A Dangerous Affair (31 page)

Jamie twirled her straw in her glass. "Do you ever think about having kids?"

"Are you kidding me? My cat is all the stress I can handle right now. And it's not like I need a man to have a baby." Samantha got out of her chair and dipped her foot in the pool. Her gold ankle bracelet shimmered in the sunlight. "You ready for another refill?"

"I better not," said Jamie. "How much tequila did you put in these?"

Samantha went back inside to dig her cigarettes from her purse. "You only turn forty once, and I need a cigarette," she said from the kitchen.

"Don't smoke in the house," Jamie hollered. "Alan hates the smell. He'll be home soon."

Samantha carried the margarita pitcher and a pack of cigarettes outside and poured two refills. "Relax..." She lit up and blew smoke away from Jamie. "My smoking's not the problem."

"What are you implying?" Jamie snapped.

"Nothing. Let's have a toast. It's your birthday."

"I can't change who I married."

Samantha tapped her ash in an empty Diet Coke can. "Why not? People change partners like they change their sheets."

"Alan's not my partner. He's my husband."

"Who treats you like the family pet."

"That's not true."

Samantha took a long drag and pointed to the burned patch of skin on Jamie's shoulder, just visible under the shirt. "What happened to your butterfly tattoo?"

"I had it removed."

"Because you wanted to or because your husband made you do it?"

"I never liked it in the first place," said Jamie. "It was an impulse decision. Those are always the worst kind to make."

Samantha rubbed her tan leg and pointed to the bruise on Jamie's thigh. "You didn't get that pulling weeds."

"I work hard around the house. Not all of us can earn a living on stage."

Samantha blew smoke. "Alan keeps you on a leash. I'm sorry. I had to say it."

"Sometimes he's strict about things."

"He's controlling."

Jamie covered the bruise with her hand. "He has a stressful job."

"Is that how you got the bruise on your leg?"

"It's not a bruise. It's a mild discoloration. I could have got it having sex."

Samantha lowered her tinted glasses on her nose and studied Jamie's expression. "With Alan?"

Jamie shied away—she didn't want to go there.

But Samantha was already there. "Oh my God! I should have known. You met someone, didn't you?" Her grin lit up her face. "I knew you were acting weird yesterday. It wasn't
me
you were expecting to see!"

"That's not true."

"Then tell me I'm wrong. Look me in the eyes and tell me you're not having sex with another man."

"Keep your voice down!"

"Alan's not home."

Jamie felt lightheaded. She'd stuck her foot in her mouth so deep the laces tickled the back of her throat. "I'm not having this discussion."

"It seems so obvious now. That's why you didn't return my calls. You were hooking up."

"Stop it. If Alan found out—"

"Then it's true."

"I'm not saying it is."

Samantha dropped her half-smoked cigarette on the pool deck. "Is he good in bed?"

"Samantha..."

"I'm just asking."

"It's not about the sex," said Jamie.

"Yeah right. And you're fucking him for his inner beauty."

"I like him. I feel safe with him. I feel like I can be myself. He makes me feel good on the inside."

"I'll bet he does. What's his name?"

"Lloyd."

"Ohhhh... That sounds, sophisticated. What does he look like?"

"He's tall. Handsome. Strong. He has a big tattoo on his arm. And he rides a motorcycle."

"Bad boys aren't your type."

"He's not like that," said Jamie, defending her reputation in spite of the truth.

"How did you meet him?"

Jamie stared through the screened enclosure at a sand crane family trolling for grubs in the grass. "In the library."

"You're kidding."

Jamie blushed. "Swear to me you'll never share this with anyone."

Samantha rummaged in her purse for a folded pamphlet stuffed between her pocketbook and her makeup case. "I want you to look at this."

Jamie read the title,
A New Beginning
. "What is this?" She read the introduction and said, "I'm not going to a women's shelter."

"You said yourself you feel trapped in your marriage. I know how Alan treats you, Jamie. These people can help you."

"Where is this coming from?"

"If you're brave enough to have sex outside your marriage, you're brave enough to leave your husband."

"I can't. I'll lose the house, my marriage—"

"What marriage? Alan abuses you. Can't you see that? The longer you stay with him, the worse it's going to get."

"Have you ever seen me with a black eye or a broken nose? I've never been to an emergency room."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't hurt you. Alan controls every aspect of your life. Where you go, who you talk to, who you see. You should have left him a long time ago."

Jamie sniffed a peculiar smell from her drink. An odor she hadn't noticed before. "Alan can be stern sometimes, but he never hits me."

"He doesn't have to. I see how he looks at you. I know the kind of life you've had with him. You deserve so much better."

"It's not that simple."

Samantha touched Jamie's hand. "I have a contact in New York who can set this up."

"I'm not moving to New York. My life's here."

"You mean your lover's here."

"My friends are here."

"What friends?"

Jamie gave the pamphlet back. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"I'm not leaving here without you," Samantha prodded. "This is for your own good."

"What do you expect me to do? Just pack up my stuff and leave?"

