by Joy Fielding
“I was just teasing you,” he said with a slow smile. “You know I’d never do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know that,” Jamie said, hoping neither her face nor her voice betrayed her disappointment. What was the matter with her? Had she no shame at all?
Brad kissed her on the cheek, then got out of the car, using his credit card to activate the gas pump, then selecting the most expensive gasoline. “You have to use the washroom?” he asked, leaning back into the front seat. “Now’s probably a good time.”
“Good idea.”
“I think it’s around back,” he directed as she climbed out of the car. “You probably need a key.” He pointed toward the convenience store.
The heat slammed into Jamie like a rude pedestrian, the sheer force of it almost knocking her to the pavement. She tripped over her own feet and turned back selfconsciously toward Brad, who was standing beside her car, waving with one hand as he manipulated the gas pump with the other, and he was smiling that fabulous grin that outshone even the blistering Florida sun. “You okay?” he called out.
She nodded. “You want anything? A Coke? Some chips?”
“A Coke would be great. You need some money?”
Jamie laughed, held up her tan canvas purse. “My treat.” She entered the small store, a welcome torrent of frigid air rushing to embrace her. In the distance she heard a car door slamming, an engine revving, tires squealing. Someone’s in a hurry, she thought, staring at the rows of junk food and magazines. An old and broken video game sat in a far corner behind a stack of unopened boxes. Along the walls were four large, glass-doored refrigerators filled with dairy products and soft drinks. She withdrew two cans of soda pop from the fridge and carried them past a middle-aged couple hunched over a map, arguing about a missed exit. “How much?” Jamie asked the gum-chewing young woman behind the counter.
“Two dollars, fifty cents.”
Jamie handed over a five-dollar bill and waited for her change, realizing she had about a hundred dollars in cash. “Can I have the key to the washroom?” she asked the cashier.
“Don’t need one.” The girl noisily cracked her gum as she dropped the two cans of Coke into a plastic bag and handed the bag to Jamie. “The lock’s broken.”
Great, Jamie thought, taking the bag and lowering her head as she stepped back into the bright sun. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a rag-covered derelict in a pair of mismatched sneakers standing beside a clump of newspaper boxes, his body swaying before them, as if praying. Creepy, Jamie thought, as tiny rivulets of perspiration gathered at the base of her hairline.
“Hey,” someone shouted, and Jamie looked toward the sound, hoping to see Brad waving at her from beside her car. But what she saw was one teenage boy calling to another, and what she didn’t see was Brad Fisher or her blue Thunderbird anywhere in sight. Her body did a quick 360-degree turn. Both her trusted steed and her Prince Charming were gone.
Where was he? she wondered, spinning around.
When something seems too good to be true, it usually is, she heard her mother and sister chant in unison.
It didn’t make any sense. Brad had had his chance to leave this morning. Hell, he’d already left. Why would he come back—with bagels, no less—if he was planning to abandon her only hours later?
Jamie knew the answer to that one even before the question was fully formed. Because he needed a car, she reminded herself. Because his own car had broken down and he needed wheels to get to Ohio.
Because he’d lied about having money and staying at the Breakers, and God only knows what else.
Because it was a long, boring drive and she was a pleasant diversion.
Because she was an idiot, Jamie thought, as tears sprung to her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She tried to ignore them as she walked around the store to the washrooms at the back. “A damned idiot.” She pulled open the door marked adies, its L, like Brad Fisher, long gone.
The room was surprisingly clean, the smell of disinfectant radiating from the off-white walls. A large, green, plastic garbage bin stood in front of a green Formica counter containing two graying, enamel sinks, and someone had obviously tried to brighten up the small, windowless room by placing a Coke bottle filled with plastic flowers in front of the large mirror behind the sinks. Probably the same person had made a hurried stab at cleaning the mirror, and the result was a series of artful streaks that dissected the glass at irregular intervals.
Jamie opened the door to the closest of the two toilet stalls, lowering her purse and the bag of Cokes to the floor, and pulling down her shorts, even as her sister warned her not to let her flesh make contact with the seat. Squat, Cynthia instructed.
At the very least, line the seat with toilet paper, her mother urged.
In response, Jamie sat directly down on the seat, lowering her head into her hands and fighting back tears. “What am I doing? What’s wrong with me?”
She remained in this position long after she was through, looking up only when she heard the outside door open and someone step inside. And then nothing. No movement, no water running, no opening the door to the second stall. Just the sound of breathing.
The sound of someone waiting.
“Brad?” Jamie asked hopefully. “Is that you?”
Still nothing.
Jamie pulled up her shorts and tried to see through the crack in the door, but all she could see was a sliver of the mirror on the opposite wall, and the hint of something black reflected in its surface. She held her breath as outside her stall, the breathing grew louder, more ragged. A pair of torn and mismatched sneakers shuffled into view beneath her stall door. The derelict from outside the convenience store! she realized. The one swaying aimlessly in front of the row of newspaper boxes. He’d followed her in here. He was standing just outside her stall, waiting for her to come out. Why? What was he planning to do?
