The Future Widows' Club

by Rhonda Russell

Jolie rolled her eyes, heaved a long-suffering sigh, then set her brush length-wise over the bowl she’d been working from and started down the ladder. “You’re so full of sh--“

  She squealed as her foot slipped three rungs from the bottom, and lucky for her, he’d been admiring her ass, otherwise he might not have lunged in time to catch her.

  She’d instinctively turned around to brace her fall and landed smack dab against his chest. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a startled whoosh, he lost his footing and toppled backward, landing painfully on his previously numb ass, Jolie right on top of him.

  Her small body aligned perfectly against his and he barely had time to note the fit of her hips cradled over his groin, the lush mounds of her breasts against his chest before she braced her hands on either side of his head and her eyes widened in shock-delayed humor. Laughter fizzed up her throat in a long infectious stream that made him chuckle, too, and soon they were both howling like a couple of psychotic hyenas. He settled his hands at her waist and absorbed the delectable feel of her shaking frame above his.

  After a moment, her laughter petered out and she seemed to realize their position. Her light green gaze darkened to a mossy hue, then dropped to his mouth and she moistened her lips. He caught the faint fluttering of her pulse in her neck, carefully drew in a vanilla scented breath and resisted the pressing urge to kiss her, to align his mouth to hers and eat every breath she exhaled, to roll her over onto her back and make long, slow beautiful love to her.

  The desire was there, of course, the pressing need to firmly root himself between her thighs, but with Jolie it was more than that. Always had been. There was something painfully sweet about being with her, where love met lust and turned the generic act of sex into a commingling of souls, a meeting of the minds, ritual instead of rote.

  He wanted to taste her--needed to--more than his next breath, and yet he didn’t. That move had to be hers. Given what she’d been through and how he’d indirectly contributed to it, Jake couldn’t allow himself to take that decision out of her hands. He was hers for the taking, when and if she was ever ready.

  And it wouldn’t be tonight, he realized, squashing an immediate sense of disappointment as she ultimately rolled away. She covered the move with another laugh, tried to pretend the awkward moment away. “That was graceless, eh?”

  “Not really,” Jake told her, forcing a chuckle for her benefit. “You swan-dived into me.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes,” he said. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose, barely resisted the urge to massage another part of his anatomy that was locked in the fiery hell of Satan’s blacksmith. “My painting arm is broken.”

  She snorted, leaned up on her elbow and glared at him accusingly. “Fraud. You just don’t like painting.”

  He turned his head toward her and offered an unrepentant grin. “There is that.”

  “Fine,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “You can watch me paint. Without my pizza. From your truck.”

  Jake laughed, lifted his right hand and wiggled it around. “Look at that,” he told her, feigning delighted surprise. “I’m healed.”

  Her lips slid into a wry grin. “A miraculous recovery. I expected as much.”

  Jake gingerly got to his feet, offered her a hand up. “Must be nice,” he told her. “With you, I never know what to expect.”

  She batted her lashes shamelessly at him. “It’s part of my charm.”

  Indeed it was, Jake thought, hopelessly in love with her. He picked up his roller and set back to work while she called in the pizza.

  Indeed it was...

  CHAPTER 25

  Jolie walked outside, waved at Jake who’d been parked at her curb the majority of the day and, smiling, got into her car. Predictably, he dropped his shades in place and fell in behind her. He’d lessened his so-called surveillance over the past couple of days, had taken to driving by a couple of times a day, checking on Marzipan, then coming over after his shift.

  Jolie felt a smile roll around her lips. For someone who didn’t enjoy painting, he had shown up each night this week in an old t-shirt and shorts, ready to get started. As a result of his help, they’d managed to get every room in the house painted except for the spare bedroom. He’d mentioned knocking that room out tonight and she’d very casually reminded him of her bridge meeting. Those carnal lips had slid into a knowing smile and he’d merely inclined his head. Maybe you could teach me, he’d said, a careless taunt that had made her heart skip an unsteady beat.