Samantha flipped her hair back. "Women do it all the time. I've already contacted someone who can help. I told her about your situation. She wants you to come to New York."

Jamie shook her head. "Forget it. Alan would find me."

"My flight leaves tomorrow. I bought an extra ticket."

"This is crazy," said Jamie. She heard her own words echo in her head. Her eyelids felt heavy. "I need a glass of water."

"Don't change the subject on me."

"I'm serious. My head's killing me."

"I'll get a glass," Samantha offered, standing up.

* * *

Samantha entered the kitchen through the sliding glass doors and heard a noise in the bedroom hallway. She filled the tumbler from the water dispenser in the fridge and called out, "Hello?"

She a felt her stomach grumble. As usual, her buzz and hunger pains went hand in hand.

A noise brought her to Blanchart's study. She knocked softly and found the handle locked. "Hello?"

When no one answered, she stepped to the door at the end of the hall and entered the room decorated with children's wallpaper. A crib with a hanging fish mobile occupied one wall. A changing table with an empty diaper bin sat between the crib and an open closet with tiny pajamas and boxes of infant Huggies.

Samantha inspected the empty crib with a baby blanket neatly folded against a Webkinz monkey. She nudged the gliding rocker and watched the chair slide seamlessly back and forth in its frame. She felt happy and yet somewhat melancholic at the same time.

She left the nursery undisturbed the way she found it and gently shut the door. She carried the glass of water to the guest bedroom and searched the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Tylenol to suppress her sudden headache.

She shut the medicine cabinet and stared at the room's reflection in the mirror. The image looked hazy like a picture out of focus.

Her balance was failing as she began to sway.

She pulled the shower curtain open to placate her paranoia and swallowed two extra-strength capsules before her legs gave out and the floor rose up to meet her.

The glass smashed on the tile.

Dazed and disoriented, she found Alan Blanchart standing over her, his multiple heads a distorted menagerie of crooked smiles and sutured foreheads.

Blanchart rolled Samantha on her front and dragged her into the bedroom. He ripped her bikini bottom off and used his crushing weight to bear down on her.

Samantha endured the assault, her mind and body powerless against the drugs in her system and the monster disguised as a man.

When Blanchart finished, he zipped his pants and whistled a post-coital tune. "I own this town and everything in it, including you. Remember that before you drop by again unannounced."

Samantha curled herself in a ball. "I'll kill you."

Blanchart tucked his uniform in his pants and fixed his hair. "Those are big words."

Samantha felt the room sway.

Blanchart smirked. "Next time, smile for the camera. You never know how far a video will travel these days."

Samantha stood on wobbly legs and steadied herself against the wall. She knocked a picture frame with her elbow. "You won't get away with this."

Blanchart squeezed his hand on her throat and pinned her against the wall. "Remember this, Sweet Pea. You have no one to blame but yourself. And I have friends in high places."

"Let go of me," Samantha uttered.

Blanchart smacked her in the face. "That's for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." He smacked her again on the opposite cheek hard enough to leave a bruise. "That's for a lousy lay." He grabbed her open suitcase from the bed and dumped the contents on the floor. "Get dressed and get out. If I ever catch you in this house again, I'll kill you."

Chapter 46

Josh dumped the last of Brenda's silverware in his backpack and scavenged all the canned food he could steal from the pantry. A lit cigarette dangled between his thin, cracked lips. Scraggly hair fell in his glazed, insomniac eyes. Absorbed in a guilt-ridden stupor, his survival instincts took over, obscuring any rational thought about his predicament.

Unappreciated and now unemployed, Josh liberated the silver candlestick holders from the dining room table and pilfered anything else he could carry, including his father's bowling trophy with a brass faceplate. When he finished at the front of the house, he pawed through Brenda's dresser in her bedroom and emptied the antique gold from her jewelry chest.

"What are you doing?" Brenda hissed from her bed, barely lucid from her battle with end-stage cirrhosis. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand. "Where's Lloyd?"

"He left."

"Those don't belong to you."

"You won't be needing them," Josh mumbled through the cigarette dangling between his lips.

"That jewelry belonged to your grandmother," Brenda scolded him. She forced herself out of bed and followed Josh outside, groaning in pain. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

Brenda scratched her arms. "I have to pee. Don't throw your life away. You owe your brother more than that."

Josh started Sheila's Mustang and revved the engine. "I gotta go," he said without looking back at his adoptive mother who propped herself upright with the help of a cane.

Josh flipped his cigarette out the open window and found the rumpled road atlas in the heap of dirty clothes on the passenger seat. Rain dotted the windshield.

He drove away with a trunk full of stolen property, a carton of cigarettes, and ninety-seven dollars in small bills he'd skimmed from the register at Sonny's. Haunted by Sheila's image, he rubbed his eyes and begged forgiveness. Nothing made sense anymore. Not since Lloyd returned from prison. Not since Sheila made a mess out of everything. He needed time to think. Time to find himself again, without getting high or running to Lloyd to solve his problems. He needed time to forgive and forget. Time to focus on his future and what he wanted his life to become.