you and whoever at Le Bernardin tonight. Here's a thousand cash to buy yourself something. Not sure when I'll be back or if I'll be able to call. For God's sake don't drink all the whiskey. And Rafael knows you aren't allowed to take the Jag, so don't bother trying.

Ed

Vivian cracked two eggs into a porcelain bowl and whipped them to foamy yellow with a fork. She wasn't much of a cook, but Ed had taught her to make a mean omelet. Their favorite Sunday morning breakfast, with croissants from Fauchon and mangoes or papaya or some other exotic fruit from the fabulously overpriced Zabar's clone food shop on the corner.

  This morning the omelet, along with orange juice, coffee, and a donut the bakery woman assured her was made that morning—no croissants worth it in Kettle—all added up to breakfast. For Mike.

  Unfortunately, Mike was not at this moment lounging upstairs in her bedroom after a night of carnal pleasures. Sunday morning, he was probably . . . well, who knew?

  Vivian would like to know. Ed's routines, preferences, and annoyances became as familiar as breathing. She felt weird not being that close to anyone anymore. Like she was disconnected, free -floating through humanity, looking for a place to land.

  She turned the heat on under the skillet and dropped in a tablespoon of butter. Not that she'd like to land on Mike except for a few quickies to get out from under this boulder of grief once in a while. Nothing that would bind her either to staying or to someone so unlike her.

  Mike was one of The Good Ones. She was a Bad Girl. She liked men who were a little unavailable, with a tantalizing dash of cruelty. Maybe Mike intrigued her because she'd been through such a time of upheaval and instability that his simplicity and goodness and honesty were a refreshing change. Or maybe the challenge of breaking his late -wife-induced celibacy was just too tempting.

  The foaming butter subsided, and she poured in the eggs to sputter and sizzle, shaking the pan with her left hand and stirring with her right. Ed hadn't exactly been a challenge. He'd made a beeline across the room at one of Hefner's Playboy parties in Chicago, put his arm around her shoulders, and said, "I'm Ed. You're mine now."

  She'd gone along with it, no problem. An unmarried, powerful, attractive, richer-than-God male? Ideal. The only part she hadn't bargained on was the slow, gradual fall into love over their first year together. Once men knew you loved them, they'd caught you, they'd won, and along with your heart, you lost your power.

  When she got out of Kettle, she'd find someone equally rich, but so loathsome that she couldn't come to care for him in a million years.

  My, didn't
that
sound like fun.

  She folded a third of the omelet over, then tipped the pan so the eggs rolled the rest of the way into a neat package on the waiting plate.

  There. She picked up the prepared tray—painted with chubby, yes,
smiling
angels floating through pink and orange clouds—and walked to the back door, one eye on the girl and-pony clock, which said seven -thirty. She fi gured Mike for an early riser, but not too early on Sunday, since he didn't have to get up to work.

  She crossed to his neat brick house and walked up his front stairs, laughing at the thought that if anyone was watching, they'd be able to count her among Mike's meal -toting suitors. At least she was bringing him something more interesting than a casserole of pasta and canned soup. And with any luck, he'd still be in bed and she could take advantage of his sleepy weakness and serve it up in a way he'd never forget.

A girl could always hope.

  Tray balanced on her knee, one hand lifted to ring the bell glowing orange in spite of the early sunlight, she paused and decided on a whim to try the door instead.

  Unlocked. Her mind was officially blown. She knew about the no -crime-in-Kettle crap, but Vivian took that as the stuff of legend, nothing anyone would buy into. How could this many people exist in la -la fairyland for so long? What if a psycho lunatic happened by? What if high school kids on drugs or booze decided to go home computer shopping? What if a burglar heard about an entire town of people who didn't lock their doors, and came to party?

  Some morning she'd have to get up early and walk into people's houses to catch residents in their showers.
Hi, I'm Vivian. Just wanted to check out your place and see you naked
.

  She slipped into Mike's house, carefully maneuvering her tray through the front door so it wouldn't bump or rattle and alert him to her presence.

  Done. Even better, she managed to shut the door quietly behind her.

  So.

  She stood quiet, inhaling the scent of Mike punctuated by French omelet. The place didn't look as she imagined, but then she'd imagined a house that would fit him, and this one had clearly been decorated by the fair and beautiful Rosemary. Who had great taste, the bitch. A cream rug over flawless hardwood, no "character" nail holes here. Overstuffed furniture in beige and/or burgundy, with contrasting and complementary pillows. Glass coffee table with intricate iron support. Wooden mantel and fireplace with glass doors over black brick. It all added up to stylish middle -class comfort.

  And it was immaculate. Did Mike even live in this house, or just show up to eat and sleep? Did he clean it himself or did he have a little missy who did it for him? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

  She started silently up the hardwood staircase, placing her feet by the wall where creaks were least likely to happen, bursting with the fun of surprising him. The look on his face would be priceless.

  At the top of the stairs, a hallway. Door number one? Door number two? Still no noise, was he even home? Then she heard it, the slight swishing of limbs on sheets.

  Jackpot.

  She pushed door number one open silently and tiptoed into another female -decorated room. An ornate iron bed with an elegant green, gray, and gold comforter, shams, and decorative pillows piled on a wooden chest at its foot. A dresser oh so-charmingly bedecked with the type of Bo Peep porcelain figures that turned her stomach. And framed photographs everywhere. On surfaces, on walls, in a collage over the desk. Photographs she didn't need to glance at to know the subject. Mike and Rosemary, Rosemary and Mike. Their wedding day, the day after their wedding day, the day after that, the anniversary of the day after that . . .

  Vivian returned her gaze to Mike, lying on his back on the right side of the queen bed as if he were still saving the other side for Rosemary, left arm curled around his head, breathing gently through his open mouth, and found herself at an unexpected loss.

