Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (23 page)

  Erin's heart started beating a little faster as she turned the corner. Joan stood like a guard dog in the middle of her door, but Vivian was tall enough that half her face was visible over the monochrome teased black hair.

  Erin wanted to laugh and pump her fist. Joan might think she was tough, but by the end of the conversation, Joan would fi nd out what tough meant. Erin looked forward to it.

  She crept closer, anxious not to make noise in case Joan remembered she was there and told her to go away.

  "Hi, Joan, how are you doing?"

  "Fine." Joan crossed her arms, angry, defensive, and no doubt guilty. Erin loved it already.

  "My, you are looking lovely today."

  Erin barely missed snorting. Lovely like a coffee -stained pink-and-black buffalo.

  She wanted to get closer, miss none of the action, and it suddenly hit her that she was being ridiculous cowering back here in the hall. If Joan told her to go away, she could say sorry, no. Sometimes her timidity disgusted even her.

  She moved forward so she could see Vivian's face.

  "Oh, hi Erin."

  "Hi." She beamed. Vivian looked a little tired today, but stunning even dressed with less than her usual fashion sense. Erin was pretty sure Vivian couldn't look ugly if she tried.

  From Joan, Erin got a glare of disapproval, but Erin was used to those, so she stood her ground. Yes, she felt different today. And nothing could touch her when Vivian was around.

  Joan turned back to her visitor. "What are you doing here?"

  "Well, Joan." Vivian's smile conveyed zero warmth. "I wonder if I could talk to you."

  "About what?"

  Vivian held up the flyers. "About advertising my aerobics class at the Halloween party. I know you're in charge of the decorating committee. And a very important job that is, too. I'm sure the school gym will never have looked lovelier."

  Joan grunted. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

  "No? That's a shame, Joan. Because I think this is a great chance for some of Kettle's residents to get in shape." A deliberate glance at Joan's stomach. "Don't you?"

  "We're in a lot better shape than you are." She pointed an accusing fi nger. "Morally speaking."

  "Oh now, Joan, it's funny you should say that." Vivian's smile became broader and more fixed and more threatening, and Erin wanted to rub her hands together with glee. Here it came.

  "Because actually, Joan, if you'll notice, I have no more skeletons left in my closet. They're all out, dancing in public, bones clattering away. You know what I mean?"

  Joan recoiled a bit, enough to signal that yes, she knew what Vivian meant. "You reap what you sow."

  "Oh absolutely." Vivian nodded and looked away, her profile lovely and proud, then she turned back and skewered Joan with those gorgeous lively eyes. "Except that some people, Joan, still have those skeletons tightly locked away."

  "What do you mean by that?" Nervousness crept into Joan's voice even though she tried to keep it tough.

  Erin wanted to start dancing right there in the hall. Vivian was getting ready for the kill. What form that would take, Erin didn't know, but she had absolute faith it would be crushing and fatal, and she couldn't wait.

  "You believe in honesty, don't you, Joan." Vivian's voice was low, sweet honey. "In protecting innocents from moral decay."

  "Yes, I do." Joan pulled herself up self -righteously, but her voice was wary. She knew something was coming and that it wasn't going to be good.

Erin bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

  "And that's why you think it's important that the truth be told, no matter how ugly it might be."

  "Absolutely."

  "I agree with you, Joan. I really do." She tucked the fl yers behind Joan's folded arms, smiling the smile of a predator who has fi nally trapped its prey. "And that's why I think next time those reporters ask me questions, I'm going to feel it's important to tell them what Joe's doing to Erin."

  Erin gasped. She shrank back, step after step, until the wooden banister of the stairs to the second fl oor stopped her. No one had ever said it. Not one single word. Not about Joe. Not about her father. Not in all the years she'd lived it.

  Suddenly it was out there, lit neon, flashing, blaring like a car alarm,
what Joe's doing to Erin
.

  This was not at all what she expected.