Jamie looked frantically from side to side, trying to weigh her options. The safest thing to do was probably nothing—just stay put and wait the stranger out. Surely somebody would have to use the washroom eventually. Or she could start screaming, hope someone would hear her over the din of the surrounding traffic. At the very least, her screams might scare the man away. Or spur him into action, she realized. Maybe she should take her chances and make a run for it. Even though Jamie had only observed the man briefly, her impression was that he had a slight build and was probably feeble minded. Much like herself, she found herself thinking, and might have laughed had she not been so scared. She lowered herself back to the toilet seat, opting to wait the intruder out. A second later, she was back on her feet. What if the derelict tried to break down the door? It wasn’t that strong. One good push and he’d probably succeed. Or he might try to climb over the stall.
Jamie’s gaze shot toward the top of the door. She braced herself for the sight of mad eyes and an eerily toothless smile. But mercifully, the mismatched, tattered sneakers remained firmly planted on the floor outside her stall. Dear God, what was she supposed to do?
Instinctively Jamie’s hand stretched toward the plastic bag at her feet. Her purse might not be heavy enough to inflict any damage, but two cans of Coke just might do the trick. Providing—she had enough room to swing, she had enough time to aim the bag at the man’s head, and he didn’t overpower her first.
Someone, please help me, she prayed, hearing whimpering and knowing it was hers. Please, God. Just let him go away. If you make him go away, I promise I’ll never do anything stupid again. I’ll listen to my sister, and I won’t sleep with married men or pick up strangers in bars. I’ll find another job, and I’ll stick with it no matter how uninspiring it might be. I’ll even apologize to Lorraine Starkey, if you’ll just get me out of this mess.
And then suddenly the feet withdrew. The outer door opened, then closed. The man was gone, Jamie realized, doubling over with relief. “Let go and let God,” she whispered gratefully. Then slowly, her purse in one hand, the plastic bag in the other, s
he pushed open the door to her stall.
No one was there.
She stood in the middle of the airless room, allowing her breathing to return to normal. Was it possible she’d imagined the whole thing?
Jamie went to the sink and splashed a palmful of cold water on her face, pulling a brown paper towel from its dispenser and rubbing the tears from her eyes and cheeks. Then she pushed back her hair and took a deep breath. Her ordeal was far from over. Now she had to figure out a way to get back home. She’d survived one potentially awful encounter only to be faced with another, this time with someone even more frightening than a deranged stranger—her sister. Jamie pulled open the outer door, thinking, Are you ready for that?
He was standing just outside the door, his black rags blocking the sun, his face in shadows. His nose was long, his mouth hidden by a shapeless and unkempt beard, and his eyes were dark and unfocused. The eyes of a madman, Jamie thought, hearing a scream pierce the air. Her scream, she realized.
“Get away from me!” she yelled, tears blinding her eyes. “Get away from me.”
The man quickly recoiled.
“Jamie? It’s okay,” a voice assured her. “You’re all right. It’s okay.”
Jamie stopped crying, swiped at her eyes with the back of her left hand, and opened them wide in disbelief. “Brad?”
“Who did you think it was?”
Jamie spun around, her eyes shooting in several different directions at once. “There was a man. You didn’t see him?”
“I saw some beggar taking off into the bushes. Why? What happened? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Jamie admitted, taking a moment to catch her breath. “He just scared me.” She described what had just taken place.
“Sounds like you scared him more.” Brad shook his head in seeming amazement. “You should never have come back here alone. Why didn’t you call me as soon as you saw him?”
“I looked for you. Where were you?”
“I noticed one of the tires was looking a little low, so I took it around the side to give it some air. Then I figured I might as well use the facilities myself. Which is when I heard this god-awful racket.…” His lips broke into a sly smile. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” No one had ever called her feisty before. Foolhardy, yes. Stubborn, often. But never feisty.
“Feisty,” Brad repeated, backing her into the washroom and kicking the door closed behind them. “And very sexy.” He pushed the large, green garbage bin in front of the door, blocking both entry and escape. “Very, very sexy.”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He reached for her, one hand pinning her against the wall while the other one tugged at the side zipper of her shorts. In the next second, he was hoisting her into the air and pushing his way roughly inside her.
Jamie gasped, unable to believe the speed with which everything had turned around. One minute she was terrified, the next relieved, the next so excited she could barely breathe. She grabbed hold of Brad’s shoulders, hanging on for dear life as he spun her around the small room, pummeling into her repeatedly. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman she saw reflected in the glass, her mouth open, her head thrown back in wild abandon. Who are you? Jamie wondered. What are you doing?
“This is all your fault, you know,” Brad said later, taking a plastic flower from its container and tucking it behind her ear. “You’re just so damned delicious.”
Jamie followed him out of the bathroom, her head lowered, her legs wobbling and threatening to give way. Feisty and delicious, she repeated proudly to herself as she walked beside him to the car, happy to accept the blame.
SIX
Her rejected story peeking out from the top of her tote bag, Lily pushed through the thick double-glass door of Scully’s gym, located in a small and unassuming strip mall that was only a short bus ride from Mad River Road, at exactly one minute to ten that morning, greeting the deeply tanned woman behind the reception counter with a big smile and a large, skim-milk latte.
