The Sweetest
Revenge
By Jennifer Ransom
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Ransom
Cover art by MC2 Creative Services
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. References to actual people, places, and events are used to lend authenticity to the novel and are used fictitiously. All characters, dialog, and events are from the author's imagination and are not real. Any resemblances to real people, places, events, or dialog are coincidental.
Chapter One
I was feeling hopeful that day, well downright springy. It was spring and it was the Friday before spring break at the university where I worked. I was supposed to be out late that night with my department at the country club, entertaining a potential donor—this rich guy who we hoped would become a major donor after we plied him with wine and country club food and young junior fundraisers too green to know that part of their reason for being was to lure old geezers into the donor pool.
But the rich guy cancelled late that afternoon because his mother had died. She was eighty-two, and I figured she had had a good long life. But sad she died, of course. So, I was sad for the guy, but I have to admit, very glad for me to get out of a long evening of a witty toast by the president and chicken Florentine with pine nut risotto. On the down side, I got elected to attend the geezer’s mother’s funeral in the big show of support from his alma mater. I had been stupid enough to tell everyone that I was planning to spend the break watching movies and working in the garden. Our annual fund coordinator, Blond Ambition, was ordered to go with me and the higher-ups—who had already left town for spring break—didn’t care if she had any plans. I knew for a fact that she was planning a week at the beach with her boyfriend because she had told me all about it in the coffee room. It was getting serious between them, Kate had said. I saw her face fall for just a second—probably no one else noticed—and she said she’d be happy to go to the funeral. You poor schlub, I thought.
So, I was ready to get my spring break started, grateful that I wouldn’t be out late that night with an old guy leering at the young chicks. Even if I had to travel to the mountains to attend a funeral on Sunday, I’d get right back to my vacation Sunday night and have the whole week!
It took me exactly seventeen minutes to drive from the university to my house on Pine Street. As I pulled in the driveway, I noted the big branch from the pine tree that still lay in the side yard, the now-brown needles poking around to the front. Jim had assured me he would take care of getting it removed – he knew somebody’s brother or uncle who would do it real cheap. But that was six months ago and I guessed I would just have to do it myself, along with everything else I had to take care of.
Since our house was built in 1875, we did not have the luxury of a carport or garage. I pulled to my spot on the driveway and got out, thrilled to be free! I opened the kitchen door and was greeted with a pile of dishes in the sink. No rest for the weary, I thought. A woman’s work is never done. I would have to clean up before I could start supper.
I had my mind on the New York strip steaks in the freezer that I had planned on for tomorrow night, but now a celebration was in order. Midnight came out from under the table and started rubbing against my legs, ready for some supper. I pushed her out of the way as I walked to the freezer and took out the steaks to thaw.
That’s when I heard it. A low moaning sound which scared the hell out of me. I turned to go out the door when I saw a splotch of red through the trees beyond the driveway. I realized it was Jim’s Toyota 4Runner parked on the little back road we have that doesn’t connect to the house property. What the hell is he doing parking back there, I wondered. That’s when I knew it must be him upstairs. I dialed his cell phone just to be sure, and I heard it ringing in the den. I went in there and saw his jacket thrown without care as usual on the back of a chair. The jacket had hit the table and pulled a corner of my jigsaw puzzle off. Pieces lay on the floor. Damn, I’d have to fix that later.
What the hell is going on? I took off my shoes and stepped on tiptoe to the stairs, then silently up them. I was careful to miss the step that always squeaked. I turned first into our bedroom, but it was empty. Then I heard laughter and a little yelp like someone was being tickled. It was coming from the spare room. It couldn’t be anyone but Jim, but why was his car outside and his cell phone in the den? I tiptoed across the hall. careful again to miss another squeaky part in the floor. The door was partially open, and I peeked in.
A woman jumped up pulling the bedspread—my grandmother’s chenille spread—around her. Even in my stunned stupor I could see she was beautiful, something I would torture myself with. Now, this is the part where you think she was young and blond, like one of our many student workers. But she wasn’t that young and she wasn’t blond. She was dark—Italian looking—with long straight dark hair. She must have been our age, late thirties.
I was speechless as I took in the house of horrors. Jim just stared open-mouthed. I matched his open-mouthed stare. All I could think to say was, “That’s my grandmother’s bedspread.” And I turned and walked out. Down the stairs, stepping hard on the squeaky boards. I was out the door before Midnight made it over to my cushy calf again. In the car, hands shaking, I started the car. I backed out blindly. It’s a wonder I didn’t run into a car on the street. Straight to the 7-Eleven on the corner where I bought a pack of Marlborough Light 100s. I had given them up in college.
Back in the car, I drove straight for the old mountain highway. That’s when my cell started to ring. It was Jim’s ring—“I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing,” the Aerosmith song that was a hit when we got together in college. We knew every word of that song. I didn’t answer.
The phone rang over and over – he must have been hitting the number one button, reserved for me, over and over and over. I got on the highway and had no idea where I was going, what I was doing. Finally, the phone stopped ringing. Well, I guess the bastard gave up, I thought.
