Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (5 page)

  "No, thank you. I've had breakfast."

  "So." She watched Sarah with an appraising look that made it plain she found Sarah lacking. Given the source, Sarah would take that as a compliment, too. "Have a seat and tell me about Sarah."

  Sarah sat on one of the kitchen chairs and tried not to stare at the crumb that had shot out of Vivian's mouth during the sentence and landed on the admittedly dingy linoleum.

  "I'm . . . I have a husband, Ben, and a daughter, Amber. She's sixteen, and—"

"Did I ask you about them?"

  Sarah flinched and felt herself starting to get irritated. "You asked me to tell you—"

  "About you. Not your husband or your kid."

  A little smile automatically jumped onto Sarah's lips to block any chance of showing her annoyance. "I see."

  "What do you do for fun in this town?"

  "Well, I'm a member of the Kettle Social Club."

  "Yeah? What's that about?" Vivian stuffed the last bite of cake into her mouth and licked her fingers. "You want a beer?"

  Sarah stifled a gasp. "It's a bit early for me."

  "Right." Vivian opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer with a red label. "Found this at the supermarket. Decent stuff. Brewed in Wisconsin. It's good."

  She unscrewed the top, took a swallow, and dug another hunk of Sarah's cake out of the basket. "Change your mind?"

  "No. Thank you." She barely suppressed a shudder.

  "What does the Social Club do?"

  "We meet Thursday mornings at ten at the Lutheran church on the corner." She pointed in a northerly direction.

  "And?"

  "We organize events for the town. Right now we're working on the Halloween party, held on the twenty -ninth."

  "I love parties! You need any new members?"

  Sarah's body grew rigid. She still had the uncomfortable feeling that Vivian was making fun of her. "We are . . . that is . . . I don't think—"

  "I'll show up Thursday—that's tomorrow, right?"

". . . yes."

  "See what it's about. You don't mind, do you?" Her eyes went innocently wide; she took another swallow of beer.

  "Of . . . course not."

  Vivian was definitely making fun. She was exactly as Sarah expected her to be. In a word: A bitch. Just what Kettle didn't need. Everyone here was used to Joan. Joan was harmless. But for some reason Sarah felt his woman would not be.

  "So tell me, Sarah Social Club . . ."

  "Yes?" She couldn't help the slight edge to her voice, even as she kept reminding herself to keep it about kindness.

  "What do you know about the very sexy Mike next door?"

  A queasy feeling grew in Sarah's stomach, and not just from watching the combination of beer and cake being ingested before ten A.M. Vivian's voice had softened and her eyes had sharpened, and the result reminded Sarah of the big bad wolf just before he sprang from Grandmother's bed. With sudden panic, she imagined Vivian getting similar ideas about Tom Martin. "Mike."

  "Yes. Mike."

  "He does construction, handyman repairs, that sort of thing, for many of the people in Kettle. He's very good."

  "I bet. You sure you don't want a beer?" Vivian poured half of hers down her throat. "It's damn good."

  "No. Thank you."

  "Is he married?"

  ". . . No." The word came unwillingly. "He's widowed."

  "Oh, too bad."

  Clearly it wasn't. "Are you . . . interested in him?"

"If I wasn't, would I be asking questions?"

  Fists. Her hands were in fists. The woman was impossible. "I mean in developing a relationship with him."

  "No."

  "I see." Sarah tried not to show her relief.

  "I just want in his pants."

  This time Sarah's gasp couldn't be stifled. Her face started to burn red for the second time that morning.

  Vivian chuckled. "Does he have a girlfriend?"

  "No." She was glad to fling that word at her. "He wouldn't. He loved his wife."

  Vivian stopped chewing; her eyes narrowed. "So?"

  "He can't bring himself to look at another woman." She made sure her voice stayed free of triumph. Vivian would pounce and swallow her whole, and there probably weren't any woodcutters lurking around to free Sarah from such a fate. But inside she was saying,
Ha, there's one man you won't get in his bathtub.
Mike's devotion to his late wife was something rare and quite wonderful.

