Whatever.
I hate Kevin, because he is fucking inefficient. You’d think he could have foreseen that, of course, Laura was going to go get herself the highest-priced lawyer in the area, because of course she can afford it and of course she won’t want to testify against her hero. Duh.
And right now, I sort of hate Lucy. Because she’s my sister and she is supposed to be on my side, but since Monday evening she’s made every excuse in the book not to talk to me.
She knew! She knew! Of course she knew. She knew, Monday at breakfast, what Mr. Perfect was planning to do. Hell, she probably had the papers in her briefcase. Richard Patrick Ashmore, Bastard, vs. Diana Renée Abbott Ashmore, Girl Stupid Enough to Marry Him. But of course Lucy can’t talk to me, because fucking Tom is his fucking attorney and she’s Tom’s fucking partner, and blah, blah, blah client confidentiality this and I-can’t-discuss-this-with-you that, and I hate lawyers.
But it’s so painful to hate Lucy. So I guess I’ll just hate the part of Lucy that’s a lawyer.
But, oh, Mr. Perfect. You lying, cheating, miserable rat bastard. You may not be a lawyer, but you are at the top of my hate list.
~•~
Julie knows nothing. Or, if she does, she’s not saying. I doubt she knows, anyway. No way is Richard Ashmore going to corrupt his little girl’s pristine mind with the sordid details of his personal life. I’m sure Julie has no idea that he can freaking go for hours (or could when he was sixteen) or that her saintly father once drilled her mother in her bedroom while her grandfather listened to some god-awful obscure opera downstairs.
I’m sure she knows freaking nothing about the Standing Stone of Ireland and how much it appreciates a certain – oh, how to put this delicately? – oral attention. Especially when his parents were entertaining Peggy’s parish priest in the great room and had no idea of what their perfect son was getting up to in his bedroom when he was supposed to be tutoring his girlfriend in chemistry.
Chemistry. Right.
Good Lord, the stupid things we did when we were young.
But I know.
He may present himself to the world now as the upright, oh so long-suffering spouse, but he can’t ever outrun his less-than-virtuous youth. Not while I draw breath.
So where the hell does he get off filing this thing? There’s someone else. There has to be. Some sweet, demure piece of fluff who thinks he invented air and who wants to hang off his arm, play lady of the manor, and pop out a couple of sons for him.
Whoever she is, she’s the opposite of me. He’s never going to take a chance again with a complicated woman. He’s never going to take a chance that the Chosen One, Part Deux, will someday have her fill of him and walk out the door.
Richard doesn’t go for sweet, demure, brainless, helpless little girls. But he’ll make himself settle for one, the second time around. He’ll do whatever he has to do to preserve Ashmore Park. He’ll do anything to avoid another debacle of a marriage that might weaken the foundation of the Ashmore dynasty.
He’ll do anything to avoid falling in love again. Ever.
~•~
My Eureka! moment came this afternoon. It came because (1) after more than two days of crying and drinking and re-reading that damn petition a thousand times, I’d had enough of my own company, (2) Lucy was MIA, and a good thing too, (3) Kevin was spending the day with “friends” (i.e., his wife, probably), (4) Laura was a pest and a snoop and a traitor, and seriously, why shouldn’t she tell all? and (5) I got down to my last bottle of Scotch, because I forgot to bring enough home from the tavern after Laura’s little ransacking episode last week.
My mind kept circling around that one thought: He’s done it, he’s really done it. What the hell am I going to do?
~•~
I didn’t want to admit it, but divorce terrified me. It wasn’t so much the idea of not being married – hell, I hadn’t felt married in many, many moons. I didn’t feel married the day I stood in front of that judge and promised to love and cherish him forever, mentally crossing my fingers so I wouldn’t go to hell for lying. I sure as hell never felt married while I was living with him, or sleeping beside him, or signing Diana Ashmore on my checks.
Diana Ashmore. Would he even allow me to keep my name?