About halfway to the mountains I stopped at a picnic area Jim and I had discovered when we first met over seventeen years ago. It was off the road and hidden by some big bushes so the cars on the road couldn’t see it. It wasn’t used much anymore, but I did see condom packages lying about. I sat on the ground and started to smoke. Aerosmith rang again. I ignored it again.
It started to get dark and a car drove into the clearing—teenagers wanting to have sex, no doubt. They must have been surprised to see a woman sitting on the ground with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and they screeched off. “Shit,” I heard a boy shout. “What the hell is that fat lady doing here?” That was my cue to leave—I didn’t want to get into any confrontations with rowdy teenaged boys—though I was so angry I felt I could take them on. I got up, brushing the dirt off of my now-ruined work suit.
My cell phone rang the entire thirty minutes it took to drive home. Damn, I hated that Aerosmith song now. I most definitely had missed a thing—Jim having an affair. Right before I turned in the drive I reached into my purse and turned my phone off.
Jim didn’t know it, but I knew who the woman was.
It got dark quickly, as it will in the early spring, and it was almost seven when I drove into our driveway. The house was lit up outside and in. I walked in the kitchen door, Midnight now meowing in greeting because she still hadn’t been fed. What the hell was Jim doing, not even feeding a hungry cat? Jim was in the kitchen. “Where have you been?” he asked, as if he had a right to know.
“As if you have a right to know,” I said.
Then he crumbled, tears running down his face. “Please forgive me,” he begged. He knew there was no point in trying to say what I saw was anything different than what I saw. It was
what it was.
“Who is she?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer to that. I wanted to watch him squirm.
“Just a client,” he said. “I’ve been working on an estate matter for her.”
I screamed, surprising both of us with the volume of my voice.
“Well, this is a hell of a matter you’re dealing with now!” I shouted.
At first he wouldn’t tell me her name, but finally said her name was Mary McClure. A lie. I knew what her name was.
“Where did you pull that name from? Out of a hat?”
“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” he said, as if this were the reason we were going through this hell now. I had come home unexpectedly, messing everything up.
“Well, excuse me for coming home to my own house!” I yelled.
Finally, I told him that I knew exactly who she was.
“The gig is up,” I said.
“Uh, don’t you mean jig—the jig is up?” he said. I could have killed him then and there. I covered embarrassment with fury.
“No, I mean gig. Your little gigs. Your play times. As in gig. Get it?” That put him in his place.
“I know she’s your old girlfriend, Kimberly Williams. I know exactly who she is and there is no use in denying it. I saw you with her that night of her reception, so you can stop your lying now.”
The rest of that night and into the early hours of the morning were spent with Jim coming clean about the whole thing. I asked accusatory and detailed questions about their sex and how it was—what did they do? I demanded to know the answers. I didn’t want to leave it up to my imagination, as painful as the truth was.
“Did you do those things to her that I taught you? To try to make you a decent lover?” I yelled.
When he wouldn’t answer, I demanded and screamed and hollered until he gave in. He hung his head in shame as he admitted it.
The steaks sat untouched in the sink. We drank wine and whisky. I smoked openly in the house, even though Jim was allergic to it.
Toward the end of that long night, Jim got on his knees and grabbed my plump legs and begged forgiveness and swore it was over. He had been crazy, going through a midlife crisis or something, even though he was only thirty-seven. Didn’t know what he was doing. Lured by the old relationship. On and on and on.
He looked up at me from his place of humiliation on the floor, on his knees with his sheepish, little-boy-don’t-you-want-to-cut-me-some-slack-here look. He looked up at me with hooded eyes of shame. I was disgusted with his batting eyelashes.
Chapter Two
“Get up,” I said harshly.
He got up and tried to put his hands on my arms. I squirmed out of his grasp.
“I want you to leave right now,” I said.
He looked at me incredulously. Could I possibly be asking him to leave his house?
“But, Amy,” he said. “This is my house. My home.”
“Not anymore,” I said sternly. “You don’t live here anymore.”
“But,” Jim said.
“No buts,” I said. “My parents gave us the down payment for this house and I consider it mine. Get out.”
Jim looked at me pleadingly, but I was stoic.
“Out,” I said, pointing my finger at the kitchen door.
Jim seemed to finally get it.
“I need to pack some clothes,” he said, heading for the stairs.
I sat on the kitchen floor rubbing Midnight’s head while Jim packed. I refused to cry while he was still in the house. The cat seemed to be the only creature who loved me in the whole world, and I was grateful to Midnight for that.
About a half-hour later, Jim came into the kitchen with two suitcases.
“Are you sure, Amy?” he asked one last time before he went out the door.
“I’m positive,” I said. “I’ll have my lawyer send you the papers.”
Jim walked out the door into the night.
I didn’t even have a lawyer. Jim was my lawyer! But I would have to get one. A good one.
