Oh yes, it would have been her ultimate triumph--her magnificent grand finale--and then the bastard had to go and shoot her neat little plan all to hell by dying and cheating her out of her well deserved, long awaited, moment of blissful revenge. Selfish sonovabitch.
About a mile from her townhouse in Schaumburg, Maisy discovered that her Chevy had shifted into automatic pilot and magically transported her to her favorite bakery. In fact, Maisy's wonder car had spontaneously placed her in such calorific places numerous times over the years--as if she'd gone into one of the transporters on Star Trek and had been deposited right smack dab in the middle of her favorite food fantasy. Even with the car's windows closed, the cloying smell of chocolate coated the air, causing Maisy to salivate. Putting her transporter in park, she swallowed hard, and went inside for the first time in eighteen months.
Blissfully enveloped in the luscious, sensuous bouquet of chocolate, Maisy's gaze darted from one groaning bakery case to the next. The familiar aroma was like a comfortable old afghan, begging to blanket Maisy's wounds and offer a temporary respite. Artistically embellished creations seemed to frolic behind the glass bakery cases, imploring Maisy, "Pick me! Pick me!"
Inhaling long and slow, as if to permanently imprint her olfactory memory banks with the heady scent, Maisy closed her eyes. Exhaling, her features relaxed into a serene smile as she opened her eyes. "I'll have one of those nut-studded, frosted brownies," she said, feeling downright virtuous and proud of herself for resisting her urge to buy out the place.
"Anything else?" The dour-faced, middle-aged, bakery clerk asked. How anyone working in such intimate proximity to chocolate could possible sport such a pruney expression was beyond Maisy's comprehension.
Nope, that'll do it. All I need is this one little morsel of chocolate to fully quench my emotional hunger. "Yeah, how about a chocolate éclair, and one of whatever that is with the chocolate shavings and whipped cream." Flabbergasted, Maisy whipped her head around, wondering who had just spoken. More than a little dismayed to see that she was the only customer in the bakery, she said, "Oh my God, that was me!" Slapping her hand over her mouth, Maisy peered up at the clerk, who eyed her warily as she assembled a small bakery box. All Maisy could do was offer a sheepish smile.
"Huh? I didn't get that last part." Shifting her weight to one side, the cheerless clerk faced Maisy with a balled fist planted at her hip. "Was there something else you wanted to add to your order?"
No. Absolutely not. No way. Not on your life. Just wrap up my shameful chocolate indiscretion in a plain brown paper bag and let me get the hell out of here. "Yes, give me half a pound of those chocolate-filled butter cookies, and a couple of those chocolate rum balls." Breathing in an audible gasp, Maisy's heart raced as her brain tried to tell her something that she most definitely did not want to hear at the moment. Mopping the perspiration from her forehead and upper lip, she said, "Uh, I think that should be enough . . . for my guests." She glanced at the woman behind the counter, who discarded the small box in favor of one more befitting a chocoholic's purchase, and wondered if the clerk knew there would be no guests. "Of course, I can't touch this stuff myself," Maisy laughed nervously, "diet, you know. Yup, it's just going to be raw veggies with fat-free dip for me," she said, laughing again. Offering an indifferent glance, the clerk shrugged and continued to pack the sizable bakery box. Shut-up, Maisy, and quit your ridiculous babbling. Old prune face here couldn't care less if you've got a hundred people coming over or if you're going to stuff every last morsel into your own greedy little face. She took a deep breath. "Yeah, I think that'll do it."
Once at home, Maisy lowered the garage door before she exited her car. There was no reason the neighbors had to glimpse the remnants of the bakery box that she'd savagely torn open in the car. The news would travel the neighborhood grapevine at breakneck speed. Yup, knew all along old that bubble-butted Morganfield woman would bulk up again--just like two pounds of sausage in a one pound casing.