  Jolie caught sight of him in her rear view mirror and felt a flutter of heat wing around her belly, then nest between her legs. She let go a stuttering breath. Being with him every night, being able to covertly study the familiar cut of his jaw, those light silvery gray eyes, to see the way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he pushed his hands through those dark chocolate locks had been a feast for her senses. Every move he made was unhurried and sensual, reeked of familiarity and only made her warm in neglected places that shook like an addict in withdrawals when he was around.

  The night she’d literally fallen into him had been the sweetest form of torture imaginable. Feeling that hard body beneath hers, that husky intimate laugh breezing across her neck and vibrating her nipples had all but made her come unglued. She’d been mentally praying--wishing--that he’d kiss her and though she knew he’d wanted to, he’d held back.

  As much as Jolie wished he’d have taken the decision out of her hands at the time, in retrospect she’d appreciated the fact that he hadn’t and the respect for her behind the decision. If things moved forward for them, it would be completely up to her, and she knew him well enough to know that her desire to make her own way and her own decisions was what had made him hold back.

  It hardly seemed real that Chris was gone and she was actually thinking about a tentative future with Jake. Madness, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d wanted control of her life and in just under a week she’d managed to put the majority of what Chris had ruined over the course of two years back to rights. She’d sold his car yesterday and, while the house hadn’t garnered an offer yet, she knew it was just a matter of time. Hell, the damned thing was coming to whoever bought it practically furnished.

  Since Jake had been so gung-ho about her moving things along as swiftly as she had, Jolie had held off meeting with the insurance agent who held her policies on Chris. She’d been in a hurry to give everybody else’s money back and therefore hadn’t been too concerned with her own. Once that was done, there wouldn’t be anything left to do.

  In between working on her house, she’d managed to get her office up and running and fully anticipated officially opening for business in a couple of weeks. She’d already had a couple of potential clients drop by, the majority of them wondering why she hadn’t simply converted Marshall, Inc. into her headquarters, but as much as she liked the square atmosphere, she thought she’d enjoy the privacy of being one block removed from the usual grind. She could reap the benefits without being in the middle of things.

  Jolie pulled up in front of Meredith’s house, snagged her purse and apple dumplings from the car and made her way up the walk. She turned to wave at Jake, who’d pulled in a couple of car lengths behind her, but paused as the thump of music reached her ears.

  It didn’t take long to recognize the tune and once she did, a bark of laughter erupted from her throat. Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive vibrated through the walls, then practically knocked her down when Meredith opened the door. Decked out in black sweats, her black hat--which had been topped with a party hat--and a kazoo in her hand, Meredith smiled, darted a look over Jolie’s shoulder, then seemingly spotting Jake, jerked Jolie inside.

  “What’s he doing?” she shouted above the din. “Why’s he out there?”

  “He’s following me,” Jolie explained. “I’m under surveillance.” Which admittedly was nice, but a complete waste of his time if he planned on finding the real
killer.

  Meredith’s perfectly lined brows folded into a faint scowl. “Oh, well. Let him sit there. We’re going to party.”

  Jolie followed Meredith into the living room and when she walked in, every member of the FWC whooped with joy, then they killed Gloria and started singing their own custom version of Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead!

  Ding dong the bastard’s dead,

  the mean old bastard’s dead!

  Who’s old bastard? Jolie’s old bastard!

  Ding dong--and he was missing his dong--

  Ha!Ha!Ha!

  The mean old bastard’s dead!

  They finished the end with a flourish, drug “dead” out until Jolie was certain every pair of ears in a ten mile radius had heard them.

  Which was particularly unsettling when she knew Jake was outside.

  Before she could think about it anymore, however, someone turned the music back up, pressed a drink in her hand, and they formed a train, dancing around the living room.

  Like Meredith, everyone had donned black--except for her, Jolie thought wryly, who’d apparently missed the memo--and had placed party hats on top of their regular widow hats. Looking even more lovely than usual--there was a certain glow about her that Jolie had never discerned before--Sophia cha-cha-cha’ed up next to her, then pulled her out of the line.

