Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (30 page)

  Downstairs, she chugged a glass of orange juice and grabbed a granola bar she'd made herself from oats and peanut butter and honey, with chocolate chips just for the fun of it. She went outside, stretched, and started off. Over on Maple, up Spring to Main, and today she chose the direction she'd avoided for a while.

  Running, running, feeling the high, the power and ease of her stride, the chill of the air becoming more of a friend as her body warmed. On the way back at the last second—though she probably knew all along she'd go this way—she veered down the track into the woods. She hadn't seen Jordan's house for a while. Maybe he'd be there himself. Or maybe not.

  His house came into view, and she saw him standing next to a car in the driveway; he must be leaving for work. He wore a suit and an overcoat and was loading a briefcase into the car, though the engine wasn't running yet.

  She passed by and turned her head to smile at him, not tripping this time.

  "Hi . . .
Hi."
He looked as glad to see her as she was to see him, which was silly, since they didn't know each other at all.

  "Hi." She sped up, feeling herself blush, and ran down the road, five yards, ten, fi fteen, twenty . . . Then she jogged in place, breathing the chilly air scented with the coming of spring.

  And turned around and jogged back, dropping to a walk several feet from his driveway. He wasn't there, but she knew he'd be back out soon, so she waited, pacing at the edge of the road, letting her breathing quiet from the running, though the nerves wouldn't let it quiet far.

  His front door opened and he came out again, this time carrying a bundle that made Erin's heart crash into her stomach like an elevator with a snapped cable.

  A baby. He was married and she was a complete fool.

  "Hey." He walked toward her, cradling the child, and Erin dropped her eyes to her shoes, new ones she'd bought with her own money.

  "I'm Jordan."

  "I remember. I'm . . . Erin."

  "Nice to meet you officially, Erin. And good to see you." He grinned, and she wanted to die from his warm and gorgeous smile belonging to someone else. "This is my daughter, Letitia."

  "She's beautiful." Erin's heart jumped back up into place and beat painfully. Dark eyes, dark hair, regarding Erin with a somber stare. "How old is she?"

  "Nearly eighteen months." He cleared his throat. "Her mother . . . passed on shortly after she was born."

  "Oh. I'm sorry." She was sorry. Terribly sorry. And also . . . not.

  "It was tough." He was looking at her again, dark eyes full of something she couldn't read. "But then life goes on."

  "Oh. Yes." She swallowed, touched the tiny red coat, trying not to give away her excitement. "Hi, Letitia. You look very nice in your red coat."

  "Wed coat."

  Erin laughed. How perfect, how perfect she was. She wanted to touch her own nose to the pudgy sweet cheek and inhale the little -girl smell. "And you have a beautiful name."

  Letitia ducked her head against her father's chest and peeked up coyly.

  "Thank you." Jordan laughed and kissed the top of her dark soft hair. "I chose it for her."

  "Is it a family name?"

  "No." He smiled at Erin in a way that made her think something here was meant to be. "In Latin, Letitia means 'joy.' "

+

AUTHOR

INSIGHTS,

EXTRAS, &

MORE...

FROM

ISABEL

SHARPE

AND

AVON A

, & MORE...

S

A

TR

, EX

S

UTHOR INSIGHT

A

A+

THE M REPORT

Hello and all hail, darlings, your intrepid interviewer salutes you from our cozy and luxurious hacienda in Beverly Hills, or maybe from our fabulous loft in the Village, or perhaps we're on our private Caribbean island? Who knows, who can tell? Just be sure we're somewhere supremely much more fabulous than you.

  One thing we know, we were recently somewhere not nearly as sensational as what we are used to, or—we cough delicately—what we deserve. And yet a plum assignment by anyone's standards, even those as astronomically high as ours. An interview with Lorelei Taylor, née Vivian Harcourt, a Where Is She Now piece, two years after the trial that got America's knickers in an unattractive twist.

  First, we had to find her, and find her we did, my duckies. Not in Vegas, not in New Orleans, not New York or L.A., but Portland, Maine, the home of . . . well, who the hell knows? Positively not
nous
.

  We are to meet her one god - awful, gray, foggy day at a place of her choosing. Please, darlings, by all means go humble if you must, but don't stoop to clam shacks. Not when meeting us. This quite fetching reporter couldn't help wondering how much of the war zone dining was for effect. A dash of sticking - it - to - us by not reserving
un table
at the city's best.

Oh, but tell us we haven't become cynical in our young age.

  She's late of course, only ten minutes, but late enough that ours truly went ahead and ordered hot tea, since our internal temperature had been lowered by then to fifty - three damp, penetrating degrees. Have Mainiacs not heard of the concept of spring?

S

, EX

TR

A

S

, & MORE...

America's favorite criminaless's happy trip through the justice

system? But in person—well, let's just say that though our

, & MORE...

S

own beauty is of course legendary, she took our breath away.

A

We didn't even entertain thoughts of having her offed because

TR

of it, since then we'd no longer be able to gawk. And we are

neither male nor lesbian.

