by Lois Winston
“Well, she’s back early,” I said. “You and Lawrence will have to move your afternoon delights to his home.”
“We can’t do that,” said Mama.
I raised my eyebrows.
Mama scrunched up her nose. “Cynthia. She doesn’t approve of our engagement.”
Which was the one thing Cynthia Pollack and I had in common. “Then I guess the two of you will have to get a room.” And because I’d reached my limit (can you blame me with the day I’d had?), I added, “There are several motels out on Route 9 that rent by the hour.”
“Anastasia! How can you say such a thing to your mother and future stepfather?”
Easy when my mother and Future Stepfather Number Six acted like rutting sheep. I sighed. My neck hurt like hell, and my head was following suit. I needed a quiet soak in a cool tub and a very strong margarita. It didn’t look like I’d get either any time soon. “Mama, I’ve had a rough day. Get dressed. You’re welcome to entertain Lawrence in my home, but from now on you’ll both remain clothed with at least three feet on the floor at all times.”
That said, I marched back down the hall, into the kitchen, and out the back door to the one place where I could find escape from perpetual family drama. The dark-room sign had better not be hanging on the door.
It wasn’t. I knocked. A moment later Zack opened the door. He took one look at my bandaged neck and I thought he’d throttle me. “How the hell—”
I placed my hand across his mouth. “Don’t. I’ll tell you all about it. After I calm down. Or better yet, we’ll watch the news together, and I’ll let Diane Sawyer fill you in. Just please tell me you have the makings for a supersized, industrial-strength margarita. With lots of salt. If not, I might cry.”
He pulled me across the threshold and into his arms. Before he could tell me whether he had the makings for a supersized, industrial-strength margarita with lots of salt, I began crying anyway.
Actually, I blubbered. I’d reached that point where the remainder of adrenaline that had carried me to this point finally deserted me. I was now officially running on empty. After a few minutes, I didn’t even have enough strength to continue crying.
Zack led me to the sofa and sat me down. Then he pointed to my neck. “Are you sure alcohol is a good idea?”
“Right now I don’t care if it’s the worst idea in the world. I want one.”
“Okay, one very supersized, industrial-strength margarita coming up.”
“With salt.”
“With salt. Will you be okay while I make it?”
I nodded. “Just don’t take too long. I’m on the verge of implosion.”
Three minutes later he placed a highball glass in my hand. I licked the salt from one side of the glass, then gulped down half the drink without coming up for air. The salt and fruit juice replenished my electrolytes, bringing life back to my nerves and muscles, while the alcohol helped numb the pain in my neck, although it would probably eventually contribute to the pain in my head. At the moment I didn’t care.
I placed the glass against my forehead, leaned back, and closed my eyes.
_____
Two hours later, Zack nudged me awake. “I would have let you sleep, but I figured you’d want to see this.” He pressed the remote to unfreeze the ABC Breaking News logo on the television screen. We watched in silence. At the end of the report, Zack turned off the TV. “So you almost got yourself killed again.” He pointed to my neck. “How bad is it?”
“Hardly more than a couple of scratches.”
“Scratches don’t require stitches.”
“Deep scratches do.”
“How deep?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I want to know everything. But not now.” He drew me into his arms and kissed me in that way he has that feels like no other kisses I’ve ever experienced.
“I’m ready for more,” I said.
“More margarita?”
“More you.”
Zack made sure the door was locked before leading me into the bedroom.
twenty-four
Thanks to all the local and national press coverage surrounding the arrest of Dirk Silver, aka Dante Silvestri, and Georgia Congresswoman Adeline Hunter, we had an extraordinary turnout for the opening at Creative Hearts & Hands the following Friday evening. Besides friends and family of my crafters and most of the Sunnyside staff, total strangers crammed into the small Hoboken gallery. The overflow poured out onto the still steamy sidewalk and into the street.
But the best news? People came to do more than gawk. They bought. And bought. And bought. Two hours into the opening every single item contained a sold sticker, and Clara was busy taking orders for more of my students’ artwork and craft pieces.
With Mabel’s artwork removed from the show at the request of her family and Dirk’s removed at the request of the police, the gallery had room to include at least one piece each from all the crafters Mabel had originally excluded. They might not have needed the money, but they did need the affirmation and boost to their egos. Every one of my students strutted around the gallery with heaping plates of hors d’oeuvres in their hands, wide grins spread across their faces, and their chests puffed out with pride.