  “How’s everything going, dear?”

  “Great,” Jolie called above the noise. She thought she’d better tell her about Jake, but Meredith had already beaten her to the punch.

  “I’ve already been outside and taken him a drink and a couple of petite fours--had to practically wrestle the damned things away from Bitsy,” she said, exasperated. “I told him that we were having an anniversary party for the club.”

  Jolie grinned at her ingenuity. “He bought it?”

  She snorted indelicately. “Of course, not,” she scoffed. “He’s a smart man...but he’s got too much class to argue with an old woman.”

  Ah, yes, Jolie thought, inclining her head. That sounded about right.

  “Anyway,” Sophia told her. “Tonight is your night, dear. This is your “official” party.”

  She took her hand and tugged her toward the living room, led her to a chair that had been moved to the middle of the room where Sophia typically stood, then urged her to sit down. Somewhat baffled, Jolie did and waited patiently while the rest of the members crowded into the room.

  Sophia waited for someone to turn down the music, then snapped at Bitsy--who was doing a disjointed Egyptian Walk around the room while trying to eat a piece of coconut cake--to do it. “For the love of God, Bitsy, would you turn that down?”

  Startled, Bitsy stopped and quickly moved to do as Sophia asked. When the music was finally turned off, Sophia smoothed her hair, seemed to gather her thoughts, and smiled. “Now then. As we all know, making the transition to Official status is an important milestone in a Future Widows’ Club member’s life. It’s a rebirth of sorts, a new beginning. From here on out, Jolie will enjoy the privileges of her new status. She’ll be revered, admired, even pitied by the unenlightened who don’t realize that she’s better off.” Sophia shook her head at this presumed tragedy, then continued. “Tonight, we’ll celebrate her newfound freedom by presenting her with this pin--” Sophia reached down and attached a small rhinestone hat and gloves pin--the same logo she’d noted on her handbook, Jolie realized--onto her collar. “--and party!”

  Bisty cranked the music back up--the Dixie Chicks’ Goodbye Earl--and, like her first meeting, everyone came by and paid their respects once again.

  “May he rot in hell.”

  “May he never rest in peace.”

  “I envy your loss.”

  Bitsy started the train again, someone pressed another drink in her hand, and the entire congregation proceeded to get smashed, Jolie included. Meredith proved very adept at making daiquiris and Cora, of all people, end up doing a table dance before the night was over. Most of the ladies had either planned to spend the night, or had arranged for someone to pick them up, but Jolie unaware of the fact that she’d need to do one or the other, ended up walking outside and asking Jake to take her home.

  His eyes widened comically. “You’re drunk?”

  Jolie’s lips were numb and the warm, languid slide of the alcohol in her blood loosened her tongue. “Yes,” she said, climbing clumsily into the cab of his truck. “I think I am.”

  Jake pulled away from the curb. “Some bridge club,” he muttered. “Tell me, Jo. Do you usually get hammered at these meetings?”

  Jolie let her head loll back against the seat. “Nope. First time.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Poor Jake. You’ve been bored out here, haven’t you?” She glanced at him, then stared transfixed at the way the dash-lights illuminated the strangely beautiful lines of his face. “You should be looking for the real killer, not wasting your time with me.”

  He shot her an inscrutable, almost wistful look. “Being with you--or even near you--isn’t a waste of time,” he returned softly.

  Her silly heart melted. That was too sweet for her not to offer a small reward, so she leaned over and pressed a kiss against his woefully familiar cheek. “I’ve missed you,” Jolie told him, then unable to make her neck support her head any longer, she let it drop against his shoulder and dozed off, the comforting scent of Jake and fresh hay in her nostrils.

  The next morning when she awoke, she found herself in her bed, stripped down to her bra and undies and a note attached to her pillow.

  I’ve missed you, too. Yours, Jake.

  CHAPTER 26

  “How do you think it’s going?”