And who would I be, if I wasn’t Diana Ashmore anymore? Not Diana Abbott. Not ever again. I’d married him to escape Diana Abbott.
I’d spent the last eleven years, ever since I’d moved out, trying to figure out who I was. But, when it came down to brass tacks, I didn’t know how to be anyone else except Diana Ashmore.
Mrs. Richard Ashmore. Mrs. Richard Fucking Ashmore.
I had to stop this. I had to stop him. No matter what he wanted, no matter what he was planning, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just turn me loose. I didn’t want to be married, heaven only knew I didn’t want to be married to him, but I couldn’t lose the connection. I didn’t think I could make it, standing on my own. I didn’t know how to survive, how to live.
I couldn’t be Diana by myself, because I didn’t know who Diana might turn out to be.
And, if Richard divorced me, I might lose more than just the connection to him. It made me sick to even think the words, because what if I lost Lucy? I might. I knew it was entirely possible she’d have to choose, and it terrified me to think she might choose him. She was an Ashmore, through and through, no matter what last name she was born with. She was his sister first.
I’d already lost Julie. Laura was never my sister to lose. I’d always had two people in my life I could count on, who were always there for me, no matter how badly I behaved, and now one of them was casting me away.
Lucy – she was all I had left.
What the hell am I going to do?
~•~
What I did was cry some more.
Finally, I was all cried out.
So I got to work.
I rustled up some aspirin for my hangover (at least Miss Laura was kind enough to leave me that).
Then I got out pen and paper.
~•~
Things I Hate About Richard Ashmore
1. He’s a self-righteous bastard.
2. He always has to have the last word.
3. He seriously thought I was going to play wife when we got married.
4. He never drops that cool courtesy.
5. He got the best of me even when I caught him red-handed.
6. He never slobs out like everyone else on the weekend.
7. He refolds the newspaper after he reads it.
8.
And then I couldn’t think of anything for #8. Because what could I say? I hated that he had reached the point in his life where he could say goodbye to our youth. I hated that he could move on from our marriage and try to find a better life, while I was still floundering around, trying to decide what I wanted to be if and when I ever got around to growing up. I hated that he was getting laid regularly and I was stuck with Kevin, who was dating me only as a stopgap until his wife took him back.
I added #8.
8. He’s never suffered enough for what he did.
I stared at #8 for a long time. And I thought. I thought about a lot of things. I imagined a lot of things. Richard with his face smashed in. Richard boiled in oil. Richard no longer such a fucking wonderful Mr. Perfect to the world.
And an idea came to mind.
So I started another list.
How I was going to stop him.
~•~
Making Richard Pay
1. Smash his face in.
2. Whittle the Standing Stone of Ireland down to a nub.
3. Get Julie to come live with me.
4. Take all his money.
5. Wreck his car.
6. Burn his house to the ground.
7. Blow up his stupid airplane.
8. Tell everyone what a lying, cheating bastard he is.
~•~
A pretty good list to start with. So the big question – how?
> (Hey! Look at me, all goal-oriented and making lists! Richard would be proud of me.)
1. Smash his face in.
I’d already done that. And it hadn’t been as fulfilling as I’d hoped. All I’d done was break his glasses and put a scar on his face.
I drew a line through #1.
2. Whittle the Standing Stone of Ireland down to a nub.
A delightful prospect. With the bonus of rendering him unable to sire more perfect little Ashmores to loose upon the world. But a major drawback: I hadn’t been in close proximity to the Standing Stone in eleven years, and I hadn’t seen it for six years before that. Doubtful I’d ever get close enough again to make #2 a dream come true.
I scratched out #2.
3. Get Julie to come live with me.
Fat chance. I knew where Julie’s loyalties lay. She loved her piano and her horse a lot more than she loved me.
Scratch.
