Notorious

by Susan Andersen

  Reaching out, I ease the door more fully open and look into the room.

  I can see Joe's head and shoulders over a stack of boxes, and the look on his face makes my heart pound. Entering the room, I round the stack and stop dead at the sight that greets me.

  The closet door is wide open, and I stare at the clippings and photos that line the interior, the video that plays silently on the television screen. I press my hand against my mouth, my knuckles mashing my lips to my teeth as sickness crawls up my throat.

  Then my husband's head suddenly snaps around and his nostrils flare. His eyes, as they meet mine, are wild. My hand drops to my side.

  "Joe," I moan in agonized disbelief.

  "Haul out those glamour duds, girlfriend," Hayley said. "I wanna see what you're wearing to the big bash Friday night." She dropped onto her back atop the plush coverlet on Kurstin's bed.

  Pushing up on her elbows, she shook her hair out of her eyes and watched her friend disappear into the walk-in closet.

  "I can't work up any enthusiasm for this party," Kurstin said from the other side of the wall.

  "Why not?"

  "Well, it’s just more of the same ol’, same old, isn't it? Deja vu all over again. I've lost count of the number of Fourth of July dances I have attended at the club." Kurstin emerged from the closet holding several gowns. "There won’t be a soul there I haven't known my entire life, Dad and Jon-Michael will snipe at each other all night, and I’ll be stuck in the middle as usual."

  "So, blow it off. Come to Bluey’s and I’ll put a reserved sign on a stool at the bar. We have a good band playing this weekend."

  "Don't think I'm not tempted. Except then I would have to make up a raft of excuses for both Father and the stockholders expecting to see me at the club, and in the end it would turn out to be more trouble than it's worth."

  "Plus, you’re a social creature by nature. You will probably have a great time once you’re there."

  "Yeah, maybe. What do you think, this one?" Kurstin held up a white floor-length gown. "Want to know what I would do this weekend, given the choice?"

  "Too bland," Hayley decided, eyeing the dress. "What would you do?"

  "Get laid. This one?" She held up a pale green strapless number.

  "Oh, God, you too?" Hayley sat up and impatiently waved away the dress. "Forget the wardrobe for a minute. How long has it been for you? I bet it hasn’t been nearly as long as it’s been for me."

  “Don’t wager your hard earned paycheck on it." Kurstin draped the gowns over a slipper chair and crossed the room to join Hayley on the bed, bracing her spine against the tall footboard. “It might turn out to be the biggest sucker bet you ever made."

  "You think so? Well, tell me this, then," Hayley said. "Have you had sex more than twice in the past two-and-a-half years?"

  "Well...yes."

  "Not me."

  "Yeah, but you’ve had some turbulent years. At least that is an excuse of sorts. I don't have an excuse, aside from the fact that I know every man in town."

  "Ooh. In the biblical sense?"

  "No. Try to stay on track here, Hayles. If I knew them all in the biblical sense, we would not be having this conversation."

  Kurstin tapped her foot against the Aubusson rug. "I know their families, their histories—hell, I bet if push came to shove I could even quote you their childhood illnesses."

  Hayley scooted to an upright position. Sitting cross-legged, she grasped her ankles and pressed her knees toward the mattress, then allowed them to relax, lazily working them up and down like fairy wings opening and closing. She looked up from the contemplation of her bare calves to meet her friend's gaze. "If you could have just one evening of uncomplicated, guilt-free, fantasy sex, what kind of man would you pick?"

  "A construction worker," Kurstin promptly replied. "With a hard hat, hard hands, and a great big, hard…"

  "…to resist smile." Hayley grinned.

  "That, too. It is definitely up there, right after really hard working hips. What about you? Who would you pick?"

  "Remember 'Ranch' romances?"

  "Please," Kurstin said with pained loftiness. "You know I only read enlightening fiction." But she could not prevent herself from squirming beneath the get-real look Hayley gave her. "Okay, okay, I might have read one. Possibly two." Her foot stilled on the carpet as she leaned forward. "And man, was I enlightened," she admitted enthusiastically. "This gorgeous rancher had the little blonde heroine every which way there was. It was great. Inspiring, really."