Cringing, Maisy laughed and shook her head. "Mazel Lynn Morganfield, will you puh-leeze get a grip! Nobody gives a damn if you decide to feed your face, non-stop, from now until doomsday. Stop feeling so guilty about one lousy little chocolate binge for chrissakes." Her beautiful black wool suit was powdered with confectioner's sugar from the half pound of butter cookies she'd already scarfed down on the short ride home from the bakery. Rolling her eyes, she brushed at her lapels. "Nice going, Greedo," she chastised herself. "At least you could have waited until you got inside the house." Heaving a tuneful sigh as she entered her townhouse, Maisy struggled to hold the torn bakery box together. In an instant, a gleeful little brown dog scrambled around the corner to greet his mistress--and to investigate the wonderfully odoriferous bakery box. Placing her dilapidated chocolate treasure box on the kitchen counter, Maisy bent down to gather the frisky pup in her arms. "Hey there, Hershey, how's my best buddy today?" Laughing as she watched the sprightly mutt sniff the air and lick his chops, she wagged her finger. "Nope, sorry, Hershey. Chocolate's very unhealthy for dogs." The moment she went to the cupboard, withdrawing a plastic container filled with her own homemade dog biscuits, Hershey went wild, temporarily forgetting about Maisy's fragrant bakery box.
Giving Hershey the command to stay, Maisy held a biscuit under his nose. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my giving in to this well deserved little chocolate binge freely and enjoying every last sugar-laden, fat-drenched crumb, is there Hershey?" As she waved the dog biscuit from left to right, his head instinctively followed it, resulting in what looked like an agreement on his part. "Good boy," she said as she tossed him the biscuit. "You're one of the only males I can count on to give me a sensible, unbiased opinion," she laughed and scratched Hershey behind the ears. He immediately rolled onto his back, presenting his belly for attention.
Wrinkling her nose, Maisy sniffed the air. "Good grief. What is that foul stench?" As if he understood, Hershey stopped pumping his legs and slanted his mistress a wide-eyed, muzzle-licking, expression of dread. Patting his curly, brown belly, Maisy laughed. "Don't worry, little buddy. It's not you. You're a good boy, Hershey." Bounding to his feet, the little dog raced to the sliding glass patio door, fixing a deliberate expression towards Maisy. "Gotcha. You want to make sure you stay a good boy, huh, Hershey?" Once Hershey was in the yard, tending to his business, Maisy resumed sniffing, recoiling when she got a whiff of her sleeve in the area where Sharon had grabbed her. "Eeew, ye-e-e-uck! That's Sharon's putrid perfume!" Hastily shrugging off her black wool jacket, which was now covered in not only powdered sugar, but dog hair as well, Maisy held it at arm's length. "Can't have that offensive odor intruding on my chocolate, now can I?" Curling her lip, she whipped the jacket into the utility room and closed the door.
When Hershey returned, Maisy gifted him with a new rawhide bone to distract him. Giddy with anticipation, she turned on the television, plopped onto the cushy family room sofa, and proceeded to ply herself with her cache of bakery goodies. She could always depend on chocolate to provide a satisfying, all encompassing rush--probably like the ones cocaine addicts got, she imagined. Except that snorting cocaine didn't put fat on your hips. Of course, she could always try snorting cocoa powder. Snickering, she continued to indulge her chocolate cravings. She knew damn well that, in desperation, a true chocoholic could very well entertain such manic thoughts.
In what seemed like only a few moments she was done eating, and facing Hershey's eager prancing as he sniffed the left-over tidbits. Glancing at the clock, Maisy saw that just over thirty minutes had past since she let herself ascend into chocolate heaven. Watching as Rock Hudson and Doris Day cavorted in Pajama Game, Maisy patted the sofa cushion, inviting Hershey to join her, enticing him with one of the dog biscuits she had pocketed earlier.
"Why isn't real life like that, huh, Hershey? What's a girl gotta do to find herself a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of man that will cherish her forever, hmmm?" Drawing the furry little mutt against her aching, bulging tummy, Ma
isy bellowed a mighty yawn, sank against the paisley pillows on her couch and fell asleep.
