The Future Widows' Club

by Rhonda Russell

  “Cherry Hawkins, Official, may the devil rot his evil soul.”

  “Gladys Kingsley, Future, may he burn in hell.”

  On and on it went. One after another the women moved through the line as though this were a true wake and she a true widow, sharing their own particular condolences for the premature death of her bastard husband. Jolie felt her smile growing wider as the line wrapped up, felt her heart growing lighter with each sincere shake of her hand. It was magnificent, wonderful, and more cathartic than she could have ever imagined.

  “Of course, you know Meredith, Bisty and I,” Sophia said when they’d all taken their seats once more. “We’re the founding members and have since planted our miserable husbands.” She shot a look at Bitsy. “Or, as in the case of Bitsy, who had hers cremated.”

  Bitsy grinned. “Ashes to ashes,” she said. Her twinkling gaze found Jolie’s. “Made excellent cat litter.”

  A shocked chuckle bubbled up Jolie’s throat.

  “All of this is in the handbook, but we meet once a week, here at Meredith’s house.”

  “The neighbors think we’re playing bridge,” Meredith interjected smoothly.

  “Now, so you understand, our group doesn’t in any way wish to offend poor widows who had good marriages and actually miss their husbands. But we’re not like those women. Our men were--are--horrible. Looking forward to their deaths is what made--and makes--our life bearable.”

  “Here, here,” someone called.

  “Doing the things in your handbook, fellowshipping with other widow-wannabe’s, it’s how we cope, how we survive. So like any proper funeral,” Sophia continued, “we always bring a covered dish, we wear our hats--they’re fetching morale boosters,” she said with a fond pat of her own. “And the Futures always confess the progress they’ve made in bettering their future position as a widow. Be it finding the perfect pair of gloves to go with The Outfit, adding additional life insurance, updating a will, or investing in a pre-burial plan. Any proactive effort is recognized, so when you come back next week, we’ll need a full report.”

  “Finding the outfit is a bitch,” one of the ladies, Lynn, if memory served, piped up. A murmur of agreement moved through the room.

  “And there’s a list of insurance companies in the back of your handbook who’ll offer the highest payout and insure without a physical,” another added. “You’ll still need a signature, of course, but that’s easy enough to get with a little muscle relaxer added to his scotch.” She inclined her head, lowered her voice. “See me when we’re done, honey, and I’ll hook you up.”

  “Do you have a will?” Bitsy asked.

  “Er...yes,” Jolie answered, trying to absorb it all. “We had to have them for the business.”

  “And you know where it’s at?”

  She did. It was in a safety deposit box in Bless Her Heart Savings and Loan. Jolie nodded.

  Bitsy beamed at her. “Excellent.”

  “Okay, then,” Sophia said briskly. “Let’s begin Confessional. We’ll start on this side.” She gestured to her left.

  Margaret sat back in her chair. “Well, as you all know, Ed’s cholesterol is through the roof.”

  The woman next to her nodded sagely. “Nothing like a good massive heart attack to do the job.”

  Margaret’s eyes danced with mischief. “Yeah, well. I’ve been dumping his egg substitute down the drain and adding a real egg and whole milk mixture to the carton.”

  A diabolical “oooh” of pleasure moved through the room.

  “Very crafty, Margaret,” Sophia told her. “Excellent. What about you, Gladys?”

  Gladys cocked her head. “Oh, I haven’t been able to do anything like that. Robert’s healthy as a horse, meaner than hell.” Her gaze turned a wee bit sly. “But I did finally talk him into buying a burial package. We’ve got an appointment next week to go down and pick out caskets, vaults, and plots.”

  Everybody in the room beamed at Gladys as though this was an absolute coup. “Oh, wow,” Meredith breathed happily. “Gladys, that’s fantastic.”

  The woman seated next her, Lois, nudged her. “Those pre-burial plans are great,” she confided. “Just think. You get to plan the funeral in advance, so that’s just one less thing you have to do when he kicks it. Gets you one step closer to independence and it’s a lot of fun,” she added earnestly. She leaned in closer, smiled. “I’ve got Howard lined up. The minute he finally checks out, I’m ready, honey. I’m sitting on G, waitin’ on O.”