  Jake dropped into one of the chairs flanking Dean’s desk and tried to think of some way to tell his boss that he’d researched every angle, had followed every lead and wasn’t any closer to finding who’d killed Marshall than he’d been the night the man had been murdered.

  He finally shrugged helplessly. “It’s going...no where,” he admitted, letting go a resigned whoosh of air. “I’ve followed every lead, checked every alibi, followed procedure and...nothing. Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything. It’s as if a ghost waltzed into that house and shot him.”

  Dean tapped his pen against his desk. “What about the penis?”

  Yeah, what about it? Jake wanted to ask. All he knew was that Todd hadn’t found anything significant. He’d refrained from asking what the evidence tech had ultimately done with it for fear he might not want to know.

  Jake told him about the thread and the fibers Todd had found on the Marshall’s dick. “That’s all I’ve got, Dean, and it’s not from lack of trying.” Jake ticked off everybody that he’d investigated, shook his head. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve done everything you can,” Dean told him, his voice measured.

  Jake knew he was supposed to infer something from that careful tone, but exactly what he didn’t know. He arched a brow, silently asking his boss to spell it out for him.

  “I’d say you don’t have any other choice but to let this case go inactive, at least until new information surfaces.”

  “She didn’t do it, Dean,” Jake felt compelled to point out.

  “I don’t think she did.”

  So long as they were on the same page, Jake thought. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like he hadn’t done enough, that he should have looked harder. Quite frankly, he’d gotten so caught up in keeping Jolie under surveillance--translation: watching her for the sheer sport of it--that he hadn’t devoted as much time to the case as he probably could have. Then again, he did think that he’d followed every possible lead. There simply wasn’t enough evidence to continue.

  Which meant that she was finally in the clear.

  Jake took a deep breath, fully expecting to be able to exhale, but in the time it took to pull in that air, another thought surfaced and it stuck in his throat. If she was in the clear, then he didn’t have to stick to h
er like glue anymore. He didn’t have any legitimate reason to keep hanging around her, being with her, absorbing her presence or just merely sharing her space.

  Except for the fact that he was still head over heels in love with her.

  Last night when she’d leaned over and kissed his cheek, Jake had felt the world shift back into brighter focus and the innocent unaffected gesture might have landed on the side of his face, but he’d felt it all the way down to the bottoms of his feet. His belly had filled with air, then flipped and a shiver had worked its way up his spine.

  And she’d barely touched him.

  Christ.

  He let go a shaky breath. “What about the D.A.?” Jake asked.

  Dean leaned back in his chair. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Jake didn’t know what Dean could tell him that he hadn’t already, but he supposed his boss’s opinion carried more weight than his. At any rate, he didn’t care because ultimately, it was over. She was safe and that’s all that mattered. He thanked Dean, then grabbed his portfolio and made the trek home. He’d planned on following the routine he’d started this week--change clothes, check on the horse, then head back to town, to her house specifically--but after watching Marzipan for a few minutes, Jake decided that going anywhere tonight was out of the question. He unclipped his cell from his belt and keyed in Jolie’s number. “It’s happening,” he told her, kicking at a rock. “Do you still want to come out?”

  * * *

  As Jolie wheeled her car down the narrow dirt drive which would deliver her to Jake’s house, she felt the strangest sense of anxiety and homecoming push into her throat. She knew this land and its owner as well as she knew herself and yet something about driving up now made her feel like her insides were too big for her body. She topped a little hill and, backlit by a beautiful setting sun, the house and barn rose in the distance.

  The old farmhouse replica was white with green shutters, with full sweeping porches and tall multi-paned windows. Instead of going with modern asphalt shingles, Jake had opted for a green metal roof, one that would make beautiful music when it rained. A bittersweet pang squeezed her chest. From the looks of things, he’d built precisely what they’d planned. He could have modified things on the inside, Jolie knew, but if he’d kept the façade the same, then she thought it was relatively safe to assume that he’d left everything else as it was as well.