  "Exactly," Hayley agreed. "That's who I would pick. Some big ole rancher with ten gallon shoulders and a stallion-sized dick he has to strap down with the thingamajig on his holster just to prevent himself from ravishing me on the spot every time I come on the scene." She laughed but then immediately sobered. "Instead I get real life. How lowering. I got my period this morning, I have a zit starting next to my nose, and you know how I get when it comes to the opposite sex. I can talk trash with the best of 'em, provided it's only you and me. I don't have a problem holding my own with the barflies who hit on me at work, because that's business. But when it comes to doing the Up Close and Personal with a regular guy, all that introversion I have worked like a slave to overcome rears its ugly head. Every stinkin’ time."

  "And the closest I’m bound to get to a construction worker in this lifetime is an ancient Coke ad on TV that I, um, may have recorded back when," Kurstin admitted, climbing off the bed and reaching for the topmost evening gown draped over the dainty slipper chair. She held it up in front of her. "So, back to real life. What do you think? Should I wear this red number to wow the local boys at the country club dance? Or do you like the pale green better?"

  "Joe," I say again and my heart pounds in my breast as I take in my husband's wild-eyed gaze. "What are you doing up here?"

  Only slowly does he turn entirely away from the closet with its damning contents. His fists clench and unclench as he stares at me and I take a cautious step backward, frightened of him for the first time ever. That one step forward strikes me as threatening.

  "What am I doing here?" he demands with quiet fury. "Don't you think that’s a question better asked of you?" He takes another step toward me, waving a stiff hand toward the closet "What the hell is this, Patsy? It looks like a fucking shrine to Hayley."

  You're stupid, Patsy. I hear the echo of my mother in his tone and raise my chin, stepping past him to inspect the destruction done to the closet door. Relief flows through me when I get close enough to inspect it, for the damage is minimal, really. The lock has simply been drilled out and the door opened. I turn back to Joe. "Why did you remove the deadbolt?"

  "Because I don't like stumbling across locked doors in my own goddamn house. Are you going to answer my question, Patsy? What is all this shit?"

  "Just a few articles I have gathered over the years about her poor husband's death and the trials and stuff."

  "A few articles, my ass. This looks like every fucking word that has ever been written, not to mention every sound bite ever recorded. How did you get all this shit? This is sick, Patsy."

  "It is not sick!" I disagree furiously while Mother's voice in my mind sneers, ignorant, unnatural girl. "Hayley Prescott is one of my oldest, dearest friends. It is only natural I am interested in what has been going on in her life."

  "Oldest, dearest… For Christ's sake, Patsy, up until this summer you hadn't seen her in twelve damn years!"

  "So what? We have a bond that will endure until the day I die."

  "You have a bond," Joe repeated flatly. Jesus. He had known for several months now that their marriage was falling apart, but this! This was just plain crazy. He started to demand what kind of bond she thought she had with Hayley but then shook his head. No. I don't want to know. Looking inside the closet, he thought of all the nights he had found her missing from their bed, and took a step back, distancing himself. "I'm leaving, Patsy."

  "No!" She rushed forward. "You cannot." Grasping his arm in
both hands, she stared up at him, her expression beseeching. "Joe, please. This is insane. Let us talk about it…we can work this out."

  "Not today we can't. I gotta get out of here."

  "But where will you go?" she demanded plaintively.

  "I don't know. I'll get a room at the Inn for tonight. I’ll worry about something more permanent tomorrow."

  "You come home tomorrow, Joseph Beal. We will talk about this."

  "Yeah, okay." But Joe could not envision moving back in. Not when he felt so much relief at the prospect of moving out. She followed him down to their room and he felt her watching his every move as he threw a few things in a bag. She trailed him again as he hauled the small duffel down the stairs and through the kitchen to the door to the garage. Standing in the open doorway, she wrung her hands as he tossed his bag on the passenger seat of his Buick. He climbed into the sedan, hit the garage door opener clipped to the visor and fired up the ignition. Then he backed out of the garage and hit the remote again to close its door.