  "That is totally pathetic."

  Sarah drew herself up, leaving her kind smile behind. "Losing a loved one is extremely traumatic."

  "Tell me something I don't know."

  Sarah's jaw dropped. She
dared
compare her loss to Mike's? "I don't think the circumstances are quite the same."

  "Because . . . ?"

  "You weren't married."

  "Ah, right. That half -hour ceremony explains everything."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "Then what did you mean?"

  Sarah set her lips together and changed positions on the wooden chair. "I meant—"

  "That he didn't kill her?"

  "Exactly. He loved her."

  "And I didn't love Ed."

  "How could you love him if you did that?"

  Vivian burst out laughing. Sarah couldn't believe it. She laughed and laughed as if Sarah had told a joke or recounted some funny TV episode. Then in the middle of laughing, her features contorted as if she were going to cry instead, but so quickly, Sarah must have imagined it. Because almost as soon as the change registered, Vivian smoothed her features, then stopped laughing quite so loudly, and eventually fi nished off her amusement with quieter chuckles and a few gasps.

  Then she lifted the edge of the corset thing to try and wipe her eyes, but it was too tight and stiff, so she bent down and used the red -checked cloth under the cake, careful not to smudge her overly abundant makeup.

  "I'm betting you don't wear much gray, do you, Sarah."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Not much gray in your wardrobe? Mostly black? Or white?"

  Sarah furrowed her forehead. This woman completely confused her. "I think I better go."

  "Awww, you just got here."

  "I'm sorry, but I have things to do."

  "Like what?"

  A forceful puff of air exited Sarah's mouth. Did this woman know nothing of manners? "I have things to do at home."

  "For example?"

"I need to leave."

"I'm not stopping you."

  Sarah fled for the front door, horrified to feel Vivian's hand on her arm just as she was about to escape. "Sarah."

  Sarah forced her last bit of control to stay in place. She wouldn't fall apart here, no matter what. "Yes, Vivian?"

  "What do you think of the decor in this house?"

  "It's very nice. I like it."

  "Come on. Seriously?"

  "I—" She closed her eyes. This was the gravest challenge to her composure she'd faced in a long time. Frankly, she'd like to sock this woman in her perfect nose.

  "Let me tell you something, Sarah. I want you to listen carefully because this is important." Vivian's hand on Sarah's arm tightened, and Sarah's lids sprang open.

  Vivian leaned closer, so close that Sarah could smell the beer on her breath and notice the truly beautiful shape of her mouth. "Around me you can cut the bullshit. Okay?"

  Sarah was so startled, she looked into Vivian's eyes, expecting mockery again, and was even more startled to fi nd none.

  Her gaze flew frantically around the baby -blue-and-yellow living room. What did this horrible person want from her? "It's a bit . . . dated."

  Vivian grinned, then chuckled, then let out a laugh that was more in control, more fun than her explosion in the kitchen.

  "I'll see you tomorrow morning at the meeting."

  Sarah pulled her arm free and managed to leave without saying what she so desperately wanted to say.

  
I'll see you in hell fi rst.

Five

Lorelei Taylor's letter to her mother June 1990

Well I guess I haven't written for a couple of years. I actually called a few times, but Dad always answers and I can't handle talking to him. He should be in jail for what he did to me and it pisses me off that he's not.

  
I'm moving to New York. I met a guy at a party in Hugh Hefner's mansion, believe it or not—Ed Branson, Mr. Publishing. He's forty- eight, rich as hell, and I know this is going to sound weird, but I fell for him at first sight. And I don't even believe in that stuff.

  
Anyway, I know I haven't been much of a daugh ter, but you weren't much of a mom, either, especially when I needed you to protect me, so we're even. Still, it didn't feel right leaving Illinois without telling you, so I guess that says something. Maybe when you're an old lady and I'm a saggy, middle - aged ex- stripper we can get together for coffee.