  Jolie felt her eyes widen and another chuckle vibrate the back of her throat. She sat back and listened as the other club members matter-of-factly talked about the efforts they were making toward their widowhood and was struck by the camaraderie among the group. There was a chemistry here, a bond that defied description, and though she’d only been a member for an hour, she already felt like she belonged. Couldn’t wait to get home so that she could flip through her handbook and start doing some of the things the ladies had talked about. It was liberating, empowering, awesome even, this incredible sense of purpose she now felt.

  Granted she might have to live with Chris for another three months, but rather than looking forward to a divorce as she’d been doing, something about looking forward to being a widow in the interim appealed to her even more. Did that mean she wished Chris would die? No, not really. At least not yet, at any rate. But she wouldn’t mourn him if he did; that was for sure.

  Sophia cleared her throat, garnering everyone’s attention. “Okay, ladies. Time to call it a night. I’ll see you all back here next week.” She grinned, sent a meaningful look around the room, which everyone returned. “Until then...Our un-dearly departed--“ she began.

  “--may he never rest in peace,” they all finished in unison.

  Jolie’s smile widened and she quietly echoed the sentiment.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sophia let go a sigh and sailed her hat across the room like a Frisbee, where it landed on the couch with a quiet thump. Per tradition after a meeting, she, Meredith and Bitsy had pulled chairs up around the serving table and were currently gorging on leftovers and homemade muscadine wine. She liked to dabble with various berries and had earned quite a reputation as an amateur winemaker.

  “Well?” Sophia said, plucking a pig-in-a-blanket from a nearby plate. “How do you think it went?”

  The remaining petite fours in front of her, Bitsy licked a bit of fondant icing from her thumb and absently selected a second. “Like it always does--good.”

  “I think Jolie enjoyed herself,” Meredith said. She dunked a wedge of honeydew melon into a tub of fruit-dip. “She started to really smile once we moved into Confessional, and I saw her flipping through her book several times.”

  Bitsy frowned thoughtfully. “I liked that hat she was wearing. Looked good on her, didn’t it?”

  Sophia nodded. “She’s a very striking girl. Always has been with that bizarre flash of blonde in her hair.” She selected a brownie, vowing to walk an extra lap around the square for it as penance. “Her grandmother had it, too, you know.”

  “I noticed that again tonight,” Meredith murmured thoughtfully. She adjusted another chair, leaned back and propped her feet up. “I’ve seen it happen before with black-haired people--usually men--but I’ve never seen it occur in a red-head.”

  “Where’d you get that hat, Meri?” Bitsy asked, still more interested in what was covering Jolie’s hair.

  Sophia and Meredith shared a smile. “Prim and Proper.”

  Having eaten the rest of her favorite treats, Bitsy popped a sausage ball into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully.

  Meredith glanced at Sophia. “Are you going to call Fran and let her know how it went?”

  “The minute I get home,” Sophia said, letting go a sigh. “This latest incident has really upset her.” In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever heard Fran so angry, so hurt and frustrated.

  Like most children, Jolie was laboring under the incorrect assumption that, just because she di
dn’t tell her mother something, that meant her mother didn’t know.

  Not so.

  Though Sophia didn’t know where Fran was getting her information--but she did have her suspicions--her old friend was perfectly aware of everything that was going on. That’s why she’d contacted her about inviting Jolie into the Club.

  In a noble attempt to help protect her mother, Jolie was preventing her mother from directly helping her. Fran had been forced to do some behind-the-scenes maneuvering, and if it had been her child, Sophia knew she would have undoubtedly done the same thing.

  “Well, that’s certainly understandable,” Bitsy said. “If one of my sons-in-law ever raised a hand to one of my daughters, there’d be hell to pay.” She nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, glowered at a plate of cheese straws. “There is absolutely nothing more despicable than a bully. Any man who hits a woman isn’t a man at all--he’s a coward. If I was Fran, I think I’d try to find someone to give Chris Marshall a good old-fashioned ass-kickin’. Did you see Jolie’s lip?” she asked, outraged. “Poor thing.”