, EX

The bigger surprise? Total absence of tarty outfi t. Jeans

S
and a white sweater, not low - cut and not even particularly tight. She looks—God forgive us for the word we are about to utter—wholesome. We, dear readers, are as unflappable as a rock—a beautiful, gemlike, and valuable rock, you understand—but for a few seconds after she sits down, not offering her hand to shake, we notice, our composure is—we blush becomingly to admit—

UTHOR INSIGHT

rattled. In her presence we can see how men fall like bowling

A

pins around her, and it makes even this jaded—though still

young, of course—heart wonder what she ever saw in Ed, who

A+

we once thought the epitome of gentlemanhood, but of late

have used the term
cockroach
.

Wait, was that a smattering of sympathy for Lorelei Taylor

we heard coming from our collagen - plumped lips? How can

this be? She killed him, right?

We start the interview.

"So tell me, Lorelei, how—"

"Vivian." She says this with a smile lovely enough to be

one of ours, but we get the message that it would be best not

to keep up with the Lorelei stuff if we value our good looks,

which we don't need to tell you we do, immensely.

"Vivian, of course. How are you liking life in this charm

ing . . ." We gesture around the grease - spattered walls of

the clam shack, making sure we drip disdain over the rough

tables and dirty floor. ". . . city? Not quite what you're used to,

hmm?"

"Portland has a lot going on," she opines, like a good cham

ber of commerce employee, which she isn't unless she's hid

  "A life." Her lips, painted the subtlest shade of rose, which we are afraid suffers in comparison to our riotous red—or is it vice versa?—tighten, and we suspect she is thinking poignant things about not having had much of a life before, which is not nearly shallow enough for us, so we move on.

"And Mike, your handyman."

"He's part of that life, yes."

Oh God, then she gets that gloopy, superior look on her

face that we simply can't abide. We congratulate ourselves for not inviting Mike, since this would be the moment for coupley gazing, and our clams would be hurled across the table before we even ate them.

  "So you've been married six months. I'm sure my wedding invite got lost in the mail . . ."

  She acknowledges our fairly lame joke with the slightest lift of one dark brow and tells the waiter to bring her fried clams. Before we can open our mouth to insist on salad if there is such a thing on the premises without iceberg, she orders clams for us, too, then stares in open challenge.

  "Where was your wedding?" We never back down from a challenge, so we hand the waiter our menu with a charming smile.

"City hall."

"Dress?"

"Suit. Ivory. Small bouquet of white roses."

She scores more points in our personal book for not gush

ing on, Bridezilla - like, about every detail. "Were your families there or did you elope?"

  "My mom came out from Chicago. I hadn't seen her in a while so that was nice. And Mike's parents were there."

"Mike was married before, though, wasn't he?" Oh, and

good for us, we got a slight—very slight, since she is a pro—stiffening of her body in response to our shamelessly manipulative question, which we hurled at her after being kind so she'd relax. For you see we are pros, too.

S

, EX

TR

A

S

, & MORE...

We are not prepared for the trace of smug amusement on

her comely face, which makes us wonder frantically if and

, & MORE...

S

how we miscalculated. All our sources had Mike and Rose

A

mary joined at the hip—which by the way there is surgery for

TR

now, in case anyone hasn't heard.

"That was a long time ago."

, EX

There is more to this story. Our ferret nose is positively

S
twitching. But her stare is uncompromising, her delicate chin held firm, and we sense we won't get much more there. We graciously accede and find ourselves grudgingly respecting her strength. In any case, we have ahead of us plenty of time and resources to snoop further. We make a note. "You haven't been back to Kettle since you moved here with Mike."

UTHOR INSIGHT

"No. I'll be going back soon, though. For a friend's

A

wedding."

We knew this of course, and are slightly disappointed that

A+

she came out with it herself, so we couldn't drop the big

bomb.

"How lovely." In compensation, we make sure our voice

shows how little we care.

"It is. She deserves a lot of happiness."

"Erin, you mean. Yes." The waiter has brought the clams

by now and we spear one, making sure our apprehension and

disgust are on our face, though frankly, they smell delicious.

"How remarkable that her husband died the way Ed did, so

soon after you showed up in Kettle. I hadn't realized bathtub

accidents happened so frequently."

Oh we are so
so
good. She is clearly disconcerted.

"People need to be aware of how dangerous it is to mix

water and electricity." She slides a clam into her mouth, man

ages to chew it calmly, and swallows. We give her credit.

"To be sure. Especially when you mix water and electricity

and abusive men who need to disappear."

She comes on fierce, as we hoped she would, but to our

to deposit it immediately back into a napkin, but our defeat is crushing. It is sweet and rich and absolutely delicious, and we anticipate finishing the entire basket, even if it means extra antacids tonight. "But I want to know, and all my readers do as well."

  "They watched me on TV every day for six months. They know as much as I do."

  "Do you think you've inspired other women to bump off their husbands?"

  "Oh, for—" She half rises, and for a second—please understand how rare this is—we wonder if we've gone too far. Then she leans forward, and we make a note that if we survive this interview, we must ask her about her divine perfume.