As she passed through the food court, the buttery, chocolate-rich aroma of Mrs. Fields’s cookies beckoned to her, promising a temporary sugar high to lift her sagging holiday spirit.
But what about your diet? she asked herself. What diet? her self promptly replied, veering toward the red and white concession. Like those extra pounds really matter. Like, who’s going to see you naked any time soon?
The very thought of being intimate with a man made her feel sick deep inside. She, who used to love sex . . . the whole breathless, sweaty, passionate act. But that had been before she knew how much pain the subject could cause.
Now . . . now her idea of fleshly pleasure was a semi-sweet chocolate chip with macadamia nuts.
A few moments later, Charlene left the cookie stand with her choice in hand and dumped her packages onto a nearby table. Sinking onto the chair, she decided to rest her feet and savor the calories. If she were going to be wearing this cookie on her butt for the next umpteen months, she might as well enjoy the experience.
As the first bite hit her system, she thought of something one of the women had said in her support group the night before.
You’ll get it all back, kid, and more. You’ll find yourself again.
The quiet voice echoed the words from a remnant of her spirit that had survived the ravages of betrayal.
It’ll take a while, but you’ll land on your feet.
Charlene Yardley popped the rest of the cookie into her mouth, hefted her children’s presents under her arms and headed for the mall exit. Yep, she’d make it through this mess and out the other side.
She might have gotten the wind knocked out of her, but she wasn’t down for the count. Not yet. No, Miss Home Wrecker and the worthless s.o.b. she had been married to hadn’t scored a KO in this fight. Not yet.
Charlene Yardley lifted her chin a couple of notches, trying her tattered garment of self-respect on for size. Okay, so it needed a little mending. But, basically, it was a good fit.
8:22 P.M.
Over an hour ago he had chosen her. She was the one tonight. Lucky lady.
Something about the way she held herself as she walked into the mall’s front entrance—head down, shoulders drooped, as though she had recently lost some important battles—told him she wouldn’t give him a hard time. And tonight he just wanted an easy, no-frills, minimal-challenge experience.
Sometimes he welcomed the fight, enjoyed the tussle, because, after all, he had the knife; he would always end up on top—so to speak. But it had been a particularly grueling day at work. He was tired. So, in making his choice, he had picked a sheep over a tigress. The only problem was: His sheep was shopping for too damned long!
Lying scrunched into a knot of tight muscles and strained nerves in the rear floorboard of her ancient Pontiac Sunbird, he was cursing the fact that he hadn’t picked somebody with a roomier car interior.
But, although the broad with the Cadillac had seemed equally droopy and dispirited, she had locked all her doors. So had the gal with the Mercedes. The Sunbird chick had left the passenger door unlocked, so she had won by default.
That’s right, you lucky contestant! Guess what’s waiting for you behind Door Number Four!
When he had crawled into the back and shut the door behind him, his excitement level had been feverishly high. But as the clock on the dash clicked off the minutes, his ardor had cooled and his temper heated. Twenty minutes ago he had decided that when the bitch finally did show up, she was going to pay. Big time.
He lifted himself above the backs of the bucket seats, shook the pins-and-needles numbness out of his right arm, and surveyed the parking lot for what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour.
She was coming!
A jolt of adrenaline coursed through him, making his limbs weak with anticipation. Then the flow of energy took a detour due south and concentrated in his groin, where it had the exact opposite effect. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how long it had taken; this was well worth waiting for. In fact, the anxiety had made the whole thing better, sharper, more acute, more real . . . the only real moment of his mundane, detached and unreal life.
But as he watched his chosen victim cross the parking lot, he noticed that her demeanor had changed slightly. She didn’t look quite as meek and mild as she had before, going into the mall. In fact, she was holding her head in an arrogant, haughty manner that irritated the hell out of him.
Hoity-toity bitch needs to be brought down a notch or two, he thought. Needs to be shown who’s boss. And what he had planned for her this evening would certainly do the trick.
He noted that she was loaded down with bags, and he wondered if the rear of the car where he was hiding was dark enough. If she tossed the sacks into the back, would she see him?
For a brief moment, he reconsidered his m.o. and decided to alter it next time. This scenario contained too many unknowns, not to mention the uncomfortable wait. But he filed it away—something to consider later when he was reliving this event, moment by delicious moment.
He was relieved when she walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. His pulse rate rose as he listened to her place the bags inside, then slam the lid closed.
He pulled his knife from the open backpack on the floorboard beside him and gripped it tightly in his sweaty fist. He was trembling all over, but it felt good. It felt great! Control. It was all a matter of control. And he had it.
She unlocked the driver’s door, swung it open and slid onto the seat. Tossing her purse onto the passenger’s side of the floorboard, she sighed, and he felt that exhaled breath wash through him, hot and moist. Tuned to every nuance of her, he was acutely aware of her perfume, her body’s own unique scent, and the underlying smell of chocolate—she had just eaten something like a cookie.