4. Take all his money.
Just how much did Richard have? He seemed to live well enough, and any time I ran short he had stepped in and helped me out. (Okay, points for Mr. Perfect. But why shouldn’t he? He owed me.) He’d paid cash for the Lexus, according to Lucy, and for the Audi before that. I should get Kevin to ask for an up-to-date financial statement. Maybe even find out how much remained in the Great Lakes shipping trust – although I was pretty sure that was completely tied up for Ashmore Park.
I put a question mark next to #4.
5. Wreck his car.
A great idea, except with what? My car? No thank you.
Next.
6. Burn his house to the ground.
That might land me in jail again. Not to mention that every single structure at Ashmore Park, except for the old slave chapel, was made of stone. Even I knew stone didn’t burn.
Scratch, scratch.
7. Blow up his stupid airplane.
What was Mr. Perfect flying these days? Did he still have the Bonanza, or was he using Philip’s old plane instead?
How do you blow up a plane anyway?
Another line.
8. Tell everyone what a lying, cheating bastard he is.
I stared at that one for a long time.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Folks, I do believe we have a winner.
~•~
So I nursed along a drink, and stared at my crossed-out ideas, and ruminated.
And I noticed the calendar by the fridge. And the date.
And then I had another idea, a really, really good idea.
Brilliant, even.
So I got dressed. I made sure my eyes didn’t look all red and cried-out. I made sure I looked like a million bucks.
And then I went out to my car.
~•~
The annual Fourth of July party. The party where, once a year, the Holy Hermit opens up the gates of his fortress and allows the hoi polloi to trample around his mother’s gardens. She’ll be there, you can bet your life, that sweet, demure little girl. He’ll want to introduce her to his world. He’ll want Lucy and Tom and the McIntires to get to know her, make her feel at home, make her feel welcome. He’ll want to make sure she knows what she’s in for before he takes that second chance.
Maybe she’s even playing hostess for him. Greeting his guests, directing the caterers, hobnobbing with the Queen Bees.
And people saying that, well, so much better suited to him. So much nicer, so much sweeter, so much easier to deal with, than Diana.
(So much younger.)
Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Perfect. Not on my watch.
I will not go so easily or quietly into that good night.
~•~
Happy 4th, darling.
Oh, say, can you see....
Mine eyes have seen the glory....
What a splendid day. I’m in the mood for some fireworks.
~•~
Oh, and you, Miss Cat Courtney? Don’t get too comfortable. I’ve got plans for you too.
Act Two: Dangerous Days
Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous.
Virtue is choked with foul ambition,
And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand.
(History of Henry VI, Part II, Act Three, Scene One)
Chapter 8: A Woman’s Weapon
NO ONE COULD HAVE ASKED FOR better weather for the party. The storm over the Atlantic, the meteorologists said reassuringly, would not hit until midnight.
Time enough for fireworks.
~•~
“Forty years of feminism,” said Mel McIntire, “and look. They’re over there talking football and politics and the newest wrench at the hardware store, and we’re over here, talking men and kids. Things never change.”
“Just like junior high,” Lucy said. “Boys on one side of the room, girls on the other.” She grinned at the rest of the Queen Bees. “No margaritas back then, though. We’ve come a long way.”
“Sure you won’t have one, Laura?” Mel said.
Laura shook her head. So far, this was turning out to be less of an ordeal than she had feared. Lucy had greeted her with a hug and told her how much she liked her hair up in a French twist; Mel had taken her in hand as they greeted the guests, whispering five-second biographies to let Laura know who was who and what was what. “The Leventhals – a power couple, don’t cross either of them, they will eat you for lunch… the Barclays – he owns a horse farm, she twitches whenever he’s around, hope the story isn’t what I think it is… the O’Reillys – Scott said when they were restoring the winery, they found a cache of guns under the floor, and James kept talking to Richard about Sinn Fein… the Lords – never was a couple better named, they just found Jesus and they will not stop talking….”