  For a blissful, unprecedented second she allowed herself to taste what could happen, what Vivian clearly thought would happen. That Joan would crumple. That Vivian could have her media cake and free Erin, too.

  Then reality closed back in. In any other town, among any other people, it might work. But not here. Not in Kettle.

  Vivian had about fi ve seconds of triumph. Erin had fewer.

  Joan threw back her head to cackle like a ridiculously overdrawn movie villain. Erin folded her arms around herself, wishing she was out running. Wishing she was home painting, or on e -mail, or reading.

  "Who the hell is going to care about Erin? It's the dirt on you they want. Shit happens all over the country to all kinds of people. But it takes someone special to make it news." She cackled again. "You are that kind of special, Vivian."

  "You haven't experienced the power of the media the way I have." Vivian took a step closer, still thinking she had a chance. "Or the wave of sympathy that follows a good victim story. A few sentences is all it takes to start people wanting blood. In this case, Joe's. And yours."

  "Go ahead and try." Joan shook her head pityingly, and Erin wanted to plant her fist in the soft, pink, daisy -covered belly. "All I have to do is talk about how you were here and threatened me, and bang, your stories are as made up as we want them to be."

  "The people here know what's going on." Vivian gestured around her. "They'd—"

  "We're all very proud of our town's legacy." Joan jutted her head forward until it was only a few inches from Vivian's face. "There's never been a crime in Kettle. Didn't you know that?"

  The triumph started to slide off Vivian's face, and Erin closed her eyes. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, run off and hide somewhere like she did when she was a kid and her dad got angry. But she wasn't a kid now.

  She opened her eyes and took in Vivian's beautiful face, gone frozen and defi ant and half disbelieving and trapped.

  Erin knew that feeling.

  "You know, I've changed my mind. You don't need exercise classes, you're already extremely fl exible." Vivian grabbed back her flyers. "I don't know when I've seen someone who could walk around with her head so far up her own ass."

Erin cringed. She wanted Vivian to stop. Preserve her dig

nity and walk away. Joan would just be warming up. She had the advantage, and now Vivian knew it.

  "You don't belong here, Lorelei Taylor. And whatever I can do to make your stay less pleasant, I intend to do it until you give up and get the hell out. Find some other town to pollute with your prostitution and pornography and murder."

  Vivian took a step back that nearly broke Erin's heart. The bad guys had always won in Erin's life. She was used to that. Vivian wasn't.

  "Joan, I'd stay and chat, but I just remembered I've got pins heating at home and I'd rather go stick them in my eyes."

  She turned and strode back to the car, while Joan let loose more of her
bwahaha
laughter, loud enough that the entire town was probably wondering if the Joker had come to Kettle.

  Outside, Vivian's car started angrily; Joan closed the door and turned on Erin, as if she'd love to become Kettle's next murderess right that minute. "What did you tell her about Joe?"

  For once Erin held her gaze, hating her as openly as she'd ever dared to. "Nothing."

  "Liar."

  "I said nothing. She's been where I am; she knows. I didn't need to say a word."

  "Bullshit. Joe will hear about this."

  Erin's breath started coming high and shallow. She was always afraid, but now she was really, really angry, too. Someone as beautiful and powerful as Vivian should not be brought down. Especially not by someone like Joan.

  "She's been there, just like me. But you know what?" She took a step forward, still breathing funny and still angry, and Joan actually retreated. "She's free of him now. She did what she had to do, the only thing she could do. We both know what that feels like."

  Joan blanched. Put a hand to her heart. Erin suddenly realized what she'd said, and how Joan had taken it.

  Power started rising in her, like sap rising through a tree in the spring, bringing life and strength and beautiful new color. And for the first time in as long as Erin could remember, she didn't feel afraid at all.

Nineteen

?? Birthday card from Vivian's father ??