  Without another glance in her direction.

  I watch until there is nothing to see but the inside of the firmly closed garage door. Then slowly, I back into the kitchen and shut the door.

  It is not until later in the evening that I remember the compound bow I bought Joe. It falls out of its hiding place when I slide some hangers aside to hang up my suit.

  I catch it before it hits the floor and stand looking down at it for several moments, stroking its red satin ribbon. I had such high hopes for this evening and now my dreams have been trampled to dust.

  Then I straighten my shoulders. None of that now. Negative thoughts are not allowed. They are counterproductive at best and self-defeating at worst.

  Joe will be back. And until he is—?

  Well, I will simply console myself watching a few of my favorite taped news segment from my Hayley file.

  Ten

  "Whataya you suppose the name of this orchestra is?" Jon-Michael muttered in Kurstin's ear as he came up behind her in the country club ballroom. "Maestro Muzak and The Dull Notes?" He winced as the musicians launched into a lively rendition of Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree. The song had been popular before he or his sister was born.

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Behave yourself."

  He circled her to stand face to face. "Damn, Kurstie, it’s Friday night and we’re a couple of hot-blooded mammals. A veritable stud and studette, you and I are. So what the hell are we doing in a room full of colorless, small town civic-minded citizens?"

  "Fulfilling our Olivet duty."

  He winced. "I was afraid you’d say something like that." Finding a handy post, he propped his shoulders and the flat of one foot against it and gave her a slow once-over. "You’re lookin' mighty fine this evening," he said, eyeing her red dress. She stood out in the sea of pastels surrounding them. "I salute your gutsy fashion statement. Might I fetch you a small libation from the bar?"

  Kurstin grinned at his choice of words, squirreling the noun away to use herself someday. "I would love a double bourbon on the rocks," she admitted. "But I think I'll stick with 7-up for the present. At least until I’ve finished chatting up the board of directors. Then just watch my dust, Jon-Boy, because I am sneaking out early to go get roaring drunk at Bluey’s. Hayley can take me home."

  Foot sliding to the floor, Jon-Michael straightened away from the post. At last, an opportunity to find out how Hayley was faring after the other night's unexplained swim and crying jag. She had managed to ignore him completely at the bar last night. "And how is our little—"

  "Kurstin, Jon-Michael," a voice interrupted and impatiently he turned to see Patsy Beal sail up with a dark-haired stranger in tow. "I would like you to meet Ty Holloway," she said, drawing the man forward. "I am sponsoring him as a new member of the club. Ty, this is Kurstin McAlvey and her brother Jon-Michael Olivet."

  "Hi, how y'doin'." Jon-Michael offered his hand readily enough but his attention was perfunctory and he immediately turned back to Kurstin, only to find her studying the newcomer with interest. Well, shit. Fact-finding mission terminated before it got off the ground.

  He allowed her to be dragged away following the exchange of pleasantries. Lounging back against the pole once again, he watched as the new guy—what had Patsy said his name was again, Halliday?—deftly extracted Kurstin from Patsy's company as well. Huh. Smooth operator.

  Jon-Michael shrugged irritably. What the hell, no sense in being a dog in the manger. Yeah, he was bored and would rather be anywhere besides the country club. Didn't mean he had to begrudge his sister a good time. He went into the bar and ordered himself a club soda.

  "Jon-Michael."

  The tone of disapproval was enough to alert him to the speaker's identity. Suppressing a sigh, he turned, drink in hand, to face his father. "Dad."

  Richard looked him over. "When the hell are you going to learn to wear appropriate attire," he demanded coldly, taking in Jon-Michael's white T-shirt, impeccably tailored tuxedo jacket and slacks, and the burgundy cummerbund that matched his high top Converse sneakers.

  Jon-Michael snapped the turquoise bow-tie he had borrowed from Bluey. "Well, I admit my color coordination skills could stand a little work. Yet I slid past the club's dress-code police, so what do you care?" Aside from the fact that he had once again violated the sanctity of the precious Olivet name, that is.