Monet-like impressions floated across her mind, creating improbably wild dreamscapes. Decked out like a fluffy ballerina from Swan Lake, Maisy's frolicking feet tiptoed across meadows of chocolate daffodils, carrying her to John's grave, where she stripped off her garments and breezily cavorted while nibbling on the daffodil petals. Her conscious mind intruding, Maisy shifted in her sleep, becoming vaguely aware of the offensiveness of her act and soon the Maisy-ballerina pirouetted away from the gravesite and into the waiting arms of the handsome Mr. Keller instead. Clad only in toe-shoes, Maisy offered the ultimate token of friendship that a chocoholic can bestow--to share her chocolate daffodil. Scooping Maisy into his arms, the charming chocolate-drop-eyed hunk nibbled on Maisy's ear--which had somehow turned into chocolate. With the brazenly naked Maisy gracefully balanced on one of his hands, Mr. Keller pranced, ala Gene Kelly, back across John's grave--only to be met by a bony, ghoul-like apparition of Sharon Chaney Morganfield. Her scraggily, red locks morphing into angry flames, Sharon bellowed forth with a cackle sharp enough to crack glass blocks. Spitting venom and fire, with a wave of her gray-fleshed hand, Sharon turned all the opulent chocolate daffodils into little impaled squids, screaming and squirming and reaching out to Maisy, who's body was now covered in chocolate smears. Horrified, Maisy locked her arms around Mr. Keller's neck, only to discover that he had turned into the squid-king. Dropping Maisy, he propelled himself to Sharon's side, groveling adoringly at her feet. Waking up with a start, Maisy jettisoned the tattered remains of her bakery box against the television, smacking Rock Hudson squarely in the kisser.
* * *
Chapter Two
Facing a mega-chocolate hangover the next morning, Maisy crawled out of bed an hour early to get ready for work. Several brisk facial attacks with an ice-cold washcloth did little to hide the puffy, telltale traces of yesterday's calorie-packed indiscretion. Squawking out a sickly groan upon discovering that every size-ten in the whole damn closet felt snug, the dispirited Maisy invaded the multi-sized just in case you become a big fat ass again section of her closet, settling for a roomy size-twelve navy blazer and slacks."It's just about that time of month," she said, studying her reflection in the bedroom's full-length mirror. "So it's because of PMS." A creeping sneer emphasized that her valiant attempt at being convincing was failing miserably. "And it has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I stuffed my face with a month's worth of chocolate in one sitting." Crossing her hands over her puffed out tummy, a sigh of disgust seeped from Maisy's full-fledged sneer. Performing a final mirror check, she noticed Hershey assessing her as he sat with his head quizzically cocked to the side.
"Yeah, I know," Maisy said. "Your mommy's not a very pretty sight this morning, is she Hershey?" Responding with a mournful whimper, the pup turned on its heels and scampered away. Maisy laughed and returned her attention to her puffy reflection. Curling her lip, she heaved a dispassionate shrug as she slapped her hand against the wall, flicking off the light switch.
Her mind was such a blur that Maisy hardly remembered the drive to work--except for the constant, chanting chastisement from that ever present, know-it-all conscience of hers. She wished she could ball up that sanctimonious, goody-two-shoes inner voice and hurl it from her car window--and then back over it a few times just for good measure.
Settling in at her desk at the Persimmon Travel agency, Maisy attempted to organize both the germinating mountain of paperwork, and the murky sea of her jumbled thoughts at the same time. Scanning her telephone messages, she noted that Dawn Farley and Rob Lyons were stopping by to pick up the documents for their honeymoon cruise on the Dawn Princess. They were convinced that finding a Love Boat with the same name as the bride-to-be was a good omen. A good omen. Heaving a sigh, Maisy couldn't help but smile. Poor, starry-eyed kids. They were such a cute young couple--innocent, sweet, and so much in love. She hoped their lives together would be better than hers and John's--of course that wouldn't be much of a stretch. A sneer twitched at Maisy's lip. The Pavchek sisters were picking up documents for their quarterly all-inclusive vacation to Jamaica. Maisy shook her head and chuckled as she eyed their paperwork. Vera and Alma Pavchek were the wildest, gaudiest pair of wrinkled old spinsters, but, God bless 'em, the cheeky sisters really knew how to relish life. The sad part was that the old gals' love lives were packed with more oomph, zip and zazz than Maisy could even imagine. Love life . . . ha! What love life? Her thoughts trailed back to her wasted years with John.
It was on a Saturday night, nearly twelve years ago, when Maisy got a call from a Realtor whose buyer wanted to make an offer on one of her listings. That was the night she met John Morganfield. Having just turned twenty-five, the naïvely idealistic Maisy was fresh, young, and attractive. At a well proportioned hundred and thirty pounds, she was reed-thin, and a real go-getter--Diamond Realtor's top listing sales person for the region, four months in a row. And, much to Maisy's chagrin, she figured she was probably the last twenty-five-year-old virgin in Chicagoland.
