Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (4 page)

  The lock gave suddenly, and the weight she'd been leaning against the door propelled her inside, not even giving her the courtesy of a long breath and solemn step over the threshold to experience the deep symbolism of the moment.

  Instead, she dropped half the clothes onto what instantly registered as the ugliest linoleum on earth, and gave an undignified grunt, which she followed with some of her choicest curse words.

  "Nice mouth."

  She glanced back at her erstwhile hero and nearly let him have one of her all -time favorites for his very own.

  One dark male eyebrow lifted as if he heard the word she'd chosen for him without her having to say it, and she swallowed and glanced around the kitchen instead, gut sinking in despair.

  Oh. God. Either she'd forgotten how bad it was or someone else had come in and wrought Kountry Kitchen hell. Green and blue pastel bunnies hopped around the white walls among sprigs of pink ivy, nibbling flat orange carrots; shiny red apples and mallard ducks cozied up on the cabinets. Cheery curtains with ruffles and smiling yellow and red Gerbera daisies fi ltered out the daylight.

  She thought back to her and Ed's kitchen: granite countertops, hardwood floors, copper, glass, stainless appliances. No bunnies.

  She was going to hurl.

  "Not what you're used to?"

  She turned and looked up at Mike, surprised at his intuition. Men she knew didn't tune in to women's feelings. Or rather, they tuned them out, too busy concentrating on their own, which were always more important and more weighty and, of course, always right.

  He was taller than he'd seemed outside, taller than Ed by nearly a foot. Ed had been Napoleon -short and just as complex. Mike was broader and damn handsome, with a farm boy, military edge. His eyes were blue, the shade that always seemed bright and alive, surrounded by dark lashes. Very sexy combination, fresh youth and weary cynicism. She wondered what had happened to start the transition.

  "How old are you, Mike?"

  "Thirty-three."

  She waited to see if he'd ask how old she was. Maybe he already knew; the trial hadn't left much of her private.

  He didn't.

  "I'll be forty soon." She waited to see if he'd ask when.

  He didn't.

  "November ninth. All gifts of expensive jewelry accepted. No fur, no cheap champagne, caviar is fi ne, but only if it's—"

  "Are you going to make me stand in your kitchen holding your underwear all day?"

  She laughed, a short burst of surprise. "Not today. But maybe we can arrange that another time, hmm?"

  He actually smiled, with both sides of his mouth. But not like he thought that was a terrific idea and he accepted. More like his teenage daughter had made her first clever comeback and he was proud while trying not to be.

  She suddenly wanted his arrogant silence out of her ugly house so she could be alone and fall apart with no dignity.

  "You can take my underwear to my bedroom and I'll follow you. I assume you know the house. I don't remember it."

  He nodded and preceded her into the living room, a horror in baby -blue shag carpet with a faded yellow -and-blue fl oral living room set, then up the baby -blue shag -carpeted stairs to the baby -blue shag -carpeted hallway.

  
Gran, what were you thinking?

  "This is the master bedroom." Silent Mike stood in the hall with his armload of female clothing and jerked his head toward the door on his left.

  "Please no more shag."

  "Hardwood."

  "Thank God." She vaguely remembered this room as something special—some memory associated with it . . . She pushed in and groaned. Old -lady heaven. A canopied bed with an eyelet cover, lace doilies on every flat surface, porcelain cherubs, keepsake boxes, a Jesus wall clock, the ugliest possible blue -and-brown wallpaper on two walls and the remaining two painted, one blue, one brown, gag her.

  In the corner, there, the three -story dollhouse—smaller than she remembered, but she'd been smaller then, too— impeccably furnished down to soup ladles hanging over the stove, and tiny crocheted pot holders. She'd played here with someone . . . someone local.

  Who knew? Who cared?

  "How special is this?" She dumped her armful of clothing on the eyelet bedspread, expecting a cloud of dust. Not a speck. "Clean, anyway."

  "Yes." He dumped his load next to hers and tramped off to get another, she imagined. Nice of him.