  "Christ," Richard said in disgust. "And you consider yourself fit to run the company." He turned and walked away.

  Jon-Michael shrugged and carried his drink back into the main ballroom. He knew he was in serious trouble, however, when within the space of twenty-five minutes he had passed on two separate opportunities for a little flirtation. Either woman would have helped kill the time until he could escape, and ordinarily he would have been all over them like airbrush strokes on a centerfold. Both the women who had approached him were attractive and willing. Hell, face it, they were female, and that alone had been sufficient for him in the past.

  Not tonight.

  For as long as he could remember, he had bantered with and teased women. Pretty women, ugly women, grandmas or young girls, it made no difference to him. Flirting was as inherent to him as breathing. Ladies were one portion of the population he could always garner approval from, and after his mother’s death their unconditional admiration spread balm on a spot perpetually rubbed raw by his inability to attain anything close to that from his remaining parent.

  Not that he did it merely for that reason, at least not since college. He just enjoyed flirting with the double X chromosome gender and they seemed to enjoy returning the favor. It was a fun and harmless form of entertainment.

  Tonight, the ghost of Hayley ruined even that. He complimented Mrs. Rivers on her gown, then moved on. He danced with Francine Johnson, but when she stood close at the number’s conclusion and batted her eyelashes up at him while tracing a languid finger up and down his jacket lapel, he excused himself and went off to invite eighty-year-old, four-foot-ten Gertrude Brown to dance. Staring off into the distance over the top of her blue-white hair as he navigated them in a slow foxtrot around the floor, he tried to figure out what the hell Hayley was doing to him.

  And he had...nothing. His only certainty was that the situation was rapidly losing its amusement value. Hayley was the one female in Gravers Bend with whom his fail-proof flirtation methods consistently failed. And surprisingly, that had always been okay with him, because her staunch refusal to be impressed and her snide digs at his technique had freed him to simply be himself around her. Aside from his sister, there had been damn few people about whom he could say that.

  Then one night he had finally done something right with her. Too bad he could not recall what it was. All he knew was everything changed and he regretted, as a consequence, that she hated his guts. Regretted it big time. But eventually, he had learned to live with what he'd done.

  As a result of that night—or, more to the point, of how he had shot o
ff his big mouth afterward—he had sat up and taken a good hard look at the direction he was letting his life be led. Then he’d wrestled control of it before it could become firmly entrenched in the downward spiral it had been racing toward. For that alone he owed her.

  When Kurstin told him Hayley was coming back to town, it had never occurred to him that his life might change as a result. He had simply expected to fall into the same old pattern of him flirting and her resisting. Except this time he would be sober.

  And at first that was exactly the way it had worked. But something had shifted the other night when she'd cried all over his chest and he had watched his damn T-shirt slip-sliding up over her naked hip.

  Something that prevented him flirting tonight.

  The music came to an end and Jon-Michael smiled down at Gertrude, pouring on the charm as he escorted her back to her table. That it took conscious effort gave him tight teeth. But it also strengthened his determination.

  Because tonight was a fluke, and he would do well to keep that in mind. He would get his life back to the way it was supposed to be.

  If it was the last damn thing he did.

  Ty didn't release Kurstin when the music came to an end. "One more dance," he said and tightened his grip on her while he waited for the music to resume.

  She tipped her head back to look up at him. "Oh, but I really should be getting back to—"

  "One more."

  Her head settled back on his shoulder and she smiled as they began to move to the new tune.

  When the song came to an end and the combo immediately launched into The Girl From Ipanema, Kurstin and Ty looked at each other, grimaced, and walked off the floor. At the edge where sprung hardwood met carpeting, he turned her toward the linen-covered tables lining the wide bank of windows overlooking the pool. "Join me at my table."

  Kurstin reluctantly disengaged her arm from his grip. "I would truly like that, but I cannot.”

  "Okay. I'll join you at yours."