Happy fourteen, pumpkin. Your present is an all expenses - paid trip to Disneyland with Dad. Can't wait to spend time with my Sleeping Beauty.

Your Prince

Vivian pulled the last strip of masking tape off the cream trim in her bedroom, stood back, and admired. Ohhh, was that better. Instead of blue -and-brown misery, the room had come alive in pale blue -green that reminded her of the sea. Not New York harbor, parts of the Caribbean. All the warmer and more beautiful with the gray sky and wind whipping outside in Kettle.

  Even Jesus's clock would look lovely against the color. She'd wanted to get rid of the thing, but how could you dump Jesus in the trash? He'd peer up at her with those soulful Holy Bambi eyes and she'd be haunted for the rest of her life. Plus, she'd gotten kind of fond of Him.

  She wrapped the foam brushes in a plastic bread bag, dumped the bag on top of the plastic paint tray liner, and hauled up the old sheets she'd used as drop cloths to protect the hardwood.

  So. She'd painted and redecorated the cuteness out of the kitchen. Painted her bedroom. Gotten rid of way too many square feet of shag carpet. All she could afford to do for now. More than that, all she really cared to do. No point pretending this place would ever feel like home.

  But then she hadn't felt at home anywhere. Maybe in the early years in Chicago with her parents, before puberty hit and things got gross. After that, no matter how long she stayed anywhere, there was always the feeling of running away or to, until Ed. Except as much as she reveled in the luxury, his condo had been entirely too sophisticated to feel like home.

  If he hadn't gotten himself killed, by now he'd probably be sharing the place with Abby, who'd fit there as perfectly as goat cheese on an endive leaf, standing auburn -haired among the copper pots and Château Margaux wines, whirlpool tubs, and goose down pillows, all the things she was born to. And Vivian would be running off somewhere new.

  Just not here.

  She folded the old sheets, sealed the paint can, and hauled them all to the chilly, gloomy basement. Tossed the brushes and paint tray liner and sticky balls of blue -green splotched masking tape in the trash.

  Last thing on her house to -do list was to investigate the attic, see what was still up there before she put the place on the market—after the vultures got tired of her good behavior and went home, which she hoped would be any day now. She'd already noticed them missing for hours at a time. They'd no doubt cover the Halloween party the next night, but when she didn't flash any boob or fondle any penises, she bet they'd lose interest.

  And then she'd be free to go. Somewhere.

  Her heart gave a painful jab and she went back up to the hall outside her bedroom and pulled down the attic stairs from the trap door in the ceiling. She didn't want Mike to pop into her head first thing when she thought about leaving. He was a friend, one she'd made at one of the most complicated parts of what had been a pretty damn complicated life. She'd had a few good girlfriends and plenty of lovers, but never a relationship like this. A man who supported her and helped her but wasn't trying to get into her pants ASAP? What the hell was that?

  Something with Rosemary. He still hadn't let out anything juicier than the bare sense that he and Rosemary weren't as happy as the collective Kettle idiocy thought they were.

  Whatever. The intimacy of that confession, if he ever got around to it, would only make leaving harder.

  The attic stairs creaked on their way down, and creaked again on her way up into darkness and familiar smells. At the top, she fumbled for the frayed string attached to the room's one naked bulb, and was startled when light fl ooded the room. As if she expected the bulb to have crossed into death with Gran.

  The place looked so familiar, she got silly sentimental sniffl es. To a nine -year-old, an old woman's past equaled vast tracts of treasure, waiting to be explored. Ancient ice skates, discarded pictures, antique dolls, boxes of papers, trunks of clothes. One trunk in particular held fabulous fl apper creations of satin and silk and beaded velvet from the twenties. Vivian had hauled her favorites down to try on endlessly in the mirror in Gran's bedroom, imagining herself on the arm of a dapper beau.