He waited until she had put the key into the ignition and started the car. Without making a sound, without even daring to breathe, he rose onto his knees behind her. His movements were silent, fluid . . . the perfect predator, or so he thought of himself in his deeply self-satisfied moments.
A quick glance right and left told him they were alone in this dark end of the parking lot.
It was time.
His left arm snaked around her from behind. His hand clamped over her mouth. He felt her scream against his palm as he pinched her jaws tightly.
Reaching around with his right hand, he showed her the enormous hunting knife. He felt her terror, like an exotic elixir, pouring through her body and into his. She shook violently and thrashed around, as though she were trying to turn in her seat to see him.
“Don’t do it, bitch,” he told her in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, even to him. This voice was deeper, more guttural, darker and more demonic than anything a Hollywood sound stage could conjure. “Just keep looking straight ahead and don’t scream or, I swear, I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat. Do you hear me?”
He put the blade of the knife against her neck, not caring whether the freshly honed edge nicked her or not. He continued to pinch her jaws tightly until he felt her body go limp in surrender.
“Do you hear me?” he repeated.
She nodded.
Slowly he removed his hand.
He saw her glance at him in her rear-view mirror. But it didn’t really matter if she saw him or not. The white beard took care of that.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she said in a voice so shrill and squeaky she sounded like a cartoon mouse.
He was highly amused.
“Hurt you? Well, baby, that’s up to you. Are you going to be smart, or are you going to be stupid?”
She tried to speak but choked on the word.
“What?” He pressed the knife tighter to her throat.
“I said . . .” She gagged. And he decided that if she ruined this by vomiting, he was going to kill her for sure. “I said . . .” she tried again, “. . . smart. I’m going to be smart.”
“That’s good. You be smart, baby, and you might even live to give away
all those Christmas presents you just bought.”
She began to softly cry. “They’re for my kids,” she said.
He could tell she was trying to keep it together, struggling not to break down. Apparently, she was stronger than he had thought.
“My kids need me,” she said. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you say.”
“Of course you will,” he replied coolly. He was beginning to really enjoy the game. This was it. This was what he lived for.
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to,” he said. “Because I’ve got the knife. I’m the one in control. Complete control. Don’t forget it.”
With his left hand he reached down and caressed her breast. Softly at first, tenderly, like a lover. Then he squeezed, tighter and tighter, until he heard her gasp from the pain. He thought of the quiet, deserted orange grove. The rich smell of citrus in the cool night air.
Yes, there was a lot more pain where that had come from.
He could tell already: It was going to be a long, long night.
CHAPTER THREE
9:30 P.M.
Only thirty more feet to the front door, Savannah told herself as she dragged her tired body up the sidewalk to her small, Spanish-style cottage. Once you’re inside, you can fall apart at the seams. You can scream, cry or just quietly pass out, and nobody but the cats will ever know.
Ah . . . the pleasures of living alone.
As she stepped onto the porch and fingered the selections on her key ring for the one to the door, Savannah tried not to notice that her house was looking as bedraggled these days as she felt.
The chipped stucco had long ago lost its freshly painted, white glow. The bougainvillea bush, which she had named Bogey—after Humphrey—was taking over the front of the place. Any night now, a wandering tendril might snake through her upstairs bedroom window and strangle her in her sleep.
More than once, she had wondered what it would be like to have a man around the house. A Prince Charming, enchanted sword in hand, whacking back the wayward bougainvillea, then climbing through the bedroom window to claim his prize.
Unfortunately, most of the guys she met weren’t exactly princes, they weren’t notably charming . . . and she hadn’t exactly had to bar her bedroom window against marauding, lust-besotted suitors.
Savannah had to admit: Maybe she had been a bit standoffish. Perhaps she should install a functional escalator from the sidewalk, over the porch, to that lonely, second-story window and leave it on “up” all night. Nope. There was no point in playing so hard to get.
But the moment Savannah opened her front door, she abandoned all plans of acquiring a lover. Who needed male attention when feline affection was so readily available, unconditional and uncomplicated?
Two blue-black, furry, live house-slippers entwined themselves warmly around her feet and ankles, vibrating better than any expensive gadget from a Sharper Image catalogue. And these two apparatuses operated, not on batteries, but on cans of salmon-flavored Kitty Gourmet.
“Good evening, Cleopatra, Diamante,” she told the regal pair, reaching down to stroke the silky, ebony coats. They each wore rhinestone-studded black collars that glimmered in the dim porch light as they gazed up at her with emerald eyes full of adoration.
“Yeah, yeah, and if I missed a day feeding you, you’d both turn on me like a couple of ravenous jackals,” she told them as she tossed her purse onto the cherry piecrust table inside the door. She headed for the kitchen and their feeding bowls, which she was fairly certain—judging from the feverish pitch of their purrs—were licked clean.
They were.
She took a tin of cat food from the cupboard and a can opener from a drawer. So much for immediate self-indulgence upon arriving home, she thought with a tired sigh as she scooped the smelly concoction into the bowls. The cats buried their faces in it, infinitely satisfied.