I finally got myself off the kitchen floor, which took some doing. I was so fat, I had to put my hands down on the floor to heave myself up. Then I went to the stove and proceeded to cook both steaks in butter. I zapped a huge potato in the microwave and put a half of a stick of butter in it when I pulled it out. When the steaks were ready, I ate both of them at the kitchen table, giving Midnight more scraps than were good for her. I shoveled the buttery potato into my mouth in between bites of steak.
When I had eaten everything on my plate, I went upstairs and threw up.
***************
The next morning I rolled out of my martial bed that hadn’t seen sex for about six months. I walked into the bathroom and assessed myself in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. My eyes were crusted and puffy from crying, my face was flushed, and my hair was a matted mess. I had one day to pull myself together so I could attend the funeral the next day. Dammit, I just wanted to wallow in my sorrow. I had a whole week of spring break to do that and I resented the funeral I had to attend. Resented the poor departed Mrs. Richmond and resented her still-living geezer son, Keith Richmond, who was the reason I had to attend the funeral in the first place.
After I fed Midnight, I made a piece of toast for breakfast. I wasn’t very hungry after the night I’d been through. I sat at the table and picked at the toast while I drank cups of black coffee.
I checked my phone. Jim had called three times and left two voice mails, both pleading with me to take him back. He also sent a text saying the same thing. I ignored all of his communications. Why did he want me back anyway? I had gotten so fat. Surely he didn’t find that attractive. I had been a svelte twenty-two-year-old when we married fifteen years ago. But the years of marriage and Jim working toward partner and us trying for a baby had caused the pounds to pile on me with all the stress. I was doubled in size.
I spent the day on the couch watching TV with Midnight on my lap. At five, I poured my first glass of wine. I knew I needed to eat something, but I had no appetite. That was a miracle in itself. I finally forced myself to eat a sandwich because I knew I needed to if I was going to get through the funeral the next day.
I didn’t cry that night when I went to bed. I was resigned that my marriage was over. And I just wanted it to be over. I was humiliated. The only pride I felt was in throwing my husband out of the home we had made together.
***************
Kate would be there to pick me up at ten and I still didn’t have anything to wear. Finally, I squeezed myself into a pair of elastic-waist black pants, a white knit top, and a matching black jacket. People were wearing pants to funerals now, so I felt okay about that. It’s all I could come up with.
The doorbell rang. I grabbed my purse and opened the door to Kate, who stood there on the front porch looking resplendent in a black skirt suit and her rolled shiny blond hair. I felt like an old hag standing next to her.
We talked about work mostly on the hour and a half hour drive to the mountains. Kate said her boyfriend was already at the beach and she would drive down herself just as soon as she had taken care of attending the funeral.
“What are you going to do over the break?” she asked me, innocently, and probably not really caring very much.
“I’m going to take care of some projects around the house,” I said, lying, “and watch some good movies on TV. I just need a break.” There was no way I would tell Kate about the recent demise of my marriage, my cheating husband, and how I had thrown him out.
Kate’s GPS took us to a little chapel in the mountains. Cars were parked all along the road leading up to it and we had to park a long way down. We trudged up to the chapel, Kate in her heels and me in my flats.
The chapel was so small, it couldn’t contain all of the people in attendance. It was standing-room-only, and Kate and I stood in the back. I expected to hear the organ playing the sad songs of funerals, but I was mistaken in that.
A violinist sat in a
corner near the casket playing the most beautiful music I had ever heard. The casket was covered in a blanket of red roses and flowers were three rows deep on either side of the casket.
Kate and I had arrived right before the service, thankfully. Get in, get out, I thought.
And then the lights dimmed in the chapel. Candles flickered on either side of the casket. The minister, wearing dark robes and a shiny golden scarf that hung down on either side of his chest, approached the podium and microphone. He read from the book of Psalms, my absolute favorite book. We all bowed our heads in prayer for the lost Mrs. Richmond.
I stole a look at the program. Mrs. Richmond’s son, Keith Richmond, the geezer, was going to do her eulogy.
I saw a man not much older than my thirty-seven-year-old self walk to the podium. This must be a family friend, I thought. The chapel was quiet. And then he began to speak.
“I was sixteen years old when my father died,” he said. “I had my driver’s license and I thought I had the world by the tail.” Chuckles from the audience. He smiled.
“That’s when I learned what my mother was made of,” he said. Was it possible this was Keith Richmond? Yes, it was totally possible. Why else would he be talking about his mother? Mrs. Richmond must have been over forty when she gave birth to him.
“She took over Richmond Timber, and she taught me everything she knew. I sat by her side in the office, learning about the business. And her acumen took the company places it had never been, even when my father ran it.”
Tears were starting to fill my eyes. I wasn’t expecting such a loving tribute from Mrs. Richmond’s son. Not at all.
“But that’s not all she taught me,” he said. “She taught me about the value of education. She taught me about music and art. She said it was important for me to be well-rounded. She also taught me about helping others. And today I am announcing that I am going to establish an endowed scholarship in her name at the Wellington Institute of Arts and Sciences, my alma mater.”
The Sweetest Revenge Page 1