The one person who didn’t show up was Sunnyside’s director, not that I expected her, but according to my crafters and some of the staff, no one had seen or heard from Shirley Hallstead since shortly after Dirk’s arrest.
“Sorry I’m late,” said April after inching her way through the crowd toward me. She was back to wearing her Jersey pride T-shirts. Today’s chest billboard, a scooped-neck hot pink number with puffy paint black lettering, read, Jersey Babe and Proud of It! “I’ve finally got the 411 on Shirley, and girl, you are not gonna believe it.”
“Spill, April.”
“She’s gone.”
“As in quit?”
“As in fired. The board axed her ass. Turns out Shirley never paid for Lyndella to live at Sunnyside. She cheated the place out of twenty years’ worth of fees and covered it up with money she skimmed from the Mildred Burnbaum arts and crafts grant funds. Not only did the Board of Directors fire Shirley, but she’s got to pay back the money she embezzled, plus interest, PDQ. Otherwise they’re filing charges against her.”
April swiped a mini quiche off my plate and popped it in her mouth. “Can’t say as anyone will miss her. That woman had serious issues.”
I agreed. With the killer caught, Shirley gone, and my crafters flush with newfound discretionary funds, the remainder of my time at Sunnyside should prove blissfully uneventful. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my personal life.
Being with Zack had surpassed my wildest imaginings. Granted, my pool of personal comparisons was limited, but I’d read my share of romance novels, and last Saturday night surpassed even the steamiest of them.
However, sex is a temporary panacea. After the rush of endorphins wore off, I still had to contend with Mama and Lucille.
Mama was barely speaking to me, especially after I’d walked back into the house last Saturday night, and she immediately guessed from the expression on my face that I’d gotten some. This only hours after I’d told her she could no longer have any—at least not under my roof.
The only impediment keeping her and Lawrence from running off and eloping was the not-so-minor problem of where they’d live. Like most of Mama’s previous husbands, Lawrence had little savings. Between the two of them, they couldn’t afford an apartment of their own, not with the prices of real estate in New Jersey.
Cynthia had made it clear Mama wasn’t welcome at the McMansion, and I certainly didn’t have room for the geriatric lovebirds at Casa Pollack. Over the last few days they’d begun working on Ira to foot the bill for an apartment. Personally, I hoped he’d agree. I love Mama, but she needs a man in her life, and for my own sanity, no
t to mention my budget, I need one less relative under my roof.
Of course, I’d rather have Mama than Lucille, but I had no way of palming Lucille off on some man. Or anyone else for that matter. Lucille was Karl’s albatross of a parting gift that would keep on giving. And giving. And giving.
And just because my home life wasn’t stressful enough, my mother-in-law now claimed I’d corrupted her dog. After considerable mutual animosity from the time he’d moved into my home, Mephisto and I had now bonded. Unfortunately, he’d made it clear that he preferred my company to Lucille’s.
I also had to brace myself for the inevitable meeting between Ira and Lucille and the fallout of such a meeting. Were Lucille and Isidore ever married? If so, had they divorced? As much as I hated to admit it, I leaned more and more toward Mama’s theory that neither had occurred and Lucille had legally changed her name to his. I awaited confirmation from Patricia’s intern’s records search, but my gut told me no such records existed.
One way or another, eventually, I’d have to decide whether or not to confront Lucille. I’d already kept several devastating secrets about Karl from her, believing she was better off not knowing her son’s true nature. Should I keep yet another secret from her, knowing any number of people might spill the Isidore beans?
But with all the current family drama and the drama yet to come, at least I was finally getting some. I scanned the crowd until I found the giver of what I was getting. Zack inclined his head toward the exit and raised his eyebrows in question. I pushed through the crowd to where that sexy silver sports car of his waited at the curb and asked myself, how lucky could one pear-shaped, cellulite-riddled, slightly overweight, more than slightly in debt, middle-aged widow get?
the end
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lois Winston straddles two worlds. She’s a critically acclaimed, award-winning author of mystery, romance, romantic suspense, women’s fiction, and nonfiction under both her own name and as Emma Carlyle, and she’s also an award-winning designer of needle-work and craft projects for magazines, craft book publishers, and kit manufacturers. Like Anastasia, she worked for several years as a crafts editor. A graduate of the prestigious Tyler School of Art, Lois often draws on her art and design background for much of the source material in her fiction.
Lois loves to hear from readers. Visit her at:
http://www.loiswinston.com and http://www.emmacarlyle.com.
Visit Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog:
http://www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com.
Author photo by Robert Winston.