  She lingered, crossed to the dollhouse, and picked up the tiny figure of a girl, blond thread hair, carefully stitched clothes, tiny padded legs with wire inside so she'd pose.
Emily
?

  Jesus, she freaked herself out. Hadn't even thought of this doll in thirty years and the name popped into her head.

  Whatever. She put the doll down and left the room, trying to make it down the blue shag staircase without wincing. She had big jobs ahead of her. This house needed shaking up. So did Mike.

  And so, she had a feeling, did Kettle.

Four

Excerpt from Sarah Bannon's valedictorian speech

Kettle High graduation

And so I send you off today, exhorting you to turn your energy outward on the world, not only to benefi t yourselves, but to make it a better place, with hard work, honesty, kindness, and beauty. The world might see us as young and inconsequential, but it needs and deserves the power of our youth and ideals. I leave you with this quote from Amy Bankson, a Kettle suffragette in the fi rst part of this century. "The power to make a difference is not handed to us, nor is it innate. It is something we must want badly enough to go forth and grab for ourselves."

"Amber, honey?" Sarah sugarcoated her voice, her body tensing the aggravating way it always did when she had to confront her daughter. Sarah was the boss; she shouldn't fi nd this so diffi cult.

  "What, Mom?" Amber managed to inflict an image of weary eye rolling into every sentence. Sometimes it was hard to remember the sweet child who tried to copy everything Sarah did.

  "Were you planning to wear that to school?" She tried hard to hold back the over-my-dead-body tone that always set her daughter off. But Amber looked like a slut in her current outfi t—tight blue hip -hugger pants and an equally tight knit top that didn't quite meet her jeans, and left nothing to the imagination in the breast department. Somehow Amber had evaded Sarah's genes and managed to grow beautiful breasts, which was wonderful for her, of course, but no daughter of Sarah's would show up in public looking like a slut.

  "No, I put it on just to eat breakfast."

  "I could do without the sarcasm. And you're not wearing that to school."

  "
Mo-om
."

  Sarah's head started to throb. It should be illegal for children to draw out the mom syllable in that particular protesting tone. "Where did you buy that outfi t?"

  "At the mall last weekend with Tanya. Please Mom, all the other kids dress like this, it's no big deal." Her daughter shrugged and looked down at herself, her beautiful, chin length, auburn hair falling in wispy, fl ippy clumps that made it look as if random hairdressers had taken random snips whenever the mood struck them.

  Disapproving of today's styles made Sarah feel old. And looking at her daughter's lush, frankly female figure made her feel dried up and even older, and about as sexual as a dead bug.

  "It's a big deal to me, Amber. Boys will look at your body instead of at you. No woman wants to be just a body to men." Even as she said the words, she remembered desperately wanting boys to look at her skinny, underdeveloped dancer's body the way they looked at girls who looked like Amber. How different it all was on this side of the parenting chasm.

  "Mom, you are so hung up about sex."

  Sarah inhaled sharply. "Amber."

  "These are
clothes
. The boys will just see clothes."

  "No, they won't, honey. Trust me. Go up and change."

  "You never let me do
anything.
I am the most restricted girl in the whole
town.
I can't stay out late, I can't wear what I want, I can't eat what I want. You don't like my boyfriend, you don't like my—"

  "That's enough, Amber. Go take it off." Sarah's voice came out harsher than she intended. She was generally anxious not to thwart Amber's self -confidence and individuality, but she'd woken up feeling uncharacteristically cranky and disoriented. The day was unusually warm and windy, an abrupt change from the gradual fall chilling she enjoyed so much every year. Her sinuses had responded as usual by making her face feel as if a lead balloon had been inflated behind her eyes. Maybe that was it.

  Or maybe it was that Vivian person moving in only a few houses down the block. Mrs. Entwhistle had called yesterday afternoon to tell Sarah to look out her front window. She had, and been treated to a sight that confirmed her worst fears. Brazen, overtly sexual, practically throwing herself at Mike. She was exactly the kind of woman Sarah dreaded her daughter having any contact with. An especially bad omen that Amber showed up this morning dressed nearly the same way Vivian had been yesterday, though of course Amber had bought the clothes with her trampy friend Tanya before Vivian showed up.