There, she had done her act of kindness for the animal kingdom. And now . . . a warm bubble bath in the clawfoot, Victorian tub upstairs, a cup of hot chocolate with a splash of Bailey’s, a few scented candles and—
The shrill ring of the telephone extinguished her fantasy candles and burst the iridescent bubbles of her imaginary bath.
Irritated, she snatched the phone receiver off the wall. “I’m not here. I never will be again,” she told her caller. “Go away.”
“Sav-v-van-n-n-ah.”
She wanted to hang up. Desperately. But she couldn’t pretend she didn’t recognize that tear-choked southern drawl. If it had been any of her other eight siblings calling, she would have slammed down the phone without even a nudge of conscience. Even big sisters had to get some credit for time served, now that her batch of younger sisters and brothers were almost all adults . . . at least legally, if not emotionally.
But Vidalia was pregnant. Extremely pregnant.
And as tired as Savannah was, she couldn’t be that cruel. You just didn’t hang up on a woman who was in a family way. Not one who already had one set of completely adorable, completely undisciplined, five-year-old twins.
Besides, knowing Vidalia, she would only call back.
“Hi, sweetie pie. How’s your tummy?” Savannah said as she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. Even if the bath and candles were a write-off, the hot chocolate and Bailey’s were still within arm’s reach.
“My tummy is hu-u-u-ge!” The plaintive admission was punctuated with a long, fluid sniff. “And so’s my butt. I’m the size of a barn door and gettin’ bigger every day. I hate being pregnant!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Your butt was big before you got pregnant and—”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Savannah wanted to kick her own ample posterior from there to Sunday. But she had never received any awards for tactfulness, and she was even less diplomatic after a hard day on the job.
Fresh wailing erupted on the other end, and Savannah felt as useful as a boll weevil in a cotton patch.
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out, sugar,” she said. “I just meant that we Reid gals are known for being deliciously curvaceous and voluptuous . . . whether we’re with child or not.”
“Well, Butch says I’m a heifer and if I don’t lose all this weight as soon as the baby’s born, he’s gonna divorce me.”
I’d be plum delighted to put a 9mm slug between his beady little eyes and save you the paperwork, Savannah thought. But this time she censored her words before they rolled off her tongue. One major faux pas per evening was enough.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean a word of it,” she said. “You know how men are . . .”
“Rude, selfish bastards who only care about themselves, who only worry about whether they’re gonna run out of beer, and who’s gonna win the World Series.”
“Precisely.”
Another pathetic sniff. “Do you think they’re all that way, or just Butch?”
Savannah thought of her bougainvillea that needed chopping, and the proposed escalator construction in her front yard. “There has to be a good one, or two.”
“Do you really think so?”
“It’s hard to imagine, but there’s a lot of them around. I mean, what are the odds they’d all be rotten?”
“So, why didn’t I marry a nice one?”
Savannah sighed as she poured the milk into a glass measuring cup and stuck it into the microwave. “Because you were in love with Butch.” She set the timer and punched the Start button. “You said he had a cute butt and drove his own car. Those were his two major attributes, as I remember you explaining them to me on your wedding day.”
“Boy, I was sure dumb then.”
“You were young, sweetie, that’s all. You—”
“Yeah. I shoulda held out for Bobby Taylor. He had a new truck and great shoulders, too.”
Savannah’s fatigue gauge slid a few notches closer to exhaustion. “Vidalia, I hope you’re feeling better now, because I’ve had a rough day and
I really need to just kick back and—”
“Oh, I see. You don’t have time for me either. You’re so busy with your career and all that more exciting stuff. But that’s okay; I understand. Don’t you worry about me. No, sirree, Bob. I’ll be all right . . . I always am . . .”
A vision materialized before Savannah’s eyes: The blessed Saint Vidalia, tied to a stake as flames licked the hem of her robe, eyes lifted heavenward.
It made her want to barf.
As her sister sniffled on the Georgia end, Savannah removed the heated milk from the microwave and slammed the door closed. Mentally, she counted to five, collecting the fragments of her patience before replying. “I’m sure Butch didn’t mean to hurt you, Vidalia,” she said as she poured the milk into her favorite Old Country Roses teacup and added a generous scoop of cocoa mix. “He’s the father of your children and a pretty decent dad. Besides, you married him for better and for worse.”
“He’s a slob.”
“He doesn’t beat you.”
“And he snores.”
“He brings home a weekly paycheck . . . most of the time.”
“I have to make him get a haircut and—”
“And he doesn’t fool around on you. Stop bitching, kiddo. You’ve got it better than most. Kiss and make up.”
Louder sniffles. “We can’t. We haven’t had sex for ages, what with my backaches and all.”
“Oh, well, no wonder the old boy’s cranky,” she muttered, pulling an oversized bottle of Bailey’s from the liquor cabinet. “Ask him to take the twins to McDonalds for dinner, to vacuum the house, take out the garbage and give you a back massage in exchange for a blow job.”
The sniffles stopped. “Do you think he’d do all that . . . just for a B.J.?”
“He’s male. He hasn’t had sex for ages. It’s a done deal.”
Cooked Goose Page 3