  Yeah, well, she never got the dapper beau part down quite the way she dreamed it then. But the dresses would still be here. One of them would probably be a good costume for the party the next day. Come As You're Not. No one could argue that she was a flapper. She'd die to see what Sarah would show up as. A Playboy model? A garage mechanic? Roseanne?

  She moved toward the place she remembered, behind a massive carved wood headboard that stuck out into the room.

  Bingo. The old green metal trunk. And a new one, next to it, smaller and black, with labels slapped on by ocean liner personnel and worn by time. The New Amsterdam. The Rafaello. Italy. France. England. What was in there?

  She crouched and lifted the brass clasps, undid the catch in the middle, and raised the lid. A waft of grandma -scent rose, lavender and a hint of that god -awful apple pie potpourri that smelled like apple pie only if you made yours entirely of chemicals.

  This trunk was full of clothes, too. Not fl apper costumes, but clothes Vivian remembered Gran wearing when she visited them in Chicago. Powder-blue and green traveling suits, knit pants, bathrobes, piles of dresses. In particular, one dress Vivian remembered vividly. A scoop -necked tight bodice with a full skirt in cream -colored cotton, with tiny climbing roses in neat alternating rows, some growing up, some growing down.

  She carefully pulled the dress out, and shook it unfolded. A Stepford Wife dress, a dress worn in the summer when you'd made homemade lemonade and cookies for the kids and were on the back porch calling them in for a snack.

  
This
she could wear to a Come As You're Not party.

  Dress laid aside, she rummaged further and hit something cold and hard. Gran's recipe file, the wooden one Grandpa Lester made for her, still full of cards. Swedish meatballs, salmon loaf, party punch . . . and cardamom butter cookies.

  Vivian used to love those cookies more than her own life.

  She extracted the card, slung the dress over her shoulder, and climbed down into the warmth of the house, strangely excited. Making cookies wasn't something she did much, to put it mildly. In New York if you had money, you didn't cook. Baking was twice as foreign, unless you did it to brag about at your next cocktail party. Everyone ate out or ordered in. The best of everything waited right outside the building, why put out any effort?

  But in Kettle, Wisconsin, with the house done for now— what else was she going to do? She had butter in the freezer, she could let that sit on the counter for a while, or nuke it gently in the microwave until it softened.

  Downstairs, she got out two sticks of butter—she could give some cookies to Mike and bring the rest to the Hallow een party—and left them on the counter to thaw and soften. Then back up to her paint -smelling beautiful room, where she gingerly moved furniture back into place, taking extra care with the dollhouse so as not to disturb its occupants, hating having to think about getting rid of it when she moved.

  God, she was a mess today. She needed activity, she needed people. Tomorrow she'd go help set up for the party. Yesterday's Social Club meeting had been the usual ridiculous affair, but Sarah was planning a pretty good time.

  Beyond the party, the weeks stretched entirely too long ahead with no concrete plan to fill them. She hated that feeling more than anything else. It made her restless and jittery and irritable, like she'd ordered a double espresso at Dean & Deluca, they'd given her two, and she drank them both.

  Okay. Despairing sigh. She'd bake cookies.

  Back downstairs, she set the recipe card in Gran's holder— a tiny clothespin glued to a felt flower glued to a tiny dowel sticking out of a miniature fl owerpot. Honestly. The things people found to do with their time.

  Two minutes later, she'd found a bowl and a mixer, nuked the butter fifteen seconds to get it soft enough, and plopped the sticks into the bowl along with the sugar. Funny how it was coming back to her. Gran in this kitchen, wearing . . .

  Vivian grinned and went upstairs. Two minutes later, she was back in Gran's dress, which fit her frighteningly well. No question where she inherited her shape.

  On with the radio to the nearest local station, playing easy listening hits. Perfect. She started the mixer, singing along to "Islands in the Stream."