A good thing she was standing right next to Mel, part of the extended host family. She could imagine the whispered comments otherwise. “Tragic, but she’s worth a fortune now… must use a lot of makeup on stage… do you think Diana has a clue….”
Years as Mrs. Cameron St. Bride and Cat Courtney came in handy. She knew how to meet professionals and business executives; she was used to greeting fans from all walks of life at the champagne receptions after her concerts. She shook hands and chatted, helped arrange the various desserts that people brought with them, and tried to keep names paired with faces. Most people were more Richard and Lucy’s contemporaries than they were hers; she didn’t recognize anyone, although an occasional name seemed familiar – an older sibling of a former classmate?
This would have been her world had she stayed at home, gone to school in town, taken up her adult life here. These people would not be strangers; they would be her friends, business associates, fellow PTA committee members. She would have served in Junior League with some of these women, dated some of these men, perhaps married one of them. She would have led a Girl Scout troop for their daughters, been a Cub Scout den mother for their sons, baked cookies for the school carnivals. She would have cheered at soccer games. She would have sung in the church choir. She would now be a familiar fixture at this party, her place in this universe established.
She would not be the exotic flower, whom so many people pretended not to recognize as Cat Courtney. She would not be the 9/11 Widow, compelling so many of the guests to lower their voices, take her hand in theirs, and express their sympathy.
People would know where she fit into the family. Lucy took care of that, although she surprised Laura. “It’s one of those complicated Southern things,” said Lucy to one person. “Richard and I are second cousins through our mothers. Laurie and I are half-sisters through our father. We all grew up together.”
True enough, but it overlooked the simpler connection of his marriage to their older sister. Strange that Lucy wasn’t taking pains to pin her as his sister-in-law.
Richard introduced her simply as “Laura.”
She met Richard’s admin, a pretty brunette named Karen (“my boss,” Richard said, “I live in fear she’ll find a better deal”), and Scott McIntire’s admin Zoë, whose appraising look made it
clear that she knew exactly who was who and what was what. She met Julie’s Mike and saw immediately why Julie was attracted to him. He might be a geek, but he was also tall, thin, well-mannered with dark hair and glasses, on his way to becoming a very good-looking man. Consciously or not, Julie had picked a boy like her father at the same age. She must have told him about Cat Courtney, because he asked Laura what she thought about a music notation program that had just come on the market.
“I don’t use it,” Laura said. “My husband wrote a special program for me several years ago that’s hooked into the MIDI board in my laptop. What I really like about it is that it has a pattern matching search in it. I can run searches against music databases to make sure I don’t end up with a subconscious plagiarism problem.”
“Wow, he should market that,” said Mike. “I’ll bet professional musicians would pay for something like that. Maybe you should talk to him about searching the patterns in MP3s too.”
Julie looked uncomfortable, not knowing how to deal with his natural mistake. Laura said, “Maybe,” and turned the conversation to the church lock-in that evening. Mike had asked Julie if she wanted to go with him, and Julie, with a look at Laura, said shyly that she would have to check with her father, who had said he would drive her.
Laura thought that the odds of Richard allowing Julie to go to an all-night teen slumber party with an attractive boy were less than zero. Julie obviously wanted her to go to bat for her, unwilling to drop the notion that Laura had special influence with him.
Well, she certainly preferred that he let Mike drive Julie; their evening could start that much sooner. But she was already planning to meddle enough. Julie was on her own. “You need to talk to your dad,” she said, and Julie’s face fell.
Finally, the flood of guests subsided, and she turned at the top of the terrace to survey the party. She hadn’t seen the back of the Folly before from the outside, and it was breathtaking. In the late afternoon, the western sun spilled a glorious color over the three levels of the stone terrace. Peggy must have had a hand in the planting; her favorite dahlias bloomed in gorgeous color in stone-ringed beds along the terrace boundaries; olive trees formed a wall that extended down around the pool, walling off the Folly from the rest of Ashmore Park. Richard had maintained his privacy even from his parents.
All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2) Page 16