  The plan had been to speak up immediately. Say something sassy and raunchy, like
Hey, sailor, your best -ever wet dream has arrived with plenty to eat—and breakfast, too
.

  Instead, she wanted to do either of two things. Strip and climb into Rosemary's side to defile the holy space with her own naked body, or turn around and take her rapidly cooling omelet back to her own house. This was starting to feel too much like another stupid -assed mistake. Like baring her tits at Harris's. Letting Amber go home without washing her face. Handing Sarah the vibrator in public.

  Mike's eyes opened slowly, brilliant blue against the off white sheets. For some reason that startled her, as if she'd expected their color to fade while he slept.

  His head snapped up toward her, then sank back on his pillow. "Vivian."

  "I brought you breakfast in bed. To thank you for helping me and to say sorry for being a bitch the other evening." She lifted the tray briefly, hating that she sounded like a girl with a crush who felt totally out of place standing in a bedroom another woman still belonged in. "It's probably cold now."

  He dragged himself up to sitting, glancing at the clock, and oh, be still her naughty bits, he wasn't wearing a shirt. His chest, shoulders, and arms should be on display at the Louvre. No fair men got to wake up looking as good as when you put them to bed. She looked like a sideshow freak each and every morning.

  "Breakfast." He eyed her with that superior amused look she was starting to hate. "Well, thanks. Very nice of you."

  "Don't get used to it."

  "I wouldn't begin to."

  "Orange juice, omelet, donut from Sidler's, coffee. And of course . . . me."

  "You're part of breakfast?"

  "Sure." She kept her voice light, moved forward, and set the tray over his lap. Sat on the edge of the bed and let her gaze travel over his torso for her own personal enjoyment. "The best part."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  She glanced down pointedly, imagining his A.M. hard -on under the poufy cover. "I hope you wake up hungry."

  "Yes, ma'am, I do." He drained the glass of juice, the column of his throat shifting. She should have thought to bring him more. "This looks delicious. Smells it, too."

  He started to eat, and she got off the bed and prowled the room, peering at the photographs. Most, as expected, of Mike and Rosemary.

  She was beautiful. Exactly as Vivian pictured her. Petite, blond, wholesome, slightly fragile, gazing adoringly at a grinning Mike at the beach. Gazing adoringly at a grinning Mike on a ship somewhere. Quite a few gazing adoringly at a grinning Mike on their wedding day.

  "Good omelet, thanks."

  "You're welcome." She picked up one of the wedding pictures. "Did you marry her in Kettle?"

  "Yes." He spoke with his mouth full. "Her family was from here."

  "Yours, too?"

  "Mine, too."

  "Your parents still alive?"

  "Sure."

  She blinked and turned to face him. Somehow she thought of him as completely alone in the world. "They're still in Kettle?"

  "Yes." He took a sip of coffee. "I have dinner there every Sunday night like a good son should."

  Her mouth spread into a smile at his mildly sarcastic tone. She loved when he cracked the sweet -boy mold and showed some spice.

  "You close to them?"

  "They're good people."

  She let him get away with the dodge and looked back at the photograph, at Mike's grin of pure bliss, at Rosemary's sappy devotion. "How about her parents?"

  "They moved away."

  She wandered over to the closet and drew back the sliding wooden door. Her mouth dropped. Keeping it open for effect, she turned back to Mike, who had the sense to look uncomfortable.

  Rosemary's clothes were still hanging in the damn closet.

  Jesus. She let out a harsh laugh that was not at all about humor. "I'm sorry, were you planning to let this woman die any time soon?"

  "Close the door."

  "Why, you don't want her smell to escape?"

  "Close it." He thudded the mug back down; coffee sloshed over the rim and scalded the cheery fl oaty angels.

  "Right." She closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded, glaring accusingly. "Now tell me again how you are soooo much farther along in the 'process' than I am."

  "Oh for—"

"At least I admit Ed's gone."

"Stop."

  "Oh no." She waggled her finger. "This isn't the other night. This isn't about me taunting you where I've no right to. I've got you by the balls this time, fair and square."

  He picked up the coffee, took several leisurely sips, apparently not intending to continue the conversation.

  Vivian wanted to roar. Nothing pissed her off more than being shut out. Ed's favorite trick, he knew her buttons like he knew fi ne cognacs and cigars and g -spots.

  "What is the point of keeping her clothes here, Mike?" She gestured to the door with the neat row of dresses, blouses, and skirts behind it. "She's been dead two years. How long are you going to hide behind that shit?"

  "Probably as long as you're going to hide behind the makeup and big -tits attitude."

  She stared at him incredulously. "Excuse me?"

  "What I said."

  "Like I'm wearing this as some costume?"

  "Yes."

  She burst out laughing. A big nasty blast of enjoyment.

  "You know I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart, but hey, news flash. I don't have an inner Rosemary longing to get out." She spread her arms wide. "What you see is what you get."

  "Right."

  She laughed again, a hoarse shout of it. He was too damn much. "Sorry to burst your Disney bubble, but it's true. Ask anyone who knows me."

  "Who does?"

  "Ed did." Her laughter this time sounded strangled. Her body had tightened to the verge of shaking. She needed to back away from this conversation and this room and this house, but her tragic flaw was that she never backed away from anything. "Ed knew me inside out, and look how he treated me. Not like an ingenue, I'll tell you that."

  "Ed was an abusive asshole."

  "Yeah, but he was
my
abusive asshole. And when it got too much I killed him and solved all my problems." She let her arms drop, as if that explained everything, aware her breath was coming too high, her voice sounding manic, and that he'd pick up on all of it and be fooled by none, damn his Boy Scout honor. "Does that sound like Anne of Green Gables?"