  She added two eggs to the butter and sugar—the curdled yellow mess was so dearly familiar from so many recipes, she wondered how she could have gone this long without it. Vanilla, dark and fragrant; dry ingredients measured, sifted: flour, baking powder, salt, cardamom, cinnamon, allspice. The scent of heaven. She spilled the cinnamon and had to brush it off her dress, pushed back her hair and probably got fl our and cinnamon on that, too, and who cared?

  "T
o all the girls I've loved before . . .
"

  God, what a putrid song.

  She shaped the dough into a log and put it in the freezer, too impatient to let it chill slowly. What else? On a sudden inspiration, she searched her grandmother's larder and came out triumphantly with a tin of Hershey's Cocoa.

  Sugar, salt, and the precious dark brown powder, rich and bitter, eschew the microwave from now on. This was her old fashioned afternoon, layers of clouds whizzing along in the sky, leaves doing elaborate gymnastics all over her lawn.

  She mixed the dry ingredients in the saucepan, cutting the sugar to make it dark the way she liked it, then added hot water and let it boil for a couple of minutes to keep brown powder lumps from forming on the surface when milk was added.

  While that boiled, she turned on the oven, impatient for the scent of baking cookies.

  "Y
ooooou light up my liiiiife
. . ." Flashback to her high school friend Deena's wedding, Deena six months' pregnant, both sets of parents glowering, bride and groom equally horrifi ed. What had happened to her? Vivian didn't have a soul from her old life in Chicago she kept in touch with. Not a soul from her life in New York, either.

  Nearly forty years old, and Kettle was all she had.

  Dough out of the freezer, she sliced the cookies, a little soft still but who cared, and put them on the ungreased million year-old cookie sheets—flat pieces of metal, not the double layer, nonstick, carbon steel ones she lined with silicone mats at Ed's. And used maybe once.

  These sheets had seen cookies by the thousands, decade after decade.

  She set the timer, poured milk into the cooling chocolate syrup, and lit the flame under it. Eight minutes later, a buttery, cardamom -dominated smell permeated the kitchen. She inhaled greedily, setting out her grandmother's old round cooling racks in preparation for the bounty they were about to receive.

  The timer's ding sent her into action, the cookies slid obediently onto the rack. Doubtless her impatient tongue would be burned by the first bite, same as it was when she was a child.

  Hot cocoa in one hand, scalding cookie in the other, she glanced out the window and dropped her jaw.

  Snow.
In October
.

  She took one bite, burned her tongue, and followed it with a bittersweet sip of cocoa. An Olivia Newton -John song her mom had adored came on the radio. She listened, watching snow dancing with fallen leaves, pointlessly nostalgic for the warm, wonderful memories she didn't have, to the point where tears began slip -sliding down her face.

  And God, there he was on cue, Mike, striding across her driveway, breath streaming white, cheeks wholesome pink. Superman, answering a cry for help he hadn't even heard.

  What was she going to do about him?

  He knocked on her back door and she didn't move, not wanting to answer and desperately wanting to see him at the same time. Maybe she needed to move to a place with a name like Shady Elms Home for the Utterly Wacked.

  He knocked again; she wiped her eyes, probably even the light makeup gone now, and answered the door to the sneaking rush of cold.

  "Hi, Mike."

  "Mmm, what smells so—"

  A double take. Like in the cartoons. Glance at her, then to the kitchen to locate the scent, then back to her.

  Oh no. Here it came. Cried -off makeup. Flour and cinnamon smudges on her face. Donna Reed dress.
She had fi nally found the real her.
He probably had a stiffie the size of the Eiffel Tower.

  "God . . . Vivian . . ."

  "Well, which is it, God or Vivian?" She hated the way he stared.

  "You look—"

  "I know, I know. Amazing, beautiful, and most importantly, virginal. Right?"

  "Like shit." He closed the door behind him. "What happened?"

  Vivian let out startled laughter. "I was baking cookies."

  "Since when does baking cookies run your mascara and turn your nose red?" He reached to smooth her hair, and she ducked under his arm.