  “She filed a report, right?” Meredith asked.

  Sophia nodded. “Filed the report, but is waiting to press charges. On what, nobody knows.”

  Bitsy harrumphed. “If she’s smart she’ll make sure his getting picked up coincides with her filing for divorce and making sure that she finished with those shady dealings she’s employed to get her mother’s money back.” She nodded succinctly. “That’s how I’d do it if I were her.”

  Meredith and Sophia both blinked, startled at this abrupt pronouncement, then looked at each other. A bemused smile played with Meredith’s lips and Sophia felt a grin tug at her mouth. Bless her heart, though there were times Bitsy could be as dim as a burned out bulb, occasionally a flash of brilliance emerged.

  Like now.

  Impressed, Sophia cast a glance at her friend. “Bitsy, that was inspired. I’d be willing to bet that’s exactly what she’s doing.”

  Bitsy shrugged, oblivious to the praise. “Just makes sense.” She looked up as though another thought had struck and smiled. “Did either of you happen to see the paper this morning?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

  Meredith chuckled. “I did.”

  Sophia shook her head. She’d been too busy fixing her hair and her face so that she could go out in the yard and plant petunias around her mailbox. Wait for a certain blue-eyed know-it-all who made her old heart blush like a doe-eyed virgin. “What did I miss?”

  “Oh, just another article about Mayor Greene’s continuing skunk problem,” Meredith chuckled. She bit her lip. “Apparently he decided to install a small electric fence around the perimeter of his house to keep them away.”

  Sophia felt her eyes widen and Bitsy positively chortled with glee. “I heard’em talking about it at The Spa,” Bitsy said. “Ginny Martin does the mayor’s cleanin’ and she was in there giving an eyewitness account. Said the little suckers were hitting that fence and spraying like crazy.” Bitsy did a comical impression--jolt, freeze, jolt, freeze--then slapped her knee and laughed harder.

  “Needless to say,” Meredith continued, “his p-plan didn’t w-work.”

  Sophia chuckled quietly. No, she supposed not. For reasons unknown to Mayor Greene, the host of many professional exterminators he’d called in, and the entire town--with the exception the three of them--the crawlspace beneath the Mayor’s house had become Skunk Central. The pesky animals were digging holes in his lawn, making dens and alternately spraying, fighting and procreating underneath his home and, as anyone could imagine, the odor was becoming quite...unbearable.

  But nothing less than what the old bastard deserved, Sophia thought with a sanctimonious little nod.

  For the past three years a city council member had been awarded the coveted Beautification Award. Her lips thinned. It was an appalling abuse of power, the height of political hypocrisy, and had been the scathing topic of more than one Dear Editor letter featured in the Bless Her Heart Times. Greene doled out the award to those who curried favor, and the rest of the town--who vehemently competed for the nomination--was left completely out the loop, their seasons of hard work ignored.

  In Bless Her Heart that Beautification Award was the equivalent of a Nobel Prize. Gardening wasn’t just a hobby in their little town--it was an Olympic sport. People guarded their tips and secrets with the sort of reverent regard worthy of the Holy Grail and having it handed over to unworthy candidates was blasphemous.

  In fact, it stunk, so it was only fitting that the mayor should as well.

  Sophia looked at the other two and quirked a brow. “Who has duty next?”

  Bitsy, who admittedly had the best garden of the bunch, smiled determinedly. “I do.”

  “Throw out a few extra handfuls for our stinky friends, why don’t you?” Sophia suggested slyly. “We want to make sure there’s plenty for all of them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Headed home, Malone?” Mike called as Jake unlocked his truck.

  Jake turned. “Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out. “I’ve got to feed, and I’ve got a mare I need to keep an eye on. She’s due to foal soon.” In the next couple of weeks if his calculations were right, Jake thought. He opened the door and tossed his case into the front seat, made a mental note to clean out his truck as the scent of stale fries and old coffee smacked him in the face.