  Sarah planned to do the right thing and visit Vivian this morning with one of her carrot cakes made with pineapple and reduced -fat cream cheese frosting. Frankly, she dreaded it.

  Amber stomped upstairs, making sure the impact of each foot on each step could be heard throughout the county. Sarah cringed, waiting for the slam of her room door.

  
Slam
.

  So damn predictable.

  "Coffee ready?" Her husband ambled into the kitchen, freshly shaved and looking so handsome in his usual jeans and cotton shirt. His medium brown hair was thick as ever, though a little more of his forehead showed every year. And his brows had grown wild; she'd suggested he tweeze and trim, but then he wasn't much for her suggestions. A man very much of his own opinions, and how she admired that about him.

  "Yes, good morning, dear." She walked up to him, needing the feel of his arms around her. They exchanged their usual quick peck on the lips before he folded her in his embrace.

  Funny how she always felt hugging the man you loved should feel like drowning in his arms. She never got the impression Ben was trying to drown her. More like a lifesaving maneuver, careful, efficient, and practical. But then he was a very efficient and practical man, another of his many fi ne qualities, so it wasn't as if she was complaining.

  "I'm ready." Amber clumped back downstairs, wearing her rattiest shirt over the jeans and those dreadful shoes that made her feet look like black boats on top of black bricks.

  Sarah chose not to fight. Amber didn't look slutty anymore, and if she wanted to think she was sticking it to Mom by looking ratty instead, she'd get no satisfaction from Sarah acting stuck.

  "Juice is on the table, the eggs are ready, I'll dish them up. The toast is in the oven staying warm."

  Her family sat and ate in silence, Amber's sullen, Ben's distracted, Sarah's contemplative; silverware clinking against the bistro chinaware she'd gotten from CooksCorner.com, so cheery in bright colors and so sophisticated at the same time. Sarah liked her things to be a reflection of herself, and she liked to think she was cheery and sophisticated.

  Breakfast over, she stopped herself from giving her daughter a kiss on her way out the door, and stopped herself from asking Ben for another one as he disappeared into his offi ce. She cleared the table and did the dishes, dried them and put everything away. Vacuumed the floor—should she mop it, too?

  No. No reason to keep putting this errand off. Just get to the house, give Vivian the cake, and be gracious and polite so Vivian would know Kettle was a warm and forgiving town, Sarah most especially, being the first to welcome her. Then Sarah could come home and try not to think about having a murderess for a neighbor for who knew how long.

  She glanced at the cake on the counter, carefully frosted to

a smooth, perfect finish, nestled in a loaf -sized basket lined with a red -and-white checked cloth. She'd decorated the handle of the basket with sprigs of thyme from her garden and a calendula blossom. The basket really looked lovely.

  
So.
She took off the apron Amber bought her at age seven—with Ben's financial help of course—that said
Mom Is Queen of the Kitchen
in green embroidered letters. The M of
Mom
was decorated like a crown. She adored the apron and had actually hesitated to use it in case it got stained, but that disappointed Amber so much that Sarah gave in.

  
Okay
. The apron went back on the hook in her broom closet. She smoothed her olive -colored cotton knit pants from LandsEnd.com, slim fit they called them—and she still had the body to pull off slim fit, unlike some women who seemed to think stretch pants gave them license to stuff—and carefully redistributed the folds of her cream -colored turtleneck under the waistband.

  
Well.
She picked up the cake and walked to her foyer, holding herself tall. Out the door—which she'd had trouble leaving unlocked after all those years in New York, but why bother here in Kettle—south three houses, across the street, and up to the Harcourt house's front door. No one else used front doors in Kettle, but Vivian was new, and using the front door was a measure of respect. Which was always a nice thing to show, even if one didn't necessarily feel much of it.