Lorelei, aka Vivian, your little disappointment

  Vivian yanked up the last corner of the baby -blue shag carpet in her new living room, a viscerally satisfying popping and ripping sound as the rug came free. Damn hard work. Her hands were raw and covered with scrapes, her attempt at a manicure shot, and now she had about a million staples and blocks of wood nailed to the hardwood floor to pry up.

  Some other time.

  She'd been working all day, driven by demons anxious to waylay her the second she relaxed. She'd started in as soon as Sarah left—and what was with that woman? My God, Vivian had never met anyone who needed to get laid more thoroughly. That husband of hers must not be getting the job done.

  That kind of woman set off evil in Vivian. She'd met too many, mostly at parties with Ed. Inevitably, when the appeal of Vivian's humble origins—and her youth —began to fade, Ed had started sneaking around, with twenty -something Abby, whose
Mayfl ower
ancestors probably hired Vivian's to shovel their stables.

  Women like Abby and Sarah took such pleasure looking down their nose jobs at Lorelei Taylor. She couldn't help wanting to push at that perfect exterior and see if there was anything real inside—guts and organs and pulsing blood. Or whether they were completely hollow, implanted with chips programmed by House and Garden TV and the Home Shopping Network.

  With the shit Vivian had just been through, and the bad assed mood she woke up in, the simple fact of Sarah's existence had provoked her to the sleaze outfit and the drinking -fi rst thing-in-the-morning show. The rest of that beer had gone down the sink the minute Sarah left. But life was too damn short to waste prissing around pretending a husband and child, a wagon full of chrysanthemums, and perfect carrot cake defi ned happiness.

  So Vivian needled her and had been rewarded with the beginnings of a flareout Sarah couldn't quite block. Vivian would absolutely love to see her lose her shit.

  After Sarah left, Vivian had gone to what passed for a supermarket here. There had to be a strip with bigger stores somewhere—Stenkel's General Store? Jesus. Campbell's soup and SpaghettiOs, raincoats and fi shing rods—everything a girl could want.

  Then she'd come back here with cans of tomato and cream of chicken soup and boxes of macaroni and cheese, put them away in the duck -decorated cupboards, and arranged the rest of her stuff in the old -lady house. She'd cleared out too-precious knickknacks and girly frilly crap, and opened windows to try to air out the musty smell of aging. Then the carpet; there was no way she could stand that another day. And yes, thank goodness, there was gorgeous hardwood underneath.

  Now at barely six -thirty, she was exhausted. She needed a drink. But if she stayed here and drank by herself, she was going to fall apart. Cry over everything that had ever been fucked up about her life, which was practically everything.

  She had to do something to block the grief that was rumbling at her like the huge stone ball in the fi rst Indiana Jones movie. Anything to stop the anticlimax release of stress from the trial. Anything to squirm out of facing that the man she loved had been stupid enough to fry his sorry ass in his bathtub, she hadn't been there to prevent it, and now she was stuck without him. In bumfuck, Wisconsin.

  A sob tried to come up into her throat—unbearable tightness. She sprang to her feet, breathing hard. Coming here had been a mistake. She should have taken off for Vegas, somewhere she could immerse herself in bright lights, big city, exhaust herself with men and booze and partying and sex, and not feel.

  In Kettle, there was nothing stopping her from feeling. Every last goddamn painful neurotic aspect. Not even shredding baby -blue shag carpet could keep her safe. Finding Ed, losing Ed, which had been more screwed up? Fourteen years of her life; she gave all but the last few happily. And even then, when his cruelty worsened, his rejections became more frequent, his supposedly secret visits to Abby multiplied, she hadn't stopped loving him. Which made her a masochistic idiot.