  Mike nodded, sucked in a breath and scanned the parking lot. “At some point we need to get together and talk about that information we received last week,” he said, a significant implication hanging in his voice.

  Jake grimaced. He knew Mike was right, but nonetheless found himself reluctant to get involved, and a week’s perception hadn’t given him any more insight than what he’d had when Mike had first mentioned the affair that Marshall was having with the sheriff’s wife.

  Jake had made it a point to watch Marshall the past few days--one, he wanted to make sure that he hadn’t hurt Jolie again--which was best for his continued good health, he thought ominously--and two, he’d wanted to see if Marshall was continuing to see Emily.

  A couple of daytime drive-by’s had concluded that he was.

  Given the fact that the sheriff had flexible hours and could arrive home at any time unannounced, Jake thought it was incredibly stupid for the man to risk getting his knob polished in the sheriff’s bed, but undoubtedly the risk held considerable appeal for the sadistic bastard.

  Mike sidled over. “Any thoughts?” he asked.

  Jake passed a hand over his face. “Should we tell him? Yeah, I think so.” He winced, pulled a shrug. “But without the proof to back it up? I dunno, Mike. I’m not looking forward to telling him with the evidence,” he told him. “Much less without it.”

  “I’ve been watching him, Jake,” Mike said gravely. “The guy’s going to Dean’s house. He’s banging his wife in his own bed.”

  “I know. I’ve been watching, too.”

  “If it was me, I’d want to know, and I’d be supremely pissed if a couple of my people knew it and didn’t tell me.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “He’s a good man and they’re making a fool of him.”

  Right again, Jake knew, but that still didn’t silence the little voice that suggested to leave it be, that insisted it wasn’t his business, much less his place. Technically, dammit, it was Jolie’s. After all, it was her husband who was involved, her husband who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Jake smirked. Of course, with that kind of thinking, she’d save a considerable amount of time and energy--if not ink--by simply running an ad in the paper and listing all of the women he’d had affairs with.

  “Why don’t you talk to Jolie and see if you can get her to give you a copy of the pictures?” Jake suggested.

  Mike shot him an inscrutable look, chuckled grimly. “You’ve got a better chance of getting them from her than I do. Why don’t you ask her?”

  While a part of him longed to jump at the chance for any reason to talk to her--to see her--Jake instinctively resiste
d. Just seeing her around town was hard enough. Talking to her, he knew, was beyond the scope of his abilities.

  He hesitated, gave his head a small shake. “She showed them to you. You took the report.” Reasonable arguments, if not the complete truth. “If she’ll give them to anyone, then it’s you.”

  Mike nodded reluctantly. “All right,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh... I’ll give it a shot.”

  Jake shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the side panel of his truck and racked his brain for any sort of solution, preferably one that would spare Dean’s pride and would prevent him from spending the rest of his life in jail for murder.

  Unable to find one, he let go a heavy breath. “I don’t think we need to say anything without the proof to back it up.”

  Mike snorted. “As careless as that sonofabitch is, it wouldn’t be too damned hard to get it ourselves.”

  He’d thought of that as well. With Marshall’s reputation, a couple of pictures of him going in and out of the house would most likely suffice. That, or the next time Marshall paid Emily a visit, one of them could simply forcefully suggest that Dean go home. Though Dean was older than he and Mike, they’d nevertheless developed a friendship of sorts over the years, not the mention the fact that Jake had a tremendous amount of respect for him. Keeping quiet felt wrong, but telling him didn’t feel right either. It was just a bad situation all the way around.

  “Last time I saw Marshall, I noticed he looked like he’d ran into a wall,” Mike said slyly. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Jake chewed the inside of his cheek, tried to suppress a grin. “It wasn’t a wall. It was a door.”

  Mike chuckled under his breath, shot him a shrewd smile. “And you would know this because?”

  “Because I was on the other side of the door. Clumsy bastard,” Jake said amiably, pushing away from the truck. “He should really watch where he’s going.”

  “Yeah,” Mike agreed. “He could get hurt.”