  She fluffed her hair, then tucked it behind her ears and rang the bell, astonished at how nervous she was. Sarah prided herself on maintaining poise and calm in the face of nearly any adversity. She and Ben had had one diffi cult neighbor in their building in New York, but Sarah had worn her down with kindness. Surely that would be the case here, too. Most people couldn't resist persistent kindness. A shame not many realized it was one of humanity's most powerful weapons.

  The dark green door remained firmly shut; Sarah leaned in to listen. Nine -thirty on a Wednesday morning, was Vivian still asleep? Or out? Her car was here. Sarah rang the bell again, tamping down the hope that sprang eternal. If Vivian wasn't home now, Sarah would just have to come back. Much better to get it over with while the cake was fresh and the day young.

  There. She heard footsteps up to the door, then a pause as Vivian no doubt peered through the peephole. Sarah put on a pleasant smile so Vivian would know she had a friendly visitor. Most likely Vivian hadn't encountered too many friendly people recently. Sarah would likely be a refreshing change. But then when you murdered an attractive and important man like Ed Branson, you couldn't expect a steady stream of admirers.

  The door swished open, Vivian appeared. For a second, Sarah was taken aback by the woman's sheer beauty. She looked like Catherine Zeta -Jones, only more so. She wore the same jeans she'd had on yesterday, and something resembling a laced -up corset, which made her breasts swell carelessly out of the top. Her long hair was perfectly tousled; she smelled expensive and rare and as beautiful as she looked.

  "Ye -es?" Vivian drew out the syllable in obvious irritation, which flustered Sarah more.

  Honestly. Sarah wasn't exactly an eyesore herself, and she had the distinct advantage of belonging here and letting her loved ones continue living.

  "I'm Sarah. Gilchrist. I live up the street." She turned and pointed. "The brick house with the maroon chrysanthemums in the white wagon planter."

  "That's the one I would have guessed."

  Sarah stayed facing her beautifully landscaped front yard with the antique wooden wagon she'd bought and painted herself, because she had no idea if she'd just been complimented or insulted and she needed a minute to decide.

  Better to decide she'd been complimented.

  "Welcome to the neighborhood." She held up her cake in the little decorated basket and knew with instant certainty by the amusement on Vivian's face, that she'd decided wrong.

  "How nice of you, Sarah. It looks delicious."

  Sarah's face burned. She had to work not to hug her beautiful cake back to her chest and go home.

  Especially when Vivian drew a long red fi ngernail across the top of the cake, leaving an ugly groove through which orange -brown crumbs showed. Worse, she opened her lips into a pouty circle and sucked the frosting off her fi nger as if it were part of a sex act Ben never let Sarah try anymore.

  Sarah's goodwill began to dissolve like the sugar and reduced-fat cream cheese on Vivian's tongue.

  "Come on in." Vivian took the basket and disappeared into the house, leaving Sarah in an agony of indecision. She didn't want to go into the house of this murderer who insulted her and ruined her perfect frosting. But to refuse would be shockingly rude, and Sarah was never shockingly rude.

  "You coming?" Vivian reappeared and fixed Sarah with a look as if she thought her mentally defi cient.

"Yes. Thank you. I can't stay long."

"No one asked you to stay long." She disappeared again.

  Sarah took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold, reminding herself of the power of persistent kindness. She'd visited Vivian's grandmother Estelle here, and Edna, Estelle's good friend and companion, who had lived here for the past five years after Estelle died. Now Edna had moved to Milwaukee to live with her daughter.

  The house was charming. Not Sarah's taste exactly, but she dreaded thinking what this woman would do to it. Sarah and Ben had been at a party in New York once where the photographer husband had hung a full -sized nude picture of his wife in their living room. Sarah and Ben hadn't known where to look. Vivian would probably decorate like that. Except she couldn't be thinking of staying. Once the trial furor died down, she'd be off again to find her next fi nancial protector.

  Sarah found Vivian in the kitchen, having cut a piece of carrot cake.

  "Breakfast." She lifted the piece and took a huge bite. "Mmm, that is awesome. You want some?"