  She needed a drink, but not alone. This town must have a bar; it
had
to have a bar. No way could anyone survive Kettle sober, even if he thought he loved it here. She was going out to find the bar, and she wasn't coming back until she was too drunk to stay conscious. What's more, she was in enough of a mean/bitchy/nuts mood that she was going to dress up—
hi I'm Vivian I'll be your town's slutty murderess
—and have herself a ball. These people needed waking up. And she needed to piss people off.

  Upstairs to the de -knickknacked bedroom, though she left the dollhouse and Jesus clock alone for now, she yanked off the New York Giants T-shirt that had belonged to Ed. Got out of the seamless ivory bra, too, and put on her laciest black push -'em-together model. Over that, a red ribbed knit top, cut low enough to make the bra worthwhile. People would get what they expected, what they didn't realize they secretly needed her to be, so they could disapprove, feel moral, righteous, superior. They got what they wanted; so did she.

  If Ed were here, he'd stop her going out. He knew her moods, knew when she was on a manic high of self -destruction. But he wasn't here. And she wasn't about to deny herself the pleasure-pain of imploding.

  She stepped out of her panties, pulled on a thong and a pair of tight black stretch pants. Then her Manolo Blahnik black high-heeled pumps and the full makeup and jewelry treatment and a nice press -on-nails restoration of her manicure.

  Okay. Ready.

  She stared at herself in the fussy, gilt -framed mirror between the windows facing the street. She looked tired. And old. But the people in Kettle would have plenty to talk about regardless.

  Downstairs, outside, not bothering with a coat, she glanced at Mike's house and hesitated, wondering if she should knock on his door instead and see if he wanted to have a drink. Or come out with her.

  A car drove past her driveway and into his. A young, attractive blond, with a chin -length blunt bob and a
headband,
for God's sake—had no one a clue here?—carefully outfi tted in pleated khaki pants and a perfectly wrinkle -free forest green shirt, got out, reached into the backseat, and pulled out a covered dish.

  Car door closed, she started to Mike's front door as if down the aisle to her beaming groom. Halfway, she glanced over, met Vivian's stare, and nearly dropped the dish.

  "Oh . . . hi." She turned bright red and looked back over her shoulder, clearly craving the safety of her car.

  Vivian smiled, open and friendly. Even she wasn't messed up enough to pick on Virgin Nelly here. "Big date tonight?"

  "Oh." She erupted in nervous laughter. "I just thought Mike might like . . . this."

  She lifted the casserole dish like an offering to the gods, and stared at it uncertainly.

  "I'm sure he'll love it."

  "I hope so." She giggled again and hurried to his door.

  Vivian rolled her eyes and got into her car. Mike probably had a regular parade of hot dishes offering themselves. What had his wife been like? Virginal and sweet like little Nelly?

  Undoubtedly.

  She shot the car in reverse and peeled down the street, just to crank off the neighbors.
Oh that horrible Vivian Harcourt. Whole town went to hell when she moved here.

  News flash, neighbors. It's hell here already.

  Up to Spring Street, turn right, up to Main Street, turn

left. That was about as complicated as Kettle got. She cruised down Main and finally spotted a likely looking place on the left, just past the pharmacy. Harris's Tavern.

  She parked—there was even parking here—locked her car, and walked up to the brown -shingled exterior with frosted windows and a Budweiser sign glowing red. A few pedestrians passed, glancing curiously. Her nerves buzzed with anticipation; she was spoiling for a scene, a fight, anything but the bleakness of pain.

  
Hey, Kettle. Here comes your worst nightmare.
She pushed open the door.

  Her first reaction when she walked into the smoky gloom was intense relief. She half expected the place to be neon bright, squeaky clean, and decorated like a Girl Scout den. Maybe a bake sale in the corner.

  But this one place at least, in this fake movie set town, seemed real. Real stink of cigarettes, real battered wood bar with real stools. Real beer-gutted patrons and—she swept the bar one end to the other—no women? Not one?