Standing about an inch taller than Maisy's five-feet-nine-inches, John Morganfield wasn't what most people would consider a knockout. He had a trim build, dark brown hair and black eyes--wild eyes, always darting this way and that, so as not to miss any action. It was his dynamic personality that initially attracted Maisy--proud, charming, aggressive, flirtatious--and he had an unmistakable air of power about him that she found impressive and exciting. Little did she know at that time that he would eventually use that power to keep her subjugated.
"Jeez," Maisy said aloud, "what a dumb, naive kid I was." Shaking her head, she breathed a sigh at the stinging memory.
She remembered the way John wined and dined her, pressing her until she finally agreed to marry him. Almost immediately after the wedding, her life began to mutate into a vile, hapless existence that finally left Maisy bankrupt of any love for her husband. While she offered herself chaste, and eager to experience the exploding-rocket magic of physical union for the first time on their wedding night--the only explosion she experienced was the thundering collapse of her naïve, romantic expectations. Instead, Maisy discovered that sex was something rushed, coarse, brutal and ugly.
John's badgering about her giving up the real estate career, that she loved and worked so hard to build, began on the honeymoon. After all, he couldn't have anyone thinking he wasn't able to properly provide for his wife, could he? Caving in to the first of John's many insistent, selfish demands, Maisy unknowingly set his warped blueprint for their marriage into motion. It took years for her to realize that what John really feared was the all-too-real possibility that his wife might defame him by proving herself to be the real estate star in the family. By the time Maisy comprehended the situation, she had already been sucked down into the dismal bog of John's distorted vision and trapped.
John's series of edicts included the demand that Maisy refrain from any enhancement that might even remotely suggest that she was something more than a living, breathing asexual lump of nothingness. No make-up, no form-fitting clothes, no shorts, and no glimpses of cleavage. From then on, John was the only one who would see her curves. She was not to visit him at his office--he didn't want the other salespeople to think he was henpecked. His shirts and boxer shorts were to be starched and ironed, the sheets were to be washed and ironed twice a week, and the house had to be beyond spotless and impeccably organized to please his manic neat-freak tendencies.
"Prissy, compulsive bastard," Maisy found herself mumbling under her breath as she flipped through the travel documents on her desk.
Maisy's real epiphany came one evening when she accidentally cooked John's steak past the point of being bloody enough to moo an ouch when pricked with his fork. His diatribe was deafening, and within minutes, John's verbal tirade was coupled with physical abuse--all because his steak wasn't rare enough. For some reason unknown to her, the previously plucky Maisy knuckled under,
rather than grabbing what was left of her self-esteem, shoving it into a suitcase and hustling like hell to get away from the bastard. Clueless as to how to prevent her spunky personality from vanishing, Maisy turned to the only thing that gave her any solace--food--with the tranquilizing effects of chocolate foremost on her list.
Forty-five cocoa-buttery pounds heavier and counting, at their first wedding anniversary, Maisy was subject to John's incessantly ragging about her weight. Cruel, stabbing comments that cut her right to the core and had her clawing the walls until she could sedate herself with another dose of chocolate. He stopped making love to her except when he came home drunk. Of course, it was difficult to judge John's sobriety by his sexual performance, which varied little. Squeezing her eyes tight, Maisy would clutch the bedding while John popped that swollen little thumb-sized doohickey of his out of his pants and proceeded to impose his customary two minutes of brusque, selfish needs on her.
"Pompous little prick," Maisy muttered, huffing a laugh as she slammed a desk drawer. "Wham, bam, without the thank you ma'am."
The fatter Maisy got, the less John touched her--sexually, or abusively--which was the only benefit of watching herself morph into a shapeless blob. When John started sleeping in his downstairs study, telling Maisy that being in the same bed with all those disgusting rolls of fat made him gag, Maisy sent up a prayer of thanksgiving to the god of chocolate.
On the weekends, John was seldom home before four in the morning. Since the average real estate deal is rarely finalized between midnight and dawn, Maisy figured it was a safe bet that lover-boy was catting around. Why on earth any woman would actually want to engage in the act with John was light-years beyond her comprehension.
"Thumbkin," Maisy said, looking up from her paperwork and laughing as she recalled her secret nickname for that annoying little member between John's legs.
Shipping Sharon Page 2