“You’re a godsend,” Jan Scully said, taking the coffee from Lily’s outstretched hand and tearing the lid off the top in one sweeping gesture, slurping eagerly at the hot foam. “How’d you know this is exactly what I’ve been pining for all morning?”
“Because it’s what you’re always pining for,” Lily told the forty-two-year-old owner of Scully’s.
Everything about the woman was magnificently over-the-top, from her height—Jan was several inches over six feet tall—to the full orange lips she regularly had injected with collagen, to the turquoise blue shadow that coated her upper eyelids, to the raucous laugh that rumbled through her body, like thunder. Photographs of Jan in her heyday—most showing her in a series of skimpy bikinis, proudly hoisting an assortment of bodybuilding trophies into the air above a haystack of flamboyant red curls—covered the wall behind the reception counter, while the trophies themselves—brass dishes, silver cups, stone carvings—filled a locked glass case that sat against the far wall. Today, as was her usual custom, Jan wore a sleeveless gray T-shirt, the better to show off her still-shapely arms and rock-hard biceps, and matching sweatpants that were slung low across her hips to highlight her preternaturally flat stomach. The Scully’s logo was emblazoned prominently on the chest and butt of each, in bright pink letters, intended to convey the message that a membership at Scully’s would result in a flab-free body like Jan’s.
Lily tucked her tote bag behind the counter and pulled up one of two high wooden stools, casually scanning the exercise room behind the wall of glass at the back of the small reception area. She counted a total of six people—five women and one man—making use of the various machines, and smiled. She knew something they didn’t: that while regular workouts did indeed help keep Jan’s body in great condition for a woman over forty, her recent tummy tuck and boob job had accomplished even more. Not to mention the extensive liposuction on her hips and thighs. “After a certain age, there’s only so much exercise can do,” Jan had confided in a deep, throaty voice that hinted at a wild, misspent youth, swearing Lily to secrecy. Of course it also helped that Jan had never had children, Lily thought, patting the slight bulge around her own middle. No, the gym was Jan’s child, won in a hard-fought custody battle with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, a muscle-bound, steroid-addled rogue who’d left her for the twenty-three-year-old nurse of the plastic surgeon who’d recently removed the bags from underneath Jan’s disbelieving eyes.
Some might have relished the irony, but Lily refused to entertain such unkind thoughts. Jan had given her a job when she first arrived in Dayton, this despite her total lack of experience. For that alone, the woman deserved nothing less than Lily’s kindest thoughts and best wishes, just as she deserved the latte Lily bought her every day. “How’s it going?” Lily asked as Jan finished her coffee and started gathering up her belongings.
“It was busy as hell when I first opened the doors. Stan Petrofsky was actually here before I arrived, chomping at the bit to get in. Must have a new girlfriend.” She laughed the laugh filled with thunder and glanced toward the exercise room. “It’s tapered off a bit since then.”
The phone rang and Lily answered it. “Scully’s,” she said with a smile. “Yes, we certainly are open. That’s right, from seven a.m. to ten p.m. Monday through Saturday, and from eight to six on Sunday. Uh-huh. Yes, absolutely, I can do that,” Lily continued, responding to the caller’s request for more information. “Well, membership is normally an initial payment of five hundred dollars, plus thirty dollars a month, but we’re currently offering a special of only two hundred and fifty dollars to join. Plus the thirty dollars a month, yes.”
“Don’t forget to mention the free mug and T-shirt,” Jan said.
“And we’re throwing in a free mug and T-shirt,” Lily added dutifully.
“Get her name,” Jan reminded Lily just as she was about to ask for it.
“Can I
have your name?” Lily grabbed a pencil, scribbled Arlene Troper on a nearby piece of paper. “Yes, we have several treadmills, as well as a couple of elliptical machines and an extensive collection of free weights.” She peered through the glass wall at the rather paltry display of old equipment. “We also have a bench press, a rowing machine, and a stationary bicycle. No, we don’t have a Gravitron. We’ve found that the simpler things work best,” Lily improvised quickly. What do you expect for these prices? she was tempted to ask but didn’t. “As well, we can provide you with a personalized exercise routine to suit your needs. Yes, that’s included in the initial payment. Good. Well, thank you, Mrs. Troper. I look forward to seeing you then. Okay. Thank you.” She hung up the phone. “Arlene Troper says she’ll drop by sometime this afternoon.”
“It’s the free mug,” Jan said with a laugh. “Gets them every time.”
Jan was smiling, but Lily could tell she was worried. Membership had fallen off substantially ever since Art Scully had opened his own gym in a competing mall only several blocks away. Art’s Gym was bigger and boasted better and newer equipment. Art was also offering a deal on membership that included a free T-shirt—although not a free mug, as Jan was quick to point out.
Jan slung her large, floral-print purse over her shoulder, took a long, critical look at her reflection in the glass of the trophy case, and headed for the door. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “What book are we supposed to have read for tonight?”
Lily sighed. The five women who made up her monthly book club were supposed to come prepared. At the very least, they were supposed to have read the book being discussed. “Wuthering Heights,” Lily told her.
“Oh, great. I read it in high school. Cathy and that guy, Clifford …?”