  Oh come on. Every town had at least one blowsy drunk who hung out at the bar. Maybe she was in the bathroom?

  Every male eye—she'd guess about sixteen total—was currently on her. Someone murmured something, and a grim chuckle spread across the bar like the wave in Yankee Stadium.

  Her adrenaline started pumping. She loved being the center of attention, even attention from hefty rural Wisconsinites suffering from cheese spread.

  "Good evening." She smiled at each man in turn, taking her time, noting mostly stares of appraisal or disapproval, but registering leering lust on the face of one particularly creepy looking guy. And hallelujah, there at the end of the bar, with an unoccupied stool next to him, was sexy neighbor Mike. So he wasn't home to receive his hot little casserole.

  She sauntered over and perched next to him, leaning forward as she settled herself on the stool in case he felt the need to ogle her.

  Which he didn't seem to, but the icky guy behind him definitely did. She could practically smell his stale, fumey breath.

  "Can I buy you a drink, Mike?"

  He held up his beer, the same kind she bought for her house and pretended to enjoy this morning, Leinenkugel's Red. Good beer, but not at that ungodly hour.

  "I'm fi ne, thanks."

  O-kay. She hadn't figured Mike out. Either he didn't like her, or he just hated her boldness, or he didn't give a rat's ass either way. Or maybe he was 99.9 percent bullshit -free. Rare in her experience. She'd bet on one of the former.

  "I'll buy you one anyway. Excuse me." She called to the bartender, shook back her hair, aware most of the men's eyes were still on her, some leaning forward, some back along the length of the bar. The burly bartender, scowling face pink like a ham, kept drying a glass with a white towel.

  "Yo, bartender." She spoke louder. What, was the sonofabitch going to ignore her completely?

  Apparently. That glass was
really
dry by now.

  "What'll you have?" Mike spoke around the mouth of his bottle, then took a sip, not even glancing her way. "I'll order for you."

  Vivian let out a low, easy chuckle to hide her anger. "Murderers not popular here in Kettle?"

  "That's part of it." Mike put his bottle on the counter, still looking straight ahead. "Women don't generally come to Harris's."

  "
What?"
She, who didn't surprise easily, was shocked. "A men-only bar? What the hell century is it here?"

  "What'll you have?"

  She laughed again. This was surreal. "Irish whiskey, straight up."

  Mike raised his finger; ham boy came right over. "Yeah, Mike?"

  "I'm switching to Jameson, Frank. No ice."

  The bartender gave Vivian a dirty look; she blew him a sultry kiss, which made his look dirtier. He went off to pour the drink. And probably to add rat poison.

  "Thank you, Mike."

  "It's okay." Mike took another sip, staring at the bottles lined up behind the bar.

  "So what do women do for fun in this town? Stay home and bake carry -out casseroles?"

  Mike gave her an odd look, beer frozen halfway down to the bar, and for a second she thought he was going to smile. "That's about right."

  "How special for them."

  The bartender put her drink in front of Mike. She grabbed it and lifted the glass. "Thanks, Frank, darling."

  
Asswipe.
She drained the drink and held it out for a refi ll. The ham -ster took it this time, though reluctantly.

"I'd like to see what
you'd
heat up for a man at home."

The icky guy spoke to Vivian's breasts; the men behind him chuckled. Vivian sent him a lick -my-boot stare. He was big, dark hair thinning on top, dark brows, dense stubble, big tuft of dark hair poking up from his yellow fl annel collar. The kind of guy that was hair all over, but losing it on his head where his ego needed it most. He had pale, almost pasty skin. His nose bent slightly to one side, pink from drink. Jet -black eyes squinted from the afternoon's booze, dark bags puffed under. She couldn't place his age. He could be thirty -fi ve or forty-five. Whatever he was drinking, he was drinking it neat in a big glass, had obviously had plenty, and was planning to stay and have plenty more.